by Peter Tonkin
‘I don’t care if you call it musical farting, Timmins. I told them to stop. They told me to fuck off. I told them I was referring the matter up to you. Now you’ve got to sort it out before they destroy all the accommodation areas.’
‘Well, I —’
‘And you got to back me up. How the hell we going to run this ship with no one paying any attention to the only two deck officers left?’
‘He’s got a point there, Yasser,’ observed Stone quietly. He had removed his headphones and hung them on the hook beside the dark radio.
‘So what do you think I ought to do?’
‘I think you have to go down there and stop them. They’ll be working on the assumption that with the captain gone and the chief still in bed, they’ll have the run of the ship. You’ve got to stop them. If it was me, I’d go carrying something hidden but heavy and I’d lay O’Brien out at the first sign of trouble, then I’d lock him away as close to the cargo as possible and let the Irish bastard rot.’
‘Sounds about right to me,’ supplied Hogg.
‘And who’s going to discuss it with the Seaman’s Union in due course? And the lawyers with the criminal assault charges when we get home?’
‘Justifiable force, Timmins,’ said Hogg helpfully. ‘And like O’Brien said, no one here is ever going home.’
‘You don’t believe that, do you, Hogg? The captain’ll get us out.’
‘Sure she will, Yasser. But if she gets back to find we’ve allowed O’Brien and the rest of them to tear her ship apart, she’ll likely dump us over the side before she goes.’
Hogg’s words did little to reassure the hesitant man. He turned to Stone again. ‘Stone, what do you —’
‘It’s no use contacting the captain,’ he said. ‘She might be able to advise us, but you’ll still have to sort it out. She won’t be back for hours if her last report was anything to go by. We simply can’t have a mob of men running amok round the accommodation area smashing up anything they want.’
Stone stood up, stooped and pulled a tool box out from under the radio bench. He hefted it up and placed it in front of his equipment. Then he opened it and selected three tools from inside it. To Timmins he gave a wrench, to Hogg a hammer, and for himself he pulled out a heavy-duty screwdriver. ‘Let’s do it,’ said Stone. He slid his enforcer up his right sleeve and exited. The others copied and followed him more hesitantly.
*
Sean O’Brien and his men had followed their late captain’s lead and begun in Reynolds’s quarters. The destruction wrought in these rooms went far beyond what was required to discover whether anything was hidden there, and then they had simply continued along the corridor, looting and pillaging — except that they had left LeFever’s quarters alone. By the time the three officers arrived, the men had destroyed most of the rooms on the corridor. There weren’t many of them but they made a noisy and ugly little mob; Timmins, Hogg and Stone had three or four adversaries each to choose from. Or, more to the point, the crewmen were in a position to do very much whatever they wished to the officers. Had Timmins been in charge, they would most likely have done just that. But Harry Stone took over. Arriving outside the room currently being searched, the three officers spread out across the corridor in order to prevent the men from proceeding.
The first looter who came out stopped and waited silently and speculatively. The second arrived beside him, saw the situation and turned to call out, ‘O’Brien!’
O’Brien was big. He was fat rather than well built, but he looked powerful and had a mean reputation extended by his thick-skulled, close-shaven bullet head and his battered, fighter’s face. He came out the instant his name was called and walked towards the officers, opening and closing his massive fists. While he did this, the others followed and formed up silently behind him. Timmins stepped forward, squaring up to the big crewman. ‘Every man here will be logged. You are all docked one day’s pay for insubordination and the cost of any and all repairs arising from your actions will be fully deducted from your wages as well. Now go about your business.’
It was not a bad speech. Had Captain Black spoken those words, the men would have obeyed the final command at once. But Timmins had not the knack of leadership and the threats had as little effect as Hogg had feared they would. O’Brien paid no attention to him at all. He looked past the first officer at Stone. ‘What’re you doing here, Mr Stone? You’d better take a walk, sir.’ His tone lingered on the final word, pushing it just to the edge of insubordination but still leaving Stone enough room to get away if he wished.
‘You’d better do what the first officer says, men,’ he said quietly. ‘This will turn out badly for you in the end if you don’t.’ His eyes met O’Brien’s and locked. ‘Any stupidity now will just get added to the reckoning later on.’ His words carried weight. Some of the crewmen at the back began to waver.
‘You aren’t going anywhere. You’ll have to reckon with the captain when she gets back. She isn’t going to let anything slip or pass and you know it,’ added Hogg, hoping to press the point. But the words did not have the effect he had hoped for.
O’Brien threw back his head and laughed. ‘You can’t hide behind old Yasser’s gold braid so you’ll hide behind the captain’s skirts, is that it, Mr Hogg?’
Timmins raised his right arm and hit the laughing man over the head with his metal wrench. He made a bad job of his attack, however, and the metal jumped out of his hand to vanish over his shoulder so that the powerful crack which rang down the corridor from the impact was immediately followed by the thud of the weapon falling to the floor. Timmins stepped back, shaking his hand in agony. O’Brien stood, frozen with wrath as blood spurted out of his split scalp and poured down his cheek. Stone stepped in front of the first officer.
As though Stone’s movement had broken a spell, everyone was in motion at once. O’Brien hurled forward towards Timmins. He went straight for the senior officer as though he had no idea that Stone was between them. His shoulder took the radio officer in the chest and spun him against the wall. Stone was a fit man and an active one in spite of the fact that his calling required him to sit around so much. He was not prepared for the impact of O’Brien’s charge, however, and this was compounded when he smacked his forehead against a joist between two wall panels. Badly dazed, he sat down just in the path of O’Brien’s confederates who were all eager to join the fray. A knee took him in the right ear and, as he fell back a foot took him in the temple.
Hogg was thinking with feverish speed. It was far too late to run away and the only alternative he could see was to join in as best he could. As O’Brien went past him, he hit him over the back of the head with the hammer. As he had not set out to murder anyone, the fat officer had reversed his weapon and was holding the heavy metal head in his sweaty fist. The hard wood handle was eighteen inches long and as effective as a British bobby’s truncheon. It connected with all the accuracy and force which had been missing from Timmin’s blow and O’Brien went down before he ever reached his target. Hogg swung back and, more by luck than judgment, he spread the next man’s nose across his face. The man spun away, spraying blood everywhere. Hogg shrugged himself off the wall and stood astride the corridor. The next man in line was the one who had called O’Brien. He was a few feet back. Just far enough for him to have to think before he attacked Hogg. He hesitated.
The nine who were left behind him hesitated too. Unexpectedly, Timmins did the right thing. He stooped, then rose to the occasion with Stone’s nasty-looking screwdriver reversed in his right hand. Above his clenched fist, the six-inch shaft of steel widened into a foot-long, ridged wood handle and it looked like an extremely effective cosh. In his left hand he held the wrench which had sprung back over his shoulder after that first, weak blow. It was covered with blood and it looked very businesslike now. ‘Who’s next?’ Timmins grated. ‘Those of you looking to get wounded too, remember this: I’m the only medic aboard now LeFever’s gone cruising with the captain.’
‘And anyone hoping to get away unscathed,’ added Hogg, breathlessly, ‘might like to think where they’ll be locked up when the captain gets back. Down by the cargo.’ His eyes raked over their faces, daring them to move. ‘And I’ve got the name of every man here. Think about it.’ The man with the broken nose sat whimpering, his groans the only sound in the corridor for an instant.
‘Break it up and go to lunch, the lot of you,’ ordered Timmins. And for once he sounded so much like a real first officer that they obeyed.
It was only when the men were gone that the victors noticed the state of Harry Stone.
28 - Day Eleven
Saturday, 29 May 13:00
‘Look, Captain, this isn’t really my line of country, you know,’ called down Bill Christian nervously.
Richard swung round and looked back up the Jacob’s ladder to where the Cumbrian radio officer stood on Clotho’s deck. ‘I thought you were with the polar team in eighty-nine,’ he said. ‘That was one of your qualifications for this post.’
‘I was, but ...’ The radio operator suddenly looked almost boyish, torn between his desire to please Richard and his fear that his captain was doing something unwise. Desperate.
‘If this is a stupid thing to do, I’m relying on you to tell me, Bill. If it’s not, I’m relying on you to help me. I really do have to get across there. I need to know what’s going on.’
‘We could wait. They’re bound to get back in contact soon ...’ Bill tailed off, knowing how weak this sounded. He could imagine how it would strike this man who stood to lose not only a ship but a beloved wife.
‘Less than five miles, if that satellite photograph is accurate,’ persisted Richard. ‘I know we’re not well equipped, but you’re experienced and we’ll be careful. The weather’s clear and the ice seems sound.’ He stamped down on it hard. ‘There are ridges in the way, building up to that central chain of hills, but it’s not as if we’re aiming to climb the Matterhorn or anything. And we’ll turn back at once on your say-so, no questions asked. You have my word. But I must give it a shot. Don’t you see that?’
‘Okay, Captain. As long as you realise I’m not an ice man. I’m a radio operator.’
While Clotho had reversed along her channel back to the open sea and then turned east once more, Richard had searched everywhere aboard for the items of equipment he might need to help him walk across the ice. This had seemed his best course of action if Atropos did not get back in touch. She had not done so, and now he was off across the ice barrier to find out what was wrong.
He had no intention of being on the ice for more than a few hours, no matter which way things went, so there was no need for anything other than warm clothing, basic survival equipment in case of accidents and a walkie-talkie to summon help in the face of a serious emergency. But the equipment which would have made the journey safer, easier and quicker was not to be found. There were no skis, nor anything that could readily be adapted into skis. He added ropes and harness to tennis racquets from the ship’s sports equipment, but then left them because they seemed too weak and stupid. Stout walking boots would do if the ice was firm, and if it wasn’t then he would just have to come back. Even though he had no skis, Richard found two lengths of metal which would double as ski poles and help him to remain upright on the slippery surface. It was when he had got enough equipment together for one person that Bill Christian had advised him just how unwise it would be for him to risk it alone. Richard was not as fit as he might be; he was certainly not experienced. Even one of the legendary polar explorers might hesitate before setting out alone on such an apparently simple journey as this.
In no time, Richard had produced a second set of equipment and now, with Clotho resting against the southern section of the ice nearest to Atropos’s last recorded position, he was eager to go.
All too well aware that Richard’s confidence might for once be badly misplaced, Bill Christian climbed over the side and joined him on the ice. Despite his misgivings, he simply could not let Richard go alone.
Over their cold-weather gear each of them wore a safety harness and to the harnesses was tied a rope linking the two of them together. Each wore a backpack with extra gloves, boots, hats and dark glasses in it. They each carried two thermos flasks, one filled with soup and the other with sweet tea. They had grabbed a light lunch of scalding soup and freshly made sandwiches immediately before kitting up, so they carried no solid food except for some emergency rations of chocolate. Richard had wanted to bring Mars Bars as they contained the highest concentration of energy, but Bill had pointed out how impossible they were to bite into when they were all but frozen. Chocolate would have to do; at least it could be shattered like toffee and the shards sucked carefully. They had eaten enough soup to warm them but not enough to fill them. Neither man relished trying to relieve himself if they were caught short on the ice.
They each carried a compass and a walkie-talkie in case they got separated, a knife in case they needed to cut themselves free of their harness quickly, and a heavier implement in case they needed to cut steps or handholds in steep ice. Richard had an axe; Bill had the chefs biggest meat cleaver. Each one carried two emergency flares purloined from the lifeboats, in pockets convenient to their hands, though even careful Bill could hardly imagine any situation in which they would be required. The walkie-talkies would communicate with Clotho for the first mile or so, and with Atropos if they got close enough to her. Richard also had a pair of binoculars slung over his shoulder. Apart from their poles, that was all they carried. They were only going for a short walk on a sunny day, after all.
Bill set off at a brisk pace with Richard slightly behind him. There was no doubt as to which of them was the leader, but the simple fact was that Bill knew more about this sort of thing than Richard did, so he wisely put himself in a position to get the best view of what the more experienced man was doing. Immediately, Bill fell into a sort of shuffling gait, back slightly hunched, leaning on his makeshift poles. This way, apart from the occasional glance upwards to confirm direction, he could watch the ice at his feet — he was more interested in that than in views or far distances. A moment’s consideration convinced Richard that this was eminently sensible. The ice seemed solid, but there was no telling when a crack might appear unexpectedly. A dry crevasse would be as dangerous as a water-filled lead. A broken ankle might prove as fatal as a plunge into below-freezing water. Indeed, a simple clumsy fall might do as much damage as anything else. Pushing the feet along the slippery surface rather than lifting and planting them kept the walker stable and cut down the chances of slipping over.
The unnatural method of locomotion seemed to be quite easy to begin with, but Richard soon found that it was taxing the muscles at the front of his thighs and, although his ankles preferred this strange movement, his knees did not. His shoulders began to ache next, as his arms were out in front of his chest for most of the time, and his ski poles were surprisingly heavy. He soon found that he was beginning to pant a little. The instant he did so, he found he had a choice: he could either breathe heavily through his nose, whereupon a lancing shock went from his adenoids up behind his eyes; or he could breathe through his mouth and transfer the discomfort to his teeth and chest. As soon as he began to perspire, his dark glasses threatened to fall off his nose and within a few yards his head was aching with the unaccustomed strain of keeping them in place. Surprisingly quickly, his world shrunk to the ice in front of his shuffling feet, and the discomfort, which soon attained the level of genuine pain.
The ice against Clotho’s port flank was five feet thick to the waterline. It began to slope upwards immediately, onto the back of the first corrugation running from east to west, right to left in front of them. From the ship, looking at the overall pattern rather than the detail, Richard had registered only the corrugations, building up and up onto that central ridge, as though a piece of corrugated iron had been folded into a rough ‘A’ shape in preparation for a simple roof. But this folded piece of corrug
ation was not level from one end to the other. It dipped and twisted along its length. Nor was it plain. There were outcrops in all sorts of unexpected places, telling of cracks which met and forces great enough to push ice up in individual blocks or jumbled, rubbishy piles.
The slope was not too steep at first and the crest of the first little ridge, hardly higher than a sand dune, was soon attained. Here they paused, for several good reasons. It was an excellent place to regain their breath a little and refocus their attention on terrain that would soon start sloping away from them. Also, in spite of the apparent ease of the gradient and shortness of the distance travelled so far, this downward slope would take them out of sight of Clotho. For the first time on the ice, they looked down into shadow and here, oddly, the depth of the ice chose to show itself. It did so only in places, for it was covered here and there by drifts of ice grains like sand, obscured elsewhere by solid blocks and piles of rubbish like gigantic snowmen which had rotted and been weathered almost away.
While Bill checked in with Johnny Sullivan who was manning the radio in their absence, Richard had leisure to look down at the bottom of the valley. Here the ground looked as though it contained the sky within its depths, but behind a surface which had been coated with thick white swirls and piles of sugar frosting. The blue shone through the white as though there was another sun somewhere down there, burning beneath the sea. As soon as full light hit the slope of the next ridge ahead, the solid, snowy whiteness returned and there was intimation of sapphire only in the shadows of increasing numbers of excrescences around and through which they were clearly going to have to wander. The next ridge was like a maze and, Richard suddenly realised, the one beyond that was worse. And how many more to the central ridge? Then how many more beyond that?
He understood with poignant clarity Bill Christian’s reluctance to come.
