The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2)

by Rupert Colley

  A momentary flicker of fear flashed through Hodgkin’s eyes. I, too, felt myself shuffle back along the bench. Regaining himself, Hodgkin said, ‘I can tell you what to do. If we are to survive, we have to maintain discipline. This is the start of our fifth day and the discipline has been exemplary so far, as one would expect from British sailors.’

  ‘Your discipline,’ said Pablo, spitting out the word, ‘means nothing to me.’

  ‘I don’t know what sort of army you fought with in Spain, Señor Felipe–’

  Swann interrupted. ‘He fought for whatever side would ’ave him, sir.’

  ‘Questionable loyalty, if you ask me,’ muttered Owen.

  Pablo stepped over the benches, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Owen. Beckett blocked his way. ‘You stay right there,’ he said. The tattoo on his arm seemed to move as he flexed his biceps.

  Pablo considered his options. He swayed, realising perhaps, just how tired he was. Heavily, he sat down.

  ‘Well done, Beckett,’ said Swann. ‘Not bad for a Taff.’

  ‘Look,’ said Davison. ‘Can we stop all this bickering and have our water? God, we need it.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Swann. ‘After you, Captain.’

  ‘I still can’t get used to be called captain,’ said Hodgkin.

  ‘Water, damn it,’ shouted Beckett.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’

  No one else spoke. We took our water and our milk tablets and our minute portions of pemmican. Owen and I sat together, as was now our routine, and leant against each other. ‘You alright, Robert?’

  I yawned. ‘I think so. I’m done in. I could sleep for a week.’

  ‘Yes, I know the feeling.’

  The sun had risen above the horizon. Soon, we would be caught under its unrelenting glare. I felt myself dozing off. We all were. We’d given up on taking turns being the look-out. With heavy eyelids, I looked round at my companions, my fellow sufferers. Our clothes hung off us as rags; we’d all been burnt terribly by the sun; Owen’s skin was now a mash of blisters. Our eyes, like the Spaniard’s, had taken on a demonic red edge; our beards coated in brine. This was only our fifth day and yet it already felt as if I could not envisage another existence. The ship, and our life on it, seemed to belong to a different lifetime. I began to envy Clarence’s early exit from this world. He, at least, had been spared this continual torment. The constant creaking of the boat’s timbers slowly lulled me to sleep.

  Opening my eyes momentarily, I caught sight of Swann cupping his hands and drinking more seawater. Having taken his fill, he glanced round and saw me watching him. He winked at me.

  *

  The scream awoke me with a start. My dazed mind jumped to several conclusions all at once – we were being attacked; we’d been spotted; the boat was sinking.

  ‘Not again, Pablo,’ groaned Beckett. ‘Shut up, you daft Spaniard.’

  Pablo was standing at the stern of the boat, screaming at nothing in particular, his arms wrapped round himself as if, despite the heat, he was cold. Beckett’s words had the desired effect, and man ceased his wailing in an instant, but the way he glared at Beckett made me shrink.

  ‘Uh oh,’ muttered Owen next to me. ‘This doesn’t look good.’

  The wind had picked up, the boat dipped up and down in the swell. Pablo stepped over the bench, approaching us. ‘Those Germans – they win this war,’ he shrieked. ‘You wait and see. Just like Franco did in my country. Hitler va a ganar esta guerra. We fight to live but for what?’ He threw his hands up in the air. ‘So we can live in a German concentration camp all our lives? Spain, England. Fascists and Nazis everywhere. Fascistas bastardos. I tell you, I tell you now…’

  Hodgkin rose to his feet. ‘Enough of this defeatism–’

  Pablo interrupted him, speaking quickly, alternating between English and Spanish, getting louder and more frantic by the moment.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop rocking the boat,’ said Swann.

  Pablo picked up the bucket and swinging it around, threw it into the sea. He laughed, a diabolic cackle resembling a pantomime dame. But no one laughed with him. Then, stopping abruptly, he yanked at his hair, screaming ‘Jesús no puede salvarte ahora. Jesus can’t save you now.’ With that, he positively flew across the length of the boat, launching himself at Swann. Catching Swann unawares, he punched him in the stomach. Swann fell back. The Spaniard dived on top of him, screeching, swearing, wrapping his hands around Swann’s neck. Owen was the first to react; Hodgkin followed. Between them, they tried to yank Pablo away. We all gathered. Only Davison hung back. Pablo continued to struggle. Beckett swung his foot in, catching the Spaniard in the groin; Owen pulled his hair. I felt a surge of energy as I tried to help. Between us, we thought we’d succeeded, but still cursing, Pablo wriggled free and attacked Hodgkin, landing him a fist on his jaw. Hodgkin staggered back. ‘Get him off the boat,’ screamed Owen from behind us. Pablo waved his fists at all of us, daring anyone to try. ‘You cowards, all English cowards,’ he yelled.

  Without stopping to think, I launched myself against him, rugby tackling him. My momentum carried us both off the boat and into the sea. Resurfacing, I heard the others cheer me on as if they were spectators at a fairground entertainment. I felt Pablo’s hand on my head, pushing me down. I went under before having the chance to take in air. I could touch the boat; we were still so close to it. Struggling, I managed to free myself and resurface. Panic seized me, knowing I had no strength to fight. But then, something solid hit Pablo hard in the face. He fell back in the water, dazed, blood pouring from his forehead. ‘Robert, get back,’ shouted a voice from the boat. Outstretched hands reached out for me. Between them, they hauled me back into the boat. I fell in, landing next to Swann, propped against a bench, nursing his neck. He gave me the thumbs up.

  ‘What hit him?’ I croaked.

  ‘I got him with the binoculars,’ said Owen.

  Trying to catch my breath, I watched as Hodgkin and Beckett kept Pablo away from the boat. The Spaniard managed to get his hand on the side only for Beckett to slash at his fingers with the jagged edge of an opened bully beef tin, causing a deep, ugly cut. Pablo screeched, falling back into the water. He didn’t try again. The waves took him away from us, while all the time he maintained a string of abuses, shouting at us in English and Spanish, shaking his fist at us. We sat, too exhausted to speak, and watched Pablo as he drifted further and further away, still swearing, still shaking his fists, until soon he was no more than a dot bobbing in the water.

  Then came the silence.

  Chapter 10

  The Boat: Day Six

  ‘I can see a ship. I can see a bloody ship!’ I was wide awake in an instant. My skin felt as if it was on fire; the saltwater eating into my sores. Harris Beckett was standing at the stern of the boat, his hand shielding his eyes, staring into the distance. We all scrambled to our feet, our hearts pounding with excitement and anticipation.

  ‘Where?’ cried Hodgkin. ‘What ship?’

  ‘There, over there. Can’t you see it?’

  We squinted and scanned the horizon, desperate to see the ship. ‘I can’t see anything,’ I said.

  ‘There’s nowt there,’ added Swann.

  ‘Are you all blind? It’s coming towards us. We’re saved, for Christ’s sake, we’re saved!’

  ‘You’re seeing things,’ said Owen. ‘The sun’s got to his head.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t. Here, this will attract them.’

  ‘No,’ screeched Hodgkin.

  But it was too late. Beckett slammed a flare cartridge into its gun and fired. No one had even noticed he’d been holding it. We watched it as the flare fizzed and arched through the air. Its light was certainly impressive but too soon it fizzled out and fell.

  ‘You fool,’ said Hodgkin. ‘There’s no ship and now you’ve wasted a flare.’

  ‘But… I swear…’ Beckett’s body sagged. Dropping the gun, he said, ‘There was a ship; I saw it.’

  We groaned with frustr
ation. Davison put his hand on Beckett’s shoulder. ‘There was no ship, Harris.’

  ‘I swear…’

  ‘You were hallucinating, you fool,’ said Swann.

  ‘How many flares we got left now, Captain?’ asked Owen.

  ‘Only the three. Now listen, everyone... This is important.’ One by one we sat down, still heavy with the disappointment. Hodgkin scooped up the flare gun. ‘No one, and I mean no one, should fire a flare unless they have my explicit say-so. Is that understood?’

  We all nodded.

  No one spoke for a while. Each man sat with his own thoughts, coming to terms with the utter loss of hope. Owen and I, as per habit, sat together. Sitting on our hands, we leant into each other, trying to ease the discomfort of sitting with our bony buttocks against the hard wooden benches. The waves built up, and we had to hold on as we crashed up and down. Having survived the storm, I knew this was the least of our concerns. We had to wait until the waves had calmed down before Hodgkin would offer us our rations. We understood – nothing could be so crushing as seeing our precious teaspoon of water spilt.

  Finally, after an hour or two, the waves calmed. ‘I’m afraid, gents,’ said Hodgkin as we gathered around him, ‘that this is the last of our food. After this, there is no more. All gone.’

  For a moment, I thought I was going to cry.

  We waited in line, watching intently as Hodgkin used the teaspoon to measure out the minute squares of pemmican. Thank God Pablo had gone, I thought to myself, at least we only had to split it up between the six of us. Hodgkin, having divided up the last helping of pemmican, started handing them out.

  ‘Hey, wait a minute,’ said Beckett, pointing at Swann’s portion. ‘His is bigger.’

  ‘No, it bloody isn’t.’

  ‘Yes, it is; it’s much bigger.’

  ‘Looks the same to me,’ said Davison.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Swann.

  ‘If it’s the same, then swap,’ said Beckett, offering his slice of pemmican in the palm of his hand.

  ‘I’m not touching nothing that’s been handled by a Taff.’

  ‘Hey, that’s enough now,’ said Hodgkin.

  Beckett’s chapped lip curled up. He shuffled back to the stern which he’d claimed as his own, stepping over the benches, and sat down by himself.

  I gazed longingly at my little slice of compressed meat. I tried to imagine it was so much more. Images of one of my mother’s roast dinners floated into my mind. I could see the Sunday-best plates laden with thick slices of roast pork and crackling, a generous helping of steaming roast potatoes, nicely crisp, and the shiny bright orange of diced carrots. ‘Gravy, Robert?’ I wouldn’t say no. Oh, the joy of such thick gravy, full of pork juice and fat. Mustn’t forget the apple sauce. My mother always insisted Father said grace before dinner. A tedious tradition, I used to think. Perhaps this was now God’s way of punishing me, for not having appreciated His plentiful offerings. I vowed if I ever escaped this boat I would never eat another meal without offering my thanks beforehand. I imagined taking my knife and fork and cutting into a succulent piece of pork, imagined the sensation of it on my tongue, relishing the different flavours in my mouth.

  I placed the block of pemmican on my tongue. I couldn’t decide what to do – whether to swallow it as one or nibble at it slowly. I opted for the latter. As I swallowed the last few crumbs, I experienced a rush of disappointment that it had gone all too quickly.

  Next came the water. We had enough water for another three helpings each, said Hodgkin. After tomorrow morning, there’d be none left.

  ‘We could drink our urine,’ said Davison.

  ‘Yeah, good idea, Ed,’ said Beckett. ‘But we’ve got nothing to piss out. When was the last time you had a piss?’

  A thought occurred to me. ‘Captain, shouldn’t we have been in Karachi by now?’

  ‘I don’t know. What day is it?’ Hodgkin considered this for a while, mentally counting the days off in his mind. ‘By Jove, Searight, you may be right. If not today, then certainly tomorrow.’

  ‘They’ll be disappointed not to have their mules then,’ said Swann.

  ‘I wonder whether they’re still searching for us?’ asked Davison.

  ‘Who knows,’ said Owen. ‘We could be within hours of being rescued.’

  ‘They’ll never find us,’ said Beckett. ‘They probably didn’t send anyone in the first place. We’re too low down on their list of importance.’

  ‘They’ll know which route we’re on,’ I said, realising immediately how naïve I sounded.

  ‘Who knows how far we’ve drifted off course. And thanks to Gardner here, we don’t have the binoculars to keep watch.’

  ‘What happened to them?’ asked Swann.

  ‘Don’t you remember? Gardner pelted Pablo with them.’

  ‘We have to hope,’ said Davison.

  ‘Ed’s right,’ said Hodgkin. ‘We can but hope.’

  ‘And pray,’ added Davison. ‘We must always pray.’ Closing his eyes, Davison put his hands together and started praying, beseeching God to help the naval authorities in Karachi in their search for us, asking Him to give us all the strength to survive. Together, we closed our eyes and bowed our heads. ‘Dear God, we are entirely at Your mercy. We humbly pray that You may grant us a speedy deliverance from this most trying of circumstance.’ Having said our Amen, Davison led us in a subdued rendition of Amazing Grace… ‘Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see…’

  Exhausted, we settled back down. I noticed we’d fallen into this routine of having these brief conversations followed by long hours of silence. I closed my eyes, listening to the constant creaking of the boat, and dreamt of seaplanes taking off from Karachi with strong, reliable men, determined to find us, wherever we were.

  *

  I awoke to find myself bathed in sweat. The heat was like a presence – one was always aware of it, unable to escape it. The sun was burning us raw. Yet, the swell of the sea was still quite strong. On seeing me awake, Owen muttered, ‘It’s so bloody hot. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.’

  ‘Not much…’ I found it difficult to speak. Reduced to a whisper, I tried again. ‘Not much longer, you’ll see. There’ll be planes out there now, looking for us.’

  ‘I wish I could believe you.’

  ‘Think about Joanna; how happy she’ll be when she sees you again.’

  He tried to smile but his chapped lips were too painful. ‘She’s the only thing that keeps me going. Christ, I miss her so much. The first thing…’

  The sound of a large splash took our attention.

  ‘Swann,’ cried Hodgkin. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘What’s it look like?’ shouted Swann from the water. ‘Cooling off.’

  We watched him, swimming round in circles, bobbing up and down with the waves. I wondered where he found the strength. Perhaps drinking seawater wasn’t such a bad idea after all; he seemed no worse off for it. He dived under water, disappearing for a few seconds and then re-emerged, shaking the excess water from his hair.

  ‘There might be sharks,’ said Davison.

  ‘Come in, it’s lovely,’ shouted Swann, as if he had gone in for a dip at the seaside. ‘You’ll feel better for it.’

  ‘The man’s an idiot,’ said Beckett. ‘When that salt dries off on his skin, he’ll howl.’

  I could only think of the present, and right now Swann seemed rejuvenated. I’d never been a good swimmer and those waves looked too strong for me but I envied his escape from the sun.

  ‘Not so far, Swann,’ yelled Hodgkin.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, jeepers,’ said Hodgkin under his breath. Summoning his voice, he called out, ‘You’re drifting away; come back in.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ We carried on watching him as he treaded water, occasionally laughing to himself. ‘I think I’ll catch meself a fish,’ he called out, ducking again b
eneath the waves. This time he remained under for such a time we began to feel concerned. Stretching our necks like a row of meerkats, we waited anxiously for Swann to reappear. Finally, he did, laughing loudly. The relief of seeing Swann reappear was immediately erased by realising how far away he’d gone.

  ‘Good God,’ said Owen. ‘He must be fifty or more feet away.’

  A large wave washed over him, taking Swann from our view. When we saw him again, he was further away still. The expanse of water between him and us now seemed vast. Cupping his hands to his mouth, Hodgkin yelled out, ‘For Pete’s sake, Swann, get back here.’

  Swann waved. ‘Wait for me,’ he yelled. He began swimming, one arm after the other sweeping through the air with a strong, steady rhythm. He’s a strong swimmer, I thought to myself; he’ll make it back.

  ‘Keep going,’ shouted Owen.

  He was making progress, I thought, but was it enough? We could see his face and his expression of determination. But he wasn’t making up the distance; the waves were too strong.

  ‘He’s not going to make, is he?’ said Owen.

  We shouted at him, all of us urging him on.

  I looked round the boat, as if I might find something that could help. There was nothing, not even a coil of rope. The oars had gone; we couldn’t slow ourselves down. Slowly, Swann fell further back as his energy weakened. He kept swimming, pumping his arms and legs through the density of water. Another large wave briefly obscured our view of him. When we saw him again, he’d been pushed back further still. He began shouting through mouthfuls of water, waving his arms. ‘Wait for me, wait for me.’ His expression was now one of total hopelessness. He knew, as did we, that he wasn’t going reach us. We watched in despair as the distance between us broadened. Davison knelt down to pray. The rest of us continued standing, our hands to our mouths, as Swann, like Pablo the day before, drifted further and further back. Ten, maybe fifteen, minutes passed before another large wave washed over him. This time, once the wave had disappeared, Swann was nowhere to be seen.