Trubshaw was wearing a blue jersey, a donkey-jacket and a cloth cap; he did not look particularly seamanlike; indeed, he could have passed equally well for a workman on a building site or a road-making project; but appearances were immaterial; it was the skill that counted, and Trubshaw had that.
He did not usually think much; he could do his trick at the wheel like an automaton, translating any orders given by the officer of the watch into the appropriate action as blindly, unquestioningly and accurately as any robot. When he thought at all it was usually to wonder what the cook was dishing up for breakfast or to anticipate the pleasures that awaited him when he stepped ashore in the next port of call.
On this particular morning, however, he allowed his mind to dwell on a different subject, and that subject was the carpenter, Sam Orwell. He had a score to settle with Orwell, and he intended to settle it before the ship reached England. Orwell could not be allowed to get away with what he had done, and Trubshaw meant to see that he did not get away with it. So he thought about the matter and came up with an idea, and the idea pleased him so much that he gave an involuntary chuckle.
Mr. Loder, hearing the chuckle, glanced at Trubshaw in some surprise; but Trubshaw’s face in the dim light was hard and expressionless, and Loder concluded that perhaps he had been mistaken. What, after all, could there possibly be in this dreary morning scene to amuse any man?
A few moments later Barling came into the wheelhouse. Loder could sense the tension in Barling; it was apparent in the timbre of his voice.
“Anything to report?”
“Nothing,” Loder said. He watched Barling move close up to the wheelhouse window and peer ahead into the greyness. “If you’re looking for the India Star you’ll need good eyesight. We’ve a way to go yet.”
“I am aware of that,” Barling answered with a touch of asperity.
“She could have sunk by now anyway.”
Barling glanced at him sharply. “I believe you hope she has.”
“Why should I hope that? How would it help me?”
Barling did not answer; he had no desire to be drawn into a pointless argument with the mate. Whether Loder hoped or did not hope that the India Star had sunk was of no importance; all that mattered was the fact, and there were still some hours to pass before the fact could be established one way or the other.
“Swine of a morning,” Loder said.
Barling grunted.
“And it’ll get worse.”
Barling did not need to be told that. The weather could be the joker in the pack; it could make the whole idea even more fantastic than it already was. And when he thought about it he had to admit that it was fantastic. Yet if, against all probability, it could be brought off, what a reward there would be. For such a reward it was worth taking a chance, worth going two hundred and fifty miles off course, worth being suspected of having taken leave of his senses. Oh, yes, if he could bring it off it would be worth everything.
But the India Star had to be still afloat. If she had sunk there would be nothing; nothing but wasted miles of steaming in pursuit of a vain hope. She must be afloat.
He stood with his feet exactly fifteen inches apart, leaning against the slope of the deck as the ship rolled, perfectly balanced, scarcely aware of the movement, thinking of the prize that might perhaps be his.
It was in the forenoon watch, and the third mate was the first to catch sight of it. Captain Barling was again on the bridge and Mr. Walpole drew his attention.
“There, sir. Can you see it?”
It was fine on the port bow, a thin cloud of smoke away in the distance. Barling raised his binoculars to his eyes, adjusted the focus, and felt his heart leap. He went out of the wheelhouse on to the port wing of the bridge and looked again. The sky was overcast and visibility was poor, but he knew that he was seeing what he had come so far to see. Under that cloud of smoke was the India Star, still burning, but still afloat.
The prize was there.
SEVEN
INDIA STAR
She was there in the grey light of morning, drifting, abandoned, helpless, smoke rising from her amidships to be caught by the wind, blown away and dispersed. She was listing a few degrees to starboard, and the starboard davits had been swung out and the blocks were hanging loose where the boats had left them.
It must have been quite an explosion, for it had blown a hole clean through the superstructure above the boiler-room and had knocked the funnel over on to the boat-deck, where it was now lying like a stranded whale. A lot of the paint was blackened by smoke, but there was no sign of any flame and none of the woodwork appeared to be burnt, so it looked as though the fire must be confined to the boiler-room and engine-room.
Every man aboard the Hopeful Enterprise was on deck to look at her except those whose duties kept them below. She was an object of interest to all, though as yet no one but Captain Barling knew the purpose for which they were there.
There was something faintly eerie about that deserted ship with the smoke drifting from her; no one on her bridge, no look-out, no helmsman. Had they left the dead men in her? Were they the ship’s company now?
“D’you think the rats ’ave left ’er?” Trubshaw said; but no one answered; no one laughed. It was not a joke.
The Hopeful Enterprise manoeuvred into a position a short distance to windward of the India Star and hove to. Scuds of rain were blowing across the decks, making conditions cold and unpleasant. Between the two ships the sea looked choppy and inhospitable. Loder, who had been called to the bridge by Captain Barling and was standing with him on the starboard wing, felt a trickle of ice-cold water running down his back.
“Well,” he said, “we’ve found what we were looking for. Do we go home now?”
“You don’t really think we came just for the view,” Barling said. “It would hardly have been worth the trouble.”
“If you came to rescue anyone, that was a waste of time. You can see there’s no one left on board. The Sargasso Queen took the lot. What else is there?”
“There’s a ship.”
Loder stared at Barling in disbelief, and yet with a dawning realisation. “You can’t be thinking of that.”
“Of what?” Barling asked.
“Salvage.”
Barling stroked his chin and gazed across at the India Star rolling in the swell. “And why not?”
“You mean to take that derelict in tow? With this?” Loder still could not believe it. “It’s nearly a thousand miles. We’d never make it, not with our engines, and the weather. It’s a mad idea.”
“It’s worth a try. That ship is carrying a valuable cargo.”
“That ship could sink. She’s still on fire.”
Barling looked at the smoke coming from the India Star. “Not badly, I think. I’d say the fire is burning itself out.”
Loder saw how it was: Barling was snatching at a straw. If he could bring this off the salvage money would save him. Loder had no doubt now that Barling was in severe financial straits; only a man with nothing to lose and all to gain would even consider such a desperate venture. The odds were heavily against him; they were beyond all reason. And yet there was just the faintest possibility that it might come off. In spite of himself Loder felt a flicker of excitement at the prospect.
But again he said: “It’s a mad idea.”
“Sometimes,” Barling said, “a man needs to have a little madness.”
“A thousand miles with that,” Loder muttered; but there was a subtle change in his tone; it no longer sounded as though he were dismissing the idea as an impossibility but accepting it as a challenge. “A thousand miles with that on our tail.”
“It would be something to talk about.”
Loder shot a meaning glance at Barling. “It would be a lot more than that.”
Barling saw that Loder understood. He looked for the cynicism in Loder’s smile, but strangely, it was not there. The mate actually appeared to be eager to get on with the job.
“
You’ll see to the fixing of the tow. There’s no point in delaying the operation.”
“I’ll do that,” Loder said crisply. “I’ll see to it at once.”
There were four seamen in the boat—all volunteers. Charlie Wilson was one of them; it was something to take his mind off that other matter. And what if there was a touch of danger, a possibility of the boat’s capsizing? To be drowned might be the best thing.
Sam Orwell, the carpenter, was also in the boat, and the others were Lawson, the Australian, and a Liverpool man named Veevers. Mr. Loder himself was at the helm.
It was the motor lifeboat and it was launched on the leeward side of the Hopeful Enterprise. It was no easy launch, for there was now a considerable sea running, and as the falls were paid out the ship rolled to starboard, sending the boat down fast towards the water, which smacked hard against the bottom and thrust it up again. As the falls slackened Orwell in the bows and Lawson in the stern released the hooks, and Wilson, aided by Veevers, thrust off from the ship’s side with a boat-hook. The engine revved, the propeller churned, Loder pushed the helm over and the boat’s bows lifted on a wave until it seemed that it would stand on end and topple back against the ship’s plates. But the propeller thrust it forward and it rode up the wave, tilted on the crest and then went rushing down the other side.
The sea, viewed from the level of the boat, looked very different from the picture it presented when seen from the deck of the ship; the waves were so much higher, the troughs deeper. Even to a veteran seaman like Orwell it could seem a fearsome place and the life-jacket a comforting item of equipment.
Loder, peering through the flying spray, caught a glimpse of the India Star with smoke still rising from her, and he brought the boat’s head round until they were making straight for the derelict ship. A thin line, secured to the stern of the lifeboat, was carefully paid out from a coil on the poop of the Hopeful Enterprise under the watchful eye of Bosun Rankin and the additional, if superfluous, supervision of the third mate.
Captain Barling, watching from the bridge in company with the second mate, could see the lifeboat tossing in the gulf between the two ships, thrown up high one moment, the next apparently swallowed up by the very element to which it had been entrusted.
“Think they’ll make it, sir?” Thompson asked.
Barling answered rather testily: “Of course they’ll make it. Why shouldn’t they?”
“It’s a nasty sea.”
“Not as nasty as all that. What do you think lifeboats are built for?”
Thompson, seeing that Barling was a little edgy, decided to hold his tongue. It was no time for idle chatter. There was one thing though: he was glad it was Mr. Loder in that boat and not him. Loder was welcome to it.
A moment later Scotton appeared with an item of news.
“There’s a tug on its way, sir.”
Barling’s head swivelled round. “What do you mean—a tug on its way?”
“It was a news flash on the radio, sir. There’s a salvage tug coming out to look for the India Star. If she’s still afloat it’s going to take her in tow.”
“Like hell it is,” Barling said.
“You mean you’re not going to wait for it, sir?” Scotton sounded surprised.
“Well, what do you think, Sparks? You’re an intelligent young man. Do you imagine we came all this way to keep an eye on things for a salvage tug? No, Mr. Scotton; when the tug gets here the bird will have flown.”
Scotton began to understand. “That’s why you told me not to transmit any signals about our position?”
“Naturally,” Barling said. “I thought you would have guessed that. No point in helping the opposition, is there?”
“I suppose not, sir,” Scotton said, aghast at the audacity of the Old Man.
“However, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t keep an ear open for any signals they may make.”
Scotton grinned suddenly. Barling was a cunning devil. He would never get away with it, of course; the Hopeful Enterprise would never haul that derelict all the way to England, not in a thousand years; but you had to give Barling full marks for trying.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I’ll keep my ears open.” He began to walk away.
“Incidentally,” Barling said, “did they mention the name of that tug?”
Scotton turned. “Yes, sir. It’s the Atlantic Scavenger.’’
Barling smiled faintly. “This is one piece of garbage she’s not going to scavenge.”
The lifeboat was having a rough ride. Cold, drenching spray cascaded over it, and now and then water slopped over the gunwale and poured into the bottom. Loder, with the tiller under his arm, guided the boat with a skill born of years of experience. If he had felt inclined to cast his mind back he could have remembered a voyage in just such a boat thirty-five years ago, when he had been a young apprentice; a long and bitter voyage, with the survivors from a torpedoed ship dying one by one, from wounds, from privation, from a lack of the will to live. Loder had had that will; he and three others had endured ninety-six days in an open boat in the South Atlantic before reaching the coast of Brazil.
That experience had done something to Adam Loder; it had hardened him, dragged him viciously out of boyhood and made him a man, a man with no more illusions regarding human nature. He had seen how men could behave in the last extremity, and it had not been pleasant. He had seen murder committed for a few drops of fresh water, and it had seared his mind. There had been times when he had had nightmares in which he was back in that boat of death, but he never dreamed of it now, seldom even thought of it. It was past, as dead as those men who had been rolled overboard one by one.
The towering side of the India Star loomed up ahead of them. There was a Jacob’s-ladder hanging down from the bulwarks just forward of the bridge, and amidships the dangling davit falls with the pulley-blocks and empty hooks oscillated like erratic pendulums, crashing against the steel hull with a startling clatter and then swinging away again.
“Stand by with the fenders,” Loder said. “Starboard side.”
The fenders, like rope puddings, were hung over the gunwale and Loder steered the boat towards the Jacob’s-ladder, bringing it broadside on, then cutting the engine and letting it drift against the ship’s side. A wave lifted it, hurled it sideways, and the fenders were crushed between timber and steel, squeaking under the pressure. Orwell and Lawson grabbed the ladder, and Mr. Loder, jumping quickly up from the sternsheets, was first to climb over the bulwark of the India Star. Looking down, he shouted to the carpenter to make the boat fast and to bring the line aboard.
“I’m going to take a look at the damage.”
He was gone immediately, making for the ladder to the centre castle. Fifteen seconds later he was standing at the forward end of the boat-deck and surveying the scene of destruction. In front of him was a gaping hole, jagged at the edges, and from this hole a grey column of smoke was rising. The wind was blowing the smoke away from him, but he could smell it and taste it; it caught at his throat and nostrils, sulphurous and stinging.
The great open end of the funnel faced him across the gap, and the funnel itself was lying amid a tangle of crushed ventilators, crumpled stays and twisted stanchions. As the ship rolled the funnel seemed to be making spasmodic attempts to free itself, and it made a screeching sound, as though the effort were causing it the most exquisite agony.
Loder, taking extreme care on the moving deck, went down on hands and knees, then flat on his stomach, and dragged himself cautiously to the edge of the hole. Peering down into the heart of the ship, he could see nothing very clearly because of the smoke, but he had an impression of torn and twisted metal, of steel ladders wrenched into fantastic convolutions, and somewhere, far below, a dull red glow.
He was about to draw back when something else caught his eye. At first he did not believe it, but then the smoke in that particular area thinned momentarily and he could see that there had been no mistake: what he was gazing at, and what ap
peared to be gazing back at him, was indeed a man’s head. Torn from its body, it had by some strange freak of the explosion been thrown almost to the level of the deck on which Loder was lying and there had become impaled on a steel rod that had originally perhaps been part of a handrail.
For possibly half a minute Loder gazed down at this blackened and bloody relic which had so recently been part of a living man; then the smoke swirled up more thickly and he drew back, choking. He crawled away from the hole, got to his feet and returned to the foredeck.
The men were waiting for him expectantly.
“Well, sir?” Orwell said, not putting the question in more precise form.
Loder understood him. “There’s a chance. It seems to be a slow fire. We’d better get the tow-rope across.”
They had already brought the line up from the boat. Now they moved to the forecastle, taking the line with them. Standing near the bows, Loder gazed across at the Hopeful Enterprise some two hundred yards distant. Using his arms as a semaphore, he made a brief signal and got an equally brief acknowledgement from the poop of the other ship.
“Haul away then.”
The men began hauling in the line and then felt the increasing weight of the heavier messenger rope that had been bent to the other end. When the messenger came up over the bows the weight became even greater; there was now a wire hawser attached to it.
Orwell chanted the rhythm in his thick, gruff voice: “Altogether—heave! And again—heave!”
Ocean Prize (1972) Page 8
