The White Voyage

by John Christopher

  Olsen said, in a detached voice: ‘They’re not getting away fast enough.’

  The boat lay at the foot of the long, sloping cliff that was the side of the Kreya, becalmed for all their struggle with the oars. Mouritzen felt a chill of panic as the perspective began to change and the cliff rose up from the boiling sea. He saw some of the men look up, and thought he could read something of the terror in their faces. An eddy spun the boat round until her bows were pointing back towards the Kreya; then she was tossed against the downward leaning cliff. The men’s cries came up as they were spilled into the cold cauldron that surrounded them. Mouritzen stared down in horror.

  He heard Olsen shout something, and when he turned saw that Olsen had hold of a rope and was throwing a line down. Out of the black foam, Mouritzen thought he saw a hand reach up, and fall back defeated. Then the Kreya rolled back, and there was nothing to be seen but the swell of the waves.

  They turned away together. Mouritzen said:

  ‘After the third sign, death by drowning. Maybe they were spirits that spoke to Carling. But what kind of spirits, do you think?’

  Olsen said: ‘Get on to the wireless. Get a distress call out. Let them have details.’

  ‘And then,’ Mouritzen said ‘– the No. 4 boat? We can’t hope to launch from the starboard side in this.’

  ‘And then the pumps,’ Olsen said. ‘Even with a skilled boat crew I would not launch into these seas unless there was no alternative. And at present that is not the case.’

  ‘She’s taken a lot of water.’

  ‘And can take more. I will find Thorsen and have him assemble the passengers. When you have raised another ship, you may come down also. We have a lot to do, Niels.’

  ‘And how much hope?’

  ‘All that is needed. One does not need much.’

  * * *

  Mouritzen saw Mary going down the stairs in front of him, and called to her. She looked back, her eyes heavy with fatigue.

  ‘How is Annabel?’ he asked.

  ‘Asleep now. But she’s been awake most of the night.’

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to see you.’

  She shook her head. ‘I understand. You must have had a terrible time. Are things getting worse? Is that why we’re being called down?’

  Mouritzen hesitated. ‘Captain Olsen will explain it all to you.’

  The other passengers were already in the lounge, together with Thorsen and the Captain. They were sitting around the long dining table, with Olsen at his usual place at the head. But instead of Mrs Simanyi and Mrs Jones being seated on either side of him, Thorsen was in the seat on his left. That on his right was empty.

  As Mouritzen slipped into it, Olsen said:

  ‘I did not expect you so soon, Niels. Have you raised anyone?’

  He said in a low voice: ‘We will raise no one on that set, Captain.’

  ‘They have wrecked it? Can it be fixed?’

  ‘Not by me. Not by anyone without spares, I think. Lauring knew what he was doing. The valves are smashed.’

  Olsen shrugged slightly. He looked away from Mouritzen, his gaze ranging down the table.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I have something to tell you. I have not spoken to you earlier because there was nothing you could do and you might have been worried without reason. That would be senseless. I speak to you now because there are things you must do, to help yourselves and to help the ship.’

  Josef Simanyi said: ‘She does not steer – that’s right? The waves do what they like to her.’

  ‘The main shaft to the rudder went soon after seven o’clock last night,’ Olsen said. ‘That was our first misfortune. A couple of hours ago, the cover to one of the forward hatches was damaged, and then destroyed by the high seas. We have taken a lot of water in the forward hold, and are still taking water.

  ‘These are the acts of Nature. There is also Man to consider. I have to tell you that the crew of this ship have mutinied and have attempted to abandon ship. Lieutenant Møller has been killed in trying to stop this and I myself’ – he put a hand to the back of his head – ‘I was injured a little.’

  ‘Then we must abandon her too, eh?’ said Josef.

  ‘No. We do not abandon the Kreya.’

  Stefan Simanyi said: ‘But if the men abandoned her – what hope do we have if we stay?’

  Olsen said heavily: ‘The men panicked. I say this with shame because this is my ship and these were my ship’s company. But of the two senior men, one was killed in trying to cover the hatch, and the other began to rave about doom and death. A crew is a brotherhood, and it needs a head. Without that, it is a mob.’

  ‘But they abandoned ship?’ Josef said.

  ‘They attempted. They did not succeed. Their boat was thrown against the side of the Kreya and capsized. Not one of them survived.’

  The tones were measured and without emphasis; even knowing this already, Mouritzen felt the horror of it sink into his mind afresh. The faces round the table showed that the others were as affected as he was. Olsen was not sparing them. His next words showed that he was not going to spare them anything.

  ‘I told Mr Mouritzen to send out a new distress signal, of more urgency. He has found that, before leaving, someone of the crew – most likely the wireless operator – had damaged the transmitter beyond hope of repair. The reason probably was that they feared the details of their crimes would be wirelessed back – as they would, of course. They thought they were leaving us to die, on a sinking ship.’

  Jones said: ‘Couldn’t we – can’t we – launch a boat ourselves?’

  ‘Our chances would be small. And now that we have learned of the smashed transmitter, I think we may find they would be nil.’

  Mouritzen started. Jones said:

  ‘You mean – they may have sabotaged the other boats?’

  Olsen nodded. ‘It is quite probable.’

  Mary said: ‘And are we on a sinking ship, Captain Olsen?’

  ‘This is how it is,’ Olsen said, ‘with the Kreya. She cannot steer, so she must take what the storm deals to her. She has no crew, and no engineer. She is taking water in her forward hold, and has already taken enough to be down at the bows. There is no sign of the weather improving. We cannot call to other ships for help, and the two that were coming to our aid already, no longer have our signals to guide them. They may find us, but the North Sea is large and our course is as the storm wills us. They may find us; they may not.’

  ‘Distress signals?’ Jones asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. But they will not be seen far in this.’

  ‘You haven’t said,’ Mary reminded him, ‘whether or not the ship is sinking.’

  Her voice had a tremor, but she showed no visible signs of fear. None of them did, which Mouritzen thought surprising. He was afraid himself, with a fear that, instead of shaking, clutched and squeezed his inmost being: somewhere, deep inside, that which was Niels Mouritzen tightened, concentrated into a core of anguish and terror. It was something else that made his body move, respond. From far away, Mouritzen listened and watched.

  Olsen said: ‘From the moment she is launched, a ship begins to die.’ He moved his head to stare at Mary. ‘The Kreya is sinking. Each wave we ship brings the moment nearer when she fights no longer and must go down.’

  Mrs Simanyi said: ‘Can we do nothing?’

  Olsen smiled. His voice changed; he spoke with confidence, loudly and sharply:

  ‘We can do everything! I have told you before – the third Kreya does not sink. Personally I will conduct her to the breaker’s yards, and then I will retire, and end my days sitting in a café in Copenhagen, drinking coffee and looking at the sea. That is how it will be; you have my assurance on that.’

  He leaned forward, his eyes now on the two male Simanyis.

  ‘I have talked a lot, hm? I have told you how bad things are – and that is true – and I have told you the Kreya is sinking – and that is true – and I have told you that
she will not sink. That is true also. She will not sink because we do not permit it. From now on, you are my ship’s company and between us we shall save the Kreya. I have talked a lot, because I shall not talk again. After this, I give commands; and you obey them. Is that understood?’

  One or two assented; the others nodded. Olsen ranged his glance along them with satisfaction.

  ‘For now, the ladies are not needed on deck. Mr Thorsen will show them where the food store and the galley are, and then Mr Thorsen will report to me. We will have an early breakfast – maybe a warm one. But for power we have only the stand-by generator, and that must first feed the pumps. If the drain is too great, then you will have to manage without the electric cooker. There are paraffin stoves also in the galley, but I think maybe you cannot use them until the sea is quieter.’

  Olsen stood up. ‘The men will come with me. We get these pumps going right away. Work now – not talk.’

  The others began to rise from their seats. Olsen smiled at them, his brow furrowed.

  ‘The riddle,’ he said suddenly, ‘– who has read the riddle?’ He raised a hand. ‘From the other night.’

  They stared, bewildered by the new change of tone. Sheila Jones said:

  ‘We gave it up.’

  ‘Greater than the universe,’ said Olsen, ‘and smaller than a grain of sand. The dead eat it. If we eat it, we die too. What is it?’

  He waited for some moments, looking at them with the self-containing uncompromising amusement of a small boy.

  ‘Nothing!’ he said at last. ‘Nothing is greater than the universe. Nothing is smaller than a grain of sand. The dead eat nothing. And if we eat nothing, we die also. Ladies, for breakfast we will not have Nothing – we will have Something. It is in your hands.’

  * * *

  To conserve power for the pumps, the derrick lights had been switched off. Throughout the hours of storm and darkness, the little party struggled on with no more light than the occasional ray from Mouritzen’s torch. As blackness softened into grey, and they could begin to see the outline of each other’s faces, Olsen called a halt while he and Mouritzen clambered out on the No. 2 hatch to inspect progress.

  ‘The wind is less strong,’ Mouritzen said. ‘And the sea not running so high, I think.’

  ‘Flash your torch down,’ Olsen said.

  The two beams travelled, searched and crossed.

  Mouritzen said: ‘My God!’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘The level. It’s a good metre higher than when we started.’

  ‘Yes,’ Olsen said. His torch light circled, touching the shattered metal of the hatch cover, and all round it the black, tilting water. ‘We have done well.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We have done well that the Kreya still floats.’ He snapped off the torch. ‘If the storm abates, soon we may begin to hold our own.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘It will. Otherwise the Kreya will go to the bottom.’ Mouritzen could see his ironic smile in the light of this grey, wet dawn. ‘And I have given my word that she will not.’

  Mouritzen jerked his head towards the men on deck behind them, squatting or lying against the No. 2 hatch in evident exhaustion.

  ‘They must have some rest.’

  Olsen glanced back. ‘They are resting.’

  ‘Real rest. In a bunk.’

  ‘Not today. When we are no longer shipping seas, when the hold is dry and we have a cover on it – that will be the time to talk of rest in a bunk.’

  Mouritzen shook his head. ‘They will drop.’

  ‘We will see.’

  Olsen made his way down to the deck with Mouritzen following him.

  ‘We are making progress,’ he said. ‘Now we get back to our work.’

  Three of them responded, though Jones looked as though each moment cost him agony. Thorsen’s face was drawn into the compressed lines of fatigue; and even old Josef looked as though his toughness was under strain. The fourth was Stefan Simanyi. He was lying slumped against the hatch, and did not move even to look up.

  ‘Stefan,’ Olsen said. ‘We work again.’

  The oilskinned shape stirred, and a voice mumbled, but he did not get up. Josef said:

  ‘Come on, Stefan. We are all tired.’

  He roused slightly more this time, and it was possible to make out what he said.

  ‘I’m finished. I have no strength.’

  ‘Mr Jones,’ Josef said, ‘– he is a man who has worked in an office and he is nearer your father’s age than yours. He does not complain. You are a circus man. You are used to hard work.’

  ‘Without food? For days, anything that has gone into my stomach has come out again. All night I have been sick. I cannot work any more.’

  ‘We must work,’ Josef said. ‘On us depends if the ship will still float. You understand that.’

  ‘I understand, but it makes no difference. If she sinks, she sinks. I can do no more.’

  Saying nothing, Olsen went over to Stefan and, bending down, lifted him from the deck. Although Stefan was considerably heavier than himself, he managed it without difficulty, with the almost caressing strength of a mother lifting a child, or a cat her kitten. He propped Stefan against the hatch, in a position from which it would not be easy to slide down again, and untied the strings of his sou’wester. He took it off, and the wind blew spray and rain against Stefan’s white face.

  ‘A couple of hours’ rest,’ Stefan said. ‘Then perhaps I am all right.’

  Olsen’s hand moved very fast. The sound of his open palm cracking against Stefan’s cheek was very loud. Almost before it had died away, Olsen hit him again. Either the second blow was harder or the first had knocked Stefan off balance; he crashed to the deck.

  Olsen stood over him. In a cold but unforced voice, he said:

  ‘Now, get up.’

  Shakily Stefan got to his knees and then, holding on to the hatch, rose to his feet. The blows had brought a faint flush to his left cheek.

  ‘You have more strength now?’ Olsen asked. Stefan did not reply. ‘I am asking you a question: are you ready to work?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stefan said.

  ‘Good. Then we continue. We work until I say that we stop, and I tell you now that will not be for a long time. Mouritzen, go below and check the generator.’

  Mouritzen nodded. As he prepared to leave, he saw the forecastle door open, and drew Olsen’s attention to it. Two figures emerged, carrying billycans and an aluminium box. Although the oilskins they had found disguised them, they were recognizable as Nadya and Mary.

  With evident good humour, Olsen said: ‘So we have breakfast! You have done well, ladies.’

  ‘We could only manage soup and sandwiches,’ Mary said. ‘We’ve been having to hold the pot on top of the stove, with another two holding the stove itself.’

  Olsen took a can and helped himself to a sandwich from the box as she opened it.

  ‘That’s a fine breakfast,’ he said. ‘With this in our bellies we shall work twice as hard.’ He nodded to Stefan. ‘And you, Stefan – do you eat, too? Will you take the risk that your stomach does not like it?’

  Stefan managed a faint grin. ‘I will take that risk.’

  Olsen crammed the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth, and slapped Stefan rudely but genially on the back.

  ‘We will cure your sea sickness,’ he said. ‘Before this voyage is over, we will cure it!’

  Chapter Seven

  The sea grew calmer during the day, and as it wore on the pumps began taking out more water than was coming aboard. In late afternoon, with the seas quieter, though still stormy, and with the Kreya riding higher for being free of some of her unaccustomed ballast of water, only the occasional wave was breaking over the gunwale, and the pumps got well ahead. There was half an hour’s anxiety when the generator broke down, but Mouritzen, prodded and pestered rather than helped by Olsen, finally got it running again. As dusk closed in on them, the pumps were gulping
air each time the roll of the Kreya carried the residue of water across to the other side.

  After a further inspection, Olsen said:

  ‘That is enough. What is left does not matter for now.’

  Mouritzen, in a blur of fatigue, was hanging on to the rail. Josef was leaning back against the hatch. The other three lay slumped on the deck.

  ‘What do you think of?’ Olsen asked. ‘Something to eat, maybe, hot coffee – and then sleep for a few hours, in your bunks, rocked by these gentle waves?’

  They made no answer. Olsen surveyed them through eyes drawn tight for want of sleep.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But first there is work to do. First we get a tarpaulin across this hatch.’

  Jones said, in a croaking voice: ‘Can’t it wait a bit? Until we’ve had the coffee, at least.’

  ‘If you rest another five minutes,’ Olsen said, ‘I will need a whip to get you working again, coffee or no coffee. Up, now. Stefan!’

  They roused up to their feet with jerky marionette movements and, following Olsen’s sharp-voiced orders, began the task, which had proved impossible the night before, of hauling the heavy tarred canvas up over the open hatch. It was a slow business, but they made progress and at last had the tarpaulin across and well lashed down at each corner. When the last corner was secured, Mouritzen said, his voice heavy with weariness and relief:

  ‘So that’s that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Olsen said. ‘That’s that.’ He looked at Mouritzen, his face contorted into an attempt at a smile. ‘Now we go and get another tarpaulin to fasten over this one.’

  Mouritzen protested: ‘This one will hold well enough.’

  ‘You told me last night,’ Olsen said, ‘that even if you had managed to secure the tarpaulin, the seas would have ripped it to shreds. So we make it a double strength, I think.’

  ‘That was at the height of the storm,’ Mouritzen said. ‘We were taking waves fifty feet high. By comparison, the sea is harbour calm now.’