Under Way

Chapter
17

The rolling of the old ship increased in equal measure with the draining of light from the sky, as if the two were connected, heavy Caribbean sun pressing flat the natural swells and waves until its strength sapped and the ocean current pushed up and through as dusk advanced. It certainly felt that way. The missionary ship rode relatively calm most of the day, against all hope, from their departure out of Jérémie and through the long day beyond. The clouds settled thick across the sky late in the afternoon, wind blowing noticeably stronger approaching sundown. With the total loss of light the ship began rocking, taking hits broadside as it trawled ever so slowly on its crippled main.

There was a kid standing bridge watch with McBride. He’d be on the helm soon, if this weather increased. But for now the autohelm was holding steady and the boy stood forward with McBride, eyes out the dark, wet bridge window, both hands wrapped around the bar to steady against rolls. He was college-aged, this boy, raising a question in McBride’s mind—it was September. But McBride had long ago ceased asking personal questions of those who passed through this boat—and more often than not they did just pass through, not many staying aboard more than a couple months, with a few notable exceptions. Early on he’d been curious and asked a lot of questions but discovered the answers were invariably depressing, sometimes extraordinarily depressing, and now he tended not to ask. Instead, he was telling this boy about the green flash, rarest of Earth events, visible only to sailors and then just a handful of times in the course of a life. Not possible on a night like tonight, of course. One needed an absolute absence of clouds, not even a wisp. No atmospheric moisture, and no wind. A completely dry, flat counterpart to the sea.

“At sunset, at the very point where the sun passes under the horizon, it will flash—bright green, very intense. Just for a second.”

“Green?”

“Green.”

“Amazing.”

“Indeed. Nothing more beautiful.”

The boy nodded, thought, then said, “The eye of God.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like the eye of God.”

McBride grimaced. “I don’t think—” he said but was cut off by a large roll to port, out of sequence, catching them both by surprise, the boy losing his grip and falling into the vessel master. He clung to the rail with one hand and held the boy up with the other. “Steady,” he whispered, righting the two of them. It was now too dark to clearly see the boy’s face, but McBride guessed he was scared.

“That,” the older man said, “was thehand of God.”

 

Pastor had laid below an hour before, to sleep. She was back now, in her thick khakis, working her way slowly across the bridge as if climbing a ladder—one hand out with each step, grabbing something solid and pulling herself along.

“Mister McBride,” she said, breathlessly. “How long will this last?”

“Easily all night. Can’t tell beyond that.” The map from the weather fax had been vague. They rolled starboard and McBride shifted his knees, Pastor gripping tight to the chart table. The kid had wedged himself into the forward corner of the bridge. “Young man,” McBride said, “stand to the helm.”

Pastor managed the last few steps and stood next to him now, a tight grip on the bar running across the front of the bridge. “We’ve never rolled so badly before,” she said. “Even in worse weather, yes?” She was scared.

“No, you’re right. It’s like I warned—” and he paused as they pitched hard to port “—I have very little control over the ship. We have almost no power to maneuver.”

McBride was scared, too, but a vague and detached fear. He found this interesting. He should be scared—they had no business out here. And in a clinical way he knew he was afraid. But it was the same as knowing someone else was afraid; some other person he was observing.

They rolled starboard and it was a long roll, deep, seeming without end. Pastor lost her grip, shuffling sideways across the deck, whispering, “Dear God.” Balance regained, she said, “We can’t survive this.”

“We can,” McBride said. “As long as it gets no worse.”

Pastor was flustered, and he felt for the old girl. She had an iron will, this one. Faith, he guessed. Perhaps stubbornness. But the last few days had shown her just flustered.

“This was a mistake,” she said. “Put her in, Mister McBride.”

He shook his head. “There’s nowhere to put her in. We go on or we turn back, but no other options. There’s no other deep-water ports.”

She nodded, and stood silent a few moments. Finally, she said, “They’re frightened, down below. I’ll go see to them.”

“Good,” he said. “It will make it easier for them. To see you.” McBride turned then, to the kid. He was standing at the helm console, holding on to the sides. “Take her off auto, young man,” McBride said. “Hold tight and listen up for my orders.” They’d been running fairly close to shore through the daylight. Crippled as they were, McBride hadn’t wanted to lose sight of land. It was a comfort, he thought, to everyone on the ship. But it didn’t matter now, and he might get some relief in deeper waters. “I’m taking her out farther,” he said, “and we’ll see what happens.”

Pastor was halfway back across the bridge, and she nodded without turning, holding tight with each step. She stopped at the stairs, and turned then. “You’ll get us through this, yes, Mister McBride?”

He nodded but didn’t answer. One of the few times she put something directly into his hands was one of the few times he felt for sure the outcome would have little to do with him.

In the narrow passage below the stairs Pastor rounded the corner and literally ran smack into someone, both of them thrown to the deck as the ship rolled.

“Oh God I’m so sorry,” the voice said, then, “Pastor! I was coming to find you.”

Pastor squinted in the dim passage. It was a young woman, a silly girl named Lorraine. “It’s all right,” she said, irritated, barely holding dinner down. She put her hand up to the railing but couldn’t seem to raise herself from her sitting position. “Help me, Lorraine,” she said, and the girl reached down to pull her up.

“Itis Lorraine, yes?” she said, grunting as she was pulled to her feet.

The girl ignored the question. “It’s Mister Davis,” she said. “He’s sick, ma’am. Real sick.”

“We’re all sick, Lorraine,” Pastor said through clenched teeth, holding tight as the ship rolled deep. “It’s unavoidable in this weather—”

“No, really sick. He’s passed out, I can’t wake him. He took something, I think. Pills. A lot of them.”

The older woman tightened her jaw. “Where is he?”

“We were in his cabin, Pastor. He’s in his cabin.”

“What were you—”

“I’m sorry, Pastor, I’m so sorry! But please, he’s so sick.”