And there were the other killer whales, the ones that had routed or destroyed Noah and Moby Dick and their forces. They were milling about in a roughly circular area strewn with ragged fragments of flesh, and above them the birds wheeled and screamed. They had eaten, but the orca kills for pleasure as much as for food. Soon they would slaughter us, for the sport of it.
In his boat Green was struggling with the controls of his motor. I could guess what was passing through his mind. He would not attack us now; with his allies gone we were two to his one. He could not afford to let us return to civilisation to tell the tale of his murders — but the killer whales would dispose of us, as they would dispose of him unless he got out, and fast.
But that piece of stubborn machinery was our only hope, too. The boats had drifted apart again, and the boathook was gone, and the presence of the killer whales would make suicide of the attempt to swim even the short distance — but we had the oars …
Rapidly I shipped a pair of crutches, one on either side, and then, somehow, got a pair of oars ready for use. I rowed in a manner that a seaman would consider wildly unorthodox, yet one that is used by boatmen on inland waters. I stood up, facing the bows, with the looms of the oars crossed in front of me. That way I could see where I was going, and I could see what Green was doing. That way I could drop the oars a second before contact and make a running jump from one boat to the other. And Sally, who was crouching behind me, the remaining axe in her hand, would follow suit.
Green did not look up. I think that there was more to it than fear, than the urge to flight, as soon and as far and as fast as possible. I think that he had become lost in the mechanical problem, that the desire to bring the recalcitrant machine to heel outweighed all else. Too — it had probably never occurred to him that we should use the oars.
Rowing the way that I was doing is easy enough on smooth water. In a heavy swell it is practically impossible. I don’t know how I was able to keep going as long as I did. But each time that Green’s boat was lifted into full sight it was just that few inches closer, and that was encouragement. I don’t know how I contrived to keep my balance, the contortions required would not have seemed out of place if performed by an apprentice slack wire walker. But I kept more or less upright somehow, and I worked the sweeps after a fashion, and as I brought the boat round to her new heading she was rolling less although pitching much more heavily. Not that it was pitching the way that one, safe and secure aboard a big ship, experiences it. It was like trying to row up the slope of a watery hill in the hope that the downhill toboggan would more than compensate for any distance lost.
Green looked up when there were only a couple of yards to go. His boat was wallowing in the trough and we were sliding down towards him. He cursed loudly, dropped whatever it was that he was handling, snatched up a hammer. He stood there crouched in his boat, prepared to receive boarders. His choice of weapons did not worry me. An oar would have a far longer reach.
And then the oar was snatched from my right hand and, at the same time, something struck the starboard side of the boat a violent blow, causing it to heel so that the sea slopped over the port gunwale. I fell heavily to port, and had it not been for Sally would have gone into the water. As we sprawled on the bottom boards I looked up and saw the great, dark shape hanging there in the green translucence, actually above us, the oar, already splintered, held in its vicious jaws as a bone is held by a dog. And there was intelligence, I swear, in the red gleaming eyes that stared down at us.
Again came the blow on the starboard side, but mistimed, catching us as we rolled to starboard, checking the dip of the starboard gunwale. But every timber complained and something parted with a sharp crack. More blows like this and the boat would be matchwood.
From a long way off, it seemed, came the noise of the restarting of Curley Green’s engine, then the steady thudding of it. It receded. It would soon be a long way off in actuality as well as in imagination.
Something was under our boat. Something was pushing her from below, trying to overset her. She would have gone, too, had it not been for the swell, which supplied a fortuitous righting lever.
I disentangled myself from Sally, got up on to my knees, clung to a thwart. All around were the great dorsal fins, more sinister than those of any shark. The shark (they say) is a timorous brute, the killer whale is not. All around us the huge, dreadful heads were breaking surface, the massive, vicious jaws yawning hungrily. And again there was the grinding shock from beneath and again the boat heeled dangerously.
Something hard rolled against my knee. It was the Roman candle that I had taken out of its box — how long ago? — to signal to the passing ship. I snatched it up, unscrewed the cap, readied the ring that, when pulled, would release the firing pin. I held it in my right hand, my left index finger hooked into the ring. I may have been wrong, but it seemed to me that the brute who had snatched my oar was the leader. After his first aggressive action he had done nothing except cruise in the close vicinity of the boat, looking at us with … Anticipation? Perhaps I am giving the killer whales credit for an intelligence that they did not possess; after our past experiences this was easy enough to do.
But there were so many of them, too many of them, and there had to be one whom I could regard as The Enemy. And he deserved the label as well as any of them. He hung there, just outside our fragile shell of wood, insolent in his immunity, willing to wait until the two struggling morsels — ourselves — were tipped into his waiting jaws. And I still think that his ever open mouth was a deliberate gesture, one designed to strike fear into our hearts, one intended to give us a preview of the horrid death awaiting us.
I gave the ring a sharp tug, felt and heard the click as the firing pin drove home. A faint jet of flame flickered from the open end of the tube, a wisp of blue smoke The thing hissed almost inaudibly and stank of burning cordite.
I held it steady against the slight recoil, the motion of the boat. Suddenly it jerked in my hand and the first of the blazing flares shot out, straight into the open mouth. The monster screamed hoarsely, leapt high into the air. As he crashed back to the surface the second flare was expelled and — I take no credit for a lucky shot — struck his right eye squarely and clung there. He went mad then, threshing in agony, throwing up great fountains of spray all around his writhing form. And our luck, at last, was in; his aimless struggles were carrying him away from the boat.
The last of the flares — the rest had been shot at other killer whales without scoring a hit — popped out of the burnt out firework. I threw the smouldering cylinder overboard, snatched a fresh one out of the case. I looked wildly around for a target, realised that all the killer whales had deserted us, were clustered around their leader. Their leader — or their next meal? I was amazed at how much distance there was between us and them, then realised that the wind had arisen, a cold wind that was already whipping spray from the wave crests. And the boat, in spite of the seas she had shipped, was riding high out of the water, was driving broadside before the wind.
And from the black sky came the rain, threshing the bare skin of our bodies, driving us below the gunwales for shelter, to huddle under the stiff canvas of the sails.
We should have to start baling soon, I told myself, or we should have to get the semi-rotary pump going. After minutes only the bottom of the boat was awash. I knew what would have to be done, but it was a long time before I was able to do it, before I could muster the will to crawl out from under the shelter, inadequate as it was, before I could drag myself away from the soft warmth of Sally’s body.