The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2)

by Rupert Colley

  Pablo finally woke up. He looked round him, absorbing his new reality. Hodgkin gave him his share of rations which, this time, he accepted more graciously. Scratching the sores on his torso, he told us his story. Following the sinking and finding himself in the sea, Pablo joined three others on the piece of flotsam we found him on. ‘One of them,’ he said, ‘a steward has his arm ripped off.’ He chopped at his arm to emphasize the point. ‘He is in a hell of a state.’ He swore in Spanish. ‘That piece of wood isn’t big enough to keep all of us afloat. They say I am last to arrive, I have to let go. I think, I’m not letting go.’ He spoke quickly, becoming more excitable. ‘We fight. The others – they know the steward is the weakest. They worry his bloody arm will invite the sharks, so they take my side and we kick him off. Kicked him off!’ He paused, wringing his hands, his lips scowling.

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Owen.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Beckett. ‘He swam all the way back to Dover and is currently reading The Times in a gentleman’s club in the Savoy.’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ said Owen. ‘Keep your hair on.’

  ‘What came of the others?’ asked Davison.

  Pablo glared at him, his blue eyes vivid. ‘They are weak. Weak. One by one, they slip off into the water. Puff! Gone. Just like that. This leaves only me. Dios mío. My God. Then, I think my time is up, I find you.’

  ‘Well, we found you,’ said Palmer. ‘But let’s not split hairs.’

  Pablo rose quickly to his feet. ‘You say I’m lying. Dios mío, you call me a liar,’ he said, jabbing himself in the chest.

  ‘No, no, steady on, Pablo,’ said Palmer, shuffling along his bench.

  ‘Calm down, man,’ said Beckett, gripping the Spaniard’s arm.

  Slowly, Pablo sat back down, pointing his finger threateningly at poor old Palmer.

  I knew Pablo’s background – he’d told it often enough. He’d fought on the Nationalists’ side during the Spanish Civil War, then deserted. Fearing one side or the other might shoot him, he joined the Republicans. He didn’t care which side won, he said, as long as he survived. He boasted that he served both sides, had fought in the war for its entire duration, and yet had never fired a single shot. Once Franco had taken power, he sought asylum in England, getting in by the mere fact that he had an English grandmother.

  The day fell without further incident. The waves picked up, but nothing that concerned us. No one spoke. We sat in silence, the only sound being John’s muffled sobbing and the occasional calls for his mother. It was, after a while, irritating. For sure, I felt sorry for the boy, but the constant crying began to tell on my nerves. I needed to keep my mental strength up and Clair’s whimpering was rendering me miserable and was doing little for my resolve. Beckett also found the noise grating. ‘Tell him to shut that noise up, would you?’ he said a few times to Davison.

  Ignoring Beckett, Davison tried to reassure Clair, and the rest of us, with promises that we’d soon be picked up.

  No one believed him.

  Chapter 8

  The Boat: Day Four

  ‘John, wake up, wake up, kid.’ I was woken up from my fitful sleep against Owen by Edward Davison’s plaintive cries. The sun had not yet risen, the sky hung over us silvery blue. Davison was gently shaking the slumped figure of John Clair leaning heavily against him.

  Hodgkin stepped over. ‘What’s the matter, Ed?’ he asked.

  ‘I think he’s dead.’

  Hodgkin lifted Clair’s head. His eyes were still open but, dulled and vacant, it was obvious that the life had gone. Kneeling down, Hodgkin felt for the pulse. Gently dropping John’s arm, he shook his head. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  We all sighed – a mixture of pity and relief. ‘Poor boy,’ said Owen. ‘Dios mío,’ muttered Pablo.

  ‘Nineteen years old today,’ added Davison, shaking his head. ‘No one even said happy birthday to him.’ Carefully, he disentangled himself from the corpse and tried laying him on the bench, covering him with one of the blankets. But with the next wave, John’s body fell off the bench, landing in the bilge water at the bottom of the boat with an undignified bump and a splash.

  ‘You all right, Ed?’ asked Owen.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Thanks, Owen.’

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ said Beckett.

  Hodgkin cleared his throat. ‘Edward, do you know any prayers appropriate for… you know?’

  ‘Of course. But can’t we wait a while? It seems a bit callous to… so quickly.’

  ‘Hey, no,’ said Arbatov. ‘We do it now.’

  ‘The Russian’s right,’ said Beckett. ‘I’m not sharing a boat with a stiff.’

  ‘Beckett, please,’ said Davison. ‘Have some respect.’

  ‘I’m not Russian,’ said Arbatov.

  ‘No, of course not, Comrade Arbatov.’

  ‘Enough now,’ ordered Hodgkin. ‘Come on, Edward. They’re right; we have to do this now.’

  Davison nodded his assent.

  ‘He loved the sea,’ said Palmer. ‘He won’t mind.’

  ‘Swann, Arbatov, would you do the honours?’ asked Hodgkin.

  The two men stamped over and between them lifted Clair’s body up. Hodgkin nodded at Davison.

  Davison sighed. Putting his hands together in prayer, he began. ‘Oh, Lord, we give unto you the soul of another of your flock, John Clair. May You receive him with Your blessing as we surrender his mortal remains to the mighty sea. Please, say with me, Our Father, which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name…’

  We joined Davison in reciting the Lord’s Prayer, our heads bowed, while Swann and Arbatov stood at the side of the boat, struggling to keep the corpse from sagging.

  ‘… For ever and ever, Amen.’ He made the sign of the cross.

  Hodgkin nodded at Swann.

  ‘Wait,’ said Pablo. ‘We keep the blanket, no?’

  We all looked at Hodgkin. ‘Well, yes, I suppose… it would be a waste. Edward, would you mind?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Sod that,’ said Beckett. ‘The gringo’s right – why waste a good blanket?’

  Leaning over, Davison removed the blanket, passing it back to me. Clair’s eyes were still open. Davison stepped forward and with his fingers closed the boy’s eyelids. ‘OK,’ he said.

  Swann and Arbatov lifted the body over the side of the boat then, with a nod at each other, carefully dropped John Clair into the sea. Slowly, he floated away, rising up and down with the waves. Davison crossed himself again. Silently, we watched him for a long while.

  It was Palmer who eventually broke the silence. ‘Hey, why doesn’t he sink?’ he asked.

  ‘He will,’ said Swann. ‘As soon as the air in his lungs is replaced with water.’

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Beckett, rubbing his hands. ‘Time for breakfast, methinks.’

  We each took our portions. I tried to banish the thought that with Clair gone, we were back to our original rations. God, the thirst was getting worse. My stomach gnawed with hunger but the pain of it was dwarfed by the dehydration. Licking my lips, trying to force saliva, was getting more difficult. My every thought became obsessed by water. I’d look at the sea and imagine all that water to be fresh, dream of diving into it and resurfacing and being able to cup my hands and take in mouthful after mouthful of all that delicious, pure water. Swann had been the first to succumb. Declaring he could stand it no more, he scooped his hand into the water and gulped it down. Beckett called him a fool; Hodgkin told him he’d go mad. Swann tried to laugh it off.

  Looking round at my companions, I realised just how much we had already changed. Each of us sported a beard or at least the start of one. Our skin was burning, turning a frightful red, parched and blistered all over, our eyes ghostly white. Owen, especially, with his blond hair, was suffering. Every man now had begun talking to himself. Pablo was the worst afflicted – muttering in Spanish, wringing his hands. Those who had tried cooling themselves down by placing their wet shirt
s on top of their heads were regretting it. The dripping seawater had caused hideous sores on their chests and down their backs, making their blisters worse and that much more painful.

  Surely, I thought, it couldn’t get any worse.

  *

  ‘What’s that noise?’ asked Swann.

  We became aware of a deep rhythmic pulse, so low we could feel it in our stomachs. ‘What is that?’ I asked.

  ‘Look everyone.’ It was Hodgkin, standing, pointing starboard, and smiling.

  ‘A ship?’ asked Swann, scrabbling to his feet.

  ‘Ships don’t sound like that, Swann, but look…’

  ‘Oh my, look at that,’ said Davison. ‘Now isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?’

  He was right; it made for a jaw-dropping sight.

  ‘Ballena azul,’ said Pablo.

  Half a mile hence, perhaps a little more, was a whale – a blue whale. ‘Look at the size of it, it’s as big as a ship,’ said Owen. ‘Must be seventy, eighty foot long. What a beauty.’

  We watched open-mouthed as it arched in and out of the water, making its huge humming sound; every few seconds blowing vertical plumes of water some thirty foot into the air.

  ‘Impressive,’ murmured Arbatov.

  ‘That’s some fish,’ said Palmer.

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ said Beckett. ‘Don’t you know anything? That’s no fish, that fish is a mammal.’

  ‘Bloody hope it doesn’t come too close. Can we kill it?’ asked Palmer, speaking quickly.

  ‘With what exactly?’ said Beckett. ‘Been hiding a harpoon on you?’

  ‘No, but see those tins there,’ said Palmer, pointing at the small pile of empty pemmican and bully beef tins. ‘We could throw those tins at it.’

  ‘Good idea, Palmer,’ said Beckett. ‘Off you go then. Good luck.’

  ‘Estúpido idiota,’ said Pablo. Stupid idiot.

  Palmer laughed. ‘I was joking, Pablo; just bloody joking.’

  We watched as the whale swam away, fading into the distance, its plumes of water still visible.

  ‘Come back,’ I muttered. ‘Don’t go, don’t leave us.’

  ‘It’s gone now, Searight,’ said Hodgkin.

  ‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘It’s gone.’

  *

  After almost four days in the boat, we’d taken the calm weather for granted. Each day, the sun had burned and sea had remained still, only occasionally building up to a gentle sway. But during the early evening of the fourth day, we all felt a distinct difference in the waves and the sight of white foam bubbling gently on the water’s surface alerted us that the weather was about to change. The sea itself had darkened, turning grey, then a deeper grey by the minute. The gentle breeze soon became a growling wind. Pablo rose to his feet and pointed to the horizon. ‘Dios nos ayude, God help us,’ he muttered. Following his pointing finger, we stood, agape, at what we saw – a huge, sprawling black cloud was making its way towards us, a swirling phantom of cumulus. ‘Oh hell, brace yourself, boys,’ said Palmer.

  ‘Is that ration hold firmly locked?’ Swann asked Hodgkin.

  ‘Don’t you concern yourself with that, Swann,’ came the curt answer. ‘Palmer, make sure those oars are secure. Get your lifejackets on.’

  ‘God, it’s coming on fast,’ said Swann. ‘It’s going to hit us any minute.’

  ‘It’s a storm,’ said Arbatov.

  ‘State the bleeding obvious, comrade,’ snarled Beckett.

  The waves were rapidly becoming bigger, the foam resembling boiling water upon the marbled sea, the sky darker and more ominous by the moment as the storm rapidly blocked out the sun. We felt the first hint of rain. I shivered – whether from fear of what we were about to experience or the sudden, noticeable drop in temperature, I wasn’t sure. The wind howled; our little boat rose and fell as the spectral-like storm approached us. The smell of sea salt was suddenly more intense. ‘Oh Lord, help us,’ said Davison.

  ‘I think that’s what the Spaniard said,’ said Palmer. ‘Hey, anyone got a mackintosh they could spare? No? Oh well, I wanted a bath. Pass the soap, vicar.’

  In an instant, the pitter-patter of rain became a deluge. Within seconds, we were all soaked, the rain piercing us like a thousand needle pricks, pounding our faces. I never knew until this moment rain could hurt. Our hair sagged with rain. Clenching my eyes shut, I turned my face upwards, opening my mouth but the joy of feeling fresh water on the back of my throat was short-lived. Hodgkin screamed at us to start bailing. Swann took the one bucket available to us, the rest used the empty bully beef tins, and together we tried fruitlessly to bail. We soon abandoned the attempt – swamped with water, there was nothing we could do. The sky turned black as the waves surged, throwing our boat up into the air as if it was a mere toy. We screamed, all of us desperately holding onto the side of the boat and the benches, our fingers biting into the wood. I knew we were now totally at the mercy of the storm and the sea. A bolt of lightning shot across the sky, momentarily illuminating us. A clap of thunder roared, shaking the world around us, causing us to cower. Our screams were lost to the storm. Palmer yelled something at me. Did he expect me to hear anything above the cacophony? His cheeks positively wobbled in the wind. The waves tossed and rumbled like so many fearsome beasts. A wave as solid as a cliff face, and just as large, crashed over us. Another, perhaps fifty, sixty feet, took us, carrying our boat higher and higher. We clung on for dear life; each man for himself. I knew the others were there, was aware of their presence, but paid them no heed, too wrapped up, as we all were, in trying to remain on the boat. My stomach flipped as we continued on this upward trajectory taking us all closer to heaven. I felt myself spinning until I could no longer tell what was up and what was down. Yet still I managed to hold on. Finally, at its crest, the wave left us suspended for an eternity as if nothing was beneath us, then, with a roar from Hell, we plummeted back down at a frightening speed, diving through the air as if in space, hitting what felt like the trough at neck-breaking velocity, only to swerve back up a moment later. Surely, our boat would break apart any second; how could its timbers survive such a battering? Death, I was certain, was but minutes or even a heartbeat away. How could we survive such a tempest? Wave upon wave took us on the watery rollercoaster. I could no longer see the horizon; instead we were surrounded by these mountains of water. I tried to keep my eyes open, being in the dark made things even worse, but the lashing rain and screeching wind was too much. Back to the bottom, into the whirlpool, I glanced up, and before us was a wall of vertical water, as solid as stone, down which, with unending fury, poured numerous waterfalls.

  We’d found Hell, all right.

  Chapter 9

  The Boat: Day Five

  The storm lasted most of the night. Sometimes the wind and the waves would subside, and we would all breathe a sigh of relief, only for it to start afresh minutes later. Finally, as the first streaks of pink sky emerged, it finished. No one spoke. We looked at each other with wide-eyed shock and exhaustion the like of which none of us had ever experienced before. We were all drenched and shivering. I sucked on my shirt, just for something to drink. There were seven of us. Two were missing but my thoughts were too jumbled to make out who. It was Hodgkin who first said it. ‘Where’s Palmer and Arbatov?’ We all looked round the boat, as if we were expecting them to be hiding somewhere within it. Nor were they in the water, at least not as far as our eyes could see.

  ‘We need to find them,’ said Davison. His voice was cracked, like a man who’d smoked too many cigarettes in one sitting. The thought of embarking on a manhunt was abhorrent. I lacked the strength to lift an arm, let alone go rowing round looking for Palmer and Arbatov.

  ‘We can’t,’ said Beckett, clearing his throat. ‘The oars have gone.’

  He was right – despite Palmer securing them, the oars were not there. The realisation induced within me mixed feelings. My immediate sense of relief that we need not expend any energy in a fruitless search gave wa
y to the feeling that somehow we had lost a vital lifeline. Yes, we were far too far from land to contemplate rowing but the oars were there in case we needed them. The fact that we had lost Palmer and Arbatov concerned me very little. But without the oars, we really were at the mercy of the wind and current. As Swann so succinctly put it, ‘That’s us buggered then.’

  ‘Poor Palmer,’ said Davison. ‘Poor Arbatov.’

  We all half-heartedly nodded in agreement. Yes, Palmer’s continual joking had been irritating but he’d been the only one amongst us that remained relatively upbeat. We would miss him – after a fashion.

  ‘It’s remarkable the storm didn’t claim more of us,’ said Davison.

  ‘Must’ve been your prayers,’ said Swann.

  ‘You may mock. But I think you saw last night the full might of God’s work.’ The effort of speaking seemed to tire him still further.

  ‘Leaving God to one side for a moment, can anyone else speak German?’ asked Hodgkin. No answer. ‘Pity.’ He gazed up at the sky, at the encroaching dawn. ‘Time for breakfast, I’d say. Let’s hope everything’s OK.’

  The hold beneath the bow had held. ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ said Davison as Hodgkin reached in for our rations.

  A scream took us all by surprise. There, standing at the stern of the boat, his back to us, Pablo was shouting at the sky; a torrent of Spanish words directed at God.

  ‘Señor Felipe,’ bellowed Hodgkin from the bow. ‘Stop that noise at once.’

  Pablo turned to face him, unsteady on his feet, his eyes rimmed red. ‘You don't tell me what to do,’ he growled, jabbing his finger from afar at Hodgkin.