by Bodie Thoene
He swore bitterly, bringing a stinging reprimand from Browne.
“Sorry, sir. It’s because this second case is spoiled.”
“What!”
“See for yourself, sir.”
Browne bent down toward the locker built into the stern. “Rusted through the bottom!” he said. “Whole crate sucked up seawater from the bilges like a sponge.”
“And that ain’t all, sir,” Wilson added, dropping his voice to a whispered level.
All conversation stopped as we awaited the news.
Wilson raised a cupped hand from below my vision toward Browne’s face. The officer dipped his fingers, touched them to his mouth, and then spat over the side. He bit his chapped lip and frowned, then straightened his shoulders and raised his chin. “Ladies and gentlemen, besides losing one crate of biscuits, I must also report that the second water tank has split a seam. Instead of being full of drinkable liquid, it is full of brine. We must, therefore, go on half water rations immediately.”
I felt as if I had been stolen from.
Others on board said as much. Podlaski immediately protested, “Four ounces twice a day? You’ve got to be joking! We can’t live on that!”
“Would you rather run out before reaching Ireland and be without water altogether?” Browne said.
Once more there was murmuring from the lascar sailors. “Not even two swallows?”
“How can we manage on less than we are already?”
“How can this be?”
Podlaski echoed the accusing tone. “Mismanagement, that’s what it is. We should never have sailed off into the unknown. We should have stayed near the sinking, where we could be found. Now we’re lost and about to run out of water.”
“Calm down, Mister Podlaski,” Browne demanded. “We’re going on short rations precisely because we don’t want to run out. And we aren’t lost.”
“So you say,” Podlaski retorted with a sneer. “Have we seen any sign of a ship or a plane or Ireland? We may be sailing toward Norway for all we know.”
It was as if Podlaski poisoned the air with his doubts. I saw a cloud of resentment fall over the brown faces of the lascars. In the way they stared at us I recognized a common thought: Women and children contribute nothing to rowing the lifeboat, yet they consume precious rations. The crewmen would have a better chance of surviving this ordeal if they did not have us on board.
“Can’t we at least have our full ration this once more?” Mariah asked. “We…it’s very late for makin’ this change, and we’ve been waitin’ since noon already, so we have. Can’t we start the new amount tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m afraid the answer’s no. That extra half-day’s ration might make the difference between…well, you understand.”
When half a ship’s biscuit and a glob of salmon reached Robert, he nibbled the salmon and licked up the juice. Then, holding the square of hard tack, he waited for the rest of the food to be distributed and the water to be passed out.
A half measure of water—four ounces—looks like almost nothing. Robert took a sip, then tried to gnaw a corner of the rockhard biscuit. After three tries he handed me the hard tack. “Please keep this for me, Auntie,” he said. “I’m not really that hungry now.” Then he swallowed the water in one gulp and leaned back against me. Connor likewise handed me his bread ration “for safekeeping.”
That night, for the first time since we had been adrift, there was no call for singing before bedtime.
Just as we had resigned ourselves to a miserable night in despairing silence, Matt Wilson picked his way forward. Stepping carefully between sailors, he came and stood in our midst but addressed himself to the boys. “Buck up, lads,” he said. “What’s a shipwreck, anyway? Bit of adventure to tell your mates about when you get back to school, that’s what. And what’s half rations? Just a way to make the story that much better! Besides, don’t you know the whole bloomin’ navy’s out lookin’ for us? Why, they’re bound to get here tomorrow. So cheer up. You tell your chums you was on half rations and see how that sounds. ’Course you needn’t tell ’em it was just for one day, eh? Now I’m not one to lecture, but men, it’s our duty to keep up the ladies’ spirits, in’it? Now, where’s our song, then?”
Obligingly, James roused up and began:
“I give you a toast, ladies and gentlemen
I give you a toast, ladies and gentlemen.
May this fair dear land we love so well
In dignity and freedom dwell.
Though worlds may change and go awry
While is still one voice to cry.”
And then James croaked to a hoarse stop. He put his hand to his throat and rasped, “I’m sorry. I can’t…”
At that moment Raquel’s voice, always husky anyway, drifted out of the canvas shelter.
“There’ll always be an England
While there’s a country lane,
Wherever there’s a cottage small
Beside a field of grain.”
And so it went, adults and children, each offering what their voices could bear, with Connor tooting the penny whistle.
When we came to the final chorus, Wilson himself produced a rich baritone.
“There’ll always be an England,
And England shall be free
If England means as much to you
As England means to me.”21
The last notes hung on the nighttime air, which was already closing in damp and chilly around us. Wilson said with satisfaction evident in his voice, “There you are then. Well done, men. Well done.”
We lapsed into silence as the waves lapped the hull of our fragile craft. I made my heart focus on hope. Gazing into the starry night I imagined sailing a stormy sea with Jesus asleep in the bow.
What use is there in the suffering of these little ones? I silently asked Him. And what about the broken hearts of their parents? So You sail with us, Lord?
In the stirring of the breeze I thought I heard a whisper: “Fear not. I am with you.”
We awoke already thirsty. It was still hours until the next offering of water. The lift given to our morale by Wilson’s pep talk the evening before had long since evaporated. A morose stillness reigned.
Relinquishing his place at the tiller to Officer Browne, Wilson came forward again. “Got a trick to teach you,” he said. With a jerk of his calloused fingers he grasped one of his shirt buttons and wrenched it free. It lay on his broad palm like a bit of gray shell when he extended it toward Connor.
“Go on, take it,” he said.
“What for?” Connor returned.
“Put it in your mouth. Suck on it. It helps the moisture come. Your mouth won’t be so dry that way, eh? Try it! It works.”
Buttons popped off coats and shirts and into mouths.
“Careful not to swallow ’em,” Wilson warned.
On my lap Robert fingered the fastenings of his cloak. “Mama wouldn’t like for me to tear off a button,” he said sadly.
Before I could debate it with him he brightened. Reaching inside his collar to pluck at a silver chain, Robert produced a small, round medallion depicting St. George slaying the dragon. “Do you think this would work?” he asked Wilson.
“The very thing,” the sailor agreed. “Pop it right in there. Old Saint George would’ve done the same, was he wearin’ a Saint Robert medal.”
Officer Browne spoke from the stern. His words were also raspy and deeper than usual. “Wilson’s gimmick is a good thing to know. Here’s something else: you must not, under any circumstances, drink seawater. No matter how thirsty you get or how inviting it seems, don’t do it! It will kill you.”
The sail flapped listlessly against the mast. Browne ordered rowing to begin again, but Wilson asked for a five-minute reprieve. “Want my mornin’ swim, Cap’n.” Stripping to his shorts, he added, “Who’ll join me today?”
John stood, removed a button from his mouth, and handed it to his brother. “I will,” he said.
&nb
sp; “Right-o! Good show. Three laps?”
“Three laps it is.”
It was not a race, but there were comments made that young John showed better form than Wilson.
Angelique openly admired her champion, saying to Raquel, “See how strong he is.” When the other girls teased her, the gypsy’s eyes flashed, but she did not stop watching John’s muscled back and strong shoulders.
When the men returned to Number 7, Wilson clasped John’s hand. “That’s the way.” Then he addressed himself to Browne. “Now we’re warmed up, Cap’n. How about if me and John here pull an oar apiece? Might make twenty miles before breakfast.”
After that challenge all the men set about rowing with renewed vigor. The boat leapt forward like a horse out of the starting gate.
The hearty pace was maintained for about half an hour. Then the rowing returned to a more sedate rhythm. “Ho for Ireland,” Wilson called. “Think I can almost see it from here.”
I had lost track of what day it was. Wilson and John had just completed another swim, now reduced to a single lap around Number 7. They climbed back aboard, but no one spoke of being reenergized or ready to set a new rowing record.
The short rations and the small amount of water we were allowed were beginning to tell on all of us. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. When I spoke, my Teutonic accent was thicker than ever before.
The first indication there was anything wrong with one of the lascar crewmen was when he began talking loudly to himself. It was midmorning, a few hours before our next meal and water. Lifting his chin to the cloudless sky, the sailor raved, shook his fist, pointed at Officer Browne, then stood up and screamed at the children in an angry tone.
“What’s he saying, Sanjay?” I said to one of the lascars.
“Off his head, miss,” Sanjay returned. “Mahmood says the white people are getting more water than the brown-skinned.”
“But he must see the same measure is used for each of us?”
“As I say, miss,” Sanjay repeated, tapping his forehead with his index finger. Sanjay addressed Mahmood in their common language, then translated for me. “I told him to sit down and be quiet. He is scaring the children.”
He’s scaring me too, I thought.
Mahmood sat, but he was not quiet. He called out again and waved his arms.
“He says Mister Brown lied to him…lied to all of us,” was the translation. Sanjay shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
Mahmood bounced upright again, this time balancing one foot on the gunnels and rocking the boat.
“Sit down,” Harold Browne ordered. “Immediately. Sanjay, tell that man to sit down.”
Mahmood bared his teeth like an animal and howled something.
“He’s been sneaking seawater,” Sanjay reported. “It has addled his brain.”
Then Mahmood leapt overboard and began swimming away from the boat.
“Out oars,” Browne commanded. “After him.”
The movement to lower the sail and ready the oars was very slow. Mahmood laughed to himself, a foolish giggle both shocking and unsettling.
“I’ll fetch him, sir,” Wilson offered and jumped back into the sea. With his powerful stroke he soon overtook the other man.
“Row, can’t you?” Browne said. “You don’t expect Wilson to tow him, do you?”
By this time Wilson had caught up with Mahmood. The two struggled in the water. Wilson pushed the lascar’s head under and held it there. When he allowed Mahmood to surface again, the crewman was no longer struggling. Wilson held Mahmood firmly around the neck, keeping the man floating on his back, while the Cockney was treading water.
Number 7 pulled alongside. “Well done, Wilson,” Browne praised.
“Good show, that,” Barrett agreed.
“Should have let him go,” Podlaski suggested, sounding as much like a vulture as he already looked with his stooped shoulders and bulging eyes.
Browne, Barrett, and John combined their strength to drag Mahmood back aboard. He lay in the bottom of the boat, looking dazed.
Leaving him there, Barrett and John turned their attention to assisting Wilson.
That’s when Mahmood bounded upright and pushed both playwright and chorister over the edge, on top of Wilson, then plunged into the ocean again.
When the trio of men got untangled in the water, all three of them started out in pursuit of the lascar.
Connor was first to spot the fin. “Shark!” he cried. “Shark!”
A steel-gray blade sliced through the water. No more than twenty yards away, it looked as if it would pass between Mahmood and his pursuers.
Suddenly everyone was screaming at once. “Shark! Come back!”
James called out in fear to his brother. “John! John!”
“Row!” Browne shouted. “Pull hard!”
A tail shaped like a scythe slashed the surface well back from the fin.
It was a big shark.
The three Englishmen turned back toward the boat, while Mahmood continued swimming away.
“Big shark! Big, big shark,” Mariah cried. “Lord, help them!”
Fin and tail disappeared. Where had he gone? Which way had he turned? Had all the yelling and the noise of the oars scared the animal off?
Mahmood jetted upright as if launched from beneath. As he fell over sideways, I screamed…because the lower half of his body was gripped in the jaws of the beast.
Blood spurted into the sea.
“Don’t stop rowing!” Browne urged. “Get them in. Quickly, now. Hurry!”
Barrett was lifted into the boat first, followed by Wilson and then John.
Mahmood was nowhere to be seen, but a pool of crimson rose and fell on the swell.
Angelique fell into Raquel’s arms. The girl was sobbing. “Tell him, no more swimming,” she said. “No more!”
Fear and stunned disbelief were not the only emotions on Number 7.
One of Mahmood’s friends said openly, “He should not have died. Fresh water would have saved him.”
“Why should children get as much as we who must row?” another lascar griped.
“Belay that!” Wilson croaked. “He drank seawater, went crazy, and there’s an end of it, got it?”
The hostile muttering was squelched…but not silenced.
21 “There’ll Always Be an England,” English patriotic song
21
LIFEBOAT NUMBER 7
NORTH ATLANTIC
AUTUMN 1940
We had given up keeping a lookout. After so many days at sea we no longer expected to be rescued. I prayed God would help us reach Ireland.
Ireland captured our imagination in the way I had sometimes thought about heaven before being on the Newcastle. Ireland came to represent peace and safety, with plenty to eat and drink. There would be no one trying to kill us there. A roof overhead. No more wind and cold. A warm fire to sit beside. A cup of tea.
A hot bath.
How I dreamt about a tub full of warm water. Once in such bliss I would not emerge for a whole day. Warm, fresh water was what I craved instead of cold, salty fluid that pickled my skin and turned my hands to sandpaper-coated claws. Even my teeth felt gritty with salt. My hair was plastered with salt into phantasmagorical shapes that no amount of patting and pushing could smooth.
Two of the lascars were in terrible shape. I don’t know if they had also sampled the seawater like Mahmood, but they were barely alive. Their companions had to spoon their liquid ration into their mouths. They could not eat.
None of us had much appetite. The hard tack was like eating a brick. The canned fruits were too sticky sweet; the canned meats too salty. There was never enough water to wash it down properly.
But I knew I must eat, so I forced myself to swallow a morsel. My throat was so sore and constricted that it might be five minutes before I could attempt another bite.
Third Officer Browne’s cheeks were blotchy with sores. His lips were swollen and crusted.
>
Raquel and Mariah, who had been dividing their rations with the children, were shrunken. Mariah looked especially gaunt, with her eyes sunken in her head.
The children were listless but remained healthier than the adults. Only one of us seemed as hale as ever: Matt Wilson. Though he no longer attempted his daily swim, he still engaged the children in games.
“What’s good about being out here on this lifeboat? C’mon, think. Must be some good things, eh?”
Connor lifted his head wearily. “It’s an…adventure.”
“There you go! Right as ever, Connor, my lad. What else?”
“No schoolwork,” John contributed.
“No piano lessons,” Tomas said.
“No sirens,” Simcha offered. “No bombs.”
“That’s it, in’it?” Wilson agreed. “Had our dose of war, but now seems like we’re through with it. Rock along here, being floated to Ireland.”
Podlaski shook his head, too exhausted and spent to produce a negative thought.
“Just you remember,” Wilson added. “We might see Ireland today or tomorrow, but soon anyways. Soon. Don’t forget that.”
“What does Ireland look like?” Yael asked.
Raquel petted the girl’s hair. “You already know the answer to that, darling. Auntie Mariah told us. Ireland is wet and green and smells of peat smoke and baking soda bread.”
“Oh,” the child responded. “Then that can’t be Ireland, can it?”
No one moved for a time. I worried Yael might be delusional. I knew there was nothing to be seen on the whole expanse of ocean except more and more water.
Cedric Barrett raised bloodshot eyes. “There is something…there. I think. Coming out of that fog bank.”
Wilson swept Yael up in his arms and stood towering in the boat like a slightly misplaced figurehead. “Starboard bow, Cap’n,” he said to Browne. “Give us 30 degrees to starboard.”
It was a ship, and from its shape it was heading directly for us.
From almost complete lethargy Number 7 changed in an instant to a hive of activity. “Wilson,” Browne ordered, “get the flare pistol and ready a smoke canister. The rest of you: get ready to signal with whatever you can.”