Ocean Prize (1972) (10 page)

All in all, he was feeling reasonably satisfied with the way things were going. Until the engines broke down.

Barling received the report from a gloomy Jonah Madden and could make very little of the engineer’s jargon.

“Spare me all that. I just want to know one thing: can you and your bright lads fix it?”

Madden, interrupted in full flow, answered somewhat aggrievedly: “We can try.”

“I know you can try. What I’m asking is, can you do it?”

“It may take time.”

“How much time? An hour? Two hours?”

“More than that.”

“But you can fix it?”

“It won’t be easy. Not with the ship rolling like this.” Madden seemed reluctant to make any admission that might detract from the immense difficulty of the job in hand.

“Of course it won’t be easy. Nothing’s easy. If you wanted an easy life you should never have chosen the sea.”

“I’m not asking for an easy life.” Madden repudiated the suggestion as though it were a slur on his character.

“So you’ll get those engines going?”

“If it’s possible.”

“I’m relying on you,” Barling said, and made it sound
like a compliment. “Just you see to things and then we’ll all be happy.”

Madden grunted and went away to see to things. But he looked far from happy.

Barling soon had reason to reflect that troubles never came singly. Two hours later, after the helpless ship had taken a severe battering, a particularly heavy sea burst over the port side forward of the bridge, ripped the tarpaulin off number one hatch, carried away some of the hatch-boards and poured a torrent of water into the wheat-filled hold. Mr. Thompson, the second mate, who was on watch at the time, saw what had happened and immediately reported the situation to Captain Barling.

Barling went at once to the bridge to view the damage for himself. It did not look good. The tarpaulin, still held at one end, was flapping madly in the wind like some monstrous crippled bird, while the dislodged hatch-boards were sliding about on the deck between the coaming and the bulwarks. Meanwhile, more water was continually coming over the side, foaming across the deck and adding to the hundreds of gallons that had already gone into the hold. And what made matters worse was that, lacking any engine power, it was impossible to bring the ship head-on to the sea; she just had to take it on her port beam.

“It’s a nasty situation,” Thompson remarked, and wished he had kept the thought unspoken, since all it earned was a scathing glance from Barling and the observation that if he could think of nothing more useful than that to say, then he had better keep quiet.

Barling sent a man to fetch Mr. Loder, but Loder had already been on his way, and it was scarcely necessary to tell him what needed doing.

“That hatch-cover will have to be replaced or we’ll have number one hold flooded.”

“It isn’t going to be easy,” Loder said; and Barling remembered that Madden had said much the same thing about fixing the engines.

“It’s got to be done.”

Loder nodded. “I’ll go and see to it.”

Rankin, the bosun, sucked his teeth loudly when he heard what was wanted and looked very doubtful.

“Christ, Mr. Loder, that’s going to be a dicey job.”

“Don’t tell me,” Loder snapped. “Round up your men. And hurry.”

Rankin saw that the mate was in no mood for any argument. He hastened away to muster all available hands.

It was a small army that made its way cautiously forward under the leadership of Mr. Loder. There was a lifeline stretched between bridge and forecastle, and they had need of it, for there was no safe footing, and the press of water rolling back and forth across the heaving deck threatened to sweep their legs from under them.

They kept to the starboard side, and when they reached number one hatch Mr. Loder peered through the gap where the boards had been. The light was poor and he could see very little in the gloom; but it was not really necessary to to see anything; he knew that sea-water had gone into the hold and that it would have filtered down through the wheat. What the effect of this on the wheat would be he could only guess, but one thing was certain: it would do the wheat no good and it would do the ship no good, and the sooner the hole was plugged, the better.

He turned and yelled at Rankin: “Clear that tarpaulin. Get the boards back on.”

The tarpaulin had been torn down the middle, and the two halves were flapping in the wind and making startling cracking noises, like guns firing. The bosun relayed Loder’s orders, snarling savagely at the men.

“Aussie, Charlie, Ben—fetch some hammers from the fo’c’sle. You others get them boards back on.” He had to shout to make himself heard above the racket of the storm.

Lawson, Wilson and Ben Grubb, a lean, middle-aged seaman with warts on his face, clawed their way to the forecastle, dodging past the lashing tarpaulin and battling against a sudden rush of water that came sweeping round the end of the hatch coaming. They reached the forecastle, and Lawson turned the catches and swung open the heavy steel door that gave access to the interior. He hooked the door back and they went inside, stepping over the high sill into semi-darkness. Grubb found a switch and snapped on the light. There was considerable disorder caused by the heavy rolling and pitching of the ship; neatly piled stores had been overturned and some drums of paint were careering from one side to the other with a noise like thunder.

“Look out,” Grubb shouted, and Wilson just managed to dodge one of the drums that could easily have broken his leg.

“It’s a bloody shambles,” Lawson grumbled. “Why did I ever come to sea when there’s all that flaming land in Australia? I must be barmy.”

They found the hammers and left the forecastle for the open deck. To make conditions a shade more unpleasant, it had started to rain again; a cold, drenching downpour that made their black oilskins shine like polished metal.

Rankin saw them and shouted: “Get on with it. Knock them bloody wedges out. Look alive there” He sounded angry.

The rest of the men were still rounding up the missing hatch-boards and lifting them back into place, and Loder was helping them, not caring about rank in this emergency. Meanwhile, seas were continually breaking over the port bulwark, rushing across the deck and slopping more water into the unprotected hold. At times the men were waist-deep in the swirling torrent and in constant danger of being thrown down or smashed against winches or other rock-like objects of lethal iron. Most of them had already been down and a few had sustained minor injuries.

Lawson, Wilson and Grubb began to hammer out the wedges securing the iron batten that held the torn tarpaulin. The tarpaulin itself seemed to be doing its best to hinder the operation, lashing at them vindictively, as though with the object of driving them away. One length of it coiled itself about Wilson’s body and wrenched him off his feet. He fell heavily, jarring his right shoulder, and another torrent of sea-water engulfed him, washed him free of the canvas and rolled him helplessly down to the starboard bulwalk, where he was brought to a halt by a crushing blow on the shoulders. The water ran away from him down the scuppers and he lay there for a moment, dazed, bruised and coughing up salt water, but still instinctively clinging to his hammer.

Someone stooped over him, got a hand on the collar of his coat, and hauled him up. It was the bosun.

“Come up then, can’t you?” Rankin still sounded angry. He had a lot to be angry about. “What you lying down there for? Get them wedges out.”

Wilson’s head cleared and he went back to work. In less than half a minute the torn tarpaulin was freed and cast aside.

“Get a new tarp,” Rankin shouted. “Make it lively.”

They went back into the forecastle, Wilson stumbling over
the sill and falling on to a coil of rope. He could smell the strong, sweetish odour of the manila mingling with the other odours of tar and paint and oil. He heard Grubb’s voice in his ear.

“You gone to sleep, boy? Or you jest giving up?”

Wilson got to his feet. The paint drums were still rolling about, but they dodged past them and found the tarpaulin folded and stowed away. It was heavy and sticky with new tar, and between them they carried it out, dodging again the rolling paint drums that threatened to cut their legs from under them.

The last of the hatch-boards had been lifted into place and there were many hands waiting to unfold the new tarpaulin. Three or four men climbed on to the hatch and took a grip on it, while Lawson, Wilson and Grubb got one end anchored with batten and wedges to the forward lip of the coaming. They began to unroll it across the boards, the men on the hatch moving backwards, bent almost double and bracing themselves to keep their balance on that erratically shifting platform. Loder, withdrawn now, his back against the starboard forecastle ladder, one hand gripping the rail, watched the operation with his hard, slate-grey eyes, missing nothing.

“Careful, boys,” Rankin warned them. “Look out for yourselves now.”

The warning was justified; at that moment a sea came pounding over the port side and thundered down on the deck, sweeping across the hatch. The men, caught by that sudden rush of water, felt their hands torn from the tarpaulin and themselves knocked down and rolled off the hatch and into the starboard waterway, where they lay in a tangle of arms and legs, struggling to get up.

The tarpaulin, suddenly freed, seemed to take wing as
the wind got under it. The remaining folds were unfurled in an instant, and wrenching itself from the hands of the seamen on each side of the hatch, it rose into the air like a sail and fell against the forecastle with a tremendous crack. Loder, seeing it coming, took refuge under the ladder, but Lawson and Grubb were less fortunate; they were caught in the belly of the canvas and knocked violently down by the weight of it. The whole body of it then descended on them and held them imprisoned beneath it while they made vain efforts to grope their way out of the darkness that had so suddenly engulfed them.

Fortunately, the end batten held fast, and the rest of the men, goaded by Rankin’s vituperative tongue, hastened to recapture the billowing tarpaulin and drag it back over the hatch. This time they made no mistake; exerting all their strength, they held it tight across the boards while the iron battens were slipped into the brackets and the wooden wedges beaten home.

“And now stay there, you bastard,” Rankin snarled, slamming his fist on the hatch-cover. “Stay there and be damned to you!”

Rankin had got a bruised elbow and torn finger-nails, and was feeling savage. But at that he had suffered less damage than most of them. One man had a sprained wrist, and two had had teeth knocked out; all of them were going to have aches and pains and everyone was drenched to the skin. But the hatch was covered and Mr. Loder was satisfied.

Captain Barling, watching anxiously from the bridge, was greatly relieved to see the task successfully completed; and he felt grateful to the men who had battled with the sea and the wind to accomplish it. When it came to the push they
were good men, all of them; yes, very good men. He even felt an unexpected warmth towards Adam Loder, who had supervised the work. It was his duty of course; but even so.…

Precisely half an hour later Madden reported that the engines were ready again.

“Thank you, Chief,” Barling said. “I’m obliged to you for getting the job finished so quickly.”

“I thought you’d be needing the power,” Madden answered dryly.

“There’s nothing I need more. And again, thank you.”  

Soon after that the
Hopeful
Enterprise
again had her head to the sea.

B
efore nightfall
the gale had already begun to abate its fury. Morning came with the wind fallen into a far less boisterous mood and the sea gradually following its example. There was no rain, and for the first time in days the clouds broke up to reveal large patches of blue sky.

From Barling’s point of view only one thing marred the prospect, making it rather less than perfect: the
Hopeful
Enterprise
was slightly down by the head and had developed a noticeable list to port. It was not difficult to divine the reason for this: the tons of sea-water that had poured into number one hold had upset the loading and had possibly caused the cargo to move despite the shifting-boards. It was not altogether out of the question that the boards had given way under the abnormal pressure, allowing the wheat to pile up on the port side. Barling considered the possibility of breaking open the hold and sending some men down with shovels to try to level out the wheat, but he decided against it. The list was not heavy enough to cause any real trouble.

He was on the bridge early, conferring with Loder in the chartroom regarding the likely position of the
India
Star
after drifting in the storm.

“So you really mean to go hunting again?”

Barling lifted his gaze from the chart he was studying and turned it on the mate. “Have you any objection?”

“No. Why should I? It’s just work to me.”

“But you think it’s a wild goose chase?”

Loder shrugged. “Shall we say that I consider the chances of success are pretty slim?”

“Very well,” Barling answered coldly, “let’s say that. We’re going to search just the same.”

There was the old cynical twist to Loder’s mouth and the faint mockery in his eyes, which infuriated Barling. “In spite of the condition this ship is in?”

“There is nothing wrong with this ship. Nothing serious.”

“Well, if you think so.”

“I do think so.”

Loder saw that nothing was going to deter Barling; he was determined to search for the
India
Star,
his prize. But for how long? If they found no trace of the derelict how many days would it be before he could be persuaded to accept defeat? No telling. Barling could be a stubborn man, and there was much at stake. He might go on and on with the single-mindedness of Captain Ahab hunting for the white whale.

Loder shrugged again. “It’s your decision.”

The search was to be systematic. Having estimated the position to which the
India
Star
might have been expected to drift, supposing that she was still afloat, the surrounding area was divided into sections, each of a width that could be surveyed from the
Hopeful
Enterprise.
They would steam down the length of a section, turn and steam back along the next section, and so on until the entire area had been covered.

“It’ll take time,” Loder said.

“We’ve got time.”

They began searching at first light. The day passed slowly and the sea became progressively calmer. The wind dropped to a moderate breeze and the sun shone fitfully. No ship was sighted.

The crew accepted the situation. The decision to continue the search was none of their making; they had not been consulted and would not have expected to be. But that did not prevent them from discussing the subject in the mess, and the general opinion was that Captain Barling had gone a bit wrong in the head.

Some were inclined to take a gloomy view. Ben Grubb predicted that they would just hang about until another gale hit them. “And next time it could be a hell of a lot worse. We’ve shipped a deal of water in that for’ard hold as it is, and there’s a list.”

“Not much of a list,” Lawson said.

“It could get worse. The wheat must’ve shifted and it’s soaked with water. Maybe that’ll make it swell, set up pressure. No telling what may happen.”

Lawson gave a laugh. “I don’t know why you’re so keen to get home, chum. If I had an eye like yours I’d want it got right before I stepped ashore.”

Grubb had come out of the argument with the tarpaulin sporting a black eye and a split lip. It could have been that which was making him moody.

“Just say I want to get home,” he said. “And if it’s left to the Old Man I ain’t so sure I will—ever.”

“You can’t do much else ‘cept leave it to him,” Veevers said. “He’s the gaffer and it’s his say so.”

“So much the worse for us.”

“Could be the better for us.”

“How d’you make that out?”

Veevers looked knowing. “When there’s salvage money
going around everybody gets a share, don’t they?”

They all stared at him. “Is that so? You mean we all get something?”

“That’s the way I heard it. If we get that ship we’ll all be richer.”

It put a different complexion on the matter.

“Well, in that case,” Lawson said, “I’m with the Old Man, looney or not.”

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 bring 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.