Blackstrap Hawco (74 page)

‘Shut the door,' shouts Cuntz. He's in there. ‘Now.' The boat is sealed. Like a capsule. How many men in the boat? Blackstrap does not know. Their feet in water. The stink of bodies. The sounds from mouths unheard before.

In the muffled lifeboat. The breathing of the men.

Heavy panicky breath in different beats.

Terrified. He hears his own most. Eyes searching around. Trapped but maybe safe.

Fred Rumsey. Billy Cullen. Johnny Cole. Sealed in. Other men too. The lifeboat rocks. Water in the bottom of it. The men trying to keep their feet up.

‘Where?' says one of them. Johnny Cole. And starts trying to rock the boat.

‘Ready?' says Cuntz. ‘I'm launching.' Flashlight beam on a button. His finger pushing.

Why?

Suddenly, the lifeboat moves. At a speed unknown. Maybe swept away. It descends. Slowly? On ropes, he supposes. Two ropes. Then drops. Plummets. Sucking the breath out of Blackstrap. Not a sound from any of the men. Except for Billy Cullen. What sounds like a bit of quiet crying. Only enough whimpering to jut out. Under the pressure of the fall. Blackstrap holds to the sides of the boat. Presses his arms
there. Waiting. Until they slam against something. The end of the davit ropes? What? It might be anything. The rig. Above them? About to come down. Another boat. The ocean. Have they landed? It's all the same. A hard wall. The damage. The blackness. The noise. The neck-aching jolt upon impact. Smashed. They hit so fast. He might have broken something. Parts of his body hurt by quickness and objects unknown. Men tossed against men. Hard. Like punches. He might have gone unconscious. He might have for a while. But now it appears they are afloat. They are turning over. Rising with the sea.

Grunts and gasps. Shivering in the throat not like anything from men.

Away from the rig. Blackstrap tells himself. Get the fuck away from the rig. Even upside-down. If that's how he is. He sees them being hurled against the tilting platform. Swept back onto its deck. Through the window. The water-blurred flashes of lights from the rig. Lit like a horrible Christmas tree. Lights back on. Why? Listing. The lights burning out. Beneath the water. The rig listing at a forty-five-degree angle. A snatch of it. On its way under. Or a dream. In the Atlantic Ocean. The boat surging away. Propelled. As though under engine. A swallowing wave from the sinking rig.

The freezing cold seeping through as they slow. So that it feels like water is entering. They all check for wetness. The walls. Their hands at their numb feet. Already wet. But it is not water coming in. It is only frost. Its intrusion. A tiny hint of itself. They will soon be frozen. They will soon be dead. Each and every one of them. Only a matter of minutes. How many minutes in the water before death? They had warned him. The only man in a survival suit. An extra minute or more. If he could think.

 

Through the window lights approaching. The bob of lights. They do not know how far they are away from the rig. If it is the rig they are returning to. Eyes frozen over. The smell of shit thicker in the air. Fred Rumsey is praying to the Virgin Mary. ‘Pppray fuh-ffor us sss-sinners. Nnnow, nnn…at th-the hour…' His teeth chattering.

Blackstrap's mother and father. There in his mind.

‘Sh-hut up,' shouts Cuntz. ‘Shu-uh-ut up, or I am gggoing to lose muhy
mind
.'

Who will punch Cuntz first? Not an arm raised. Only because of the numbness. The God-awful discomfort of men close together freezing and shifting inches to keep warm. Groaning. Head hung down. Billy Cullen vomits again and cries for his mother. The pinch beneath the skin. Every inch at once. Pinching. The torment of warmth leaving him.

The lights bob. It might be a supply boat. Or it is only them bobbing. It might be a rescue boat. Billy Cullen tries wiping at the window. It is freezing. A view through ice. The only window. Too small. For the grim sprawl of the view.

‘Ccc-uh-ccan't ssee,' he says, bawling, an opened mouth, a hollow held that way for a while. Then more weak pawing at the window. ‘Ssssuppuhpuhly bbboat,' his voice filled with trembling joy. ‘I th-think.' The words barely made out from the chill. The joy. Face aglow on the edge of a flashlight arc. The other men in desperate pain. Some of them still. Dead from the drop. Leaned one way or another. Dead from the cold. Men rubbing men. Shaking them. Butting up against them. Leaving them. In horror, they realize. Fred Rumsey shaking his head. His eyes shut. Johnny Cole punching the inside wall.

‘Stttay awwwake,' Cuntz threatens in a low voice. The flashlight falls from his fingers. The beam shining up. No one able to reach for it. To hold it. The shadowed light on Cuntz's face.

The rattling tremble in Blackstrap's bones. Cold and fear. He does not know. A volatile mix. There is little difference between the two. No feeling in his lips. Agnes. Her face in his head. Dear God, how did this happen? He asks her. At this point. Either might do him in. Cold or fear. Might kill Billy Cullen. Fred Rumsey. Johnny Cole.

‘Ssuh buh-oat,' says Billy Cullen. Smiling numb lips. ‘Is.'

The flashlight switched off and on. By Cuntz who has managed to lift it. Using his wrists. Stiff fingers bent at angles. Distress signal. Off and on. The switch raised against his face. Like a strobe. So Blackstrap's eyes hurt to move. The carnage inside this sealed shell.

It is upon them.

The boat.

They strike the side of it. And they are tossed into each other. An elbow in the face. Blackstrap's nose smarting. Blood pouring out. He sniffs it away. Warmth. Sniffs up. Wants more of his own blood. On
him. Helping him. But his blood is not warm. Not that he can tell. Nothing left of his stomach. A pit sucked into itself. The dread of the final end.

Billy Cullen reaches for the release. Smiling. Poking at it. Lame. His fingers useless. Good.

‘Nnn…Nnnn…No.'

It's okay. It's alright. Look. The supply boat.

No one can call no again, in time.

Too cold are they to say.

The latch.

A hand with fingers that feel now.

Feel one final time.

The door pops open.

Water gushes aboard. Weather cut from chaos takes the space. A snatch of a million fleeting razors. The freezing ocean as water and wind. The blast in the face. Skin and bones dead in seconds. The chewing howl. Eyes frozen fully shut. And the boat sinks. The men are in the water. Arms and legs useless to swim. They sink. Silently, they give in. Men gone from themselves.

The harrowing chill attacks. Every nerve. Blackstrap's brain unusable. Just like that. Two minutes. No more than two minutes in the water. In a survival suit. Before he is dead. That time. What was it? They were told. Already cold enough. They were warned. This is all he can almost think. Before his mind goes. Unconscious. He floats. Bobs and rises. His head in it. The shrieking rage in his deaf ears. Him or the weather. They are one in this. His body drops. Sucked low. By the vast slow pull of black water. The supply boat high above him. If he could look up, his eyelids almost stuck. The blur of boat descending through crystals. Lower and lower until level with him. Almost on its side. Moments uncountable. Then the boat beneath him. Down, down, in a deep watery hole. And him raised high on bobbing blackness.

 

Billy Cullen tossed toward the boat. Bashed into the side. His head cracked at the neck. Then open. Swallowed. Wet like that. His hair with blue ice in it. The other men swept off. Blackstrap has no sight of them. A blur. The salt water blinding. Burns and freezes his face to the point
of snapping. A finger poked through him. A hole. By the wind with its tiny fierce icy pellets. Trying to shatter him. A patter on glass. And the fucking howl. His life and Agnes. Why, Agnes? The harrowing fucking howl of the wind. Making watery madness of the sea. He cannot keep it out of his mouth. He can barely see. Gone again. The supply boat. Rising and falling. Frozen dead. A hook in front of his blank face. Metallic. It sticks to his cheek. Freezes to him. Tears away. A hole poked in him. The wound sealed. Almost level with the ship. Then the hull high above him. A hill of black rolling water. Floating on his back. Suddenly awake to see the hook gone. If that's what it was. The salt in the cut. And he rises. I am dead. The hook comes again. Catches between his arm and side. Now lured toward the supply vessel that drops in a rolling hole. Down he goes. Dragged after it. Down and down. The ship rising again. He drifts away. He rolls over. He sleeps. He thinks there's something floating. Billy Cullen. If he could move his arm. Something like fur. Wet and lifeless. The back of a head. Hair. Or a drowned dog. Nearer to him. Being gathered to him. No body with it. No head. Hair or fur. Or something growing in the water. Blooming. Something alive. Or dead. Living in this mess. He sees two men on board. Drenched by the waves. Aglisten. Amelt. Being rocked forward. Then gone back. Tilting. There. In his face. The rusty bottom of the boat. The wind and noise. Roaring. The bottom of the boat to come down on him. He shuts his eyes. They already are. Burning. Something cold touches his face. Something metallic. He opens his mouth to say…The salt water gushes in. He swallows. He gags. He cannot turn his head to struggle to breathe. Chokes. Feels metal on his teeth. Frozen to his lips. He closes his mouth. Bites down. With whatever strength left in him. He goes under. His head lifts. His mouth, a plug of ice. A metal hook centred there and stuck. Frozen. The point pressing inside his mouth. A great weight in his neck. His head tilts. Pressure in his left cheek. Then a popping without feeling. The thick hook going through. Drawn above the water. He rises. His body spins backward. Is pulled toward the supply boat. His arms numb at his sides. He rises more. Whether on a wave or on a hook and rope. No idea of knowing. His neck about to snap. From the weight. Cheek tearing more. The hook frozen in his mouth. The tip broken through. In the corner of his eyes.
His body against the hull of the supply boat. Barely nothing to hear now. The weight of himself in his neck. Hanging. No feeling there. Against something though. A man's hand reaching down. Nothing to sense. Who are they lifting? Except in his teeth. His teeth still living. Still hard and alive. He bites down. Another hook finds his dead leg. He is tipped sideways. Goes underwater. A body appearing beside him. A man moving. A man who could be anyone. A man with a face he does not know. A man in a survival suit like him. It might be him. Is it?

 

Any man he does not recognize, but recognizes as every man. Grabbing him. A man from the supply boat who has fallen in. The man is lifting Blackstrap. A man on the boat reaches over. Takes him. Pulls him aboard. Lies on the metal. Slides quickly. Hits something near him. Stops. The man above him tries for the other man. But he is lost. Then there again. So that he is rescued. Hauled aboard. Shouting in his ears. Questions and curses. Erased in the wind. In black fizzle. He is lifted to his feet. They are both taken away by another man. They are led off at once. Hunched over. Squat down and hurrying at rocking angles. Weight shifting. The sea beneath the boat. Changing form. Behind the stormy thickening slant of grey flecks. Blackstrap barely sees. A black wave-wall to one side. Glistening and bleary. Stretching up in a towering rise. To come down on them. But it does not. It hesitates. It waits. Then gives up. Gone. Back from where it came. Lurching them. Toward the supply boat's cabin door. On the way. Hammered by another wave. And the three of them go over. Slide toward the edge of the vessel. Strike it. A shoulder busted. A leg snapped. He does not know because he cannot feel. Beyond the dead damage. The blunt popping inside. The man who had been in the water. His rescuer on his knees. Holding on to Blackstrap. The other man has hold of him. The sea water clears from the deck. As they tilt sideways to face the water. Looking directly down at it. Falling. Hitting metal. His body buckled. But not over the edge. And the man holding on. Above him. The man's legs dangling. Until the boat levels. And the man rests back against the deck. Then hurries to stand. Rushes across and grabs Blackstrap. Yanks him to his feet. Again. Three of them on their way to the cabin door. Pitching one way as gravity angles. He rises from his feet. What gravity? Nothing between
him and the deck. He settles again. Afloat? Was he in the air? Adrift? They lean against the tilt. Lean to walk. Are held still. Are held frozen. Pressure. Then gravity shifts once more. And they swing forward. Barely able to maintain balance.

Inside. They put him on a bunk. Dead tired with this thought: He has been saved. Dead tired with the sickening rocking. They leave him to someone. A man. A woman. Back out into the storm to rescue others.

And there is Agnes Bishop. It is she who has found him. It is she who raises her fingers to his face and shuts his eyes.

 

Junior with his lips to one of Blackstrap's ears. Ruth with her lips to the other. A whispering harmony: ‘Mommy appears in the hospital doorway. She cries as soon as she sees him. So unlike him to be in bed. Resting. He would be furious if he knew. How can he just lie there? She takes hold of his hands.

‘Mommy sits by the side of his bed. She recites from memory the journals of Francis Hawco. The shipwrecked man they thought was dead. She leaves out the part about the woman. The ghost. That part belongs to her. She explains, word for word, about the abandoned ship. Floating in the distance. Not a soul on board. She wonders where Blackstrap might be now. Watching his face. On which shore is he lying. Along the perimeter of this island.

‘Daddy sits in the corner. “Who is it?” he asks. Mad. His words hot with anger. Staring at Blackstrap's bed. Junior at the window with a camera to his eye. Raised to the outside. Ruth banging her arms together. Her hands dead at the ends. Flopping like flippers. And screeching in silence. Her mouth. A circle the machinery beeps from.

‘My only son, thinks Mommy. You die with your children. That part of you that first went over to them. That was taken. That was freely given. It dies. Yet when a child is sick you come alive with caring. Nothing matters of yourself. Other than the child's return to health. That possibility. Praying they were well. Nothing in the world is of consequence. The newspaper dares to report on insignificant matters. The radio, the television. They are filled with the cares of the living. They torment you with their irrelevance. But if this one dies, this son, this boy, this child, everything will be lost. It will be reported in the
newspaper, on the radio and television. I will have ceased to exist. I will cease. I will die for the hope of Heaven.