Ocean Prize (1972)

by Pattinson, James

  Loder seemed surprised at the question. “Cut the tow! Lord, no. After all we’ve done we don’t want to let go now.”

  “So you’ve changed your mind? You think we’ve got a chance?”

  Loder grinned suddenly, and it was a genuine grin, without a trace of cynicism or mockery. It was friendly, even a shade conspiratorial; it seemed to say that they were in this together, both with the same object in view, partners. It surprised Barling, but the surprise was a pleasant one.

  “We’ll make the chance. That tug can go to blazes. No one is going to take our prize.”

  “Well,” Barling said, “I’m glad to see that you’re on my side.”

  Loder glanced towards the tug and shrugged. “In the face of the common enemy you have to stick together. Isn’t that so?”

  Barling nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  But by nightfall the prospects were not looking at all bright. The wind had got itself round into the south-west and was leaning heavily on the ships. The seaman on taffrail watch on board the Hopeful Enterprise, remembering what had happened to Trubshaw, looked warily at the hawser, waiting for any sign that it might be about to break and ready to take avoiding action, while nearly a quarter of a mile astern Wilson braced himself against the plunging of the India Star and listened to the seas beating against the side.

  For Wilson the ship was haunted. It was the ghost of the dead woman. Waking or sleeping, she haunted him now; he could never rid his mind of that ghastly phantom. He feared for his sanity. Was the strain driving him mad? The idea of madness seemed more dreadful than anything else. It could not be; he would not accept it. And yet, what could these phantoms be but the imaginings of a sick mind?

  “No,” he muttered. “Not that, not that!”

  He went out on to the wing of the bridge. The moon and the stars were blotted out by a heavy blanket of cloud and the wind tore at him out of the darkness, driving the rain into his face. He gripped the rail and let the wind and the rain hit him, accepting the blows. He looked down and saw a glimmer of foam where the water slid past the ship’s side or beat against it, flinging up spray. The deck moved shudderingly under his feet, and he thought: Now! I could end it! He had only to climb over the rail and fall into the darkness.

  But after a while he went back into the cabin, drenched and shivering. He switched the light on and took the revolver from the drawer. He loaded three rounds into the cylinder, so that there were three full chambers and three empty, evenly spaced. He sat down on the settee and twirled the cylinder. He pressed the muzzle of the revolver to his temple and placed his finger on the trigger. He was shivering so violently that he could not hold the gun steady. He grasped his right wrist with his left hand to stop it shaking. And still he hesitated to press the trigger. The chances of death were one in two; he was as likely to spatter his brains against the bulkhead as he was to survive. The wheel was no longer weighted one way or the other; it was evenly balanced.

  The ship rolled heavily and the revolver barrel slipped away from his head. He fell over on to his side and heard the wind howling. A chair slid a little way and stopped. Wilson straightened up and once again put the gun to his head. He took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

  Something seemed to burst inside his head. He gave a cry, as though of pain. But there was no pain. He was trembling uncontrollably and, cold as he was, there was sweat on his forehead. He looked at the revolver, hardly able to believe that it had not fired. Yet it was so. He pulled back the hammer and saw that once again it had fallen on an empty chamber.

  He lay back on the settee, breathing deeply, his heart thudding. He had no idea how long he stayed thus; it could have been five minutes, it could have been an hour. Then he sat up once more, twirled the cylinder, and once more pressed the muzzle against his temple.

  His mouth was dry, his throat parched, his breathing quick and shallow. He hesitated with his finger on the trigger, unable to bring himself to go through with it a second time. It was scarcely conceivable that the hammer would again come down on an empty chamber; this time when he squeezed the trigger he would surely blast himself out of life. And what of that? What if he did? It would be a release from the torment he was enduring. He could not go on living as things were; life for him had become unbearable.

  He clenched his teeth and gradually increased the pressure of his finger on the trigger. Suddenly the hammer tripped forward, but again there was nothing but a metallic click; no bullet driving into his brain. He was still alive; he could not even kill himself.

  He examined the revolver and saw that the hammer had in fact struck the base of a round, and the round had misfired. It was one chance in a thousand, in ten thousand. He shuddered. Was he not to be allowed to die? Was this part of his punishment—that he was condemned to live on with his torment? With a cry of despair he rushed from the cabin and out on to the open deck, the revolver still in his hand. The rain lashed at him but he ignored it. He groped his way to the rail and flung the revolver far out into the darkness. He did not hear it drop into the sea; he heard the shrill piping of the wind and the thunder of the waves, and that was all.

  FOURTEEN

  HAWSER

  Morning came with the Hopeful Enterprise still linked to the India Star by the long tow-rope. The wind was blowing from the south-west but not with quite the force it had had the previous day. Indeed, if it had not been for the increased list to port, Barling might have been feeling reasonably happy about the state of affairs. Though there was also the rather disturbing fact that the Hopeful Enterprise was definitely lower by the head; there was some water getting in somewhere which the pumps seemed incapable of clearing. That, combined with the list, made him more than a little worried.

  He had in his time sailed in ships in much worse condition, but they had not had uncertain engines and they had not been towing other ships; above all, his fortunes had not been completely dependant on them as they were on the Hopeful Enterprise. If he failed to bring the India Star into port he was finished. But suppose he lost both ships. That possibility hardly bore thinking about; and yet it persisted at the back of his mind, plaguing him.

  Scotton, bringing further reports of continuing public interest in the story, was almost unbearably cheerful.

  “We’re in for a great welcome when we get home, sir.”

  Barling answered sourly: “We’re not there yet.”

  Scotton, undeterred, went on: “The odds have shortened on the betting market. Quite a lot.”

  “The betting market! What in hell do bookies know about it? They aren’t out here, are they? They don’t know what it’s like. Don’t talk to me about odds. I know what the odds are.”

  “Yes, sir.” Scotton sounded a shade less effervescent. “Still, we have got as far as this, sir; so there seems no reason why we shouldn’t finish the job.”

  “No reason! There are a thousand reasons.”

  “But we’ll do it, sir. We’ll do it.”

  Barling could see that Scotton really believed that. The radio officer was young and enthusiastic. Barling felt a certain contempt for him: that silly beard, which was no proper beard at all, ought to be shaved off; it looked ridiculous.

  “You’ve got a lot of confidence. I’m not sure it’s altogether warranted.”

  Scotton looked at Barling, his eyes shining. “I’ve got confidence in you, sir. You’ll see it through.”

  Barling was startled. What was this? Hero worship? He would not have supposed himself capable of inspiring anything of that kind in anyone. He felt very far from heroic. Yet apparently young Scotton had trust in him; looked on him perhaps as some kind of superman. Amazing. But in spite of himself he felt a certain glow around the heart. Perhaps if Scotton believed in him others did too: Walpole, Thompson, Madden; possibly even Loder. But no; that was going a little too far; Loder believed in no one but himself. Nevertheless …

  He became aware that Scotton was still gazing at him, still with that look in his eyes. Barling said g
ruffly: “I can’t promise anything. We’ll need a sack of luck to get through.”

  “You’ll do it, sir,” Scotton said. “You’ll do it.”

  Going into the wheelhouse, Barling found the third mate on watch.

  “Well?” Barling said. “What do you think?”

  “Think, sir? About what?”

  “About our chances. Shall we do it?”

  “I’m sure we shall, sir.”

  “Dammit!” Barling said. “You don’t have to say that. Look out there.” He pointed at the foredeck, visible through the wheelhouse windows, the list only too apparent, seas spilling over the bulwarks. “Does that look as though we’ll make it? Tell the truth, man.”

  “I am telling the truth, sir.” Walpole was insistent. “I still think we’ll make it. And Mr. Thompson does too.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Yes, sir. He said you were determined to take the India Star in, and you damned well would, come hell or high water. Those were his words, sir.”

  Barling stared at Walpole so long and so fixedly that the young man became uneasy and looked away. Finally Barling gave a shrug and turned away also. They were crazy, all of them, but he was glad.

  The tug was still there. It was like a gadfly; you might flap it away but always it came back. It was the threat, the visual reminder that they had only to falter and the prize might yet be snatched from them; that all their labour, all their endeavour, might still come to nothing.

  “Once,” Loder remarked to Barling, “there was a four-inch gun on the poop. I’m rather sorry it’s not there now.”

  Barling could not be certain whether Loder was joking or serious. If the gun had still been there he might really have used it, if only as a warning. That was the kind of man he was.

  “They won’t leave us as long as they think they’ve got the least chance. They’ve invested time and money in this too. They’ll want to get it back.”

  He could see their point of view. In their place he would probably have done the same.

  “They’ll get nothing,” Loder said. “Nothing.”

  Wilson felt as though he had a fever. His head seemed to have a fire burning inside it. He had not changed his wet clothes but had allowed them to dry on him. His bones ached and he had uncontrollable bouts of shivering. For most of the day he lay on the settee. He ate scarcely anything, but occasionally he made himself a hot drink and swallowed it with some discomfort because of the soreness in his throat. Once or twice he ventured out on to the wing of the bridge and was seen from the Hopeful Enterprise, but he did not go up to the forecastle.

  Orwell, in between his normal duties, found time to visit Trubshaw. He found Trubshaw in low spirits, which pleased him. Orwell was not the kind of man to forget and forgive, and he had not forgotten that Trubshaw had tried to kill him; nor had he forgiven. His purpose, therefore, in visiting the invalid was not to offer consolation but rather to enjoy the spectacle of Trubshaw suffering.

  “Well,” Orwell said, “I see you’re still alive.”

  Trubshaw scowled at him. “No thanks to that bastard up on the bridge.”

  “You think you’re going to die?” Orwell asked softly, watching Trubshaw through the wreaths of smoke from his pipe.

  Trubshaw winced with pain as he turned his head on the pillow. “I’m a sick man. You can see that, carncher? An’ I’m gettin’ worse.”

  “You do look pretty sick,” Orwell admitted. “I remember a man as looked like you, years ago it was, on the long Pacific run from Panama to Wellington. Got a knock on the head from a fall on deck.”

  “What ’appened to ’im?” Trubshaw’s gaze was fixed on Orwell’s face and there was fear in his eyes. “Did ’e—”

  Orwell sucked complacently at his pipe. “He hung on for a while, looking sick, moaning about the pain. Yes, he hung on for quite a while—a week, ten days, maybe.”

  “An’ then?”

  “He died.”

  “Oh, Gawd!”

  “There was no doctor on board, you see, and it was a long voyage. I daresay he’d have been all right if we could have got him to hospital, but we couldn’t. So he got worse and worse, and finally he died. Steward went in to look at him one morning and there he was—stiff.”

  Trubshaw’s face was pallid, his eyes wide. Orwell tamped the burning tobacco in his pipe with a horny thumb and looked at him without pity.

  “Could be the way they’ll find you, Trub. Some fine morning. Soon.”

  “Get aht of ’ere,” Trubshaw said in a low, hoarse voice. “Get aht of ’ere an’ leave me alone, damn yer!”

  Orwell stood up. “If that’s what you want, Trub. I just thought you’d be glad of a bit of company. Most people are—in their last hours.”

  The day passed slowly; a grey, depressing day with intermittent rain, thin and cold, and no sun. The wind moderated and veered a little, getting more into the west. The sea became appreciably calmer, and the two ships ploughed on, eating away at the miles separating them from their landfall.

  The list to port of the Hopeful Enterprise gave the decks a permanent slope. The tug again came in close and her master repeated his offer of help.

  “You’re in trouble, Captain. Your ship’s in bad shape.”

  “She’s well enough.”

  “Ye’ll never make it, Captain. Be sensible now. Let us take over.”

  “Go home,” Barling shouted. “There’s nothing for you here.”

  He heard a ragged cheer, and looking down saw half the crew of the Hopeful Enterprise lining the bulwarks. It was obvious that they had heard his words and were in agreement with them. Once again Barling felt a sudden warming of the heart; it was good to know that he had the men with him.

  The tug sheered off, speeded on its way by catcalls and rude gestures from the Hopeful Enterprise. But it did not go far. There were many miles still lying ahead and the prize might still fall from hands that had become too weak to hold it. When that happened the tug would be there.

  The next day Wilson was still slightly feverish, but his appetite had returned. He cooked a breakfast and ate ravenously; then, for the first time in two days, he went up to the forecastle and examined the hawser. What he saw was in no way reassuring. Where the hawser passed through the fairlead there had been considerable chafing and some of the strands of wire were already worn through. Indeed, it was only too apparent that it was simply a question of time—and not very much time at that—before the hawser broke altogether, leaving the India Star once again adrift. It could happen that day; it could happen in the night; and then if the tugmen came again how could he drive them away without a revolver?

  Wilson looked at the hawser. It was creaking slightly where it ran through the fairlead, but the sea was smoother now and the ship was rolling only a little. But what could he do? He knew what needed to be done: a few feet of the tow-rope needed to be drawn in so that the weak portion was no longer taking the strain. But though it was easy enough to see what ought to be done, how to do it was quite another question. And then he remembered what Mr. Loder had said about signalling if he needed help. Well, he needed help now, so he had better get on with it.

  He ran back to the bridge and found a signalling flag, carried it up to the forecastle and started waving it from side to side. For a time there was no response from the other ship. Could it be that no one on board the Hopeful Enterprise was keeping a watch on the tow? In a fit of petulance at this apparent neglect Wilson lowered the flag and was in half a mind to go away and leave the hawser to take its chance. But he decided that this would be a childish thing to do; he lifted the flag and started signalling again.

  Ten minutes later he saw a boat being lowered from the Hopeful Enterprise and shortly afterwards it was on its way. The Hopeful Enterprise had stopped to lower the boat; she had turned slightly broadside on as she lost steerage way and the strain was off the hawser.

  The boat soon reached the India Star; it was the one with the motor in it, and somebody had a
pparently done some work on the engine, for it was working again. Wilson went down to the foredeck to put the Jacob’s-ladder over the side and take the painter.

  It was Mr. Loder who stepped on board and he had his usual crew with the addition of an extra hand.

  “Well,” he said as soon as he climbed over the bulwark, “what’s the trouble?”

  Wilson told him. He led the way to the forecastle and showed Loder.

  “I couldn’t do anything about it, sir. Not on my own.”

  “Of course not,” Loder said. “But we can.”

  He gave brisk orders and the men got to work at once. In a very short time enough of the hawser had been hauled in to carry the chafed portion clear of any strain. Then it was belayed again to the bollards.

  “It’ll be all right now,” Loder said. He turned and stared hard at Wilson. “You don’t look well; not at all well. Are you feeling ill?”

  “No,” Wilson said. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Loder seemed unconvinced. “I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s being here on your own that’s getting you down.”

  “Nothing’s getting me down.”

  “All the same I think you’d better come back with us.”

  Wilson refused with a vehemence that surprised Loder. “No, I don’t want to. I’d rather stay here. I’m needed here.”

  “It’s not essential.”

  “If I hadn’t been here,” Wilson said, “we’d have lost this ship.”

  Loder had to admit the possibility. “Though we can’t be absolutely certain about that. The hawser might have held in spite of the chafing.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Wilson said.

  “What did you mean?”

  But Wilson would say no more. He did not wish to talk about his encounter with the boarding party from the tug, about the way in which he had driven them off by shooting at them with a revolver. Least of all did he wish to speak about the revolver. Orwell, Lawson and Veevers might have admired him for what he had done; even Mr. Loder might have done so. He did not wish to be admired; he simply wanted to be left alone. There were other things he could not tell them about; things that had to remain secret, buried deeply in his own mind. He had thrown the revolver into the sea, but the dark and bitter memory of what had happened in Montreal could not be so easily cast away; it remained to torment him. Waking or sleeping, it tormented him still. And of that he could tell no one.