The Cruise

by Anthony Hulse

  First Officer Ingle hesitated. “Mr Davenport, the doctor has a valid point. We can’t let Bell die of thirst.”

  “What nonsense is this? Mr Ingle, escort the doctor off the bridge or you’ll be relieved of your command.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Ingle,” insisted the doctor. “He cannot relieve you of your command. He’s insane.”

  Ingle gulped. “I stand by my decision, Mr Davenport. Bell is to be given refreshment.”

  “You’ll never work on another ship again, Ingle. Mark my words.”

  First Officer Ingle nodded at the doctor. “See Mr Jackson and tell him that I’ve authorised a bottle of wine to be allocated to Bell.”

  The doctor placed a reassuring hand on the shoulder of the young officer. “Thank you, Mr Ingle. You have acted honourably. It will not be in vain.”

  Davenport threw his cigar to the ground, left the bridge and brushed past the doctor.

  “What is our situation, Mr Ingle?” asked the doctor.

  “It remains the same, Doctor. It is most uncanny. We should have made contact with another vessel by now, or sighted land. To tell you the truth, we don’t know where we are. We used the stars to navigate last night and we should be just off the Turkish coast. It’s as if it has just disappeared.”

  “Couldn’t your calculations have been wrong?”

  “They were checked and double-checked by reliable officers. We all came to the same conclusion that we should be off the Turkish coast.”

  “What are our options, Mr Ingle?”

  “If we continue on our present course, we should hit a shipping lane soon, but like I said, our calculations do not appear to be correct. Also, we have the matter of the stokers. They cannot be expected to work in such conditions without food or water. I believe they will rebel, and who can blame them?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, Doctor, that we’ll have no power to navigate the ship… In your estimation, how long can we survive without food?”

  “On the meagre rations we are on, I would say two weeks at the most. That is if the food doesn’t run out by then. People will naturally become greedy.”

  First Officer Ingle pondered. “The food in the galley; Bell claims that only fifty per cent of it is poisoned. Is there any way we can determine the untouched food?”

  “I’m afraid not. You see, the dosage that Bell used cannot be detected until it is too late.”

  “Do you think there is a chance that he was lying? Perhaps he wants us to believe the food contains arsenic.”

  “Are you prepared to take that chance, Mr Ingle?”

  Ingle shook his head. “Let us hope and pray that it doesn’t come to that.”

  They looked down on the deck to see a service being conducted by Father Rattigan. He read out the names of the dead, and then joined the passengers in a prayer.

  The doctor spoke up. “Another problem we have, Mr Ingle is the disposal of the bodies. We cannot leave them aboard. It would constitute a serious health risk.”

  “What are you suggesting, Doctor? A burial at sea?”

  “It makes sense. Just as long as we have permission from their loved ones. There should be no problem.”

  “I agree,” nodded First Officer Ingle. “See to it, Doctor. Have a word with Father Rattigan. We’ll begin the burials tomorrow morning.”

  The doctor had more pressing matters first. His immediate thoughts were for the mass poisoner, Simon Bell. He left the bridge with the haunting chanting of “Jerusalem,” ringing in his ears.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Two more days passed and the passengers and crew of the Empress Medina grew increasingly weaker. They had not eaten a proper meal for almost four days and fatigue had now set in. There had been no sightings of land or ship, and the crew started to believe the ship was indeed cursed. The burials at sea had taken place and allayed any fears of a disease spreading.

  Ben, Natasha and their companions were congregated in the Garden Lounge. They had decided to make the room their assembly point. Each of them was lounged in the wicker chairs, their faces drained. Throughout the ship, other groups had also formed, and the secrecy and seclusion had spread suspicion amongst their fellow passengers.

  Danny had recovered from his amputations. Dr Waverley had done a fine job in stitching up his wounds.

  Davenport had not been seen for two days. It was believed that he was probably holed up in a cabin somewhere, with an ample supply of provisions. This obviously created an even more hostile atmosphere.

  Ben stared ponderously at the wilting blooms. “The flowers. Couldn’t we eat the flowers?”

  “Are you serious, Ben?” croaked Joe. “They’re exotic orchards. They’ll probably be poison.”

  Ben walked towards the orchids and plucked one. He bit into a petal, chewed, and grimaced at the bitter taste. He swallowed and immediately threw up in front of his companions.

  “Well, we have our answer,” offered Sarah.

  Ben straightened up and wiped the spittle from his mouth. “We won’t survive on these biscuits. There must be something else to eat on this damned ship.”

  Joe spoke up. “Only the poisoned food.”

  “Not all of it is poisoned, only half of it. You heard what Bell said.”

  “What are you suggesting, Ben? That we chance eating the food? I for one am not that desperate just yet.”

  “No, not yet you aren’t, but we must do something before it’s too late. I don’t want to rely on us finding land. We should act now before it is too late. If we wait much longer, our strength will be drained.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Ross.

  “If the worst came to worst, then I have an idea. We would have to put it to Mr Ingle of course… We bring Simon Bell to the galley and make him taste the food. He takes a bite, and if he lives, then we know that the food is good.”

  “And what if he dies?” asked Danny.

  “Then, he dies. What choice do we have?”

  “Hang on a minute,” said Sarah. “A guinea pig is what you’re suggesting, right?”

  Ben shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you could put it that way I suppose. What’s your point?”

  “Not a guinea pig, but a rat.”

  “What? I’m not eating a rat,” shrieked Wendy.

  Sarah continued. “No, listen to me. We don’t eat the rat. We give it a morsel of food and if it lives, we put that food aside. We then know if it’s edible or not.”

  “And where do we get the rats from?” quizzed Cindy.

  Ben joined in. “Hold on, that’s brilliant, Sarah. Every ship has rats. We should pass on your suggestion to Ingle.

  “I’m starving. I cannot go on much longer.”

  “We’re all starving, Norman, and you should be able to go on more than most.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” asked Wendy.

  Ben held up a hand to apologise. “Forget it. I’ll go and see Ingle and put Sarah’s proposition to him.”

  As Ben exited the Garden Lounge, he noticed that Wells, Belinda and his two hoods were watching him from the deck.

  Wells smirked at him. “Jeepers, look who it is. You don’t look too well, Mr card shark. How is your friend? I heard he was having difficulty fastening his flies.”

  Ben eyed Wells with disgust. He appeared healthy. Too healthy.

  Wells selected a chocolate from the box that Leo held and slowly bit into it. “Mmm, I shouldn’t really. They’re very fattening, don’t you think?”

  Ben was filled with anger, his fists tightly clenched. “Wells, those chocolates should have been rationed out with the rest of the food.”

  Wells tossed the other half of the chocolate into the sea. “Strawberry… I hate strawberry.”

  An elderly couple stood nearby and witnessed the drama, their faces etched with pain.

  “Haven’t you any ethics, Wells? People are starving,” ranted Ben.

  “I’m not starving. Belinda is not starving. Are you starving, G
reg?”

  “No, boss, I’m not starving?”

  “You see. Now be on your way, card shark. Your biscuit beckons.”

  Ben lashed out and knocked the box of chocolates from Leo’s hands. The chocolates were scattered on the deck. The starving passengers were after them like scavengers.

  Wells was furious. “You’ve made a big mistake. Leo, Greg, tear him to pieces and throw him over the side.”

  The gorillas approached and Ben swiftly delivered a powerful punch to the throat of Leo, who collapsed in agony. Ben then kicked Greg in the testicles, before he administered a powerful punch to his face, his nose breaking instantly. The two hoods rolled about on the deck as Belinda backed away.

  “You’ll get your comeuppance, Wells,” growled Ben. “Scum like you always do.”

  “You’ve made a big mistake, Duncan. A fucking big mistake.”

  “My biggest mistake may be that I haven’t thrown you and your sidekicks overboard.”

  Ben went on his way and left the scavengers to savour their delicious chocolate.

  First Officer Ingle looked pale and ill, his eyes glued to his binoculars to search the horizon for salvation. He never noticed Ben approach.

  “Mr Ingle, I’ve a proposal to put to you.”

  “Not now. I’m busy.”

  “It’s important.”

  “What can be more important than our rescue?”

  “You must have rats aboard the ship. My suggestion, or should I say my friend’s suggestion is to catch the rats and feed each one a morsel of food from the galley. If the rat lives, then we know that the food is good.”

  First Officer Ingle lowered his binoculars. He pondered. “Mr Jackson! Come here will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go with this gentleman and take a couple of men with you. You’re going rat catching.”

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  “This gentleman will fill you in on the details. I admire your enthusiasm, Mr Duncan.”

  “Not mine, Mr Ingle, a friend’s wife.”

  “Nevertheless, a spiffing idea. Good hunting, gentlemen.”

  ******

  “Shit,” cursed Ben, when he lunged for a rat and banged his head against a steel pipe. The deserted engine room was the location of the hunt. As yet, they had not caught a single rodent. Ben rubbed his throbbing head. “There has to be a better way than this… Mr Jackson, we could chase these rats all day and not catch one. I have an idea.”

  “Go on, I’m listening,” said the small, ginger haired purser.

  “We’ll use crates attached to string and lure them into the trap. Then we pull on the string and bingo.”

  “Bingo, sir?”

  “Never mind. We can lure them with cheese from the galley. Let’s just hope we choose a piece that hasn’t been poisoned.”

  Thirty minutes later, they took up their positions, hidden behind some rusty pipes. After another two hours, they heard the scurrying feet of the rat. The furry creature stopped just outside the crate. It sniffed the air, and then seemed to look around for dangers.

  “Go on, go on, you bastard,” whispered Ben, with his fingers gripping the string.

  The rat scurried toward the cheese and Ben pulled at the string. The crate fell to the ground and trapped their prey.

  “Yes!” the hunters shouted in unison, and then patted each other on the back.

  “Right, Mr Duncan, it’s all yours.”

  “Not me. I’m just a civilian.”

  Jackson eyed the two young sailors. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  They lifted the crate slightly and the youngest sailor grabbed the rat. It was as large as a puppy, thought Ben. The rat was placed in a cardboard box and dispatched to the galley.

  “The cheese, it’s safe. The rat never died,” said one of the sailors.

  The small portion of cheese was then shared out amongst the four of them.

  Jackson assumed command. “Right, this is how we’ll do it. We’ll feed the rat a piece of ham first of all, and then we’ll take it from there.”

  They closed all the doors and ensured there was no escape for the rat. They then placed a piece of cold ham on the table. They released the rat and it headed straight for the meat. It sniffed it at first and then nibbled it.

  “Go on, my beauty,” enthused Ben. “Eat well.”

  The mouse continued to nibble at the meat, and the four hungry observers licked their lips and smiled in anticipation. Their smiles were to be short lived when the rat squeaked loudly and then died.

  “Shit! Now what?” asked Jackson.

  Ben spoke. “At least we know Bell was telling the truth. We can now eliminate that ham from our menu. We have to start over again.”

  Jackson disagreed. “I didn’t see many rats down there, Mr Duncan. It took us two hours to catch that one.”

  “Yes, but I’ve run out of ideas. We must try again.”

  Another rat was caught after another three hours, but with the same consequences. They decided that is was too much effort and abandoned the rat hunt. Ben returned to his cabin and cuddled up against Natasha. She looked ill.

  “Where have you been, Ben?”

  “You don’t want to know, Nat.”

  “I’ve left you half a bottle of champagne on the table, and a biscuit.”

  Ben drank the champagne slowly and swilled the delicious liquid around his dry mouth. He gazed at his wife, who laid on the bed.

  “Here, Nat, have this cheese. I’ve had some,” he lied.

  “Cheese? Where did you get it?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s safe. We took it from a rat.”

  “What?”

  “I’m only joking.”

  She ate the cheese sparingly.

  “Tomorrow, Nat, maybe tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Empress medina drifted aimlessly through the dense fog that had reappeared that morning. The mood amongst the passengers and crew was one of despondency and desperation. The re-emergence of the fog had broken any morale that had been present among the crew. Most of them had abandoned their duties, merged with the passengers and queued for their paltry rations. It resembled a scene from the holocaust. There was enough drink left for two more days, and the entire population of the ill-fated ship was aware of this.

  First Officer Ingle had ordered what men he had left to use makeshift fishing rods. It was his last desperate attempt to supply them with foodstuff. Davenport was still missing. The latest rumour suggested he had jumped overboard; the indignity too much for him to bear.

  Ben placed a comforting arm around Natasha as they slowly edged towards the front of the queue. Sad, hungry people with cheerless faces shuffled along the line of despair. Sombre passengers passed them and carefully guarded their meagre rations, their suspicious eyes focused on the queue. Ben noticed that Wells and his thugs were sat at a table, smiling and seemingly fit. Ben wished he had thrown him over the side.

  Dr Waverley also passed them. He carried two bottles of wine and double rations of biscuits.

  “The doctor!. He has two bottles of wine, and look how many biscuits he has,” yelled a man in a blue blazer.

  “He’s on double rations. The bastards are starving us, and the crew is on double rations,” screamed another.

  The doctor faced his accusers. “No. You don’t understand. The other rations are for Simon Bell.”

  “Bell? We’re feeding Bell? He’s the reason we’re all starving,” bawled a small battleaxe of a woman.

  The doctor was steadfast. “He’s still a human being.”

  The man in the blue blazer rushed at the doctor and was promptly joined by a mob of angry passengers. In the tussle that took place, the wine was dropped and the bottles smashed. A lake of wine besmirched the deck. The biscuits were snatched from the doctor’s hands and were greedily scoffed by his assailants. Some of the crew waded in and order was restored.

  “Look at yourselves. Animals! That’s what you are, animals!” The
doctor breathed hard, and blood poured from his nose. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

  The mob returned to their positions in the queue, as though nothing had happened. Ben and Natasha collected their rations and headed for the Garden Lounge. Their companions greeted them when they took their seats.

  “This is getting out of hand. The doctor was attacked by a mob on the deck. They were squabbling over a couple of bottles of wine and some biscuits.”

  Ross responded. “I think that some of the crew may be right, Ben. This ship may be cursed. The bloody fog has returned.”

  “No way. It’s just bad luck.”

  Ben nibbled at his biscuit, sipped his wine, and noticed the ravenous stare of Wendy Quinn.

  “Give me a biscuit please, Ben. I’m starving.”

  “We’re all starving, Wendy. Have you eaten all of your rations?”

  “Yes. Please, Ben, just a bite.”

  “No. You had the same rations as us all. If you ate them, then that’s your fault. Dr Waverley told you to save some for the evening.”

  “But, you don’t understand. I’m starving.”

  Natasha passed a biscuit to her. “Here, Wendy, have mine.”

  “No!” screamed Ben. It was too late. Wendy crammed the biscuit into her plump mouth and chewed.

  Ben turned towards his wife. “Natasha, you must eat too. You cannot afford to give your food away.”

  “Relax, Ben,” she whispered. “We’ll all be rescued soon; isn’t that what Mr Ingle told us?”

  “Wells has food.”

  “What?” asked Danny.

  Ben repeated his statement. “Wells… he has food. Do you know he has chocolates?”

  “Chocolates?” mouthed Norman, who licked his lips.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Ben moved closer. “I’m thinking, Ross, that we should pay his cabin a visit.”

  “Are you crazy? Have you seen his companions?”

  “Yes, Joe, I have. Their bark is worse than their bite.”

  “You think so?” said Danny. “Well, I beg to differ, friend. Take a look at these.” He held up his hands and revealed his stumps.