There was considerable agreement on that point now that the financial aspect had been explained by Veevers, and only Grubb struck a discordant note. “Gah!” he said. “We won’t never find that ship, so what’s the odds?”
Trubshaw was another one who was not feeling happy. In fact, he was feeling about as bad as a man could feel. The gale had shaken him up a good deal, especially during that period when the engines had been out of action and the ship had been rolling helplessly in the grip of the sea. Trubshaw had done his best to wedge himself in the bunk in such a way as to avoid being tossed about, but had not been successful, and his injured neck had given him so much pain that he had cried out in agony. The pain was there all the time, but when the bunk almost stood on end, throwing him this way and that, it stabbed him like a sharp knife. There was in addition a throbbing ache in his head and a general feeling of sickness, both physical and mental.
Orwell visited him again and did nothing to cheer him up. Trubshaw told Orwell about his sickness because he felt that he had to confide in someone; but Orwell just laughed.
“You’re seasick, Trub. I thought you’d be hardened to it after all the years you’ve put in.”
Trubshaw scowled at him. “Seasick, my arse! I ain’t never been seasick in my life.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“I tell you it ain’t seasickness. I’m ill.”
Orwell looked at him without sympathy. “You’re ill sure enough. Much pain in that neck?”
“Pain! It’s bloody agony.”
“I’m not surprised. You thought about what I said?”
“Abaht what you said?” There was panic in Trubshaw’s eyes and Orwell was delighted to see it.
“About dying.”
“I ain’t goin’ to die.”
“I hope not, Trub, for your sake. But every day we spend looking for that other ship makes it more likely. Got to face facts, haven’t we, Trub?”
Trubshaw said bitterly: “The Old Man’s crazy. Don’t ’e know I need ’ospital treatment?”
Orwell looked down at him, smiling faintly. “Just atween you and me, Trub, I doubt if the Old Man ever gave you a thought when he decided to go after the India Star. He’s got other things on his mind.”
Some time after Orwell had gone away, leaving Trubshaw even more depressed than he had been before the visit, the second steward, a slim young man named Tricker, came in to see whether the invalid wanted anything.
“I wanter see the Old Man,” Trubshaw said.
Tricker pulled doubtfully at his lower lip. He had a pasty complexion with a tendency to acne and a lot of fair hair that completely covered his ears and flopped over the collar of his blue steward’s jacket.
“Now why would you be wanting to see him?”
“Never you mind,” Trubshaw said. “’Tain’t none o’your business. You jus’ get ’im ‘ere.”
“And suppose Captain Barling don’t want to see you?”
“You can suppose wotcher bleedin’ like, mate. Cos ’e’s got to, ain’t he? It’s my right, innit?”
“I don’t know about that,” Tricker said. “I don’t know nothing about rights.”
Trubshaw thrust out a hand and gripped the sleeve of Tricker’s jacket, and the pain that this movement caused him gave a hard edge to his voice. “You get ’im, see? You get ’im down ’ere, an’ look sharp abaht it.”
Tricker was overawed. He knew Trubshaw’s reputation and he had no wish to get on the wrong side of him.
“All right then. I’ll see what I can do.”
Trubshaw released his arm. “You do that. An’ you make sure ’e comes. Not termorrer neither, nor the nex’ day. Now. You get me?”
The second steward carried Trubshaw’s message to Barling, who was in his cabin making some calculations on a sheet of paper. Glancing at them, Tricker noted that they involved sums of money; rather large sums. Barling turned the sheet over, hiding the figures.
“Why does he wish to see me?”
“He didn’t say, sir. But he was very insistent. He said it was his right.”
“Very well. I’ll see him.”
“Yes, sir.” Tricker felt relieved. He would not have relished going back and informing Trubshaw that his request had been refused. “I’ll go and tell him.”
Barling waited until Tricker had left the cabin, then picked up the sheet of paper on which he had been making his calculations. He stared at the figures for a few moments, and then with an exclamation of impatience he crumpled the sheet into a ball and stuffed it in his pocket. Where was the point in making calculations when there were so many uncertainties, chief of which was the finding of a drifting, derelict ship which might already be at the bottom of the ocean?
He wondered what Trubshaw wished to see him about. He had already paid a couple of visits to the injured man and could not imagine why he should have sent this urgent message for another. But there was one certain way of finding the answer.
Tricker was still with Trubshaw when Barling walked in, but he left at once. Barling looked at Trubshaw, and it needed no great powers of perception to divine that the seaman was worried. He looked ill too, but that was only natural in the circumstances.
“Well, Trubshaw,” Barling said. “What’s troubling you?”
“I feel bad, sir.”
“Barling nodded. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t. Can’t expect to get over a thing like this in a couple of days, you know.”
“I’m a sick man, sir. Real sick.”
“You’ll feel better in a day or two.”
“I ain’t countin’ on it.” Trubshaw sounded very gloomy, and looked it. “I could be worse.”
“No reason why you should be.”
“I need proper treatment.”
“You’re getting the best we can provide. In the absence of a qualified doctor—”
“That’s just it,” Trubshaw cut in. “In the absence of a qualified doctor I could easily die.”
“Oh, nonsense! No need to talk about dying. You’re not as bad as that.”
“You don’t know ’ow bad I am. Nobody don’t. I oughter be in ’ospital. I oughter ’ave this ’ere neck X-razed. It could turn to gangrene.”
“Gangrene! What on earth makes you think that?” Barling looked at Trubshaw closely. “Has someone been putting ideas into your head?”
“Nobody’s been puttin’ ideas into my ’ead,” Trubshaw said sullenly. “I can think things aht for myself. An’ what I says is this: I oughter be gettin’ proper medical attention, not this Boy Scout stuff.”
“You’ll get all the attention you need as soon as we reach port.”
“Ah, but when’ll that be?” Trubshaw’s eyes stared accusingly at Barling. “The way I ’eard it, we ain’t even makin’ for port yet. Is that right, sir?”
Barling had to admit that it was.
“I don’t think it’s right.” There was a whining note in Trubshaw’s voice. “Wiv a sick man on board you oughter be ’eadin’ straight for ’ome, not ’angin’ arahnd ’ere lookin’ for that there ship. If you ask my opinion, she ain’t afloat any more anyway.”
“I am not asking your opinion, Trubshaw.” Barling’s voice was icy.
“Well, are you goin’ to get me ’ome to a real ’ospital?”
“All in good time.”
“Which means you won’t call off this flamin’ search?”
“I see no reason to.”
“No reason to! Ain’t my life reason enough?”
“Your life isn’t in the balance, Trubshaw. You aren’t nearly as bad as you seem to think. I certainly cannot alter my plans to suit you.”
Barling walked towards the door. Trubshaw stared at him with hatred. “Damn you then! Damn you for a ’eartless bastard!” He felt like weeping. Barling didn’t care; he was perfectly willing to let a man die rather than interfere with plans already made. “You won’t get away with this. I’ll make complaints. I’ll complain to the Seamen’s Union. They’ll brin
g charges an’ you’ll be up in court. You can’t jus’ let me die.”
“If you die,” Barling said coolly, “it might be rather difficult for you to complain to the Union. My advice to you is to forget about it and go to sleep.” He went out and closed the door behind him.
Trubshaw lay in the bunk trembling with rage and frustration and fear. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Barling expected him to die. That was why he was refusing to alter his plans. He had no intention of giving up the search and heading for port because he was sure it would be a waste of time. And it was no use threatening him with Union action because, as he himself had pointed out, a dead man could make no complaint.
“I’m goin’ to die,” Trubshaw muttered. “Oh, Gawd! I’m goin’ to die. Nobody cares.”
In fact, he was not altogether correct in thinking that. Barling did care. He was more than a little worried about Trubshaw; and though he still thought Trubshaw was exaggerating the seriousness of his condition, there might be something in what the man had said. It was a very nasty wound he had in his neck and there could be no doubt that it ought to have professional attention. Therefore, it was not without some misgiving that Barling decided nevertheless to go on with the search and ignore Trubshaw’s plea. He tried to convince himself that Trubshaw’s life was in no danger, but in spite of everything there persisted in the back of his mind a small grain of doubt, of disquiet, even of guilt. For he knew that if he had not insisted on taking the India Star in tow in the first place Trubshaw would never have sustained his injury; and he knew also that, but for this continued search, they could have reached port and packed the man off to hospital within three or four days; whereas, even if they sighted the India Star before nightfall, it would take a lot longer than that because of the slowness of the tow. Yet he had to do it; he could not give up now. For Ann’s sake he had to go through with it.
Barling questioned Scotton regarding the Atlantic Scavenger. He was still afraid that the tug might steal his prize.
“What’s the latest from them?”
“Nothing” Scotton said. “The last signal I picked up was yesterday. Since then I haven’t heard anything.”
“Perhaps they gave up.”
“It seems likely, sir. I think they’d come to the conclusion that it was a pretty useless quest.”
“Well, let me know if you hear anything,” Barling said.
Scotton took this for a dismissal and went away.
The search continued until the gathering darkness made it useless to go on any longer; then Barling called it off until morning. During the night the wind dropped away almost completely, and dawn came with a thin fog reducing visibility.
“This isn’t going to help the search,” Loder remarked when Barling joined him on the bridge towards the end of the morning watch. “All we needed was fog.”
“It’s nothing much,” Barling said. “It’ll clear when the sun comes up.”
“Perhaps.” Loder was his usual disgruntled self at that hour, unwilling to look on the bright side of anything; unwilling even to admit that there was a bright side.
Barling ignored him; he did not require Loder’s gloomy remarks to depress him; the fog was enough to do that, even though it was thin, even though it might disperse later. It was not enough to prevent them from re-starting the search, but it limited the width of the sections and made the operation that much slower. Still, there was nothing one could do to control the weather; its vagaries had to be accepted. One thing at least was certain: with little or no wind, the India Star would not be drifting so much. If she was drifting at all.
By ten o’clock a hazy sun was visible through the mist, which was becoming patchy. And then, at precisely eleven-fifteen, they found what they were looking for. When probably no one in the entire ship except the captain still had any belief that it could happen, they sighted the India Star.
“There!” Mr. Walpole shouted, pointing excitedly. “There, sir! Can you see her?”
She appeared out of the mist like a wraith, her outline blurred and indistinct. Barling looked at the ship, half fearful that it might dissolve and fade into nothing even as he watched. So he was vindicated; he had been right, the others wrong. The prize was here.
Breaking in upon his thoughts came the third mate’s voice: “I didn’t think we’d find her. I felt sure she would have sunk.”
Yes, they had all thought that, and they had all been wrong. Only he had been right. But he did not feel any great pride in that; he had not persisted merely to prove who was right and who was wrong; that was of no importance. What was important was that they should take this ship again in tow and bring her safely to port. He was only too well aware that there was still a long way to go before that goal could be reached.
He gave an order and Walpole relayed it to the helmsman. The Hopeful Enterprise altered course slightly and headed towards the derelict. A few minutes later Walpole, who had been examining the gradually hardening lines of the India Star through his binoculars, gave an exclamation of surprise.
“That’s funny, sir.”
“What is,” Barling asked.
“There’s no smoke.”
It was true. With the mist thinning around the India Star it was possible to see that there was no column of smoke rising from the midships section.
“The fire must have gone out, sir.”
Either it had burnt itself out or the torrential rain had quenched it. At last things seemed to be in Barling’s favour. The gods were smiling.
Half an hour later the Hopeful Enterprise was hove to and number one lifeboat was being swung out under the direction of Mr. Loder. He had decided to take the same boarding party as before—Orwell, Lawson, Veevers and Wilson—and again he felt that spark of enthusiasm leaping up inside him. It had died when they had lost touch with the India Star; he had never expected to see the ship again, and he had thought Barling a fool for going on with the search; but now they had found the prize once more, and once more the idea of taking it in against all the odds roused his spirit.
And this time the fixing of the tow-rope ought not to be so difficult; the sea was calmer and there was scarcely any wind. The Hopeful Enterprise had been able to get in closer, and that meant that there would be less weight of hawser to haul across. Yes, indeed the gods were smiling.
And then they ceased to smile. Or perhaps the smile had turned a trifle cynical.
“Sir!” Mr. Walpole said; and there was something in his tone that caused Barling to swing round quickly.
The third mate was pointing again. Barling followed the direction of his outstretched arm and saw what it was that had caught his attention. It was away on the starboard bow, and he did not need to use his binoculars; he knew only too well what that shape was just emerging from the thinning mist, and he knew why Walpole had said “Sir!” in that particular tone of voice. It was a small, squat, unmistakable vessel, and it was the vessel he least desired to see in that precise place at that precise moment of time.
“The tug,” Walpole said.
The Atlantic Scavenger had not after all abandoned the search.
ELEVEN
VOLUNTEER
Mr. Loder swore briefly. So it had become a race. But it was a race that they must surely win, for the tug was at least a mile away.
“They’re too late,” Orwell said. “They’ll never catch us now.”
Loder snapped an order: “Man the boat.
The tug would come up fast when her master had sized up the situation. There was no time to lose.
On the bridge Barling and Walpole caught the flicker of an Aldis lamp sending its message across the intervening stretch of water. They both read it.
“Leave her to us.”
Barling spoke calmly to Walpole, and the third mate picked up an Aldis lamp and sent back an answer.
“We were here first.”
More flashes from the tug. “We are going to tow her in.”
An answer from the Hope
ful Enterprise: “No. We are.”
From the tug: “Do not interfere.”
And finally from the Hopeful Enterprise: “Go to hell.”
“Lower away,” Loder ordered.
The lifeboat dropped a little jerkily towards the water as the falls were paid out, and a few moments later it was moving away from the side of the ship, its engine pulsing and exhaust fumes puffing from the stern. The Atlantic Scavenger was still more than half a mile away from the boat, but they could see her bluff bows and the compact bridge and funnel.
“She might as well give up,” Lawson said. “We’ve got her beat.”
It certainly looked like it. The boat had only a hundred yards to go and would reach the India Star in less than a minute. But Lawson had spoken too soon; perhaps tempting fate. Indeed, he had scarcely finished speaking when the engine of the lifeboat stammered a little, seemed to choke once or twice, and then fell silent. The boat began to drift.
They tried to re-start the engine, but without success; it remained obstinately unresponsive to all their efforts, and the tug halved the distance between them. They could hear the rushing sound of its bow wave coming rapidly nearer.
“Man the oars,” Loder snarled. “Look lively.”
They had to depend on their own strength now. They slipped the crutches into their sockets and took up the heavy oars. They took up positions on the thwarts and rested the oars in the crutches.
“Together, pull!”
They began to row. The boat moved sluggishly forward and the India Star seemed to be farther away. Loder, still with his hand on the tiller, glanced over his shoulder and saw that the tug was near.
“Put your backs into it.”
The men pulled with a will. It was a personal affair with them all now. The tug was the enemy and they meant to beat it; they and Loder were in full agreement on that point.
But there were still fifty yards of open water separating them from the India Star when the tug overhauled them. It came in at an angle, slanting across the line on which they were moving, and it seemed scarcely to slacken speed at all.
Ocean Prize (1972) Page 12
