by James Barlow
Nevertheless, his information was that it was safe to reopen the twenty-three watertight doors, and he did this, albeit with misgiving – one heavy rush of water from an undiscovered fracture and the alleyways and lower decks could be flooded in instants. He now instructed Demetropoulos to order the stewards around the cabins.
The Australian surgeon rang him at this moment of decision.
Tomazos said, ‘I was about to contact you. How are things?’
‘Nikolaos, so bad I haven’t time to talk about them. Can you open the watertight doors? If only for ten minutes. There must be people trapped and hurt. They’ll die without urgent attention.
‘You think we will?’
‘Yes, Daniel, there is a good chance . . . Is there anything else?’
‘We’re a bit short on pain killers and other drugs. And maybe blood . . . ’
‘I’m sorry, I can signal for drugs, but every ship will have fled before the storm. Perhaps an aircraft in a few hours. Send me a list and Baruteu will radio it. What sort of blood do you need?’
‘Any sort.’
‘A lot?’
I think so, Nikolaos.’
‘I see . . . It may alarm the passengers if I ask for it over the public address system. Shall I wait half an hour?’
‘If you think half an hour will make any difference,’ conceded Dempsey. ‘And, Nikolaos. Get us out of here. Some of these people may die. Others have burns. They need hospital.’
Despite many interruptions Tomazos was now able to give his attention to the main enemies – the sea and the weather. He took the helm from Yannopoulos, who had been on his feet on this spot for six or seven hours. Now that the Areopagus had some power he was able to obtain the feel of the wheel. The weight of the sea and weather was heavy on the starboard side, although the wheel lost resistance at times as the ship heaved in confused waters. In another storm he had once held the wheel against a beam sea for six hours, letting it spin free for ten minutes once an hour so that hydraulic power operation wasn’t lost.
There was no question of leaving the Areopagus beam onto this sea and wind. The ship would be carried onto rocks if he did. In any case she was rolling very unpleasantly. She was not a safe ship with which to roll, and was likely to become the victim of synchronism. Even a large ship was like a pendulum and had a natural oscillation if set rocking, whether rolling from side to side or pitching bow to stern. It was possible for the waves to strike the ship at the same frequency as the roll – in synchronism – and unless a minor change of course or speed was carried out the vessel might roll wildly until its rail went under. Near this very area – relatively speaking – in 1944 three US destroyers had been steaming near the Philippines and had been caught in a typhoon. A fatal rolling had set in which had become more and more exaggerated until the leaning reached seventy degrees when water had poured down the stacks and all three destroyers had sunk. The Areopagus already had a list of ten degrees and it was very dangerous for the sea to keep her rolling. She might begin to respond to component waves with frequencies that matched their rhythm, that is, to begin to roll just as each wave hit the side of the ship. Under such irregular motion roll might build up until it became fatal.
But he could not bring her around, and this was very worrying. He had to bring her around. But the rudder had no effect in the direct race of a screw at the present speed.
And the port screw was out of action altogether. He saw that the starboard screw was doing 84revolutions a minute instead of the normal cruising speed of about 130. This starboard propeller would have little effect in turning the ship’s head as it had scarcely any leverage. If anything, the starboard screw would bring the Areopagus around to port, with sea and weather behind her, still driving her toward rocks. Reversing the starboard engine might help, but wouldn’t be as strong as the high-pressure turbine which drove the ship forward. Further, the ‘loose’ water was forward and she would dip her bows very severely. With sternway on the ship, the rudder too would be almost useless.
He wanted her to head into the sea and weather. Any motion forward, or even no motion at all, would then ride the storm, although there was almost as much danger in pitching as in rolling. Waves less than three quarters as long as the ship would not produce extreme pitching, even if they synchronized with the Areopagus’ own motion. Ships’ bulls had been lengthened to defeat these critical waves, and successfully: such ships had defeated weather and maintained schedules. But here in this typhoon the waves were huge; they dwarfed the liner. Furthermore, to battle against them required exorbitant amounts of fuel and engine power. Tomazos had the fuel, but not much engine power.
Nevertheless, if he did not bring the ship’s head around to face the sea she was doomed. And she wouldn’t come around . . . He knew the power of water and weather. A storm wave eighteen feet high could move ten-ton blocks of stone. Water could erode promontories, curved beaches and cliffs, sometimes overnight. He had read that if the temperature difference between a warm current and the adjacent ocean was eleven degrees Centigrade, every cubic mile of the current would yield heat equal to that obtained by the burning of six million tons of high quality coal . . . Water held in the air was not merely potential precipitation. It was huge latent energy, amassed by evaporating molecules. The energy was released in storms – more than the energy of a 110 kiloton nuclear bomb. The updraft and downdraft inside a thunderhead reached hurricane force. In such forces, even spread widely, the Areopagus was a speck of dust. Some of the waves she was submitting to were 110 feet high.
His only resource was to drop anchor. It was a terrible risk, for the sea could snap chain . . . He decided to let go, not just one – for the Areopagus might still be dragged astern – but both. If this failed they could be lost and he would have to consider prompt emergency measures.
Port and starboard anchors were dropped. There was no sensation at all for a long time. And then he realized that the Areopagus had come around to the sea.
Tomazos asked Bitsios for all the power he could manage for the starboard engine.
The Areopagus rode her anchors. This one engine, with its overheated shaft and eroded propeller, exerted full power to ease the tremendous strain on the cable chains. In the lulls the liner surged forward a little and overrode the anchors, only to be forced back again as the cables stretched taut.
Tomazos attended to other problems, gave orders, spoke on the telephone, but all the time waited in for one or both cables to snap.
Once he had time to look at his watch and saw in surprise that six hours had passed, and he felt in faith that they were going to survive.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘I hate you,’ screeched Barbara, and it delighted Tornetta, proved fear but with spirit. She went on ranting: ‘You’re dirty and cruel and selfish.’
Tornetta tittered.
The accusation was, of course, true. It was necessary to diminish the personality of a woman by this mutual degradation. Otherwise she would gain a superior status and would be making demands. They quickly achieved arrogance and would have a man fetching and carrying in no time at all, and, further, would sneer of it before others. Ah, yes, it was necessary to knock the superiority out of them; they had their other halves, were masochists, expected to be fouled and eaten. Anything for love . . .
He claimed, indifferently, ‘You sound like a wife, not a mistress!’
The dancer flinched before this, for she could hardly deny the position of mistress: clothes lay scattered around the bunk, and she herself was nearly naked.
She struck at him and clawed across his nose with long nails before he could quite move his head back. She was tough; she wasn’t going to cry. She felt unhappily that her position was far inferior to that of mistress. She had been just a tart. It hurt, inexplicably, because she was not guiltless enough to recognize that she felt dirtied. There had be
en a long procession of men, but none had made her feel like this. They had seduced her, true, but never despised her. This one held her in contempt even when he was satisfying himself grossly. It was why she had picked a quarrel deliberately.
He caught her wrist and bent it backwards. She had to go with the pain or scream uselessly in pain. She shared the cabin with another girl, Rowena, a tall dancer who was agreeable, tactful, and was now elsewhere, drinking. The soul of heavy-footed discretion. But dim, big and simple. Tornetta had eyed her with obvious approval: a lovely lay for someone . . .
‘You’re a ponce,’ Barbara panted. ‘And a thief. Do you think I don’t know?’
Tornetta was not a man who acknowledged guilt, but shock blinked his eyes now. He would have to hurt this one . . .
He ignored her contempt. It meant nothing. Knowing these things she had still come begging for sex.
‘But it was nice, wasn’t it?’ he mocked as he crushed her with a knee and mocked her with an insolent hand. ‘You wriggled. Why did you wriggle? And your belly – that didn’t hate me. It rose up like a pudding in the oven.’
He could still smell the musty odour of her body’s admission of enjoyment.
‘I’ll tell them,’ she hissed. ‘I’ll tell them about the money you steal. They’ll know what’s missing. And I’ll show them –’
‘What?’ he snarled, hurting her now so that sweat boiled out of her face and her breath steamed: she had never known she could be hurt like this. It was agony. Loathing filled her. She hadn’t meant it – her evidence was vague anyway, although her instincts were correct: something about cabins and where he was at certain times. And the watch she had been given. It hadn’t come from the ship’s shop. So what was he doing a woman’s gold watch? One was missing. She’d heard a woman bellyaching. A pious middle-aged Australian. She’d hound Tornetta to the courts. She, Barbara, would give written evidence.
Tornetta read her thoughts.
‘Where is it?’
‘Ha!’ she jeered.
He struck her with a fist, explored he wrists for tactile actualization. He released her and leaped off the bunk. He nearly fell over. God, the sea was bad. She couldn’t run to the officers now – she was too naked. He knocked things furiously off the dressing table. And then he rushed unsteadily into the small bathroom. He knew women’s ways. She rose to follow, howling. He saw the watch behind jars of cream and rubbish.
And then there was the resounding crash of steel, tearing itself into slices, and instant darkness, and the tumult was so enormous, instantaneous and total that Tornetta was terrified. Not of the noise or of metal or because he was sent flying a couple of feet into the bathroom bulkhead by immense forces. But because for long moments he believed – he knew – that the God of his childhood was seeking vengeance on behalf of Mr. Rossi.
That moment passed and he felt sick and emasculated, shivering with an ague. He couldn’t think. Water was sloshing about somewhere, and the shower was on. He was standing in the shower? No. He identified the violent spray for what it was and presumed the ship was sinking.
Panic prompted him, the ruthless urge for self preservation. The watch! It must have been sent flying. All the bottles were broken. He trod on broken glass and mess. Barbara was groaning, and asking for help. Pleading to him! Was there no end to the absurdity of women?
He lit a match, then another in haste. He had to find the watch and then get out. She’d never prove anything; she was so vulgar she wasn’t even likely to be listened to.
A third match illuminated the gold watch, lying in the bath. Tornetta stuffed it in his pocket and tried to move. It was an effort. He was ill, very sick. He felt very sorry for himself. Life was burdensome. All these problems! The motion of the ship, he realized in darkness, was appalling. Why hadn’t he noticed while enjoying the body of the dancer from Aberystwyth? It threw him about now so that just to try to stand was alarming. The liner was doomed. Nothing could survive. Pure panic flamed in him and he stumbled out of the bathroom. He could see nothing. She was groaning. The fool! If he did not see he was not responsible. To hell with her.
Using matches he found his own cabin. He heard people forward of A145 – which was toward the stern – shouting and screaming. He ignored their distress. He had problems. He was sick. It was serious.
In the cabin Squibb was floundering about with a flashlight. The Joker had his life jacket on.
He apologized shakily for what he felt was cowardice – to be dressed up ready to abandon ship.
‘We’ve collided. There was a hell of a bang.’
Bur Tornetta wasn’t interested in Squibb’s examination of conscience.
‘I am ill,’ he said. It was important: ‘Very sick.’
To feel ill was new to him, a novel experience. He expected Squibb to be interested, to offer sympathy and advice from long experience.
But Squibb whined sullenly, ‘Serve you right. You deserve it.’
Tornetta was hurt. Anger accumulated rapidly. What a heartless little pig this was!
Squibb pressed his advantage. ‘You laughed at me when I was so ill. You brought that dirty dancer here. You didn’t fetch me a single cup of tea or ask how I was.’
‘That was trivial,’ Tornetta justified himself.
He was very bitter. Squibb after all had been ill when other things were normal. That was nothing. It was not important. A man should need no commiseration at such a time. But this, this was different. They might have to abandon ship. He, Tornetta, should be helped, because otherwise he might be lost.
‘Trivial, was it?’ Squibb argued in resentment. ‘You mean you didn’t give a damn. Let me tell you I was seriously ill.’
‘You are a coward,’ shouted Tornetta. ‘You’re dressed up ready to run. You are nothing, a man without testicles.’
He was hot with rage, frustration that such a fool should not see his own unimportance. Suddenly it became necessary and justifiable to hurt Squibb. The pious fool, he didn’t know the beginnings of pain . . .
‘And you’re a cheap vulgar barbarian,’ stated Squibb.
Tornetta ran at the flashlight and hit Squib in the stomach. The flashlight dropped but didn’t go out. It shone on Squibb’s shoes.
Squib folded quickly. He was nothing. He knew little about violence. Tornetta smashed him up almost effortlessly. Only the motion of the ship prevented him from inflicting serious permanent injury. As it was, Squibb soon fell onto the deck and sobbed.
Tornetta took the flashlight. He opened cases in frantic haste. If the ship was going down he must be on a lifeboat at once, and there was no need to lose all the dollars he had acquired. He threw clothes around, and nearly wept in impatience, finding keys. He stuffed the dollars into one of Squibb’s camera cases. All the time Squibb’s voice snivelled petulantly: ‘You’ll be sorry . . . I’ll complain . . . And that dancer . . . You’ll be punished . . . Don’t think you can assault people and get away with it . . . ’ The snivelling reminded Tornetta of childhood. Someone – who was it? – Who had whined because he couldn’t defeat Tornetta, couldn’t bear pain . . . He, whoever it was, had expected Tornetta to forge victory on the grounds that it was immoral for the big battalions to win . . . Which had been nonsense. The big battalions inevitably won . . .
He fastened his life jacket with difficulty, and was worried that he might lose the camera case slung around his neck. He took it off and wound the strap around and around his wrist.
He left Squibb without a qualm, and fled, ignoring the pious claim that the flashlight was Squibb’s. The big battalions had the right to win. It had always been survival of the fittest in Tornetta’s world. If Squibb had beaten him into surrender and pleading he would not have expected any quarter – flashlights left for his comfort, minor qualms of conscience about whose camera case it was . . .
He to
ttered aft to the nearest stairs, holding himself upright by the rail. He had no doubt that the Areopagus was doomed, although it would perhaps take time. He could hear screams and shouting and smell burning paint and smoke.
The flashlight shone on steel nuts. Tornetta was electric with fright. He had taken the wrong direction? No. He realized in dismay that the watertight doors had been closed and he was trapped on A Deck aft of amidships.
It was, by his own ethics, logical. He was small fry; it was the ship’s officers who were the big battalions here, and it was perfectly reasonable that they should drown him to prolong the life of the ship and others, including themselves . . . He saw this instantly: it was what he would have done, and at any subsequent inquiry he would have had his interlocutors in tears of sympathy at his courage and foresight and regard for others. That was the way of the world. Normally he accepted it – hypocrisy and fraud, but now he shouted, ‘Murderers! I shall drown! In the name of the Perpetual Mother, open the doors!’ And he hammered on steel with his fist and, when that hurt, with the flashlight.
He was trying to get out. Seconds before, Marion Burston had encountered the same steel door and failed to get in . . .
His feeling of sickness had gone. It had been fear. He did not sit down and wail or expect help, as people like Squibb might do. He remembered something.
He had once opened a door along here, examining the area for possible theft. The door had the words Crew Only painted on it in new white paint. But just beyond, in fading paint – perhaps from the original American ownership – was the label Emergency Exit.