Sea Fury (1971)

by Pattinson, James

  “It looks to me as if they’re getting ready for a storm. They’ve even slung a heavy rope the whole length of the deck, both fore and aft.”

  Grade digested this information. “Certainly looks like they’re getting ready for something. I had an idea the weather was changing. Too damned oppressive.”

  “There’s no wind.”

  “No wind, maybe, but the sea’s doing things. The old tub’s beginning to toss a bit.”

  “That’s true. You think there is a storm coming, then?”

  Grade shrugged. “I’m no weather prophet, chum, but I’d say that when they start battening down and rigging life-lines at this time in the evening it isn’t just for something to amuse themselves with. I’d guess that somebody thinks there’s something nasty on the way.”

  Holt felt a tremor of excitement. He had told Grade he had a wish to see what a real storm was like and he had meant it. He had been in ships in rough weather before, but nothing really big. Perhaps this would be the big one.

  “You ever been seasick?” Grade asked.

  “Never. I’ve got a cast-iron stomach.”

  “You’re lucky, Nick boy. Me, I feel queasy already.”

  Grade was not the only person feeling queasy. Moira Lycett was also an easy prey to seasickness, and as the Chetwynd began to react more and more to the movement of the sea, she felt the first unmistakable symptoms of that distressing malady. Her head ached; she felt no desire for food; even cigarettes nauseated her. She lay on her bunk listening to the creaking of the woodwork, uncomfortably aware of the slow rise and fall of the cabin floor and the seasaw action of the bunk itself, while the hot, bitter taste of bile rose in her throat and refused to be swallowed.

  Lycett, himself immune, regarded her suffering without pity; indeed with no little satisfaction. In that condition she was hardly likely to have any desire to go to Johansen’s cabin. It would not even be necessary to keep a watch on her. There was that to be said for seasickness: it very effectively killed the appetites; all of them.

  Moira groaned. “Why can’t it keep still?”

  “It’ll be worse before long,” Lycett said complacently. “Will you be taking dinner, my dear?”

  She looked at him venomously. “You’re enjoying it, aren’t you? You’re glad I’m seasick.”

  Lycett smiled. “It does have a certain irony, you must admit. I don’t imagine Johansen suffers from the same complaint. Though I believe Nelson did.”

  “To hell with Nelson.”

  “Could be where he is. I thought it might be some consolation to you to reflect that even our greatest naval hero suffered in exactly the same way as you are suffering now. And he couldn’t just lie down under it. He had his duties to perform.”

  “Damn you, Morton,” she said. “Will you shut up.”

  Since that outburst in the morning she had noticed a change in him, a rather puzzling change. He seemed to have become almost gay. She had seen that kind of mood in him before; it usually came on when he was planning something; and more often than not the something he was planning would be a way of swindling some luckless victim out of a quantity of money. But that could hardly be the reason for his gaiety now. Yet she felt sure he had some scheme revolving in his mind; now and then she caught an inscrutable smile twisting his petulant little mouth; but she knew that in the present state of their relations it would have been useless to ask him what he was thinking about.

  She had been surprised by the violence of his reaction to her confession. She had not thought him capable of so much passion. Was it because he loved her or was it simply hurt pride that had caused him to lash out like that? Difficult to say. She had been married to Morton for over twenty years and there were still sides to his character that she did not fully understand, and perhaps never would. She knew that he was dishonest, vain, self-centred and unreliable; now it seemed that he was also deeply jealous and capable of violence. But how much violence? That was the question. And she had to admit that she did not know the answer.

  “You’re very sensitive,” Lycett said with a suggestion of a sneer. “And in your present state not, if you’ll forgive my saying so, the best of company. In the circumstances I think I’ll take a turn on deck.”

  He went out of the cabin and left her to suffer alone.

  Mr. Johansen noticed with a trace of malicious amusement that there were fewer passengers than usual at table for dinner. The Australian was absent, and so were the Mensteins. The absence of Moira Lycett amused him rather less. He had been looking forward to a repetition of the pleasures of the previous evening, but if she were seasick that seemed scarcely likely.

  Lycett, however, was there, and Johansen made a polite inquiry about his wife. “Not sick, I hope, Major.”

  “Are you interested?” Lycett asked, giving him a penetrating glance.

  “Always interested in the health of passengers.”

  “Duty, eh?”

  Johansen answered carefully, “As you say, duty. But more than that. We take personal interest too.”

  “In everyone?”

  “Sure.” Johansen gave a laugh. “If you are sick I am interested in you too, Major.”

  “I am never sick,” Lycett said.

  “You are lucky man.”

  Lycett stabbed at a piece of meat with unusual viciousness, as though stabbing the heart of a mortal enemy. “Yes, I am very lucky. I am never seasick and I have a beautiful, faithful wife. What more could one ask? Isn’t there something in the Bible about a virtuous woman being a crown to her husband?” He turned to Sydney East, seated on his left. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

  East looked embarrassed. He muttered an agreement and turned his attention to the food on his plate.

  “Of course it is,” Lycett said. “You should know. You’ve got your crown here with you. Mine, unfortunately, is lying on her bunk suffering the agonies of seasickness. I fear she won’t be venturing far this evening. No social life for her at all.” He looked hard at Johansen. “That’s what your ship has done for her. It rolls a little and Mrs. Lycett cancels all her engagements. Isn’t that a pity?”

  “A great pity,” Johansen agreed. He hoped Lycett would drop the subject. His remarks were becoming a shade too pointed. Johansen had a pretty thick skin but he did not go looking for unpleasantness; and a jealous husband was not quite what he would have ordered for dinner. He wondered, a trifle uneasily, just how much Lycett knew and how much he was guessing.

  “She will not be keeping any appointments,” Lycett said. “Always supposing she has made any.”

  Johansen ignored the remark. He began to talk to Pearl East, and again it struck him how attractive she was. In the absence of Moira Lycett there was much to be said for this one. Less sophisticated perhaps, but what of that? She might be worth a little of his attention. And she did not appear unwilling to talk.

  “Are we going to have bad weather, Mr. Johansen?”

  The tableclothes had been damped to stop plates and glasses from sliding, but if the movement of the ship became more pronounced even this precaution would not be enough and the fiddles along the edges of the tables would have to be raised.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Johansen said. “Mebbe a pocket of wind come. Mebbe rain too.”

  “You would have warning of any bad storms over the wireless of course.”

  “Of course,” Johansen said, and looked for Maggs; but Maggs was also absent. Perhaps he too was feeling a little sick. Unless he was working on that radio.

  “And there has been nothing?”

  Johansen smiled at her. “Nothing. You are not alarmed?”

  “I am always nervous when the ship starts to roll,” she confessed. “The sea can be so frightening. It’s so big, so deep. Like a great monster just waiting to swallow you up.” She looked at the mate, met the full impact of his pale blue eyes, read something there that she did not wish to read, and dropped her gaze, abashed. “That sounds very silly, I expect.”

  Johansen was
gallant; he was enjoying these exchanges more than those he had had with Lycett. “No, not silly. Sea is a monster. Sure. But we fight him. You bet we fight that old damn sea. Trust us, Mrs. East. We don’t let no harm come to our lovely passengers.”

  Sydney East seemed about to say something, thought better of it and remained silent. But he did not look pleased. Mr. Johansen’s heavy gallantry was obviously not to his taste, much as it might appeal to a feminine audience.

  It was Lycett, however, who broke in softly, “And if your own life were in danger, would the passengers still come first, Mr. Johansen?”

  Johansen did not answer for a few moments. Then he said: “Is no need, I think, to talk of such things, Major. No lives are in danger. Not now. Not at any time. No.”

  Lycett took a sip of water and put the glass down carefully on the damp cloth. “But that,” he said, “is what we don’t know, isn’t it?”

  Johansen stared hard at Lycett for a while, but Lycett stared serenely back, and in the end it was the mate who dropped his gaze. He was angry with himself. In a way he felt as though he had suffered a defeat.

  Saul Menstein was not seasick, but Sara was and he would not leave her. It was so silly of him, she thought; and yet so touching.

  “You must go and eat your dinner,” she said. “What need is there for you to stay with me? I am only a little sick. Because I do not feel like eating, is that any reason why you should starve?”

  He took her hand. “It will not hurt me to go without a meal. I am eating too much. Soon I shall be fat. I must watch my waistline.” He released her hand and patted his stomach. “So expensive if I have to buy new suits.”

  She smiled. The idea of Saul growing fat was too fantastic. Why, he was nothing but skin and bone; a breath of wind would have blown him away. It was as though the starvation of the concentration camps had put its mark on him for ever. On her also.

  “I wish you would go, Saul.”

  But he was adamant. “No. I stay here with you. There was a time when I could not be with you.” She saw his eyes cloud with the memory of that period in their lives, and this time it was she who pressed his hand. “So do not scold me, Sara, if I refuse to leave you now.”

  She smiled at him, feeling a wave of tenderness for him. It was surely worth a little sickness to know that he still loved her so dearly.

  Johansen left the dining saloon just ahead of Lycett. Lycett overtook him in the alleyway.

  “I have a message for you, Mr. Johansen.”

  Johansen stopped. He turned and faced Lycett. “Message? What message?”

  “Do not wait up.”

  “You speak in riddles. I do not understand. Explain the meaning please.” Johansen spoke impatiently. He was getting somewhat tired of this fat, pompous man who was so obviously jealous and so obviously impotent to do anything about it.

  “The meaning is that tonight you will not have company.”

  “That is the message? Nothing more?” There was a mocking note in Johansen’s voice. His smile was mocking.

  Lycett was suddenly goaded beyond endurance. That this man who had seduced his wife should now have the presumption to laugh at him to his face. “You bloody bastard!”

  He took a swing at Johansen with his right fist, and the very unexpectedness of the action took the mate off guard. Lycett’s fist struck him on the side of the mouth, smashing his lips painfully against his teeth.

  This was too much for Johansen’s self-control; he lost his temper and hit back at his attacker. The mate’s blow was considerably heavier than Lycett’s; it struck him on the chest and flung him back against the side of the alleyway; his head made violent contact with a fire extinguisher in an iron bracket and he slid to the deck, feeling dazed, angry and sick.

  Johansen, whose lips were bleeding slightly on the inside, might have worked off his spite by giving Lycett a bit more punishment if Holt and Perkins had not at that moment appeared on the scene.

  Holt stared at the fallen Lycett in astonishment. “Hello, what’s happened here?”

  Lycett pointed an accusing finger at the mate. “That swine hit me.”

  Holt glanced at Johansen. “Why did you do that?”

  Johansen dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief. “Is he attack me first. I just hit back. Self-defence.”

  “Pretty strong self defence,” Perkins said. He seemed to be enjoying the situation. “I don’t think you ought to treat a passenger like that. You could be in trouble, Mr. Johansen; you surely could.”

  Johansen turned on him. “You shut your damn trap. Is not your business.”

  Perkins stepped smartly back, as though fearing that the mate might be about to treat him in the same way as he had treated Lycett. “Okay. So it may be none of my business. But I still say you ought to watch it.”

  Johansen still seemed in half a mind to have a go at Perkins, but the little engineer had prudently taken refuge behind Holt, and he thought better of it. He turned abruptly and strode off down the alleyway.

  Lycett called after him savagely, “You won’t get away with this, Johansen. I’ll make you pay. You’ll be sorry you ever crossed swords with me. I’m warning you, you’d better look out. You’ve asked for it and you’ll get it.”

  He was still spitting out threats even after the mate had disappeared from view.

  Holt and Perkins helped him to his feet, and Perkins said insinuatingly, “I reckon you owe him more now, Major. First that other business, now this. Oh, yes, I’d say you really do owe him something now.”

  But Lycett snarled at him, “Shut up, you sneaking little rat. I don’t want your opinion.” He brushed Perkins’s hand from his arm and also walked away, lurching slightly as the ship rolled.

  “There’s gratitude for you,” Perkins said. “After all I’ve done for him.”

  On the bridge Mr. Finch was feeling uneasy. He knew that dirty weather was on the way. Even if Mr. Johansen had not told him so, he would have guessed it for himself. You needed no weather reports to tell you that the glass was falling; and there was that nasty oily swell running, which made the ship roll and plunge; there was something evil and menacing about that.

  The sounds of the crew driving wedges securely home on the hatch coamings did nothing to allay his uneasiness. If Mr. Johansen thought it necessary to have tasks like that carried out at this hour he must be expecting more than a mere squall, considerably more. Finch had not had a very wide experience of storms at sea, but he had had enough to give him a healthy respect for what the forces of nature could do to a ship, and even indeed a certain amount of fear. Oh God, he thought, as if I didn’t have enough on my mind already!

  And there was another thing: Captain Leach had not put in an appearance on the bridge since the watch began. In the ordinary way Finch would have regarded this as a blessing, but in the present circumstances he would have welcomed the reassurance of Leach’s presence. Drunken old boozer though he might be, Leach had had vast experience; he had seen it all, been through it all. Finch feared and hated Leach, but in an emergency there was no man in whom he would have had greater confidence. So why did he not now make his usual visit to the bridge and lend the third mate the moral support of his authority? Mr. Finch could not help thinking that it was sheer cussedness on the part of Captain Leach that was keeping him away.

  “Damn him!” Finch muttered. “Damn him, damn him!”

  And then he felt the first touch of wind on his face, warm and damp, like some giant’s breath flowing over him. He heard the halyards shiver as if with apprehension.

  EIGHT

  Bit of a Nut Case

  MR. JOHANSEN, after leaving Lycett, made his way to Captain Leach’s cabin. He was reluctant to do so after his earlier rebuff, but having turned matters over in his mind, he had finally decided that there were certain things Leach ought to know; one of which was that the radio was out of action.

  Of course it was possible that Maggs had already reported this to the captain, but there could be no harm in ma
king sure. It might be as well also to report what precautions he, Johansen, had already taken.

  The door of Leach’s cabin was shut. Johansen rapped with his knuckles and waited. There was no answer. Johansen knocked again, again listened, his ear close to the door. From within he thought he could detect a faint sound, a sound that rose and fell with monotonous regularity. There had been no invitation to enter, but Johansen decided to take the invitation for granted. He turned the knob, pushed open the door and walked in.

  He noticed at once the reek of spirits. The ship leaned over to starboard and a bottle, still with a little whisky swilling around inside it, rolled towards him and stopped at his feet. The mate braced himself against the slope of the deck and gazed round the cabin. His eyes discovered Leach at once; the captain was lying on the settee, snoring heavily. It was this snoring that Johansen had heard from outside.

  Johansen walked to the settee. “Captain,” he said. “Wake up, Captain.” And then more loudly: “Wake up, damn your guts!”

  Leach did not stir. He was wearing drill trousers and a drill shirt, both garments crumpled and stained. His feet were bare and he was lying half on his side and half on his stomach, with one leg hanging over the side of the settee and touching the floor. Johansen gripped his shoulder and shook him. The snoring altered in pitch, rose to a kind of gurgle as if the man were choking on his own saliva, then returned to normal Leach’s eyes did not open; it was like shaking someone under an anaesthetic. He was dead drunk and it would take more than shaking to bring him back to consciousness. Johansen saw the futility of what he was doing and stepped back.

  “Okay then, Captain. You sleep. You sleep damn good. Mebbe you never wake up no more. Mebbe damn good you don’t.”

  He turned and went out of the cabin. The bottle rolled in pursuit and almost caught him before the ship returned to an even keel; then it began to roll back the other way. Johansen closed the door gently behind him.