Ocean Prize (1972)

by Pattinson, James

  “The damage was all amidships. There is no reason at all why she shouldn’t remain afloat.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Have you got any more on the weather?”

  “Rather more promising, sir.” Scotton was glad to be able to report some good news. “The gales appear to be moving away eastward.”

  “Good. As soon as conditions have moderated sufficiently we shall start searching.”

  “Yes, sir,” Scotton said, and refrained from adding what he thought—that it would be a vain search.

  “Did you gather what the Atlantic Scavenger proposed doing?”

  “Apparently they’re going to cruise around for a time; but I don’t think they’ll keep it up long. Not from the way they spoke.”

  Barling hoped they would not. He did not want any competition from the tug when the weather cleared. It was fortunate tunate that, before the tow-rope parted, the India Star had at least been moved some distance from the spot where she had been originally abandoned. That meant that the Atlantic Scavenger would be searching in the wrong area. It was just as well that he had had the foresight to impose strict radio silence, otherwise young Scotton might have given the whole show away.

  All in all, he was feeling reasonably satisfied with the way things were going. Until the engines broke down.

  Barling received the report from a gloomy Jonah Madden and could make very little of the engineer’s jargon.

  “Spare me all that. I just want to know one thing: can you and your bright lads fix it?”

  Madden, interrupted in full flow, answered somewhat aggrievedly: “We can try.”

  “I know you can try. What I’m asking is, can you do it?”

  “It may take time.”

  “How much time? An hour? Two hours?”

  “More than that.”

  “But you can fix it?”

  “It won’t be easy. Not with the ship rolling like this.” Madden seemed reluctant to make any admission that might detract from the immense difficulty of the job in hand.

  “Of course it won’t be easy. Nothing’s easy. If you wanted an easy life you should never have chosen the sea.”

  “I’m not asking for an easy life.” Madden repudiated the suggestion as though it were a slur on his character.

  “So you’ll get those engines going?”

  “If it’s possible.”

  “I’m relying on you,” Barling said, and made it sound like a compliment. “Just you see to things and then we’ll all be happy.”

  Madden grunted and went away to see to things. But he looked far from happy.

  Barling soon had reason to reflect that troubles never came singly. Two hours later, after the helpless ship had taken a severe battering, a particularly heavy sea burst over the port side forward of the bridge, ripped the tarpaulin off number one hatch, carried away some of the hatch-boards and poured a torrent of water into the wheat-filled hold. Mr. Thompson, the second mate, who was on watch at the time, saw what had happened and immediately reported the situation to Captain Barling.

  Barling went at once to the bridge to view the damage for himself. It did not look good. The tarpaulin, still held at one end, was flapping madly in the wind like some monstrous crippled bird, while the dislodged hatch-boards were sliding about on the deck between the coaming and the bulwarks. Meanwhile, more water was continually coming over the side, foaming across the deck and adding to the hundreds of gallons that had already gone into the hold. And what made matters worse was that, lacking any engine power, it was impossible to bring the ship head-on to the sea; she just had to take it on her port beam.

  “It’s a nasty situation,” Thompson remarked, and wished he had kept the thought unspoken, since all it earned was a scathing glance from Barling and the observation that if he could think of nothing more useful than that to say, then he had better keep quiet.

  Barling sent a man to fetch Mr. Loder, but Loder had already been on his way, and it was scarcely necessary to tell him what needed doing.

  “That hatch-cover will have to be replaced or we’ll have number one hold flooded.”

  “It isn’t going to be easy,” Loder said; and Barling remembered that Madden had said much the same thing about fixing the engines.

  “It’s got to be done.”

  Loder nodded. “I’ll go and see to it.”

  Rankin, the bosun, sucked his teeth loudly when he heard what was wanted and looked very doubtful.

  “Christ, Mr. Loder, that’s going to be a dicey job.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Loder snapped. “Round up your men. And hurry.”

  Rankin saw that the mate was in no mood for any argument. He hastened away to muster all available hands.

  It was a small army that made its way cautiously forward under the leadership of Mr. Loder. There was a lifeline stretched between bridge and forecastle, and they had need of it, for there was no safe footing, and the press of water rolling back and forth across the heaving deck threatened to sweep their legs from under them.

  They kept to the starboard side, and when they reached number one hatch Mr. Loder peered through the gap where the boards had been. The light was poor and he could see very little in the gloom; but it was not really necessary to to see anything; he knew that sea-water had gone into the hold and that it would have filtered down through the wheat. What the effect of this on the wheat would be he could only guess, but one thing was certain: it would do the wheat no good and it would do the ship no good, and the sooner the hole was plugged, the better.

  He turned and yelled at Rankin: “Clear that tarpaulin. Get the boards back on.”

  The tarpaulin had been torn down the middle, and the two halves were flapping in the wind and making startling cracking noises, like guns firing. The bosun relayed Loder’s orders, snarling savagely at the men.

  “Aussie, Charlie, Ben—fetch some hammers from the fo’c’sle. You others get them boards back on.” He had to shout to make himself heard above the racket of the storm.

  Lawson, Wilson and Ben Grubb, a lean, middle-aged seaman with warts on his face, clawed their way to the forecastle, dodging past the lashing tarpaulin and battling against a sudden rush of water that came sweeping round the end of the hatch coaming. They reached the forecastle, and Lawson turned the catches and swung open the heavy steel door that gave access to the interior. He hooked the door back and they went inside, stepping over the high sill into semi-darkness. Grubb found a switch and snapped on the light. There was considerable disorder caused by the heavy rolling and pitching of the ship; neatly piled stores had been overturned and some drums of paint were careering from one side to the other with a noise like thunder.

  “Look out,” Grubb shouted, and Wilson just managed to dodge one of the drums that could easily have broken his leg.

  “It’s a bloody shambles,” Lawson grumbled. “Why did I ever come to sea when there’s all that flaming land in Australia? I must be barmy.”

  They found the hammers and left the forecastle for the open deck. To make conditions a shade more unpleasant, it had started to rain again; a cold, drenching downpour that made their black oilskins shine like polished metal.

  Rankin saw them and shouted: “Get on with it. Knock them bloody wedges out. Look alive there” He sounded angry.

  The rest of the men were still rounding up the missing hatch-boards and lifting them back into place, and Loder was helping them, not caring about rank in this emergency. Meanwhile, seas were continually breaking over the port bulwark, rushing across the deck and slopping more water into the unprotected hold. At times the men were waist-deep in the swirling torrent and in constant danger of being thrown down or smashed against winches or other rock-like objects of lethal iron. Most of them had already been down and a few had sustained minor injuries.

  Lawson, Wilson and Grubb began to hammer out the wedges securing the iron batten that held the torn tarpaulin. The tarpaulin itself seemed to be doing its best to hinder the operation, lashing
at them vindictively, as though with the object of driving them away. One length of it coiled itself about Wilson’s body and wrenched him off his feet. He fell heavily, jarring his right shoulder, and another torrent of sea-water engulfed him, washed him free of the canvas and rolled him helplessly down to the starboard bulwalk, where he was brought to a halt by a crushing blow on the shoulders. The water ran away from him down the scuppers and he lay there for a moment, dazed, bruised and coughing up salt water, but still instinctively clinging to his hammer.

  Someone stooped over him, got a hand on the collar of his coat, and hauled him up. It was the bosun.

  “Come up then, can’t you?” Rankin still sounded angry. He had a lot to be angry about. “What you lying down there for? Get them wedges out.”

  Wilson’s head cleared and he went back to work. In less than half a minute the torn tarpaulin was freed and cast aside.

  “Get a new tarp,” Rankin shouted. “Make it lively.”

  They went back into the forecastle, Wilson stumbling over the sill and falling on to a coil of rope. He could smell the strong, sweetish odour of the manila mingling with the other odours of tar and paint and oil. He heard Grubb’s voice in his ear.

  “You gone to sleep, boy? Or you jest giving up?”

  Wilson got to his feet. The paint drums were still rolling about, but they dodged past them and found the tarpaulin folded and stowed away. It was heavy and sticky with new tar, and between them they carried it out, dodging again the rolling paint drums that threatened to cut their legs from under them.

  The last of the hatch-boards had been lifted into place and there were many hands waiting to unfold the new tarpaulin. Three or four men climbed on to the hatch and took a grip on it, while Lawson, Wilson and Grubb got one end anchored with batten and wedges to the forward lip of the coaming. They began to unroll it across the boards, the men on the hatch moving backwards, bent almost double and bracing themselves to keep their balance on that erratically shifting platform. Loder, withdrawn now, his back against the starboard forecastle ladder, one hand gripping the rail, watched the operation with his hard, slate-grey eyes, missing nothing.

  “Careful, boys,” Rankin warned them. “Look out for yourselves now.”

  The warning was justified; at that moment a sea came pounding over the port side and thundered down on the deck, sweeping across the hatch. The men, caught by that sudden rush of water, felt their hands torn from the tarpaulin and themselves knocked down and rolled off the hatch and into the starboard waterway, where they lay in a tangle of arms and legs, struggling to get up.

  The tarpaulin, suddenly freed, seemed to take wing as the wind got under it. The remaining folds were unfurled in an instant, and wrenching itself from the hands of the seamen on each side of the hatch, it rose into the air like a sail and fell against the forecastle with a tremendous crack. Loder, seeing it coming, took refuge under the ladder, but Lawson and Grubb were less fortunate; they were caught in the belly of the canvas and knocked violently down by the weight of it. The whole body of it then descended on them and held them imprisoned beneath it while they made vain efforts to grope their way out of the darkness that had so suddenly engulfed them.

  Fortunately, the end batten held fast, and the rest of the men, goaded by Rankin’s vituperative tongue, hastened to recapture the billowing tarpaulin and drag it back over the hatch. This time they made no mistake; exerting all their strength, they held it tight across the boards while the iron battens were slipped into the brackets and the wooden wedges beaten home.

  “And now stay there, you bastard,” Rankin snarled, slamming his fist on the hatch-cover. “Stay there and be damned to you!”

  Rankin had got a bruised elbow and torn finger-nails, and was feeling savage. But at that he had suffered less damage than most of them. One man had a sprained wrist, and two had had teeth knocked out; all of them were going to have aches and pains and everyone was drenched to the skin. But the hatch was covered and Mr. Loder was satisfied.

  Captain Barling, watching anxiously from the bridge, was greatly relieved to see the task successfully completed; and he felt grateful to the men who had battled with the sea and the wind to accomplish it. When it came to the push they were good men, all of them; yes, very good men. He even felt an unexpected warmth towards Adam Loder, who had supervised the work. It was his duty of course; but even so.…

  Precisely half an hour later Madden reported that the engines were ready again.

  “Thank you, Chief,” Barling said. “I’m obliged to you for getting the job finished so quickly.”

  “I thought you’d be needing the power,” Madden answered dryly.

  “There’s nothing I need more. And again, thank you.”

  Soon after that the Hopeful Enterprise again had her head to the sea.

  TEN

  SEARCH

  Before nightfall the gale had already begun to abate its fury. Morning came with the wind fallen into a far less boisterous mood and the sea gradually following its example. There was no rain, and for the first time in days the clouds broke up to reveal large patches of blue sky.

  From Barling’s point of view only one thing marred the prospect, making it rather less than perfect: the Hopeful Enterprise was slightly down by the head and had developed a noticeable list to port. It was not difficult to divine the reason for this: the tons of sea-water that had poured into number one hold had upset the loading and had possibly caused the cargo to move despite the shifting-boards. It was not altogether out of the question that the boards had given way under the abnormal pressure, allowing the wheat to pile up on the port side. Barling considered the possibility of breaking open the hold and sending some men down with shovels to try to level out the wheat, but he decided against it. The list was not heavy enough to cause any real trouble.

  He was on the bridge early, conferring with Loder in the chartroom regarding the likely position of the India Star after drifting in the storm.

  “So you really mean to go hunting again?”

  Barling lifted his gaze from the chart he was studying and turned it on the mate. “Have you any objection?”

  “No. Why should I? It’s just work to me.”

  “But you think it’s a wild goose chase?”

  Loder shrugged. “Shall we say that I consider the chances of success are pretty slim?”

  “Very well,” Barling answered coldly, “let’s say that. We’re going to search just the same.”

  There was the old cynical twist to Loder’s mouth and the faint mockery in his eyes, which infuriated Barling. “In spite of the condition this ship is in?”

  “There is nothing wrong with this ship. Nothing serious.”

  “Well, if you think so.”

  “I do think so.”

  Loder saw that nothing was going to deter Barling; he was determined to search for the India Star, his prize. But for how long? If they found no trace of the derelict how many days would it be before he could be persuaded to accept defeat? No telling. Barling could be a stubborn man, and there was much at stake. He might go on and on with the single-mindedness of Captain Ahab hunting for the white whale.

  Loder shrugged again. “It’s your decision.”

  The search was to be systematic. Having estimated the position to which the India Star might have been expected to drift, supposing that she was still afloat, the surrounding area was divided into sections, each of a width that could be surveyed from the Hopeful Enterprise. They would steam down the length of a section, turn and steam back along the next section, and so on until the entire area had been covered.

  “It’ll take time,” Loder said.

  “We’ve got time.”

  They began searching at first light. The day passed slowly and the sea became progressively calmer. The wind dropped to a moderate breeze and the sun shone fitfully. No ship was sighted.

  The crew accepted the situation. The decision to continue the search was none of their making; they had not been consulted and w
ould not have expected to be. But that did not prevent them from discussing the subject in the mess, and the general opinion was that Captain Barling had gone a bit wrong in the head.

  Some were inclined to take a gloomy view. Ben Grubb predicted that they would just hang about until another gale hit them. “And next time it could be a hell of a lot worse. We’ve shipped a deal of water in that for’ard hold as it is, and there’s a list.”

  “Not much of a list,” Lawson said.

  “It could get worse. The wheat must’ve shifted and it’s soaked with water. Maybe that’ll make it swell, set up pressure. No telling what may happen.”

  Lawson gave a laugh. “I don’t know why you’re so keen to get home, chum. If I had an eye like yours I’d want it got right before I stepped ashore.”

  Grubb had come out of the argument with the tarpaulin sporting a black eye and a split lip. It could have been that which was making him moody.

  “Just say I want to get home,” he said. “And if it’s left to the Old Man I ain’t so sure I will—ever.”

  “You can’t do much else ‘cept leave it to him,” Veevers said. “He’s the gaffer and it’s his say so.”

  “So much the worse for us.”

  “Could be the better for us.”

  “How d’you make that out?”

  Veevers looked knowing. “When there’s salvage money going around everybody gets a share, don’t they?”

  They all stared at him. “Is that so? You mean we all get something?”

  “That’s the way I heard it. If we get that ship we’ll all be richer.”

  It put a different complexion on the matter.

  “Well, in that case,” Lawson said, “I’m with the Old Man, looney or not.”