The yawl rose above the little boat once more and this time Robinson saw that the woman under the sail was not dead but obviously sick. Her head rolled weakly and she opened her eyes. The water sloshed over her. The grayhaired woman bent down and patted the sick woman’s ankle in a gesture of comfort.
Robinson considered the situation. He obviously had to take these people off the sinking sloop, but how? If he tried to come alongside in these towering seas he might complete the destruction of the sloop and perhaps even drive a hole through Senegal’s planking. On the other hand, he could not ask them to swim for it. The boy might make it but it was clearly out of the question for the two women. Another great sea heaved the little boat skyward and slopped water over the side. She might go at any moment.
He remembered now that Senegal carried an inflatable life raft in a locker under the forward vee bunks. He made a hand signal to the boy to hold on and ducked below and got out the yellow rubber bundle that was the raft. Maneuvering very carefully he worked up to windward of the sloop and yanked the lanyard that inflated the raft automatically and dropped the big yellow rubber doughnut over the side.
He had fastened a line to the raft’s bow and now he let it pay out and drift down on the sloop. The first time he tried it it missed. He was about to come around for another pass when he saw that the boy had slipped over the side and was swimming strongly for the raft. Robinson nodded approvingly and made a gesture with clasped hands above his head. The boy seized the raft and began towing it back to the sloop.
When he was alongside he shouted something at the grayhaired woman but she continued to sit on the thwart staring at him helplessly. Again he said something to her and this time she seemed to understand. She left her seat and maneuvered past the woman in the bilge and got her under the arms and began to drag her over the side and half into the rubber boat. As she did so the covering sail slipped away and Robinson saw that the sick woman was comparatively young and in an advanced state of pregnancy. Her great swollen belly was distended by her awkward position and she cried out in pain. The old woman gave another heave and the pregnant woman tumbled face down into the life raft. But the weight on the sloop’s gunwale was too much. Another sea seized the little craft and tipped it onto its beam ends. The old woman was thrown headfirst over the side. She waved once in a despairing gesture and went under. The last thing Robinson saw of her was her face, still calm, utterly resigned.
Robinson acted as smoothly as a well-oiled machine. He tossed a coil of line over the stem, knotted it to the cleat with two fast half-hitches and flung himself away from the boat in a long flat dive. He came up twenty feet from Senegal’s counter, saw a glimmer of black cloth, and in five powerful strokes had his hands on her before she went under again.
When he surfaced with her he was already pushing out with both legs to drive himself back to the yawl. Even though he had acted so quickly to save her he had known it would be risky. What had worried him then, and worried him even more now, was getting back to the boat. The yawl was broadside to the wind and drifting fast. If he missed her she would be gone forever. And he was missing her. Although the old woman did not fight him, her weight was enough to slow him down. He heaved forward onto a wave crest and saw that Senegal was now a good forty yards away. For a moment he was tempted to abandon the old woman. She was half dead anyway and what good would it do her if they both died out here? Alone, he might still make it. For a moment the temptation was so strong that he actually released his hold. Who would ever know? He could say she had slipped away from him.
And what about Gwen? She had the flares and someone would find her. Or would they? The flares might go bad. The reef might be awash. Her drinking water might have been spilled and lost. She might be dying of thirst now.
The ugly image racked his brain. He gulped raw sea water and spewed it out, burning his throat and nostrils. His strength was drifting away and he had to fight harder to keep the old woman’s head above water. Let her go. Alone he might still make it back to the yawl. He owed it to Gwen. The old woman was a stranger and half dead anyway. Let her go and save Gwen.
But even as he thought it, he knew that no matter how logical it seemed he could never willingly let the old woman go. There was still a chance and he had to take it or die with her. He tightened his grip and struggled forward.
The boy, who had been in the water beside the raft, now clambered aboard. He bent over the pregnant woman and said something to her and then seized the rope that tied the raft to the yawl and began to pull the raft forward. When he was close under Senegal’s counter he gripped the transom in both hands and pulled himself aboard. He dropped down into the cockpit and in a quick motion cast off the line that secured the raft. The yellow doughnut bearing the pregnant woman drifted loose and, under the force of the wind, was quickly swept away.
Robinson had been watching all this with a sort of despairing astonishment. Then he saw what the boy was up to; he was trying to start the yawl’s engine. Smoke bubbled under her counter and Robinson could see water coming out of the exhaust. The boy was at the wheel and bringing the Senegal around in a big circle. It was clear now why he had cut the raft loose. He had realized that it would be hopeless for him to try to get the woman aboard the yawl unaided and that in maneuvering the boat he might crush the raft. He had, therefore, in seemingly abandoning the raft displayed remarkably quick thinking.
Nor did the boy make the amateur boatman’s mistake of charging straight down on Robinson. Instead he kept the yawl to windward and let it drift slowly down on the man in the water. Robinson saw the counter over him and with a sigh of thanksgiving grabbed the trailing line. He held onto the line with one hand and the old woman with the other and looked up at the boy’s grinning face.
“Get your hands under her shoulders,” he said to the boy.
The boy nodded and reached down and got his hands under the old woman’s armpits.
“Now,” Robinson gasped, and with the last of his strength pushed the old woman up while the boy pulled. For a moment she teetered there on the edge but then the boy pulled her over into the cockpit. Robinson hung onto the rope, drawing breath into his lungs and waiting for the strength to come back to his arms. When he thought he could make it he gripped the rope and pulled himself up. His own weight was killing him but he managed to hook an arm over the transom. He hung there while the boy pulled at him and then he was up and over. For a moment he was to exhausted to do anything but give the boy an encouraging pat on the jaw but then he managed to stand up and reach forward to take the wheel. He swung the yawl around looking for the yellow raft. It was now almost a quarter of a mile away, bobbing up and down on the crests and then dipping into the hollows. He ran down toward it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time they had gotten the pregnant girl into the big bunk in the main cabin, the old woman had recovered enough to lend a hand. Robinson left her there with the girl and went back to the wheel. The boy followed him.
“What’s your name?” Robinson asked.
“Hector Rafael Emilio Oliva Torres Hernandez Robaina,” the boy answered, flashing the big grin in his brown face.
“That’s quite a mouthful. What was the first name again?”
“Hector.”
“All right, Hector. I’m Gus Robinson. What are you, Cuban refugees?”
“Yes.” The boy’s accent was strong but he appeared to understand English quite well.
“And who are the others?”
“One is my grandmother. The other is my sister.”
“How far did you think you’d get in that floating matchbox?”
The boy shrugged and said, “We would like to have taken a bigger boat, senor, but it was the only one I could steal.”
“Well you were damned lucky. Another ten minutes and you’d have been gone.”
“A man on the sea must always have luck, Capitan.”
“Where did you learn about boats? By the way, that was quick thinking on your part. Y
ou saved my life.”
“You risked yours to save ours. It will not be forgotten.”
“How did you know about the motor and handling a boat of this size?”
“My father has built many boats in Havana and ever since I was a little boy he has taught me many things. Do you know the Havana Yacht Club, Capitan Gus?”
“I’ve been there.”
“Then maybe you knew my father—Lorenzo Robaina.”
“I knew him,” Robinson said. “He was a marine architect.”
“A good one,” the boy said proudly.
“A very good one,” Robinson agreed. “Where is he? Why didn’t he come with you?”
The boy had been very manly up to that point but now his lip trembled and tears formed in his eyes. “He is dead. They shot him.”
“I’m sorry, Hector. He was a fine seaman. I remember meeting him once when he sailed on the Havana-St. Petersburg race. You must be quite a seaman yourself to have survived the storm in that little boat. Where were you trying to get to?”
“Key West.”
“But you’re way off course. You’re nearly a hundred miles to the north.”
The boy shrugged. “What could we do. It was one hell of a big wind. We had to run before it.”
“And your sister? When is her baby due?”
“Right now,” Hector said smiling. “I thought maybe it would come last night in the boat. That would have been bad.”
“I’ll say. And it will be damn near as bad if it comes on this one. I’ve handled a lot of things at sea but never a baby. We’ve got to get her ashore.”
“Where will you take us?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. The nearest place would be Spanish Cay, which is where I’m headed for anyway. The trouble is I know there are no hospital facilities there. I guess I could take you to Nassau but that will be one hell of a long jog out of the way. Do you think you can keep her on the wind while I go below to talk to your sister?”
“I will sail her beautifully, Capitan.”
“You do that. By the way, what’s your sister’s name?”
“Maria.”
“A lot shorter than yours, eh?”
“It is important that a man should have a big name. It is necessary for his dignity.”
Robinson turned the wheel over to the boy and watched him for a few minutes until he was confident that he could handle the yawl. Hector had difficulty seeing over the cabin top but his short, sturdy body looked fiercely proud and confident. Robinson nodded approvingly and went below.
The girl was stretched out in the big bunk with a blanket pulled up to her chin. Her face was pale and she looked very ill but he could see where under better circumstances she would be an extraordinarily pretty girl. There was something about her, perhaps it was only the dark hair and eyes or the pointed chin and heart-shaped face, that reminded him of Gwen. The girl looked a little frightened when she saw him coming down the ladder and he remembered the way Gwen had looked when he had first told her that he had been hired to murder her.
“Do you speak English, Maria?” he asked.
“A little,” she answered softly.
“How do you feel?”
“I am hokay.”
“Well I’d hardly say you’re okay but we’re going to try to get you ashore to a doctor as soon as possible. In the meantime you’ve got to be brave and hang on.” He made two fists and shook them in the air to demonstrate his point. The girl nodded. She tried to smile but the shadow of pain darkened her eyes. She was holding her body rigid under the blanket. The old woman said something to her in Spanish and the girl shook her head.
“How about something warm to drink?” Robinson said. “Some tea? Or better yet, how about soup?”
“If it is not too much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.”
He lit the stove and opened two cans of soup and poured them into a pot. When the soup was hot he poured it into four cups and passed one up to the boy at the wheel, gave the others to the two women and kept one for himself. “Gracias,” the old woman said.
“De nada,” Robinson answered.
For the first time she gave him a tentative smile, but almost immediately her features turned back into a mask of frozen sorrow.
The soup was hot and the warmth brought returning strength to all of them. The old woman held the girl’s head up and poured a little of the soup between her lips. Robinson got out a loaf of bread and cut thick slices from it and handed it around.
When they had finished eating, Robinson said to the girl, “How soon do you think the baby will come?”
“I am trying to make him wait but he is very impatient.”
“Are you in pain?”
“A little.” Even as she said it a spasm caught her and her face was contorted.
“I have some aspirin. Would that help?”
She shook her head. Her lips were blue against her pale skin. “I do not think aspirin will be of much help with a baby.”
“Your first child?”
“Yes.”
“And your husband?”
“Dead.” She said it without any visible display of emotion. It was either too soon for her to feel the real pain or else she was learning to live with it. There was something about her face then that was rather like the old woman’s—a frozen, stoic dignity.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are you taking us?” she asked.
“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. Nassau is about eighty miles from here. There are plenty of doctors there and they will take good care of you. With luck we can be there by tonight.”
She was about to say something but then she stopped. “What is it?” Robinson asked.
“Nothing.”
“There was something you wanted to say.”
“No, it was nothing.”
“Don’t you want to go to Nassau?”
“It does not matter,” she said. “We are very grateful.” Another spasm of pain caught her and she turned her face away. The old woman bent over her, murmuring softly. Robinson left them and went back on deck.
“All right,” he said to the boy. “I’ll take over.”
They sailed for a while in silence before Robinson said to the boy, “Tell me how it happened.”
“How what happened, Capitan?”
“How you left Cuba. And what happened before you left. Or don’t you want to talk about it?”
“I can talk,” the boy said. “And you have a right to know.” He looked out at the seas rushing by and hesitated for a moment before he went on. “You say you knew my father. That must have been before the revolution.”
“Long before. I have not been to Cuba since. I often wondered what happened to him.”
“He was a soldier of the revolution. He fought in the hills with the Barbudos. He hated the dictator Batista. When the revolution was won my father marched into Havana with the others. That was two years ago and I was only eleven then but I remember it very well. All the noise and excitement. It was the best day of our lives. And there was my father in his uniform and with a pistol and a great black beard. I remember how he smelled. He smelled of sweat and dirt from the mountains. He smelled good. And he looked big enough to reach the sky. It was like the day when we would launch one of his boats, only better.
“Then the war was over and my father shaved off his beard and went back to building boats. Only there were no boats to build. They said the boats my father built were only for rich men and there would not be any more rich men in Cuba. So my father said all right he would build boats for fishermen, but they did not want that either. They said if the fishermen had boats they would run away. My father said he had fought in the mountains for freedom and what kind of freedom was it if a man could not run away when he wanted to.
“So then they came and took him away and put him into the prison. They let us come there once to see him. There were big yellow stone walls and where my father was the walls were always we
t and it was very dark and the bearded ones were everywhere. My father had shaved off his beard a long time before because he was not with them any more and he did not want to look like them. He was very thin and his face was pale and he looked like an old man. He did not look like himself any more. If you remember my father you will know he always had a joke and a laugh.”
“I remember,” Robinson said.
“But when we went to see him in the fortress there were no jokes left in him. He took me aside and held me between his knees and he said, ‘Hector, you are the man now. You must look out for the others. This is a bad place now and I do not think it will ever be much good again and when the time comes that it is too bad then it will be up to you to get a boat some place and take the women away. Take them to Key West. I have friends there and they will know what to do with you.’
“A week later Maria’s husband Emilio came with some other men in the night and they fought with the guards and got my father out of the prison and ran away with him to the mountains. The bearded ones ran after my father in the mountains but they could not catch him. We heard that my father and Emilio had guns and that they had killed many of the bearded ones.
“Then the Barbudos came to our house and they took Maria and my grandmother and myself to the prison and they sent word to my father that if he did not come down from the mountains they would shoot us. They said that if my father and Emilio came down they would let us go and that my father and Emilio would be put back in the prison and that nothing bad would happen to them. I think my father did not believe them but he said he would come down anyway and he did come down and when the Barbudos had my father and Emilio in the street and away from the mountains they shot them. After that they let us go.
“Then I remembered what my father had told me and I knew it was time to find the boat. I knew where there was a little sloop lying in the mud and because it was no good any more the bushes had grown up around it and no one remembered it had been there. But I thought it could be fixed because my father had showed me how to fix boats and I stole some wood for the new planks and I fitted them and caulked them as he had shown me.
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