Blue Blood

by Peter Tonkin

  He had forgotten that these people, men and women, crew and youngsters, had been sailing Goodman Richard for several weeks already. Even the least adventurous city-street kids - more used to PlayStations than to watch stations - had been up and down the rigging like rats. They might not be using them at the moment, but they all had found their sea-legs long since. And, as this was designed to be a character-building exercise, there were characters here that had been built in strength and abundance.

  They were not defeated, they were dormant. They were not helpless or hopeless. Even in the face of the enormity of what was going on around them - even in face of the inevitability of what seemed likely to be facing them - they were waiting; conserving their energy and heat, and waiting for help.

  The instant that he entered he had their attention. The presence of a stranger alone would have meant hope. But the fact that it was Richard himself - known to all of the crew in person and most of the youngsters by sight and reputation - meant more still. He had their undivided attention long before he even mentioned ‘Rescue’.

  While Richard spoke, wedged in the restless doorway to stop himself from staggering about, his audience began to stir. As they pushed back the coats, blankets and duvets with which they had covered themselves, so his heart leaped. Every one of them was wearing wet-weather gear. Not a breast but had a deflated life preserver tied in place across it; not a torso that was not safety-harnessed. Had he had the leisure or the opportunity to count, he would have found in one hundred right hands one hundred lifelines coiled neatly, ready to be snapped on to a jack-line at a moment’s notice.

  His speech completed - and much of it, though vital, blessedly unnecessary - he turned to Paul Ho. ‘This is extraordinary,’ he said. ‘How have you managed it?’

  ‘Practice over the last few weeks,’ said Paul Ho shortly. ‘And we’ve had lots of time this afternoon since the masts came down and Captain Jones and the others went for help. We planned for help to arrive, prepared for rescue - and waited. They’re an extraordinary bunch of cadets, too. That helped.’

  Richard nodded decisively. ‘How have you got them organized?’

  ‘In watches. Red and green. Eight kids in each, ten including the officers. Red Upper Watches One and Two, Red Lower Watches One and Two; Green the same.’

  ‘And you’ve agreed the order for abandonment?’

  ‘The order I just said. That was the easy bit. But you have one vital decision, I’m afraid. Injured first or last?’

  ‘How many? How bad?’

  ‘Four. Two walking - but with broken arms. Two stretcher cases. One broken leg when the masts came down. One radio operator caught by lightning less than an hour ago. Shocked and burned.’

  Richard was used to the brutal decisions of leadership. He was well aware that he would have to answer for any he made now - to his own conscience if to nothing else. To his conscience armed with hindsight, with all risks run for better or worse and all bets settled with life or death. But the worst thing to do in situations like these was to waste time trying to second-guess Fate. ‘The injured go last. If we take them first, we’ll be fresher and they’ll get help quicker - but they’ll make the first crossings riskier and more time-consuming - and they’ll slow up all the rest.

  ‘I’ll go out and wait at the rail to help the kids up on to Lionheart. Doc, you wait at the hatch to help them out and clip the safety lines on. I tested mine coming in - they should be fine and dandy going out. You have the radio, too, Doc, you keep Robin and Tom up to speed. You’ll need to count them all out - they’ll count them all over and in. I’ve got the foredeck crew and the Chef Steward briefed for that. Paul, you get your eight watches up and out in order, officers with their kids. Then your non-assigned officers. The last four work in pairs with one walking wounded each. When everyone else is safe, you and your best officer, Doc and I will take care of the stretcher cases. But I’ll want you to do one more thing. It’ll be tough, so you’ll need someone quick-thinking and sprightly. I noticed that the rope-ladder we came up goes on up to the high side. Before you send out the first of the injured you’ll have to send a keen pair of eyes up there with night glasses and some way of signalling. They’ll give the all-clear when things look as though they’ll be calm enough to get the stretchers out. You see? We can’t run the risk of getting caught on deck with them. Get that set up and then call me back when you need me.’

  ‘If you have the strength,’ warned Doc. ‘You’ll have been on the deck for half an hour by then. Half an hour at least.’

  ‘I know. But that’s the way we’ll do it. OK?’

  ‘Aye aye,’ said Paul Ho, formally.

  ‘Right. Oh. One more thing.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I’d feel safer if I had a knife. Preferably a sharp one on a lanyard. You never know when I might need to cut someone free...’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain,’ echoed Doc, missing Richard’s hesitation. He put the radio to his lips and turned, supporting himself with an out-thrust arm as he walked down the angled slope of the corridor. ‘You hear this, Robin? Richard says we’re coming out now. Over...’

  Paul and Doc eased the hatch-cover open and Richard slid out. He went out as he had come in, flat on his stomach, offering the lowest possible profile to the storm and the swell as Doc clipped his safety line in place at his hip. The black, shrieking power of it closed down on him at once with the same disorientating force as before. But as before, he was as well-prepared as possible. And he was given what help was possible. No sooner was the cover closed behind him than all of Lionheart’s lights came on. From the isolated hesitancy of blindness, he went at a stroke to the sure-footed confidence of clear sight. Every strand of the ladder he was easing down sprang into crystal-clear relief. Even under the stretching heave of the steepening angle of the deck he could see the gaps beneath the crosspieces which would allow safe purchase for fingers and toes. If ‘safe’ was a word that could ever be used in the circumstances. And when he glanced up as the upward motion seemed to hesitate, the brightness revealed to him the crest of the incoming sea and gave him those extra vital moments he needed to prepare for the waterfall of foam it poured down upon him.

  By the time this happened, he was in fact right down at the ship’s side, standing as securely as possible on the angle between the deck and the solid safety rail which edged it. The slightly sloping design of the deck - with a low watershed ridge running down the middle between the masts - meant that there was no real need for scuppers at the outer edges. And the purpose of the vessel - to serve as a training ship for the inexperienced - meant that the safely rail was higher and very much more substantial than it might have been. Richard was able to find a firm foothold, therefore, and remain secure - with the restless aluminium ridge of Lionheart’s needle bow between three and six feet away from him, depending on the relative movements of the hulls. He paused there for the briefest moment, slipping Paul Ho’s knife safely into the square chart-pocket over his breast, easing the lanyard round his neck, wanting to be neither stabbed nor strangled. Even looking up as he did this, it did not occur to him that the SuperCat might slip out of control and crush him. Not at this stage, anyway.

  But then he had no real notion of how terribly close and threatened he seemed to be from the bridge, where he regularly vanished from Robin’s anxious view beneath the flare of the forecastle itself.

  That was as good as it got, however; and as there were positive things Richard had not relied on but was happy to make use of, so there were dangers he had not thought through. And that first cascade of water made him alive to the first of these at once. Hunched and tensed against the bruising force of it as it roared down the deck towards him like a breaker on a beach, he was caught utterly unprepared for the backwash as several hundred pounds of it splashed back off Lionheart just at the very instant that he thought the worst was over.

  But he had no time to do anything but shake himself like a terrier. For the instant that the wave was past,
the hatch on high slammed open and the first cadet came scrambling down the ladder like a monkey escaping from the zoo. All he had to do was leave hold of the ladder with one hand, grab a fistful of harness and heave, steadying the youngster in their scramble up on to the SuperCat. Then he had an instant to unclip the safety and see it whip up like a tail behind them as the foredeck crew above him took over and snapped on for the run up to shelter.

  The first few were inexpressibly vivid to Richard. He would feel the power of the water wash away from him, its simple - massive - weight begin to ease. He would break his death-grasp on the ladder and raise himself, brutally disregarding the complaints of battered bones, torn and chilled muscles. He would unclench that one fist as his foam-filled boots fought to give the frozen clubs of his feet the solid purchase they would need. He would blink the burning brine out of his eyes and strain to see up through the dazzling brightness. The next vivid shape would come slithering down towards him like a salmon or a seal wrapped in orange peel. As often as not, boots would strike him somewhere - and he soon learned to lean back at the crucial moment so his chest and not his face got the worst of it.

  They always tried to say something. ‘Thanks’ was most likely. But there was no hope of hearing them and no time for repetitions. Each young face, black, white, oriental, masculine and feminine, seemed to sear itself into his memory in that moment. All of them apparently preserved under glass, all of them covered with a bright varnish of water. He would give a reassuring grin - with no idea how terrible his amicable expression actually looked - and grab tight hold of their harness. Knuckles complained arthritically. Wrists ached as though strained. Shoulders, neck and back were just one big cloak of agony. But he heaved with all his might and the agile bodies vanished upwards, one after another, times without number, dragging the tails of their lifelines behind them.

  And so it fell into a kind of rhythm. The seas were long and high, terribly powerful and destructive, but they were fairly regular. They signalled their coming and going with familiar, apparently unvarying signals that the dying ship transmitted as faithfully as an ancient sheepdog. They were able to get three people out between inundations. So, by the time Richard had been battered thirty times or so - though he was long past counting - the back of the work was broken.

  The easy part, at least, was done. And the worst was yet to come.

  Richard had not thought through the mechanics of dealing with three people at once beyond the necessity of setting extra watch. It was something likely to be incalculable in any case. The only way to work out what he needed to do was to do it. A classic ‘suck it and see’ situation. It was presented to him quite unexpectedly. He had lost count of the individuals he had heaved aboard Lionheart and had no idea he had already saved so many. So he was simply shocked to see a bunch of three suddenly slithering down towards him, and a fourth figure vertiginously above them hanging on to ropework like Tarzan and gesturing wildly.

  He had to cudgel his mind, frozen into almost robotic simplicity by the repetitive nature of his work so far. But he managed to kick it into reluctant gear as he watched them coming towards him. In this situation, the injured crewman must go first. There was a team waiting to receive him above, and three pairs of hands to help from below would make the transfer as safe as it could possibly be.

  Which was not one whole hell of a lot, thought Richard, prophetically.

  The three figures arrived - the middle one clearly hurt, the other two too young to be full officers, thought Richard. Officer cadets in all probability. But nonetheless, able and quick-thinking officer cadets - as he was just about to discover.

  Richard pushed the leading helper gently aside and caught the patient’s harness. He gripped and heaved. The injured cadet reached up automatically - obviously forgetting that he had a broken arm just for that fractional, fatal instant - and screamed. It must have been quite a scream because Richard heard it over the storm. With his writhing burden halfway to safety, Richard hesitated, stricken. The cadet reached up again with his good arm, but the momentum of the transfer was gone. His full weight fell back on Richard’s arm, tearing all the muscles from his fingertip to his spine. The quicker-thinking of the officers grabbed the falling body and heaved. Boots battered Richard’s ribs and chest with bruising force not even the icy numbness of his nerves could hide. A massive voice bellowed through the night - Robin had seen the danger and used the external tannoys combined with her quarterdeck yell. A member of the foredeck crew leaned forward and snatched the screaming boy upwards. The second officer providentially thought to snap his safety clear while Richard hung there almost helpless, fighting to regain his breath.

  But he knew he had no time. The stricken ship was lifting already up the front of the next big sea. Mouth wide, lips back from tombstone teeth, unaware that he was shouting as well as gasping, Richard heaved the upright officer upwards - not by the harness but by the seat of her pants.

  Incongruously, in the midst of everything else that was happening, Richard’s fist had no doubt at all of the gender of the seat he was elevating, as the second officer unclipped the lifeline again. Richard turned, working with feverish speed. The clip came free. He heaved the officer up and was just turning to cling on again when something slammed across his cheek. He looked up to see the last man teetering on the brink, his lifeline reaching back in a straight, solid black line, more like a javelin than a tail. Then it struck him: the line was still secured. Screaming with frustration, Richard turned back to see that, in the confusion, the officer had not loosened his own lifeline at all. He had loosened Richard’s. The mechanics of the situation turned unstoppably around that clip. The clip was a steel climbing clip with hook and safety. There was neither time nor chance to loosen it properly for the ropes were holding it rigidly. The man above was gripped by strong and anxious hands. The hulls were straining to pull apart, but the SuperCat, trapped, was grinding across towards Richard and he had nowhere to go. He just had presence of mind enough to reattach his own clip as he tore at the waterproof seal of the chart pocket. He ripped the knife out with such force that the lanyard burned his neck but it served its purpose. The blade whispered through the straining line and Richard was thrown down by the reaction as the hulls leaped apart even before the deluge came.

  It was as well that Doc had not treated Richard’s offer to help with the stretchers very seriously. He arrived now with the first stretcher and two helpers to find Richard very nearly at the end of his strength. He actually had to slap him twice before the ice-blue eyes gained their usual focus. ‘Watch man says there’s a bit of peace and quiet upwind,’ bellowed the Australian. ‘We’re moving the stretchers now and the last broken arm when they’re over. OK?’

  Richard nodded.

  ‘You just take a breather while we get on with things then,’ bellowed Doc. ‘You look all tuckered out in any case.’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll wait.’

  ‘You’re the nearest thing the old girl’s got to a captain, I reckon. Maybe it’s right and proper...’ And he was gone.

  Time played tricks then. The stretchers came and went with astonishing speed. The last of the officers appeared and swung themselves upwards - Richard content simply to snap their lifelines loose as they went, forcing the last of his strength back, for there was still one more walking wounded left.

  And at last he appeared, supported on one side by Paul Ho and on the other by Doc. ‘This is it,’ Doc yelled. ‘There’s no one else left. All absent but accounted for...’

  As with the first - nearly fatal - attempt, Richard knew what to do, and, with the concentration of a man with no strength left save for his strength of will, he pushed up the injured man first. He was gentle this time, remembering the screams. At least he didn’t need to keep an eye on Doc to be certain which clip was undone, he thought. He released his grip on the injured man and he was gone. As he did so, he felt the deck beginning to rise and he knew that the storm’s brief respite was over.

  He helpe
d Paul next, concentrating so utterly, that time itself seemed to slow and the deck just seemed to rise and rise and rise beneath him only a little less slowly than the departing Lieutenant’s heels.

  Then he turned to Doc. And Doc just looked up at him, apparently awestruck, as he hooked his fist into the safety harness and hurled the Australian over on to Lionheart.

  Only then did it strike him. He threw his old friend over - not upwards. He was standing almost upright on the safety-rail which ought to be vertical but was now almost horizontal. He looked directly into the stricken faces of the foredeck detail. And, beyond, into the ivory oval of Robin’s face as well.

  And Robin was still on the bridge beside Tom Bartlett.

  It was as though he was in an elevator going upwards. The whole of the hull he was standing on slammed up into the air, taking Lionheart’s forecastle head with it. The SuperCat seemed to leap up out of the water as she felt the massive upper-cut under her slim jaw. The safety-rail snapped off like matchwood and the top of it tore away. With the same vivid instant of revelation which had told his fingers about the girlish bottom he helped over some uncounted time ago, the soles of his feet itched almost unbearably. And so he learned that they still rested on the stump of the upright, which was all that remained of the safety-rail.

  Richard looked up then and saw the crest of the wave arrive at last. The crest of the wave so big that it had sucked in the last few waves before it creating those sinister moments of calm.

  Goodman Richard was the better part of four hundred feet long. Slim-hipped, she was nevertheless seventy-five feet wide where Richard was standing, at her widest point. And he saw twenty feet more of water coming over the top of her. Twenty feet of cold green water before the breaking crest began.

  He didn’t see it clearly because it was shrouded in the sail, wrapped in rigging and spiked with spars. He had a mad, fleeting impression that the quaking ship was being attacked by the great white whale, Moby Dick.