“I know,” Nicolson interrupted. “You’d horsewhip her within an inch of her life. Shut up and sit down.” He turned to the woman again. “What is your name, please?”
“Miss Plenderleith. Constance Plenderleith.”
“The ship is sinking, Miss Plenderleith,” Nicolson said rapidly. “She’s lower by the head every minute. We’ll be on the rocks in about half an hour, and the typhoon is going to hit us again any moment.” Two or three torches were on now, and he looked round the silent half-circle of faces. “We must hurry. Most of you look like death, and I’m quite sure you feel that way, but we must hurry. We have a lifeboat waiting on the port side, not thirty feet away. Miss Plenderleith, how many can’t walk that far?”
“Ask Miss Drachmann. She’s the sister in charge.” Miss Plenderleith’s quite different tone left no doubt that she thoroughly approved of Miss Drachmann.
“Miss Drachmann?” Nicolson asked expectantly.
A girl in a faraway corner turned to look at him. Her face was in shadow. “Only two, I’m afraid, sir.” Beneath the overtones of strain, the voice was soft and low and musical.
“You’re afraid?”
“All the other stretcher cases died this evening,” she said quietly. “Five of them, sir. They were very sick—and the weather was very bad.” Her voice was not quite steady.
“Five of them,” Nicolson repeated. He shook his head slowly, wonderingly.
“Yes, sir.” Her arm tightened around the child standing on the seat beside her, while her free hand pulled a blanket more tightly round him. “And this little one is just very hungry and very tired.” Gently she tried to remove a grubby thumb from his mouth, but he resisted her efforts and continued to inspect Nicolson with a certain grave detachment.
“He’ll feed and sleep well tonight,” Nicolson promised. “Right, all those who can, walk into the boat. Fittest first—you can help steady the boat and guide the wounded into it. How many arm or leg wounds, apart from the stretcher cases, nurse?”
“Five, sir.”
“No need to call me ‘sir’. You five wait till there’s someone down there to help you.” He tapped the whisky-drinker on the shoulder. “You lead the way.”
“Me?” He was outraged. “I’m in charge here, sir—the captain, in effect, and a captain is always last to—”
“Lead the way,” Nicolson repeated patiently.
“Tell him who you are, Foster,” Miss Plenderleith suggested acidly.
“I certainly shall.” He was on his feet now, a black gladstone bag in one hand, the half-empty bottle in the other. “Farnholme is the name, sir. Brigadier Foster Farnholme.” He bowed ironically. “At your service, sir.”
“Delighted to hear it.” Nicolson smiled coldly. “On your way.” Behind him, Miss Plenderleith’s low chuckle of amusement came unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
“By God, you shall pay for this, you insolent young—”
He broke off hurriedly and took a step backwards as Nicolson advanced on him. “Dammit all, sir,” he spluttered. “The traditions of the sea. Women and children first.”
“I know. Then we’ll all line up on the deck and die like little gentlemen while the band plays us under. I won’t tell you again, Farnholme.”
“Brigadier Farnholme to you—you—”
“You’ll get a seventeen gun salute as you go aboard,” Nicolson promised. His stiff-armed push sent Farnholme, still clutching his bag, reeling back into the arms of the expectant bo’sun. McKinnon had him outside in less than four seconds.
Nicolson’s torch probed round the aftercastle and came to rest on a cloaked figure sitting huddled on a bunk.
“How about you?” Nicolson asked. “You hurt?”
“Allah is good to those who love Allah.” The voice was deep, almost sepulchral, the dark eyes deepset above an eagle nose. He stood up, tall, dignified, pulling his black cap tightly over his head. “I am unhurt.”
“Good. You next, then.” Nicolson swivelled the torch round, picked out a corporal and two soldiers. “How do you boys feel?”
“Ach, we’re fine.” The thin, dark corporal withdrew his puzzled, suspicious stare from the doorway through which Farnholme had just vanished and grinned at Nicolson. It was a grin that belied the bloodshot eyes, the yellow, fever-ridden face. “Britain’s hardy sons. We’re just in splendid form.”
“You’re a liar,” Nicolson said pleasantly. “But thanks very much. Off you go. Mr. Vannier, will you see them into the boat, please? Have them jump every time the lifeboat rides up near the welldeck—it should come within a couple of feet. And a bowline round each person—just in case. The bo’sun will give you a hand.”
He waited until the broad, retreating back of the cloaked man had vanished through the door, then looked curiously at the little lady by his side. “Who’s the boy friend, Miss Plenderleith?”
“He’s a Muslim priest, from Borneo.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “I spent four years in Borneo once. Every river bandit I ever heard of was a Muslim.”
“He should have a wealthy congregation,” Nicolson murmured. “Right, Miss Plenderleith, you next, then the nurses. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind staying a bit longer, Miss Drachmann? You can see to it that we don’t do too much damage to your stretcher cases when we start carrying them out.”
He turned without waiting for a reply and hurried through the door on the heels of the last of the nurses. On the well-deck he stood blinking for a few seconds, unaccustomed eyes adjusting themselves to the fierce glare of light from the Viroma that threw everything into harsh relief, a merciless whiteness broken by black, impenetrable blocks of shadow. The Viroma couldn’t be more than a hundred and fifty yards away: with seas like these, Captain Findhorn was gambling, and gambling high.
Less than ten minutes had elapsed since they had come on board, but the Kerry Dancer was already appreciably lower in the water; the seas were beginning to break over the starboard side of the after well-deck. The lifeboat was on the port side, one moment plunging a dozen feet down into the depths of a trough, the next riding up almost to the level of the well-deck rail, the men in the boat screwing shut their eyes and averting their heads as they were caught in the glare of the searchlights. Even as Nicolson watched, the corporal released his grip on the rail, stepped into the lifeboat, was grabbed by Docherty and Ames and dropped from sight like a stone. Already McKinnon had swung one of the nurses over the rail and was holding her in readiness for the next upward surge of the boat.
Nicolson stepped to the rail, switched on his torch and peered down over the side. The lifeboat was down in the trough, smashed jarringly into the side of the Kerry Dancer, despite all the crew could do to fend her off, as opposing seas flung the lifeboat and ship together: the two upper planks of the lifeboat were stove in and broken, but the gunwale of tough American elm still held. Fore and aft Farnholme and the Muslim priest clung desperately to the ropes that held them alongside, doing their best to keep the boat in position and to ease it against the shocks of the sea and the hull of the Kerry Dancer: as far as Nicolson could judge in the confusion and near darkness, their best was surprisingly good.
“Sir!” Vannier was by his side, his voice agitated, his arm pointing out into the darkness. “We’re almost on the rocks!”
Nicolson straightened up and stared along the line of the pointing arm. The sheet-lightning was still playing around the horizon, but even in the intervals of darkness there was no difficulty in seeing it—a long, irregular line of seething white, blooming and fading, creaming and dying as the heavy seas broke over the outlying rocks of the coastline. Two hundred yards away now, Nicolson estimated, two fifty at the most, the Kerry Dancer had been drifting south at almost twice the speed he’d estimated. For a moment he stood there immobile, racing mind calculating his chances, then he staggered and almost fell as the Kerry Dancer struck heavily, with a grinding, tearing screech of metal, on an underground reef, the decks canting far over on the port side. Nicolson cau
ght a glimpse of McKinnon, feet wide braced on the deck, an arm crooked tightly round the nurse outside the rail, bared teeth white and deepset eyes screwed almost shut as he twisted round and stared into the searchlight, and he knew that McKinnon was thinking the same thing as himself.
“Vannier!” Nicolson’s voice was quick, urgent. “Get the Aldis out of the boat. Signal the captain to stand well off, tell him it’s shoal ground, with rocks, and we’re fast. Ferris—take the bo’sun’s place. Heave ‘em in any old how. We’re pinned for'ard and if she slews round head into the sea we’ll never get anybody off. Right, McKinnon, come with me.”
He was back inside the aftercastle in five seconds, McKinnon close behind him. He swept his torch once, quickly, round the metal bunks. Eight left in all—the five walking wounded, Miss Drachmann and the two seriously injured men lying stretched out at full length on the lowest bunks. One was breathing stertorously through his open mouth, moaning and twisting from side to side in deep-drugged sleep. The other lay very still, his breathing so shallow as to be almost imperceptible, his face a waxen ivory: only the slow, aimless wandering of pain-filled eyes showed that he was still alive.
“Right, you five.” Nicolson gestured at the soldiers. “Outside as fast as you can. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He reached out, tore a knapsack from the hands of a soldier who was struggling to slip his arms through the straps, flung it into a corner. “You’ll be lucky to get out of this with your life, far less your damn luggage. Hurry up and get outside.”
Four of the soldiers, urged on by McKinnon, stumbled quickly through the door. The fifth—a pale-faced boy of about twenty—had made no move to rise from his seat. His eyes were wide, his mouth working continuously and his hands were clasped tightly in front of him. Nicolson bent over him.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asked softly.
“He’s my pal.” He didn’t look at Nicolson, gestured to one of the bunks behind him. “He’s my best friend. I’m staying with him.”
“My God!” Nicolson murmured. “What a time for heroics.” He raised his voice, nodded to the door. “Get going.”
The boy swore at him, softly, continuously, but broke off as a dull booming sound echoed and vibrated throughout the ship, the noise accompanied by a sharp, sickening lurch even farther to port.
“Water-tight bulkhead abaft the engine-room gone, I’m thinking, sir.” McKinnon’s soft-spoken Highland voice was calm, almost conversational.
“And she’s filling up aft,” Nicolson nodded. He wasted no further time. He stooped over the soldier, twisted his left hand in his shirt, jerked him savagely to his feet, then stiffened in sudden surprise as the nurse threw herself forward and caught his free right arm in both her hands. She was tall, taller than he had thought, her hair brushed his eyes and he could smell the faint fragrance of sandalwood. What caught and held his almost shocked attention, however, was her eyes—or, rather, her eye, for the beam from McKinnon’s torch lit up only the right hand side of her face. It was an eye of a colour and an intensity that he had seen only once before—in his own mirror. A clear Arctic blue, it was very Arctic right then, and hostile.
“Wait! Don’t hit him—there are other ways, you know.”
The voice was still the same, soft, well-modulated, but the earlier respect had given way to something edged with near-contempt. “You do not understand. He is not well.” She turned away from Nicolson and touched the boy lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, Alex. You must go, you know. I’ll look after your friend—you know I will. Please, Alex.”
The boy stirred uncertainly and looked over his shoulder at the man lying in the bunk behind him. The girl caught his hand, smiled at him and urged him gently to his feet. He muttered something, hesitated, then stumbled past Nicolson out on to the well-deck.
“Congratulations.” Nicolson nodded towards the open door. “You next, Miss Drachmann.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You heard me promise him—and you asked me to stay behind a little time ago.”
“That was then, not now,” Nicolson said impatiently. “We’ve no time to fool around with stretchers now—not with a slippery deck canted over at twenty degrees. Surely you can see that.”
She stood irresolute a moment, then nodded without speaking and turned round to grope in the shadowed darkness of a bunk behind her.
Nicolson said roughly, “Hurry up. Never mind your precious belongings. You heard what I said to that soldier.”
“Not my belongings,” she said quietly. She turned round and pulled a wrap more tightly round the sleeping child in her arms. “But very precious to someone, I’m sure.”
Nicolson stared at the child for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “Call me what you like, Miss Drachmann. I just plain forgot. And you can call that what you like—‘criminal negligence’ will do for a start.”
“Our lives are all with you.” The tone was no longer hostile. “You cannot think of everything.” She walked past him along the sharply sloping deck, propping herself against the line of bunks with her free hand. Again the faint smell of the sandalwood drifted past him, a scent so faint that it was just a fleeting memory lost in the dank airlessness of the aftercastle. Near the door she slipped and almost fell, and McKinnon put out his hand to help her. She took it without any hesitation, and they went out on deck together.
Within a minute both the seriously injured men had been brought out on deck, Nicolson carrying the one and McKinnon the other. The Kerry Dancer, already settling deep by the stern, was still pinned fast for'ard, working jerkily round with every pounding wave that smashed along its starboard length, the bows coming slowly, inexorably, head on to the seas. A minute at the most, Nicolson estimated, and the lifeboat would have lost the last of its shelter and would be exposed, head on, to the heavy combers shorter and steeper than ever as they raced in over the shoaling seabed. Already the lifeboat, now plunging, now rolling in short, vicious arcs, was corkscrewing almost uncontrollably in the quartering seas, shipping gallons of water at a time over the port gunwale. Not even a minute left, Nicolson felt sure. He jumped over the rail, waited for the bo’sun to hand him the first of the two injured men. Seconds only, just seconds, and any more embarkation would be quite impossible—the lifeboat would have to cast off to save itself. Seconds, and the devil of it was that they had to work with sick men, maybe even dying men, in almost total darkness: the Kerry Dancer was so far round now that her superstructure completely blocked off the searchlights of the Viroma.
Nicolson, leaning inboard against the slope of the deck, took the first man from McKinnon, waited until the bo’sun had hooked his fingers in his belt, twisted round and leaned far out as the lifeboat came surging up out of the darkness into the thin beam of Vannier’s torch. Docherty and Ames, each securely anchored by a couple of soldiers sitting on the side benches, rode up almost level with Nicolson—with the stern of the Kerry Dancer settling in the water the lifeboat was now riding comparatively higher—caught the wounded man neatly at the first attempt, had him lowered to the thwarts just as the lifeboat dropped from sight and fell heavily into the next trough in a welter of spray and phosphorescent foam. Only six or seven seconds later the other wounded man had joined his companion in the bottom of the boat. Inevitably their handling had been hurried, rough, and must have been agonising, but neither man had uttered even a whimper.
Nicolson called to Miss Drachmann, but she pushed forward two of the walking wounded: they jumped together, landed safely in the boat. One more soldier to come: even with all speed it was going to be touch and go, Nicolson thought grimly—the Kerry Dancer was far round into the sea already. But the last soldier didn’t come. In the darkness Nicolson couldn’t see him. but he could hear his voice, high-pitched and fearful, at least fifteen feet away. He could hear the nurse talking too, urgency in the soft, persuasive voice, but her arguments didn’t seem to be getting her anywhere.
“What the hell’s the matter there?” Nicolson shouted savage
ly.
There was a confused murmur of voices, and then the girl called, “Just a minute, please.”
Nicolson twisted round, looked for'ard along the port side of the Kerry Dancer, then flung up a forearm in instinctive defence as the searchlights of the Viroma cleared the slowly swinging superstructure of the Kerry Dancer and struck at his dark-accustomed eyes. The Kerry Dancer was right round now, heading straight into the seas, and the lifeboat with all protection gone. He could see the first of the steep-walled, spume-veined waves racing smoothly, silently, down the listing side of the ship, the next not far behind. How big they were Nicolson couldn’t tell: the searchlights, paralleling the surface of the sea, high-lit the broken white of the wave-tops but left the troughs in impenetrable blackness. But they were big enough, too big and too steep: half-a-dozen of these and the lifeboat would fill right up and overturn. At the very least they would flood the engine air intake, and then the results would be just as disastrous.
Nicolson wheeled round, vaulted over the rail, shouted at Vannier and Ferris to get into the lifeboat, called to McKinnon to cast off aft, and half-ran, half-stumbled up the heeling, slippery deck to where the girl and the soldier stood half-way between the aftercastle screen door and the ladder leading to the poop-deck above.
He wasted no time on ceremony but caught the girl by the shoulders, twisted her round and propelled her none too gently towards the ship’s side, turned round again, grabbed the soldier and started to drag him across the deck. The boy resisted and, as Nicolson sought for a better grip, struck out viciously, catching Nicolson squarely between the eyes. Nicolson stumbled and half fell on the wet, sloping deck, got to his feet again like a cat and jumped towards the soldier, then swore, softly, bitterly, as his swinging arm was caught and held from behind. Before he could free it the soldier had turned and flung himself up the poop ladder, his studded soles scrabbling frantically on the metal steps.
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