by Peter Tonkin
‘Well, you’ve left it too late to meet him now. He went down with his ship.’
Richard looked closely at his friend. John’s attention was back on their course, making sure it was correctly entered in the automatic steering gear. ‘What ship was that?’ Richard asked.
‘The Titanic.’
20
Next morning found them far out in the east Atlantic with the Fastnet a fading memory. Much more real, and increasingly so as long hours became days, was the first of the storms that the lighter captain had warned them about in Cork. It affected them only indirectly, for it whirled along a track far to the north of them, coming east out of Hudson Bay to close over Labrador. It sent north winds screaming down from Cape Farewell to the Grand Banks, made navigation of the North Atlantic between Greenland and Iceland almost impossible and all but swamped the Faroes and the Shetlands alike before roaring over the Baltic and blowing itself out against the Ural Mountains.
To Napoli over the days of its tyranny, it was a series of weather warnings to the north, moderating as they came south towards Napoli. It was a series of radio messages from ships in trouble too far away for the old freighter to help. It was a series of lines on weather charts gathering darkly in the high latitudes, but separating as they came down towards the waters she was crossing now. And it was slate-grey weather with low skies roiling slowly over choppy seas where the south-westerly groundswell bickered with storm waves running across them, pushed by the last breath of north wind. But most of all, it was a warning of what the men and women aboard Napoli had to look forward to when the gale’s big brother followed in its footsteps in a few days’ time, just as they would be nearing the Grand Banks, exactly in its path.
‘We could always alter course to avoid it,’ said John at one planning meeting when he, Richard and Niccolo were together on the bridge. ‘But we’ll be hard put to meet the schedule as it is. And I’m a bit like Captain MacWhirr, I suppose.’
Niccolo looked to Richard, as he had learned to do when confronted with his captain’s arcane shiplore or history.
‘MacWhirr is a character in a story by Joseph Conrad,’ Richard explained. ‘He was warned to avoid a powerful typhoon but he didn’t do so because he couldn’t believe that the people who predicted it actually knew anything about it because they were all so busily avoiding it themselves. He brought his ship home,’ he added, turning back to John. ‘That’s a more cheerful reference than usual from you, John.’
‘Yes. I don’t know what’s got into me. I have a bad feeling about this. Nothing I can put my finger on, or I’d have done something about it by now. Perhaps it’s just that I’ve been aboard here too long now. I suppose I am beginning to feel trapped. I wish I hadn’t brought Asha along, I tell you that. We’ve a day or two in hand before the outskirts of this weather start to make things difficult,’ he continued. ‘Forty-eight hours, maybe a little more, to get this tub really shipshape. It’s all very well expecting her to get through a blow in the Med in her current condition, but this will be a little more testing, I think. We really do need to be able to rely on her hull, especially her bows. We need to know that nothing is going to break loose below or above. We need to be able to rely absolutely on all the electrical and communication equipment.’
‘Hard work for Jesus,’ commented Niccolo.
‘Hard work for all of us,’ John told him. ‘Even for the chef and the stewards. We’ll need to have food ready-prepared to keep us going no matter what—hot and cold, ready to go no matter when. The galley’s going to be working overtime for the next few days. And the stewards will need to check out the bridgehouse thoroughly making sure everything is tied down tight. We’d better hold another lifeboat drill too; we’ll wait for the weather to deteriorate before we do it, though; make it feel authentic. What else?’
‘The engine?’ asked Richard.
John closed his eyes, remembering that conversation he had had with El Jefe. ‘We’ll keep the chief engineer posted, of course,’ he said at last, ‘But I really think all we can hope is that he can continue to nurse us along at some kind of speed.’
‘We’re making only eleven knots now.’
‘I know, Richard. But all I want is steerage way if the storm does turn out to be a bad one. I’ll be happy enough if I can rely on steerage way.’ He put the engine out of his mind, too, for the moment. He could do nothing beyond chivvying his chief engineer and trusting him to do his best. But the thought of an engine fire breaking out in the middle of a North Atlantic storm did nothing to lighten his feeling of depression.
He completed the list of things to be done and left Niccolo on the bridge to keep the watch and to co-ordinate as was necessary while the more mobile officers and Salah, the bosun, took work gangs and began to make them live up to their names. He and Richard went down to the fo’c’sle head to begin their inspection.
Marco’s gang were on the foredeck, making sure the lines round the deck cargo were absolutely secure, a task that was made difficult and unpopular by the chill drizzle gusting fitfully out of the overcast. Numb fingers slipped and got cut, caught or crushed as steel ropes were tested and tensioned. The ladders stood in place but their rungs were slippery and no one was keen to try and get up them to check the tops of the containers. Halfway down the deck, John was forced to step into a confrontation between Marco and Bernadotte. The two men were standing face to face, the officer holding a pair of heavy work gloves and gesturing upwards. It was clear that the seaman was refusing to obey Marco’s order to climb the ladder, either on his own behalf or as a representative of the whole gang. John caught the word ‘Su!’ from Marco. He remembered it meant ‘up’ and added his own weight of authority to it: ‘Su. Subito!’
Bernadotte glared down at him for a moment, but then obeyed. Thrusting aside the work gloves, he stamped across the deck and made quite a performance out of mounting the ladder. John waited until he was up on top of the containers and had obviously settled to his task there before he turned and re-joined Richard.
‘That’s a nasty piece of work,’ Richard observed as they went down the rest of the deck.
‘It’s like putting a maneater with an amateur lion tamer,’ said John. ‘Marco Farnese seems to bring out all the worst in Bernadotte.’ He began to tell the tale of the seaman’s transgressions and the junior officer’s place in them. ‘It’s a difficult one. With Niccolo off the deck, Bernadotte has to go to Marco. He’s got precious little standing left with the men, but if I take Bernadotte and add him to Cesar’s work teams, nobody will take any notice of the third officer at all.’
Their inspection began with a look at Bernadotte’s work. Down in the cramped confines of the chain locker, they examined the state of the bows. Bernadotte had been sent down here by Niccolo with orders to chip rust and make good with paint. But time and again they found areas of white-painted blisters on the walls which burst at a touch to cascade dull red flakes over their work clothes.
Nor was that all. Set into the floor of the starboard chain locker was an inspection hatch which opened on to a pair of ladders designed to take them right down the inside of the hull, on either side of the cutwater itself. In the constant thunder of the surf against her stem, talking was difficult, but as they went down the inspection ladders to a level near the surface of the restless water outside, Richard raised his voice in an inarticulate shout which attracted John’s attention. Richard pointed at the metal wall and shone his torch down it. John watched as a wave hit and the whole wall flexed in response. The movement was not great. Only the shadows from Richard’s carefully positioned torch revealed it at all. The movement indicated that the metal in Napoli’s hull was not wearing well. It would have given little cause for concern under normal circumstances. But with a storm coming, John was not in a mood to take risks. The ladders down the inside of the hull were effectively on the forward walls of a deep but narrow gully whose rear walls were the front ends of storage areas and the forward hold itself. It would be possible to we
dge timbers down here and hold the bow still in the same way that Niccolo had used battens of wood to wedge the barrels in the half-filled container. That was work which had better start right away. Silently and a little grimly they climbed back up.
That flexing of the bow raised some unwelcome questions. How sound were Napoli’s sides? How much real metal was left under the paint-bound rust of her decks? How would those decks react to a container falling down on them? Or a couple of thousand tons of water, if a big wave broke over her? How much pressure from shifting cargo would her holds stand before they burst open? Quite simply, could the old ship handle the massive forces unleashed by a severe storm without falling apart around them?
They found Cesar busy with his team in checking the lifeboats, their contents, fittings and fixings. With a few terse words, John explained the situation in the bow and what he wanted the second officer to do about it.
Four of them then went down into the dark holds: John and Richard to check the disposition of the cargo and to discuss whether it was necessary, and possible, to make it safer than it was; Professor Faure to advise on what was possible, within safe limits; Ann Cable to run her daily check on the level of radioactivity. The cargo presented a problem for the seamen. Niccolo, in a hurry and expecting that the great grey blocks were bound only for Naples, had been content to pile them like massive children’s building blocks without securing them in any particular way. But the movement of Napoli in a severe storm was likely to send the topmost blocks crashing to—perhaps through—the bottom of the ship. In each of the three holds, John, Richard and Faure stayed together, discussing how best to overcome the problem.
‘You’ll have to open the hatches and use the cranes,’ Richard commented.
‘Yes, it’s the only way. We’ll do the maths back up on the bridge, but I think they’ll all fit. One level right across the deck, not piled up at all.’
‘If they’ll all go in like that, then there will be much less risk of them shifting in a storm,’ agreed Faure. ‘The danger to them, if any, will come from up there.’ He gestured to the deck above.
‘We’d better triple-check Marco’s work,’ rasped John. ‘We definitely do not want one of those containers breaking through the deck and bursting open down here!’
‘Talking of things bursting through deck heads,’ Richard said, ‘who is your best crane man?’
John gave a dry bark of laughter. ‘Even Niccolo still agrees our best crane man is Bernadotte. But I’ll ask Salah to keep an eye on him just in case.’
They began work at once because the task of spreading out the concrete blocks would take time. They had six protection suits, and so no more than six men could work in the hold at any one time. Further, although the compressed-air packs were designed to hold two hours’ worth of the precious gas, hard work meant the user ran out more quickly. John organised the gang as a group of four working in the hold, one—himself—overseeing and one getting his tank recharged at the compressor. Bernadotte would be in the crane above.
Although the grey concrete blocks seemed absolutely featureless at first, closer examination revealed that, like the barrels of chemical waste, they had two slight ridges running round them, which separated them from each other and raised them from the deck sufficiently to allow a strap to be passed round them. Borrowing the ladder from the deck, John and his men climbed up on to the top of the pile of blocks in the most forward of the holds. Then, as Bernadotte carefully lowered the tackle from the first crane, they grabbed the webbing straps and made them fast round the outermost of that top level of blocks. Then Bernadotte lifted them one by one with the most delicate touch imaginable, and lowered them to the deck like thistledown.
That first square of blocks was simply lowered straight down to lie in a larger square round the outside of the bottom layer. Then those in the middle were lifted up and swung further out still until the last pile, from the very middle of the top layer in the forward hold, went furthest out of all, along the walls of the hold, filling it completely to one level, side to side and fore to aft. It all seemed quite easy, although the fit was very tight indeed. The last few, in fact, had to be jockeyed quite carefully to allow the last one of all to swing easily from the very middle to the last corner, furthest forward on the port side. Here, the last space stood waiting, to John’s anxious eye only just big enough to take the last block.
Of the team working in the hold, only Eduardo spoke any English, and so John had used the ex-cadet as his assistant in the hold. By the time the last block was ready for positioning, the two of them were the only ones who had not been away to have their tanks replenished. They were all dog-tired, and John was as exhausted as any of them, but this last block had to be put in place. ‘Eduardo,’ he called, his voice hoarse and his throat sore from using the dry air. ‘Let’s put this one down and go topsides.’
The crewman came willingly enough, though he looked tired and John suddenly realised how unfair he had been, almost penalising the man for being able to communicate with him. The pair of them, he reckoned grimly, must have done as much hefting and heaving as the other four put together. But it was almost finished now.
He caught the straps as Bernadotte lowered them, and pushed one towards his helper. Eduardo caught it and they knelt together, fastening the webbing in place and clinching it tight. The light was going fast now, filling the hold with shadow like a flood, but John reckoned he was still easily visible in the last island of brightness right beneath the hatch. He waved to Bernadotte up above his head. The block rose fractionally and he and Eduardo swung it across the hold towards its allotted place. Behind them, one of the others stepped into the place John had just vacated, ready to signal to Bernadotte on Eduardo’s translation of the order.
It was hard work positioning the block just right, but the two of them had had enough practice to get it done quite quickly. Just as it was swinging into position, John yelled, ‘Ready!’
‘Pronto!’ called Eduardo.
Timing was all important here, for the block was unwieldy and the space was small. It had to start coming down just as it swung into position so that it would catch on the blocks round it and settle into place before it had a chance to swing back again.
‘Now!’
‘Subito!’
The block hesitated, exactly in place. If it was eased down by as little as six inches it would fit perfectly. If it was eased down immediately. ‘Now!’ snarled John again, but even as he spoke he began to feel it swinging back against him, its mass and momentum overcoming his strength. His feet began to slide back, only to be stopped short by a ridge on the top of the block he was standing on. He tried to hop over the long, low protuberance but it caught at his clumsy boots as though it had a malicious will of its own. The block still swung back towards him and, as he couldn’t move his feet quickly enough, it pushed him over. There was nothing violent about it; the force of the thing was simply overpowering. The block continued to swing back, moving inexorably over him. Desperately, he threw himself to one side, jerking in his legs and arms to form himself into a tight ball. A ball which could roll clear before the thing came down on him. How many tons must it weigh? He wouldn’t stand a chance.
A force gathered him and pushed him forward; a force centred at the curve of his back. He could not visualise what was happening to himself at all, but later he realised Eduardo had thrown himself forward, also under the block, to gather his captain like a big beach ball and half roll, half hurl him forward.
The block came down then, brushing the seaman aside with the same gentle force, then exploding down on one corner to pivot and fall against the wall. The flat steel gathered the concrete edge to itself and John sat up just in time to see it settle into its place. He ran to Eduardo; he was out cold. ‘Get him to the infirmary!’ snarled John to the stunned team. Whether his words made sense to them or not, it was abundantly clear what required and they all leaped forward together.
John didn’t pause to check on what they were
doing. He went up the ladder like a madman, swearing under his breath with language he had not used in years. He stumbled across the deck and on up the rungs of the crane. This time there was no one on the platform to prevent him tearing the door of the control cab wide, and, with a voiceless cry of rage, he hurled himself forward.
Bernadotte was sitting there with a slightly puzzled look on his face.
John grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him out on to the metal balcony. Bernadotte came easily, giving no resistance at all. He simply toppled sideways off his seat. John went down on one knee beside him, his fist closed as tightly as the bulky glove would allow, raised high above his head to deliver the most powerful punch he was capable of. But then Salah was there, pulling the enraged man back, holding him until he calmed.
Bernadotte seemed to have noticed nothing of what was happening beside him. The big man rolled over, put his hands on the wet metal and tensed to push himself up. But he fell down instead. He tried again. Again. Until John, calming down now, began to see the pattern. As soon as Bernadotte put any weight on his hands, he simply fell.
John pulled his headgear back. The windy cold of the late afternoon hit him round the head like a bucket of water. But that was not what made him catch his breath. What made him gasp with shock was the fact that Bernadotte was crying. Actually crying aloud. Sobbing like a child.
‘There’s something wrong with his hands,’ Salah was yelling.
Gently now, John took hold of those massive shoulders again and heaved the giant back until he was sitting half propped against the cockpit door. Then, glad of the gloves, he took the great ham hands in his own and looked at them. They were pale; no, white. They looked as though they had been boiled for hours and then left to cool. And there was the slightest chemical smell to them. He looked up at Salah, mouth open with shock—then he leaned forward and sniffed again. It was the same smell he had noticed on the empty sleeves where Captain Fittipaldi’s hands had once been.