They had a pump sucking on the bilge of number two hold, Hibbert had been up to tell the Old Man. They’d tried the fore-peak and the deep-tank and got nothing out of either, then number one hold – which was also dry – and after finding water in number two – a real gusher, Hibbert had called it – had tried number three and were able to confirm that that was dry. So now you knew where it was: but not how deep it was or whether the pump could cope with it, extract more than was getting in there. When Hibbert had come up it had been running for about ten minutes, and that had been a quarter of an hour ago.
Another question currently unanswerable was whether, if the pump could not beat the inflow, the ship would float when that hold was full. Andy didn’t think she would, and the Old Man’s silence on the subject made it fairly obvious that he didn’t either. Ten minutes to midnight now. Andy had taken over as OOW again before Hibbert had come back up, Old Man retiring to his corner and lighting his pipe; scent of shag now filling the wheelhouse. If you could call it scent. Finney hadn’t returned, which was fine, what Andy had intended – for Julia to have help at hand if she should need it, and meanwhile have her mind taken off whatever fears she might have. If Finney was up to that – which he would be, surely, the pair of them having been close companions for a long time now – long, arduous time, and they’d come through all that, so…
So fingers crossed, and God be with them. With us all, for Christ’s sake. Glasses up meanwhile: concentrating on the wilderness out there. Looking out was still important – always was, naturally, always would be, but specifically here and now because the effect of having been in convoy was to make you feel you were now entirely alone, whereas there might well be other drop-outs around, none of them likely to be showing lights.
As to the rest of it – well, she was certainly rolling less. Would be, head to sea. Pitching less violently too, he thought: attributing this to a combination of (a) lower revs, and (b) weight of water in her forepart. This was his own opinion – assumption – based on observation and the feel of her. Had not discussed it with the Old Man, hadn’t exchanged a word about it since that optimistic, ‘Riding better, Holt?’ an hour ago. But her bow was lower in the sea, he thought. There’d been no more of the hurricane-sized waves since the one that had smashed the boats – although that didn’t mean you’d seen the last of them– and in any case there were still big ones crashing in over the foc’sl-head several times a minute; you still had it boiling over the for’ard hatch-covers really most of the time. She wasn’t rising to the oncoming seas as she had been, which could undoubtedly be put down to the weight in number two: she was driving into them, whereas before she’d been soaring and then slamming down on them.
It had become more evident during the past hour – through most of which they’d had the pump running.
‘Bearing up, are we?’
Fisher, arriving to take over. Lifejacket on over his oilskin. Skipper’s orders – men on watch to wear them, those below to have them within reach at all times. Turning to the skipper: ‘It’s Fisher, sir.’
‘Before you take over, Second, have a look at the DR I’ve put on. Guesswork mostly. But’ – voice clearer as he took the pipe out of his mouth – ‘steering oh-eight-oh since then, like as not standing still.’
Gorst, who’d come up with him, also lifejacketed, had gone to the chart anyway. Fisher yelled – to Andy – ‘Water in number two, I hear. Spoke with McAlan. Pump’s running a bit hot, he says.’
‘Put the auxiliary on it then, couldn’t they? Turn and turn about maybe?’
‘I’m sure. Anyway – still afloat, that’s the main thing.’ A chuckle. ‘And come daylight, see to the hatch-cover, any luck.’ Peering down at a sea flooding over deep enough for foam to be flying in white streamers from more than halfway up the kingposts. As much as ten feet deep on deck, that meant. Fisher adding, ‘But not in that we won’t, will we. Well, Christ…’ Turning away: ‘Hang on. Dekko at the chart.’ Over his shoulder then: ‘Finney there, is he?’
‘Didn’t need him. Skipper’d taken over for a while, I sent him down.’
Odd that he’d thought Finney might be up here – or in fact why he’d have cared whether he was or wasn’t. But they were sharing a cabin, and as a matter of routine Fisher would have looked into the saloon – the pantry, anyway – for a mug of tea before coming up.
Only left one place he could be.
Well. Glasses up again. Why not? What he’d sent him down for, after all. And they would not – well, bet your life they wouldn’t – either of them, but certainly not her.
Big one coming. Towering black wall, white-topped – the kind that curled before it fell on you, smashed down on hatch-covers, boats in davits, battered at the super-structure and made decks unusable…
Hatch-covers could stand that, they’d stand anything. Low in the sea as she was, it did virtually drown her. Bakewell cursing, battling with the helm… This midships accommodation block was often referred to as an island – PollyAnna as a three-island ship: foc’sl, bridge structure and poop – and for something like a minute the bridge and upper bridge – monkey island – were effectively an island: you were looking out and down on nothing but a murderous rising pile of ocean and not finding it easy to trust in the staying-power of steel plates and rivets, iron beams, the ship’s ability to withstand, survive… Foc’sl-head and the ventilators’ intakes – ventilators abreast the foremast – suddenly – surprisingly – out and clear of it, and the heavy whiteness thinning, dividing, streaming, howling away down-storm, PollyAnna fighting her way up out of it, even the darker rectangular shapes of hatch-covers visible to binoculars now. She wasn’t bow-up: would have been if she’d been in anything like proper trim, but –
Wasn’t. Nothing like.
‘All right, Bakewell?’
‘All right now, sir. Was twenty degree off, but –’
Gorst blundered in from the wing: ‘Boats are still there, sir.’
‘Makes a change to have good news.’ The Old Man – grabbing for fresh support, having moved from where he had been. Andy telling himself there could be more of those to come. Why shouldn’t there be? The Old Man bawling to Fisher, ‘What d’you make of it, Second?’
The charted DR position. Fisher was coming from the canvas-curtained chart alcove, telling him, ‘I’m sure your DR’s as good as it could be, sir, but don’t you think if we made the course oh-seven-five rather than oh-eight-oh –’
‘Head to this muck is oh-eight-oh. Time being we’ll stay as we are.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Andy handed him the binoculars: ‘Revs for five knots, course you know –’
‘And they’re pumping on number two. All right. Sleep well.’
It had been a long four hours. He would sleep well. She’d been banging around like this for days now, one’s system was tuned to it. Not exactly music to the slumbering soul, but – hell, apart from those huge ones, which might disturb one… Might wake with nightmarish pictures in mind – of number one going as number two had, another of those great avalanches smashing through number one’s hatch-cover, for instance. If that happened you wouldn’t have many minutes, perhaps not even one. Or if the bulkhead split between one and two – same thing, similar effect – if you woke at all you’d wake drowning.
Better to sleep than think, was what that amounted to. And here and now, better maybe not to bother about tea. Because Julia and Finney might be in the saloon. If she’d not been able to sleep and the boy was keeping her company? Well – Christ, he should be… But if you didn’t look in there you could tell yourself that was where they must have been, that Fisher might have gone straight up to the bridge from his cabin – might have, and you could leave that question unasked too… While another view of it was as he’d thought earlier – more or less – who cared, in all these circumstances who gave a damn?
Well – he, Andy Holt, did. For some reason. And if he stayed out of the saloon now it would be primarily for his own peace of mind. Shielding himself from any discomfiture on that score – from knowing they could only have been in her cabin.
Did want a hot drink, though…
They were sitting at the pantry end of the table, and she was playing patience – one-handed, the other curled round a leg of the table, holding herself in place – as if that came naturally, was simply what one did – the cards laid out in columns alternating red and black, and Finney watching the game – or watching her – both of them glancing round as Andy came in and pushed the door shut behind him. Julia saying to Finney, ‘Told you…’
Their two lifejackets were on a chair between them. His own was slung over his shoulder.
‘Told him what?’
‘That you’d be along for some tea when you came off watch.’
‘Exactly what I’m here for.’ Heading for the pantry – and thankful that he’d come. ‘Either of you want some, while I’m at it?’
‘We’ve got it coming out of our ears, thanks all the same. But thank you for sending Mark down to hold my hand.’
‘That what he’s been doing?’
The galley fire was out, but there was hot water in the cistern. Fairly hot. He made himself a mug of tea and went back to them. ‘Holding hands, indeed!’
‘That was a colossal one a few minutes ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Biggish. But she’s riding it quite well now.’
Julia asked, ‘Going to be all right then, are we?’
‘Of course we are. Not making much headway at the moment, but as soon as it eases off –’
‘Think it will?’
He smiled at her. ‘Ever hear of a storm that went on for ever?’
‘Can go on for weeks, can’t they? Especially this time of year?’
‘No reason this should. Four days is average, as it happens. I’m not saying we’ll get a flat calm, exactly –’
‘But if the cover of another hatch gave way –’
‘You know about that, then.’
‘I’ve got ears, Andy – and no one’s keeping it exactly secret.’ Patting the lifejackets. ‘Stone the crows, what might these be for?’
‘We’re pumping on that bilge, she’s holding up well, and when it does ease – as believe me it will –’
‘This one’s going to come out, I think.’ Talking about the game of patience. ‘It doesn’t often.’ Shaking her head: ‘You don’t have to worry about me, anyway. I know the spot we’re in, but – got through it once, get through it again. Mark thinks I’m bluffing, I’m supposed to crack up or something. Damn.’ Throwing the cards down: ‘Not coming out. Stupid game. It’s true, though – came tapping on my door shaking like a leaf; I had to have him on the bunk with me, hold him tight. You needn’t look like that – I’ve been sleeping in my clothes, and all he took off was his oilskin and woolly hat – drew the line at them…
He was asleep before one a.m. and awake again just after six, having slept like them – fully dressed – and not been disturbed even once by the still violent motion or the noise of it. No point in any early visit to the bridge for stars – knowing there wouldn’t be any. Black sky and angry sea was all: although – on his bunk still, listening to it and comparing the ship’s motion to what it had been – might be a little quieter?
The fact she was still afloat with her engine pounding was the main thing. Last night there’d been no guarantee of it. Could have taken in more water during the night and given up the ghost, just slipped under: he’d been very much aware of it, and so he thought had Julia. Finney too, probably. Julia by some kind of instinct or intuition maybe, or reading it in others’ eyes – including one’s own – and Finney as much as anything because he was scared for her.
Which made two of them.
When she’d gone up last night, leaving them on their own while Andy finished his lukewarm tea, he’d said to Finney, ‘That business in her cabin – cuddles on her bunk –’
‘I know. Shouldn’t have.’
‘Innocent, I know, but someone might get the wrong idea, and – for instance, someone like our first mate?’
‘I take that point. And it won’t happen again. I didn’t know what to do – she might have been lying there scared stiff – whatever she says, might have been… Isn’t she terrific?’
‘Quite a girl. Truly is.’
Finney smiling – a touch self-consciously, Andy had thought. As if taking that as a compliment to himself – seeing himself and her as one entity, even? Love’s young dream, he’d thought, when he was turning in. Calf-love, though, little brother love: and no harm in that, absolutely none – as long as Finney came to recognise it, in due course. But as for himself – well, for one thing he wondered whether he should have said even as much as he had about the shared bunk. If Finney had sneaked back up to her cabin, stayed with her through a night in the course of which they might all have drowned, (a) could one have blamed either him or her, and (b) what business was it of Andy Holt’s?
Fair enough to warn him about Halloran, though. And interesting that the warning had seemed not to surprise him.
Fisher arrived for breakfast soon after Andy had settled down to it, told him his own midnight to four watch had been uneventful, with none of those huge ones which truly did make you feel the end was nigh, but that he doubted whether it would be possible to inspect number two hatch-cover with conditions as they still were. ‘Feel it, can’t you – that’s how it is…’ Get a better notion of it in daylight, obviously. He thought she was deeper for’ard than she’d been at midnight: every wave that came now did swamp over and come lumping down from the foc’sl-head on to the hatch-covers. There’d been some discussion of it between Halloran and the Old Man when the watch had been changing over at 0400; Halloran had been putting his view that number two should be sounded at the first opportunity – and the hatch-cover attended to – Old Man maintaining stolidly, ‘We’ll see how she is, come daylight.’
The pump – a pump – was still running, Third Engineer Shaw told them. They’d switched several times between the main one and the auxiliary; those pumps did tend to run hot when overworked. Another danger was of the intake choking up – getting choked with fragments of dunnage, for instance.
‘But’ – a closing of the eyes, and rapping the table – ‘so far, so good.’
‘If the intake did choke up, that’d fix both pumps and not a damn thing anyone could do to clear it – right?’
‘Right. But there’s a thought Tom McAlan and I was having – if anyone’d care to hear it.’
Andy nodded. ‘Sure we all would.’
‘If it’s decent.’ Starkadder, that was, between slurps of porridge. Others listening were Clowes, the junior Marconi boy, Fourth Engineer Howie, and Willy Gorst.
‘It’s like this.’ Shaw’s Lancashire tones resuming. ‘Suppose it’s not the hatch-cover – suppose when we rammed the German – Glauchau – we started a few rivets like – only loosened a couple, I mean, nothing as showed up on the way north, but now the seven, eight days’ bashing around’s really done it?’
Fisher shook his head. ‘We hit the Glauchau a bit of a tonk, but I wouldn’t say rammed her.’
‘Slammed into her, then. Jesus, how it sounded to us down below there, I’ll tell you.’
‘Everything does though, doesn’t it.’
‘Eh?’
‘Like banging on a drum? The motion now, for instance, ain’t that –’
‘Not all that bad. Louder here, this level. What I’m saying, stuff we’ve been through these last days – hell, could’ve done more ’n knock a few loose rivets out – if there was some – could’ve opened a seam, broken her bloody back even!’
Fisher said, frowning, ‘Could have, but wouldn’t necessarily have started with bumping into the Hun.’
‘Carpenter went round sounding tanks and bilges, didn’t he? On the way down-river?’
Andy put in, ‘Conscientious guy, Postlethwaite. Sounded all round – on his own initiative – and didn’t find an egg-cupful. I’d say that if there is hull damage, that tells us there’s no connection.’
‘Don’t prove there is, but if there was only rivets loosened then – we had an easy passage north, remember –’
‘I agree with Holt.’ Fisher, Andy had realised from the start of this, didn’t want the Old Man accused of ramming anything. If there was any such damage, perhaps it could have started there, but at present there was no reason to look further than the hatch-cover. He put in – as Finney arrived, but no Julia with him, she no doubt making up for the late night she’d had – to her great credit, if she could sleep soundly – ‘May get a proper look at the hatch-cover some time today.’ To Shaw then, ‘If you’d been up there when those dirty great bastards were coming down on us – hell, you wouldn’t believe the size of ’em. Big enough to break the Queen Mary’s back, let alone this old steamer’s.’ Looking round at the pantry hatch: ‘Any more coffee there, Watkins?’
Except that her forepart definitely was lower in the water, so that as Fisher had said, every roller as she dug into it was coming greenish over the foc’sl-head and/or gunwales and filling the well-deck with a white flood covering the hatch-covers several feet deep – so if there were leaks in number two the topping-up process would be more or less continuous – there wasn’t much difference from how he remembered it at midnight. Except that then of course one hadn’t been able to see anything but the whiteness, and now it was startling to see how little freeboard she had for’ard there. He guessed the hold might well be full – in which case the pumps were wasting their time and effort, sucking out less than was coming in, achieving damn-all. On the other hand, the Old Man was clearly right: you couldn’t make that assumption and have them stopped – perhaps have the hold fill up then and sink her.
The hatch-cover looked OK – in moments when it was in clear sight, tarpaulin gleaming blackly in the early light. But it was more likely to be the cause of flooding than Tommy Shaw’s allegedly loosened rivets. Secondary danger: if the hold was full, or even half-full – was of the holds’ dividing bulkheads giving way to the pressure of that mass of water being slung constantly to and fro with the still violent motion of the ship, the frightening but inescapable truth being that if they or even one of them gave way, the flooding would instantly spread right through and she’d be on her way to the bottom, finish the century on a bed of sand 9,000 feet down. Pitch darkness, white crabs, no ocean movement in that deep silence, PollyAnna resting easy while the crabs clawed into whatever they found that took their fancy, and over the years rust consumed the rest.
Shaking his head. Something of that sort might come about – at some later stage, some other voyage. But not this time. This time you were going to get her and her cargo home.
Cargo and passenger.
‘All right, Holt?’
Halloran back from the chart where he’d been conferring with the skipper. They’d come back together, skipper into his usual corner, beyond Axe-man Parlance who was on the wheel now and for the next half-hour. Crazy-looking, with that squint – no wonder the Huns had tended to keep their distance. Eight o’clock now – course still 080, revs the same, DR position on the chart the same as yesterday and the day before that, only a matter of rubbing out the previous date and substituting today’s – 27th. Assuming, with no certainty and no way of checking, that to all intents and purposes you’d been standing still.
He’d nodded to Halloran. ‘Got her.’
Forepart buried. Vibration from aft was from the racing screw. Skipper bawling – an afterthought to the discussion they’d been having – ‘We’ll also think about flooding the deep-tank aft, Mister!’ Halloran moved away in the Old Man’s direction and Andy turned back to his looking-out. They knew a lot more about it than he did, but he suspected the decision might still be a tricky one. Deep-tanks were essentially trimming tanks, filled for instance when the ship was in ballast, although they could also be used as cargo-space, were empty now because the iron ore had her down to her winter North Atlantic marks; flooding the after one would trim her stern down, thereby level her to some extent and increase the working depth of the rudder and propeller. By the same token, though, you’d be increasing her already excessive weight and draught: with the hold flooded she’d already be below her marks.
Decision for those who knew. And a biggish sea coming now: mound of dark-green, white-fringed water higher than the foc’sl-head, PollyAnna dipping her bow deep in the trough preceding it as it came towering, drawing itself up as they always seemed to – bridge-height, that streaming crest – and on her now – smothering her forepart, foc’sl-head buried, green sea piling over, drowning not only hatches but ventilators, winches, lashed-down derricks, thundering around this bridge structure, spray sheeting and rattling like bullets. Old Man bellowing at Halloran as the bulk of it flooded aft and overside, ‘Care to’ve been down there then, would you?’
Bark of what might have been a laugh. Then – ‘But this past half-hour – and maybe the next again –’
‘We’ll see how it goes, Mister.’
Halloran must have been arguing in favour of inspecting the hatch-cover and sounding the depth in that hold. Skipper obviously not in favour: his flat tone had indicated decision reached, no further argument. And another of that kind coming now, Andy saw – likely to confound Halloran’s theory and reinforce that decision. He yelled, ‘Another coming!’ Halloran moving swiftly to the ladder and the Old Man crooking an arm round the stanchion that carried the engine room telegraph, watching how Parlance handled her through this new thundering maelstrom. Then, as it subsided – PollyAnna shuddering, but holding her own despite the weight in her – telling Andy, ‘Going down for a spell, Holt. Any problems, whistle, don’t fuck around – all right?’
By ‘don’t fuck around’ he’d meant not to dither over interrupting his captain’s forty winks, but in fact there’d been no reason to until in mid-forenoon he realised the wind was backing, was on the bow to port, the ship beginning to roll as well as pitch. In accordance with Master’s Standing Orders this did need to be reported, and he’d been on the point of doing so when the Old Man reappeared of his own accord after only a couple of hours below – his full ration of sleep out of the past twenty-four, and some of that time he’d have been eating, one might guess… Arriving back up then he’d spent a few seconds sniffing the wind and watching the sea before telling Andy, ‘Try her on oh-seven-oh.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ He looked at Ingram, who was on the wheel now, and having heard the skipper’s shout was waiting for Andy to formalise the order with, ‘Steer oh-seven-oh.’
Acknowledgement, and wheel over. And Finney getting something to do at last – entering the alteration and the time of it in the log. PollyAnna’s fore-deck was still under water most of the time, but there’d been no more giant ones. In fact you’d have said force ten rather than force eleven now. Wouldn’t count on any lasting improvement, though – not yet. There’d been false hopes raised more than once in the last few days.
‘Course oh-seven-oh, sir.’ Ingram’s grey mop of hair showing under his tam-o’-shanter. Deepset eyes, jutting brows, hooked nose. He was from somewhere in Argyll, had mentioned that he’d been a lifeboatman at one time. His chief distinction in PollyAnna now was that he’d been one of the stalwarts of the boarding operation. PollyAnna was coming round to the new course readily enough, despite the weight for’ard and the stern-up angle which one would expect to be reducing the rudder’s effectiveness. The wind might have helped: was on her nose now, but having backed by about a point before that had maybe helped nudge her afterpart around.
Confused sea, you’d call this. Heavy enough, but less regular.
‘How long since it began to shift?’
The Old Man, at his side. PollyAnna scooping a load of green over her bow, port side, flinging it back across and out to starboard. Andy told him, ‘Only minutes, sir. I was making sure of it before calling you.’
‘Backing this quick, may end up where it should be this time of year.’ Wave of a hand westward. ‘Won’t make it any warmer, eh?’
Meaning – Andy guessed – that in passing through northwest it would be coming from the ice. He put his glasses up again. It had been brass-monkey cold these last days. Gales all the way from Spitzbergen, maybe. Greenland, a shade west of north, was of course a good deal closer. He asked – chancing his arm, third mates weren’t expected to engage their skippers in conversation when on watch, but the Old Man seemed to be in a chatty mood – ‘Will you flood the after deep-tank, sir?’
‘If we get the blow astern of us – not like it has been, mind – least, pray God it won’t’ – pausing, with his round blue eyes on Andy’s – ‘we’d bloody need to – uh?’
‘To trim her so she’ll answer her helm better?’
‘And the screw in deeper, and less chance she’d drive under, maybe.’
Meaning that with the wind astern and enough revs to push her along a bit, the bow-down angle plus excessive weight for’ard, might – might – cause her to drive herself under. And levelling her even slightly should make that less likely.
He nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Try her on oh-six-oh.’
Fisher came up shortly before noon, to take over his twelve to four, and Halloran also reappeared. Andy had sent Finney down to keep Julia company, the Old Man had also allowed himself another break, and Gorst had come up as usual with Fisher; so there were three officers and one cadet on the bridge, with Ingram still on the wheel.
Andy told Fisher, ‘Still pumping on number two, course is oh-three-oh, revs unchanged, wind’s been backing steadily over the past two hours, sea’s all over the place.’ Meaning erratic, having problems making its mind up. PollyAnna dipping into it, though, as a standard-size wave came rolling in fine on the bow, swamping over and smashing itself into lather on and around the steam windlass, sluicing down to swirl three or four feet deep in the well-deck then. With her pretty well constant bow-down angle she wasn’t getting rid of it as fast as she would have even four hours ago.
He thought the hold might have filled in that time.
Halloran shouted, ‘That as big as they’re coming now?’
‘Well-deck’s awash three-quarters of the time.’ He added, in case the mate hadn’t heard what he’d told Fisher, ‘Wind’s down a notch and backing.’
‘Old Man got his head down?’
Fisher had a comment overlapping that: ‘She’s got damn little freeboard for’ard there!’
‘I know. Not good, is it.’
Fisher was looking shocked, and was probably right to be. It was the shape she was in, though, nothing you could do about it. He supposed that actually it wasn’t far off a disaster scenario: for some time now, had not been far off it. Nodded to Halloran, his question about the Old Man. ‘Or he’s getting an early meal. Said he’d be back up inside the hour.’ Checking the time. ‘Gives him twenty minutes.’ Back to Fisher then: ‘So – all right?’
‘Can’t say I’m exactly happy with her.’
‘Orders are to keep her head to wind. Speaking of which –’ He shouted to Ingram, ‘Bring her to oh-two-five!’
‘Oh-two-five, sir…’
‘How’s she feel, Ingram?’
A quick glance in Halloran’s direction, while holding rudder on her, eyes then back on the compass. ‘Heavy, sir. Not much different, though.’ To Andy then: ‘Course oh-two-five, sir.’
‘All right, I’ll take her.’ Fisher’s hand out for the glasses; Halloran indicated that he was staying put, guessed the Old Man would agree they might take a look at number two now. Nodding down towards what was more a big swell than a wave as she drove into it – or you might say it enveloped her, whereas in normal conditions she’d have ridden over it. At higher revs she could do that and drive herself under, Andy thought. Asking Halloran – ‘If he agrees to that, d’you want me with you?’
‘No. Me, bosun and Postlethwaite. Postlethwaite can take his soundings – then we’ll know if the pumping’s doing any good. If there’s, say, six or ten feet in there, it’s doing its job; if she’s full up it’s a waste of time – unless we can fix the hatch-cover.’
‘Shaw has a theory it could be hull damage. Loosened rivets.’
‘If we find the cover’s intact, he could be right.’
He told Julia in the saloon what was happening weatherwise and what Halloran hoped would be happening in regard to the flooded hold if the Old Man went along with it. Telling Julia and Finney, but also as it happened McAlan, Howie, Janner and young Mervyn Clowes. All of them with lifejackets handy. He slung his own over the back of a chair: ‘Damn thing.’
‘Why say that?’
‘Because I’ve been wearing it on the bridge, and the tape that goes over one’s head gets in the way of this and makes it sore.’ Touching the back of his neck. He was still wearing the dressing the Canadian doctor had put on it in Halifax, securing it with sticking-plaster; it had seemed desirable to keep it covered, where the removal of stitches had left it raw, and nothing that Halloran might have produced out of the medicine chest was likely to measure up to that doctor’s effort. He remembered the doc warning him, ‘This may hurt some,’ and while snipping the mate’s stitches out asking him, ‘What kinda pain-killer’d he give you when he put ’em in?’ Andy had told him, truthfully, ‘Large tot of whisky,’ and he’d demanded, ‘No morphine in your ship’s stores?’
‘Do have morphine tablets. Didn’t think of it, though. All in a rush, and didn’t expect it to hurt all that much.’
‘Huh. What Nelson might have said when they cut his arm off. Hold on now…’
Actually, he and Halloran had thought of the morphine tablets, but there hadn’t been so many of them in the jar, and the Cheviot’s first mate – Sam Cornish, whom later they’d landed to hospital in St Lucia – with his broken ribs and a leg wound that looked like turning gangrenous, had had greater need of them. Halloran had in fact done a good job on Andy’s neck, but not a neat one. Julia, when she’d helped with re-winding the bandage – somewhere off the north-east coast of Brazil – had murmured, ‘Crikey. Regular dog’s dinner. . .’ and he’d thought of suggesting, ‘Kiss it better?’ She might have, if he had proposed it – knowing her better now than he had then. But even at that stage, two or three days out of Vitoria, he’d begun to think she was something special. Asking him now – after he’d groused about the lifejacket – whether he’d like her to change the dressing. ‘If I asked Mr Halloran –’
‘No. Thanks a lot, but – only an irritation, doesn’t hurt.’
The mate’s scars must have healed, too.
Although he hadn’t shaved since Vitoria, only clipped his beard with scissors.
PollyAnna was rolling a bit. Fisher should be bringing her another 5 degrees to port, maybe. Slamming thud followed by the after-shake of digging into a head sea then… Behind him, Steward Benson telling Dewar, who’d just walked in and wanted to know what they were getting for lunch, ‘Corned dog and mash today, sir.’
‘Again?’
‘First time this week, sir!’
‘Well.’ Pulling back a chair and dumping his lifejacket on the deck beside it. ‘If you say so.’ Looking round the faces: ‘Anyone interested, mate’s about to inspect the cover of number two. Taking Collins and Postlethwaite for’ard with him. I just met ’em.’ A nod to McAlan: ‘We’re cutting revs while they do it.’
Finney got up – reaching for support and leaning against the motion. ‘Want to see this.’
‘From monkey island then. Skipper won’t want the bridge cluttered.’
‘Right –’
‘Finney.’ Andy pointing: ‘Lifejacket…’
It was tempting to go up and see the show, but having spent the last four hours up there Andy opted to keep Julia company instead. In any case, the Old Man wouldn’t want spectators getting in the way.
Julia asked him, ‘Going out on that fore-deck? Sea washing over it all the time?’
‘Not seas like we have had. The Old Man’ll have been watching, must reckon it’s OK. We doto know what’s happening in that hold.’
‘Where the water’s getting in.’
‘And how much – and if possible seal it up. We’ve been just stemming wind and sea – as you know – only know very roughly where we are – but if we’re going to have a westerly behind us now –’
‘Make tracks for home?’
‘Exactly. Next stop Newcastle. Here comes your lunch.’
He heard afterwards how it had gone. The bare facts of it went round the ship within minutes; he had fuller accounts of it after that from eye-witnesses Fisher and young Finney, close-up detail later from Batt Collins.
The three of them had judged their moment and gone trotting for’ard when there was a slight up-angle on her and no more than a foot or so of water left from the last inundation, hatch-covers and other gear thus in plain sight. Halloran leading, then the bosun, then Postlethwaite with his haversack containing the sounding-rod slung over one shoulder. Access to the sounding pipe for number two was immediately for’ard of its hatch, between it and the foremast and laterally between two cargo winches; he had a special tool for unscrewing the brass cap that covered it, and he’d be concentrating on that job while the other two looked for damage to the cover and/or wedges that might have been loosened. Each of the three had a fathom and a half of hemp line secured in a bowline around his waist, tail-end to be hitched to some solid fitting, and when he moved, shifted to another. Gear to which they could attach themselves included the winches and the cargo derricks, two of which were lashed horizontally above the hatchcover, between the foremast and the kingposts.
PollyAnna was rolling as well as pitching because the wind was more variable than it had been, the helmsman – Harkness, under the skipper’s close and watchful eyes – holding her as near as possible bow-on to it but not always closer than 5 or even 10 degrees. She was shipping plenty, despite having reduced to revs for three knots: at anything less than that you’d have risked losing steerage-way, and then – broaching-to, broadside-on to it, say, and in her state of trim – well, God forbid… Although these weren’t the great swamping seas she’d been running into earlier; the ropes’ ends would be needed for sure, but as long as they were used intelligently – when shifted, for instance, shifted quickly…
Halloran threw the end of his line over the starboardside derrick’s boom, securing it there with a round turn and two half-hitches; any experienced seaman would be able to do this one-handed in the space of about three seconds. He and the bosun each had on his belt a seven-pound hammer for driving in loose wedges; they’d share the hatch’s after (thwart-ship) coaming, then move for’ard each on his own side – looking for loose wedges, rips in the tarpaulins etc., – while Postlethwaite crouched at the hatch’s for’ard end between the two winches, to either of which he could secure his lifeline while he was sounding the hold. The ‘rod’ was in fact a flexible chain of flat metal plates, each six inches long and half an inch wide, with point-line spliced to one end so the rod could be lowered down the pipe to the striking-plate in the bilge. But he didn’t need to go that far or anything like it: it took him less than half a minute to discover that the hold was full. While neither Halloran nor the bosun found any damage to the hatch-cover.
Batt Collins, later: ‘A wedge ’ere and there – maybe five or six in all – was half loose, needed a whack in, like. Nothin’ adrift noplace else. I were up by the winch, port for’ard corner, like – Possie’d begun his sounding an’ packed it in – packed up his gear and begun looking for wedges as might be loose up that end – found a couple, come up off of his knees wanting a ’ammer which he didn’t ’ave, see, and Mr Halloran passed him his one. Well, Possie let go of his pack – reachin’ over for the ’ammer – and a sea comes over, takes charge of it like, washes it over Mr Halloran’s side but abaft him see, he’s like grabbing for it an’ can’t reach, his lifeline where he’s turned it up won’t let him. Next thing I seen is he’s cast it off – his line, that is – and she’s dipping her stem in, scoops up a load the size of a double-decker and green as you ever saw it, and afore you can say knife it’s took him with it – there one minute large as life then bloody gone…’