Southtrap

by Geoffrey Jenkins

'Less, I'd say. But I don't know. I can't place him…'

  Again came the tiny thread of human voice. 'Botany Bay. This is the master of the Botany Bay speaking. Tom Kearnay. Mayday. Do you hear me?'

  'I hear you, Botany Bay,' replied Persson. 'Keep talking. Cruise ship Quest here.'

  He was manipulating the reception dials and the remote control for the D/F aerial alternatively. But one D/F bearing is not enough: to fix a vessel's position there must be at least two intersecting, and ideally three or more. Persson had the radar going too. The sweeping beam showed nothing.

  'Give me the mike,' I ordered Persson. 'Botany Bay! This is Captain John Shotton, cruise ship Quest, speaking. Reply! Reply!'

  Persson and I strained for the response. It came, fragmentary, but still a reply. 'I hear you, Quest.'

  'State your position,' I said. 'We can scarcely hear you. Do you understand? Position!'

  It was hopeless. Somewhere in the remote background I could distinguish Kearnay's voice, repeating, repeating. What it was was the waves' guess.

  I cut in on him. 'Shotton here again. Hold it, Kearnay. Listen carefully. I reckon you're at the extreme range of voice radio. That makes you within four hundred kilometres. We heard the word ice. Collision with ice. Ice means you're south of me. I'm heading due south along the twentieth parallel. Twenty degrees east. Approximately forty-four and a half degrees south. Your position, please!'

  I half-heard the answer but Persson's more finely attuned ear caught it and he grinned triumphantly. Approximately forty-seven degrees south, eighteen east.'

  'Roger, Kearnay,' I said into the microphone. Position heard. Approximately forty-seven south, eighteen east.'

  '… sinking…' the voice wavered on.

  'What's that?' I asked. 'Sinking? Are you sinking?'

  The reply was incomprehensible. I handed the microphone to Persson. 'Keep at it,' I told him.

  My mind raced. Angles, distances, calculations. I could hardly credit Botany Bay's position. If the windjammer was where Kearnay said she was, she certainly was way off course between the Cape and Australia. A mental picture flashed in front of me of the Southern Ocean chart. Kearnay's position put the windjammer about 280 kilometres distant from the Quest, slightly off to the south-west. What about the buoy launch? A new set of time-distance calculations flooded my mind. Could the Quest afford to go to the rescue of the sailing ship if we were to launch the buoy on schedule?

  I saw in my mind's eye the relative positions of the two ships and the buoy's launching-point. They formed a triangle. Botany Bay was about 110 kilometres west of the launching point, the Quest about 280 kilometres north-east of her. But would the Quest's engines stand up to the hammering I'd have to hand out in order to make it? Equally problematical, would the hull stand up to the kind of sea that was building up? I'd have to put the Quest at full belt through a sea which I now knew via Kearnay was dangerous with ice. One touch and the Quest's thin hull would rip open like a sardine-can…

  Yet I couldn't leave a shipful of men to die. Risking the rescue would mean a hell of a squeeze between distance and time. I reckoned I could get to Botany Bay in ten hours. It would be then four in the morning — light enough to carry out a rescue. From Botany Bay to the launching-point, another four hours, give or take some. That left two hours for the operation of saving the windjammer crew. I could just make it — if everything worked out according to plan.

  Persson broke in on my thoughts. 'He's fast to the ice, sir! He says he's fast to the ice!'

  'Fast!' I exclaimed. 'What the hell does he mean? He can't be fast to ice in these waters! The pack's still thousands of kilometres further South.'

  'He said fast,' reiterated Persson. 'I'm sure, sir.'

  'Keep at him — find out what's happened!'

  Again the sferics hissed like a gale. It was that comparison which brought home to me why Botany Bay had landed up where she was and not well to the east en route to Australia. I'd been thinking like a steamship man. If Kearnay had sailed in a southeasterly gale from the Cape as the Quest had done, he would have followed the course of any true deep-waterman in sail: he would have stood away boldly to the south-west, apparently away from Australia, in order to get well south. There he would pick up the powerful westerlies to enable him to run his easting down to his destination and more than make up lost time. It made sense. Botany Bay could be where she was, with reason.

  Persson said, 'I heard something about damage, sir. Bow split, or something like that.'

  My mind was on windjammers. 'You're sure he didn't say bowsprit?'

  'Could be either,' Persson replied.

  'More likely to have been bowsprit,' I went on. 'If he tangled with ice, Botany Bay's bowsprit would have bought it first.'

  I glanced up at the big brass-faced clock on the shack's wall. Five minutes past six.

  I borrowed the microphone from Persson. 'Kearnay — Shotton here. If you have to abandon ship, keep your boats together as near your present position as you can. I estimate I am now two hundred and eighty metres north-east of you. My ETA to be up with you is about four a.m. I'll use my searchlight, but it'll probably be light enough to see. Start burning distress flares from o-three-hundred-hours onwards — a pair of red every ten minutes. Got that? Confirm, if you can.'

  I could scarcely wait while Persson tried to filter out Botany Bay's reply. Once or twice we thought we could distinguish the voice, but that was all.

  I used the microphone again. 'Conserve your batteries, Kearnay. I'm making all possible speed. Contact Quest again every hour on the hour. Maybe we'll hear you better as we get closer. If you abandon ship, keep your key down until she sinks, will you? We'll be monitoring you all the time.'

  I returned the instrument to Persson. 'Let me know any developments, will you? I'll be on the bridge…'

  Then I remembered the banquet. I added, 'Between seven and nine I'll be in the saloon at dinner.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  I headed for the bridge. Wegger was there. I said briefly to him as I hurried to the engine-room telegraph, 'I'll take the deck, Mr Wegger. Emergency. There's a Mayday out.'

  I felt the thin electric thrill run through the men on watch. I pushed the telegraph over to 'full ahead'. At the same time as I reached for the intercom to MacFie I ordered the helmsman, 'New course. Steer southwest by souths 'South-west by south it is, sir.'

  I hadn't had time to calculate an exact course; the sailing ship notation was good enough temporarily.

  The intercom came alive. 'MacFie here.'

  'Mac,' I said, aware that every ear on the bridge was strained to listen, 'I want everything those bloody engines of yours have got.'. The reply was slow and caustic. 'I've just seen the pointer go full ahead, laddie. Do you want to shake the screw out of her in this sea?'

  'Sorry, Mac. I've just had a Mayday signal. A windjammer. She's tangled with the ice ahead. We've got to get to her, quick. Those engines of yours…'

  'They're good, but they're old, never forget.'

  'Can you get sixteen knots out of them — or more?'

  'I can get sixteen knots out of anything — for a while.'

  'For ten, twelve hours?'

  'That's quite a while, as whiles go.'

  'Mac, I need every horse you can coax out of them. No one can do it except you.'

  'Aye, butter my backside while you blow my engines.'

  'Listen, Mac. Those windjammer lads are really in trouble. I've got to get to them — quick. And you're the man to do it.'

  'Feel that?' — I hadn't noticed the increased vibration. 'All of fifty-six hundred horse power. That's all these bluidy engines are meant to do. But I'll see what else I can manage. Don't blame me if they don't last.'

  'They will, Mac, they will. Give them the gun.'

  The Quest steadied on her new course. She gave a deep plunge as the run of the sea caught the bow and threw water all over the searchlight platform.

  I turned from the phone. 'Mr Wegger…' I began. I stopped
when I saw Wegger's face. He looked as if he had absorbed a right cross to the jaw. The expression was remote, the eyes were distant. At the same time, paradoxically, the face seemed to be filled with the intensity which had puzzled me before on several occasions. But now it looked as if there were a savage pressure behind that tension, as if it would explode at any moment. His damaged hand flexed and contracted as if by reflex.

  My first thought was that he was afraid of the emergency.

  I hoped the others hadn't noticed. I went close to him and hissed, 'Pull yourself together, man! Snap out of it!'

  The moment his eyes came back into focus, I knew I was wrong. I drew back. I had never seen such naked hatred in anyone's face.

  'Mr Wegger,' I said formally, 'have the searchlight team take up station immediately. I want lifelines rigged for'ard so that they can hang on when she takes it green. Double the look-outs — put four in the crow's nest. I want any floating object reported to me immediately. Understood? Tell 'em to keep their eyes skinned. There's ice ahead.'

  He didn't react.

  'Is that clear, Mr Wegger?'

  There was another moment's hesitation, and then he asked thickly, 'You say a windjammer's in trouble?'

  'Yes. The picture's pretty confused but it seems she's tangled with the ice. She's damaged — could be sinking.'

  His Adam's apple jumped up and down as he swallowed. Finally he got a proper grip on his voice. 'How bad is the damage?'

  I kept talking in order to defuse whatever crisis had boiled up inside him.

  'It sounded as if the skipper said "bow split" but I'd guess it was "bowsprit", being a windjammer.'

  The situation's not critical, then? She's still afloat?'

  'For how long is another matter. We can only find out when we get closer and hear what she's saying — if her batteries last.'

  He asked, with a strange inflexion in his voice, 'You know a lot about sailing-ships, don't you?'

  'Yes. But at the moment that doesn't matter. I want the searchlight men…'

  'You could sail one like Botany Bay?' Wegger persisted.

  I eyed him curiously.'Yes, I suppose I could. But the need won't arise. She's got a perfectly good skipper and crew.'

  The Quest gave a deep plunge, then rolled so far over to port with a corkscrewing motion that had her loading derricks been rigged outboard she would have put them under. Both Wegger and I tottered a couple of paces across the bridge.

  'Get those lifelines rigged in the bows — quick,' I ordered Wegger. 'If anyone goes overboard in this sea we'll never find him again.'

  Wegger stood for a moment, as if considering my order.

  'Mr Wegger!'

  'Aye, aye, sir!'

  He moved quickly to the rear of the bridge, as if he had suddenly made up his mind about something. At the head of the companion-way he almost collided with Linn.

  'What's happening?' she asked me. 'I was in the galley — half the crockery's smashed…'

  'There's been a Mayday call…' I outlined the situation briefly, explaining how little I knew about the extent of the windjammer's damage.

  'You're going to her rescue?' she asked when I had finished.

  'Of course.'

  'You're cutting it very fine if you're going to launch the drifter buoy on schedule, John.'

  'I know. And it worries me. But when I think of a sailing-ship in the conditions which must lie ahead…'

  'You'll abandon her once you've rescued the crew, will you?'

  'I may have to.'

  'You sound as if there is some doubt.'

  'If there is any chance, I'll try and save her.'

  'What! And endanger the launch?'

  'Linn, I don't know what the conditions are like. But I do know that sailing-ships are as rare as fine gold in this day and age. I won't let her go unless I'm forced to.'

  I picked up the crow's-nest phone. 'Captain here. Have the extra look-outs come on duty yet?'

  The man sounded surprised. 'Not yet, sir. I don't know anything about it.'

  'Hasn't Mr Wegger been in touch with you?'

  'No, sir.'

  I put down the instrument. A doubt nagged at my mind. Could I trust Wegger in a crisis? 'John,' asked Linn. 'Does this mean the banquet's off?'

  I checked the bridge clock. 'We can't call it off now but it will have to come second.'

  The Quest gave another one of her lurches.

  'Nobody will be able to keep their food off their laps if this goes on,' she added.

  What she said made sense. I also realized that by pushing the ship before I had lifelines rigged I might precipitate a delaying man-overboard tragedy.

  I used the phone again. 'Searchlight crew? Captain here. Put Mr Wegger on the line, will you?'

  'Mr Wegger, sir? Mr Wegger isn't here.'

  'You mean…?' I stopped myself in time from giving away an officer. 'Haven't you had my new orders?'

  'Only standing orders, sir, nothing new. Searchlight team to stand by in the foc's'le.'

  'You mean you aren't manning the damn thing at this moment?'

  'We've had no orders, sir. There's a lot of water coming over the bows.'

  I choked back a command to send the men out on to the platform at the double. The ice was still hours away. But Wegger — where the hell was he? It was his job to get the crow's nest and searchlight manned immediately I ordered him.

  'Keep on stand-by for the moment,' I told the man. 'Mr Wegger will be along shortly with my orders.'

  I put down the phone unnecessarily hard. Linn's eyes followed me.

  'Something wrong, John?'

  'Could be,' I answered briefly. 'Look, Linn, I've been doing a quick think about the banquet. If I keep the ship at this speed, it will kill the whole occasion. And it is an event, and I promised your father it would go ahead. At this stage Botany Bay's position is guesswork. There's no point in smashing up the banquet and possibly the ship as well at this early stage. I'll reduce speed for an hour or two to give the banquet a steady platform.'

  'I'm glad, John. My father would have been, too.'

  The bridge phone rang. 'Persson here, sir. I thought you should know. There's something on the radar. Small target. Not clear.'

  'What range, Persson? What do you make of it?'

  Twenty kilometres, sir. The image isn't very solid. I'd guess it was hail clutter, maybe rain. I can't say. I can't clarify the image on this set.'

  'It's not a ship?'

  'Definitely not, sir.'

  Ice?'

  'I doubt it, sir. There's too much speckle. But ice can be tricky. I can't be sure.'

  'I'll be along shortly to see for myself. Keep me posted, will you?'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  'And — Persson, have you seen Mr Wegger?'

  'No, sir. He's not been here.'

  'Thank you.'

  My anger blazed against the man. Where the devil was he? The first officer is the kingpin of a ship, and now that the Quest was facing a crisis the kingpin was missing.

  I rattled the phone. 'Give me Mr Wegger's cabin.'

  'No need. I'm here.'

  Wegger stalked on to the bridge. I noticed immediately that he wasn't wearing weatherproofing and that his uniform was dry. He was breathing fast, like the time MacFie and I had surprised him in the hold.

  I dropped my voice so that the others on the bridge would not hear. 'You will report to me in my cabin in ten minutes.'

  He seemed amused, insolently amused.

  I added in my normal tone, 'The searchlight isn't manned yet. Nor is the crow's nest.'

  He stood swinging on his toes for a moment, and then took a step — the same type of menacing step I'd seen before — towards me. Then he checked himself.

  'I know. I was checking the motor-launch for the rescue.'

  It was an obvious lie. His dry uniform was proof of that.

  'Who told you to check the motor-launch?' I snapped. 'Who said anything about using the boat for the rescue?'

&n
bsp; 'Of course we'll use the motor-launch,' he replied truculently. 'How else will we get them off?'

  'Any rescue arrangements are my affair — get that clear,' I said tautly. 'How we do it is for me to decide.'

  He shrugged a shoulder. I was at a complete loss to understand his attitude. It didn't help my anger., I repeated, in as controlled a voice as I could muster, 'I'll see you in ten minutes in my day cabin. Meanwhile, get on with the business of running the ship,'

  The ugly lightning flashed in his eyes, but his mouth retained its half-sneer. 'You can rely on me to run this ship. You can be damn sure of that.'

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The celebration banquet that evening was shadowed for me by Wegger's exhibition of bloody-mindedness. I couldn't get the man out of my mind as I sat at the head table in the fine teak-and-maple-panelled saloon facing the guests. There was a full turn-out of passengers — Linn had been right when she said they need something to take their minds off the tragedy of Hold-gate. She had provided it in full measure. There was a gala atmosphere and the place buzzed with animated conversation. Overhead two big brass lamps swung in rhythm with the Quest's long rise and fall.

  The saloon, which was unusual in running athwart-ships the whole breadth of the ship, was decorated. Streamers were suspended overhead. Klausen, the cook, had excelled himself and provided a culinary masterpiece. It stood on the heavy carved sideboard at my back — red crayfish pincers clasped fish delicacies of all kinds round a centre-piece consisting of a whole fish about a metre long.

  My captain's table formed the crosspiece of a T with the other table. Linn, wearing a severely cut white dress with a cowled collar, sat on my left; next to her were the three weathermen, looking uncomfortable in suits. On my right was McKinley, the master of ceremonies. It would be his function, now that the dinner was heading for its climax fuelled by liberal glasses of Kaapse Vonkel, to call on me to propose Captain Jacobsen's toast. That done, Captain Jacobsen would make his speech. He was in high spirits: Mrs Jacobsen appeared to have let him off the leash. McKinley was chatting up his fancy, the dark-haired Barbara, whom he had managed to seat at the junction of the two tables.

  Behind me, to my right, a door led aft to the main lounge and bar, — the forward entrance to the saloon, which I faced, was through a pair of swing-doors whose upper sections were diamonds of coloured glass. Miss Auchinleck sat nearest the swing-doors. She wore a feathery pink wig which made her look like a downgraded punk-rock star.