The Burning Shore c-8

by Wilbur Smith

  I have to get out of the water, she realized. One of the lifeboats. Now for the first time she listened for sounds and at first there was only the wind and the rushing break of white caps. Then she heard faintly, very faintly, a gabble of human voices, a magpie chorus of croaks and cries, and she opened her mouth and called for help, but a wave broke in her face and she took more water and gasped and choked.

  it took her minutes to recover, but as soon as her lungs were clear, she struck out grimly towards where she thought the voices were, no longer wasting strength on vainly beseeching the aid of others. The heavy life-jacket dragged and the crests broke over her, she was lifted on the swells and dropped into the troughs, but she kept swimming.

  I have to get out of the water, she kept telling herself. The cold is the killer, I have to reach one of the boats. She reached out for the next stroke and hit something solid with a force that broke the skin of her knuckles, but instantly she grasped for it. It was something large that floated higher than her head, but she could find no secure handholds upon it and in panic realized that already she was too far gone to drag herself up by main strength. She began to grope her way around the piece of floating wreckage, searching for a handhold.

  Not big- In the darkness she judged it to be not more than twelve feet long, and half as broad, made of timber but coated with smooth oil paint, one edge of it torn and splintered so that she scratched her hand on it. She felt the sting of the tearing skin, but the cold numbed the pain.

  One end of the wreckage floated high, the other end dipped below the surface, and she pulled herself on to it, belly down.

  Immediately she felt how precariously balanced the structure was. Although she had only dragged her upper body on to it, and her legs from the waist down were still hanging in the water, the wreckage tipped dangerously towards her, and there was a hoarse cry of protest. Be careful, you bloody fool, you'll have us over. Somebody else had found the raft before her. I'm sorry, she gasped, I didn't realize-'All right, lad.

  just be careful. The man on the raft had mistaken her voice for that of one of the ship's boys. Here, give me a hand. Centaine groped frantically and touched outstretched fingers. She seized the offered hand.

  Easy does it. She kicked as the man pulled her up the sloping angle of slippery painted wreckage, and then with her free hand she found a hold. She lay belly down on the tossing, unstable deck, and felt suddenly too weak and trembling to lift her head.

  She was out of the deadly water.

  Are you all right, son? Her rescuer was lying beside her, his head close to hers.

  I'm all right. She felt the touch of his hand on her back.

  You've got a life-jacket, good boy. Use the tapes to tie yourself to this strut, here, let me show you. He lashed Centaine to the strut in front of her.

  I've tied a slippery knot. If we capsize, just pull this end, savvy?"Yes, thank you. Thank you very much."Save it for later, lad. The man beside her lowered his head on to his arms and they lay shivering and sodden and rode the headlong rush of waves out of the night on their frail, unstable vessel.

  Without speaking again, without even being able to see more than each other's vague shapes in the darkness, they quickly learned to balance the raft between them with coordinated, subtle movements of their bodies. The wind increased in viciousness, but although the sea rose with it, they managed to keep the higher side of the raft headed into it, and only an occasional burst of spray splattered over them.

  After a while, Centaine lapsed into an exhausted sleep, so deep that it was almost comatose. She awoke in daylight, a muted grey and dreary light in a world of wild grey waters and low sagging grey clouds. Her companion on the raft was squatting on the canted insecure deck beside her, and he was watching her steadfastly.

  Miss Sunshine, he said, as soon as she stirred and opened her eyes. Never guessed it was you when you came aboard last night. She sat up quickly and the tiny raft dipped and rocked dangerously under them.

  Steady on, luv, that's the ticket. He put out a gnarled hand to restrain her. There was a tattoo of a mermaid on his forearm.

  My name's Ernie, miss. Leading Seaman Ernie Simpson. Of course, I knew you right away. Everybody on board knows Miss Sunshine."He was skinny and old, thin grey hair plastered with salt to his forehead, and his face wrinkled as a prune, but though his teeth were yellow and crooked, his smile was kindly.

  What has happened to the others, Ernie? Frantically, Centaine looked around her, the true horror of their situation coming over her again. Gone to Davy Jones, most of them.

  Davy Jones, who is he? Drowned, I mean. Rot the bloody Hun who did it. The night had hidden the true extremity of their situation from Centaine. The reality that was revealed now was infinitely more frightening than her imaginings. As they dropped into the swells, they were dwarfed by the cold opaque canyons of the sea, and as they rode up and over the crests, the vista of loneliness was such as to force Centaine to cringe down on the tiny deck. There was nothing but the water and the sky, no lifeboat nor swimmer, not even a seabird.

  We are all alone, she whispered. Taus seuls. Cheer up, luv. We are still kicking, that's what counts. Ernie had been busy while she still slept. She saw that he had managed to glean a few fragments of debris and floating wreckage from the sea around them. There was a sheet of heavy-gauge canvas dragging behind the raft, around its edge short lengths of hemp rope had been spliced into eye holes. It floated like some monstrous octopus with limp tentacles.

  Lifeboat cover, Ernie saw her interest. And those are ship's spars and some other odds and sods, begging your pardon, miss, never know what will come in useful. He had lashed this collection of wreckage together with the lengths of rope from the lifeboat cover, and even while he explained to Centaine, he was working with scarred but nimble fingers splicing short pieces of rope into a single length.

  I'm thirsty, Centaine whispered. The salt had scalded her mouth and her lips felt hot and bloated.

  Think about something else, Ernie advised. Here, give us a hand with this. Can you splice? Centaine shook her head. Ernie dropped all his aitches and as a French woman, she sympathized with him, and found it easy to like him.

  It's easy, come on, luv. I'll learn you how. Watch!Ernie had a clasp knife attached by a lanyard to his belt, and he used the spike on the back of it to open the weave of the hemp. One over one, like a snake into its hole! See!Quickly Centaine got the hang of it. The work helped to take her mind off their awful predicament.

  Do you know where we are, Ernie? I'm no navigator, Miss Sunshine, but we are west of the coast of Africa, how far off I haven't a clue, but somewhere out there is Africa. Yesterday at noonsight, we weremiles offshore."I'm sure you're right, Ernie nodded. All I know is we've got the current helping us, and the wind also- He turned his face up to the sky. if only we can use the wind. Have you got a plan, Ernie? Always got a plan, miss, not always a good one, I admit. He grinned at her. Just get this rope finished first. As soon as they had a single length of rope, twenty feet long, Ernie handed her the clasp knife.

  Tie it around your middle, luv. That's the ticket. We don't want to drop it now, do we? He slid over the side of the raft and paddled like a dog to the dragging wreckage. With Centaine heaving and shoving under his direction, they worked two of the salvaged spars into position and lashed them securely with the hemp rope.

  Outriggers, Ernie spluttered with seawater. A trick I learned from the darkies in Hawaii. The raft was dramatically stabilized, and Ernie crawled back on board. Now we can think about putting up some kind of sail. It took four abortive attempts before the two of them were able to rig a jury mast, and hoist a sail hacked from the canvas of the boat cover.

  We aren't going to win the America's Cup, luv, but we are moving. Look at the wake, Miss Sunshine. They were spreading a sluggish oily wake behind their cumbersome craft, and Ernie trimmed their tiny sail carefully.

  Two knots at least, he estimated. Well done, Miss Sunshine, you're a game one, and no mista
ke. Couldn't have done that alone. He was perched on the stern of the raft, steering with a salvaged length of timber as a tiller. Now you settle down and take a rest, luv, you and I will have to stand watches, back to back. All the rest of that day the wind came at them in gusts and squalls, and twice their clumsy mast was thrown overboard. Each time Ernie had to go into the water to retrieve it, and the effort required to lift the heavy spar and the wet canvas, then to restep and lash it back in place, left Centaine trembling and exhausted.

  At nightfall the wind moderated and held steady and gentle out of the south-west. The clouds broke up so they had glimpses of the stars.

  I'm tuckered out. You'll have to take a turn at the tiller, Miss Sunshine. Ernie showed her how to steer, and the raft responded sullenly to the push of the tiller. That red star there, that's Antares, with the small white star on each side of him, just like a sailor on shore leave with a girlfriend on each arm, begging your pardon, Miss Sunshine, but you just keep heading towards Antares and we'll be all right. The old seaman curled up at her feet like a friendly dog, and Centaine crouched on the stem of the raft and held the crude tiller under one arm. The swells dropped with the wind and it seemed to her that their passage through the water was faster. Looking back, she could see the green phosphorescence of their wake spreading out behind them. She watched the red giant Antares with his two consorts climb up the black velvet curtain of the sky.

  Because she was lonely and still afraid, she thought of Anna.

  My darling Anna, where are you? Are you still alive?

  Did you reach one of the lifeboats, or are you, too, clinging to some scrap of wreckage, waiting on the judgment of the sea? Her longing for the solid bulky assurance of her old nurse was so intense that it threatened to turn her into a child once more, and she felt the childlike tears scalding her eyelids, and Antares glaring red light blurred and multiplied before her. She wanted to crawl into Anna's lap and bury her face in the warm, soapy smell of her vast bosom, and she felt all the resolve and purpose of the day's struggle melt in her, and she thought how easy it would be to lie down beside Ernie and not have to try any more.

  She sobbed aloud.

  The sound of her own sob startled her, and suddenly she was angry with herself and her own weakness. She wiped the tears away with her thumbs and felt the gritty crunch of dried salt crystals on her eyelashes. Her anger grew stronger, and deliberately she turned it away from herself to the fates which so afflicted her.

  Why? she demanded of the great red star. What have I ever done that you single me out? Are you punishing me? Michel, and my father, Nuage and Anna, everything I have ever loved. Why do you do this to me? She broke off the thought, appalled at how close she had come to blasphemy. She hunched over, placed her free hand on her own belly and shivered with the cold. She tried to feel some sign of the life in her body, some swelling, some lump, some movement, but she was disappointed and her anger returned full strength, and with it a kind of wild defiance.

  I make a vow. As mercilessly as I have been afflicted, so hard will I fight to survive. You, whether you are God or Devil, have thrust this upon me. So I give you my oath. I will endure, and my son will endure through me. She was raving.

  She realized it but did not care, she had nsen to her knees and was shaking her fist at the red star in defiance and anger.

  Come! she challenged. Do your worst, and let's have done! If she had expected a blast of thunder and a lightning bolt, there was none, only the sound of the wind in the rude mast and the scrap of sail, and the bubble of the wake under the stern of the raft. Centaine sagged back on to her haunches and gripped the tiller and grimly pointed the raft up into the east.

  In the first light of the day, a bird came and hovered above Centaine's head. It was a small seabird, the dark blue-grey of a rifle barrel with soft white chalky marks over its beady black eyes, and its wings were beautifully shaped and delicate, and its cry was lonely and soft.

  Wake up, Ernie, Centaine cried, and her swollen lips split at the effort. and a bubble of blood ran down her chin. The inside of her mouth was furry and dry as an old rabbit skin, and her thirst was a bright, burning thing.

  Ernie struggled up and looked about him dazedly. He seemed to have shrunk and withered during the night, and his lips were flaky and white and encrusted with salt crystals.

  Look, Ernie, a bird! Centaine mumbled through her bleeding lips.

  A bird, Ernie echoed, staring up at it. Land close. The bird turned and darted away, low over the water, and was lost to sight, steel-grey against the dark grey sea.

  A-A in the middle of the morning Centaine pointed ahead, her mouth and her lips so desiccated that she could not speak. There was a dark tangled object floating on the surface just ahead of the raft. It wallowed and waved its tentacles like a monster from the depths.

  Sea kelp! Ernie whispered, and when they were close enough, he gaffed it with the tiller arm and drew the heavy mat of vegetation alongside the raft.

  The stalk of the kelp was thick as a man's arm and five metres long, with a bushy head of leaves at the end. It had obviously been torn from the rocks by the storm.

  Moaning softly with thirst, Ernie cut a length of the thick stalk. Under the rubbery skin there was a pulpy section of stem, and a hollow air chamber within. Ernie shaved the pulp with the clasp knife and thrust a handful of the shavings into Centaine's mouth. It was running with sap. The taste was strong and unpleasant, iodine and peppery, but Centaine let the liquid trickle down her throat and whispered with delight. They gorged themselves on the juice of the kelp and spat out the pith. Then they rested a while and felt the strength flowing back into their bodies.

  Ernie took the tiller again and headed the raft down the path of the wind. The storm clouds had blown away, and the sun warmed them and dried their clothing. At first they held their faces up to its caress, but soon it became oppressive, and they tried to huddle away from it in the tiny patch of shade from the sail.

  When the sun reached its zenith, they were exposed to the scourge of its full strength and it sucked the moisture from their bodies. They squeezed a little more of the kelp juice, but now the unplesant chemical taste nauseated Centaine and she realized that if she vomited, she would lose so much of her precious uids. They could drink the kelp juice only sparingly.

  With her back against the jury mast, Centaine stared out at the horizon, the great ring of threatening water that surrounded them unbroken except in the east where a line of sombre cloud lay low on the sea. it took her almost an hour to realize that despite the wind, the cloud had not changed shape. If anything, it had firmed and grown a hairline taller along the horizon. She could make out tiny irregularities, tow peaks and valleys that did not alter shape as ordinary clouds would.

  Ernie, she whispered, Erme, look at those clouds. The old man blinked his eyes and then rose slowly into a crouch. He started to make a soft moaning sound in his throat, and Centaine realized it was a sound of joy.

  She rose beside him, and for the first time looked upon the continent of Africa.

  Africa rose from the sea with tantalizing deliberation, and then almost shyly swathed herself in the velvet robes of night and retreated once more from their gaze.

  The raft trundled on gently through the hours of darkness, and neither of them slept. Then the eastern sky began to soften and glow with the dawn, the stars paled out and there close before them rose the great purple dunes of the Narnibian Desert. How beautiful it is! Centaine breathed. It's a hard fierce land, miss, Ernie cautioned her. But so beautiful. The dunes were sculptured in mauve and violet, and when the first rays of the sun touched the crests, they burned red gold and bronze.

  Beauty is as beauty does, mumbled Ernie. Give me the green fields of old blighty and bugger the rest, begging your pardon, Miss Sunshine.

  The yellow-throated gannets came out in long formations from the land, flying high enough to be gilded by the sunlight, and the surf upon the beaches sighed and rumbled like the breathing of th
e sleeping continent. The wind that had stood steadily behind them for so long now felt the land and eddied and twisted. It caught their tiny sail aback, and the mast collapsed and fell overboard in a tangle of canvas and ropes.

  They stared at each other in dismay. The land was so very close, it seemed that they might reach out and touch it, and yet they were forced to go through the whole weary business of restepping the mast. Neither of them had the energy for this new endeavour.

  Ernie roused himself at last, wordlessly untied the lanyard of the clasp knife and handed it to Centaine. She fastened it around her own waist as the old man slid over the side of the raft once again and paddled to the peak of the stubby mast. On her knees, Centaine began to untangle the sheets and lines. The knots had all swollen with moisture and she had to use the spike of the clasp knife to break them open.

  She coiled the ropes, and looked up as Ernie called, Are you ready, luv? Ready. She stood and balanced uncertainly on the tossing raft with the guide rope from the top of the mast in her hands taking up the slack, ready to assist Ernie to raise it back into position.

  Then something moved beyond the old man's bobbing head, and she froze and lifted her hand to shade her eyes.

  She puzzled over the strangely shaped object. It rode high on the green current, as high as a man's waist, and the early morning sun glinted upon it like metal. No, not metal, but like a lustrous dark velvet. It was shaped like the sail of a child's yacht, and with a nostalgic pang she remembered the little boys around the village pond on a Sunday afternoon, dressed in their sailor suits, sailing their boats.

  What is it, luv? Ernie had seen her expectant pose and her puzzled expression.

  I don't know, she pointed. Something strange, coming towards us, fast, very fasCErnie swivelled his head.

  Where? I don't see- At that moment a swell lifted the raft high.

  God help us! screamed Ernie, and flailed the water with his arms, tearing at it in an ungainly frenzy as he tried to reach the raft. What is it? Help me out! Ernie gulped, smothering in his own wild spray. It's a bloody great shark. The word paralysed Centaine.