And then, for what seemed a long time, we just sat there in the boat in a stunned silence. We were alive and the others were dead and that, at first, was the salient fact. We sat there, grateful for the warmth of the sun that dried our bodies, listening absently to the whistlings and snortings of the sea beasts cavorting around us. Sally and I were in the sternsheets, the two Samoans were amidships and Curley Green was for’ard.
As the shock wore off I began to turn things over in my mind. Somebody had to take charge. Legally speaking, that person was Curley Green — he was the senior surviving officer of the ship. But he was an engineer and, in all probability (unless he had been obliged to abandon ship during the War) knew even less about small boats than I did. Come to that, I, with my qualifications, knew plenty in theory.
I surveyed what I was already regarding as my command.
Hairy and filthy as always, the sunlight gleamingly reflected from his bald head, Curley Green sprawled in the bows. The two Samoans huddled together on the ‘midships thwart. Beside me sat Sally Brent, contriving to conceal her nakedness with her slender arms. But I ignored the people. I looked in vain for some sort of a locker, for some rag of canvas, for some scrap of equipment.
There was nothing.
But perhaps we can paddle back to the wreck, I thought. There will be timber there that we can use as a mast. There might even be a few blankets or the like still floating, to use as sails — and if there aren’t, there’s always the island girl’s tent of a dress …
Unsteadily I got to my feet, supporting myself with a hand on Sally’s shoulder. With a shock I realised that the boat was under way, that the shattered timbers that were all that remained of Sue Darling were now out of sight. All around us were the porpoises, no longer plunging and leaping but swimming smoothly, efficiently and purposively, crowded around our frail hull, bearing us rapidly over the calm sea. So we had no need, now, for mast and sails or oars.
But where were they taking us?
Carefully, I sat down again. The others regarded me apathetically. I said, speaking slowly (and I realized how dry my mouth was, how much I needed a drink), “The situation is far from hopeless. They are all around us, and they are taking the boat somewhere. To the nearest land, perhaps …”
“Balls!” swore Curley Green. “Mucking balls!”
Nevertheless, he got to his feet, stared wildly all around him. He sat down suddenly. “Christ!” he ejaculated. “The silly mucking bastard’s right!”
The fisherman said, “We did not believe in the stories of the devil fish. Now we know that they are true.”
“The whales were the devil fish,” I said. “If the porpoises have to be given a label, “angel” would be more apt. They saved us from the whales — now they are saving us from the sea …”
“They are the devil fish,” muttered the Samoan sullenly.
Sally was on her feet, staring around her. I felt her fingers tighten on my shoulder. She was murmuring, “They’ll never believe this … And my camera went down with the ship …”
“Miss Brent,” the island girl was saying. “Miss Brent!”
“Yes, Mary?”
“You … You need something …”
“Yes. My cameras.”
“No. Not your cameras.”
Mary wriggled and squirmed out of her voluminous dress. Beneath it she was more adequately attired than a Bondi beach girl. With her strong hands she ripped a wide strip from the hem, handed it to her husband, who fashioned it into a loincloth. The rest of the garment she passed to Sally.
So, I thought, people were beginning to take an interest in the proprieties. The situation wasn’t all that desperate.
But …
But what about food?
And water?
I was sorry that I’d started to think about water. What had been — so far — only a minor discomfort suddenly became a raging thirst.
“What about tucker?” asked Curley Green suddenly. “What about a mucking drink?”
“How do we manage for food and water?” asked Sally.
Why must people be so bloody awkward? I thought. I said, “No doubt there will be food and water wherever it is they’re taking us.”
“I find it quite fantastic,” remarked Sally, “the way in which you’re taking the intelligence of these … things for granted …”
“What isn’t fantastic about the whole bloody business?” I demanded. “The idea of whales ramming ships went out with Moby Dick. And you have to admit that, so far, the porpoises have behaved intelligently.”
“They have, I suppose. And, after all, they’re supposed to have quite good brains and to be at least as intelligent as a dog.”
“Never mind their mucking brains!” exploded the engineer. “When do we eat? When do we mucking well drink?”
“When we get to wherever they’re taking us. Or when we’re picked up.”
“That could be mucking days. Or weeks.”
“Men have survived in open boats during the War …”
“This ain’t the mucking War.” Then he whispered, a shocked expression on his broad face, “But is it?”
“What do you mean, Curley?”
“Never you mucking well mind. You’ve put yourself in charge of this mucking boat, so take mucking charge. Do something about the tucker situation.”
“All right,” I said. “Sally, starting at the ragged hem of your dress, try to unravel threads, as long as possible. We should be able to plait them into a fairly strong line. And you, Curley, see if there are any loose nails in the woodwork. Worry one out. We might be able to bend it to a hook of sorts.”
“And what mucking fish,” demanded Green, “is going to be stupid enough to come near us when the sea’s solid with these bastard porpoises?”
“They may leave us at sundown,” I said. “If they do, we shall be ready to start fishing.”
“Just supposing that we do catch fish,” said Sally, “that will solve only the food problem. We still have to drink.”
“Catching fish,” I told her, “will solve both problems. The fluid content of the body of a fish, even a salt water fish, is as near as dammit fresh water. When we catch our fish we eat them raw, chewing them well.”
“I can’t say that I’m looking forward to it,” she said.
“You will — when you’re really hungry and thirsty.”
Our attempts to fabricate fishing tackle did at least pass the time. When the sun’s lower limb was almost touching the western horizon we had a line — of sorts — and a couple of hooks — of sorts. (I am still rather sorry that we were never able to put them to the test.) At sunset we thought at first that the porpoises were going to abandon us for the night — there was a deal of apparent confusion around us and the air was full of whistlings and snortings. And then, tossed over the low gunwale, came a silvery object, something that flapped and squirmed on the bottom boards. It was followed by another, and another, until there were ten of them.
We looked at them. I thought of the ravens who brought food to the Old Testament prophet. “John,” I said to the Samoan, “you’ve got a knife. Gut them, will you?”
“And fillet them if you can,” said Sally.
So the fish were gutted, and the worst of the bones were removed, and we sat there in the deepening twilight, grateful for our meal yet not enjoying it. (A full day’s hunger and thirst would have made all the difference.) And as we ate the boat was still swept on to the west’ard, her timbers complaining at the pressure of the hurrying bodies around her. She was making water now, but there was nothing that we could do about it except to tear some more strips from Mary’s (or Sally’s) dress, and, using John’s knife as a tool, to try to caulk the planking.
And yet, in spite of all our discomforts — the cold, the wetness, the cramped quarters — we slept.