Against the Wind (23 page)

Angel did not turn her eyes from my face. “So,” she said quietly. “Even so.” Angel was too young to know about death and dying, yet she had lived through enough to know.
Lindy was not in Lifeboat Number 6. Lindy was not coming home.

“Under your feet and in compartments below the gunnels are supplies for our survival. I want all of you to get busy checking to see what we have aboard and get ready to inventory it.”

As soon as the committal service ended Harold Browne called us to a variety of tasks. His attempt to set our minds on life and take our thoughts off of death was transparent, but I was grateful.

I think we all were, except Mr. Podlaski. “What’s the point? Either we’re going to be rescued, or we aren’t. If we are, we don’t need to play games. If we aren’t, none of your toys will matter.”

“Shall I remind you of that when sharing the food, Mister Podlaski?”

“What? No, no!”

“Then make yourself useful.”

In the forward compartments near where the women and children sat were tools. We found fishing line and hooks, a compass, rope, and a mirror, flares, and smoke bombs.

Beneath the floorboards we also located a mast and a sail, a can of grease, a bucket, and a hand axe.

“Like
Robinson Crusoe
,” Connor said.

“Leave the mast and sail stowed for the moment,” Browne ordered. “It’s going to take some serious rearranging to uncover it and set it up. That can come later.”

Of greatest interest to us all, now that the seas were calmer, were the food and water supplies in lockers and tanks at the stern. An entire canned-goods shop was on board, it seemed. There were tins of condensed milk, sardines, peaches, salmon, pineapple, and sealed cartons of ship’s biscuit.

Peter’s stomach growled and he looked embarrassed. “S–sorry.”

“He’s hungry,” Tomas said. “We all are now.”

I overheard Browne question Matt Wilson about the amount of water.

“Forty gallons,” was the reply.

“Plenty,” Tomas said. “And I’m thirsty.”

I saw James staring at the sky. His lips moved without making any sound.

He caught me looking at him and grinned sheepishly.

“What are you calculating?” I asked.

“Forty gallons. Three hundred twenty pints. Thirteen and a bit more pints for each of us.”

“That’s a lot, isn’t it?” Robert remarked.

James ducked his head and muttered something I didn’t catch. “What was that?”

“I said, depends on how long it has to last.”

John fixed his eye on Angelique. “That’s no worry. Now that the weather’s improved, the destroyers will be along most any time. They got slowed down yesterday, but they’ll make it up today. You’ll see.”

“Unless they missed us already,” Podlaski offered, chiming in, uninvited, into the conversation.

“Mister Podlaski,” Cedric Barrett said, “I wish you’d take the advice offered by the great American humorist, Will Rogers: ‘Never miss an opportunity to shut up!’”

Our first meal aboard Number 7 was issued around noon the second day after the sinking of
Newcastle.
It consisted, per person, of one hard ship’s biscuit, about the size and thickness of a dime novel, topped by one sardine. Each ration had to be passed forward from the stern, where Browne did the sharing out. By the time a girl received her portion it had been handled five or six times but was no more chewable because of that.

“Hard tack,” Connor said. “Like Admiral Nelson’s navy. And I love sardines.”

Yael turned up her snub nose at the aroma. “I do not like these little fishes. You have it, Simcha,” she said to her sister.

“No, sweetheart,” Raquel corrected. “You must eat it. It will make you strong.”

There was some grumbling from the lascars. Though no one spoke in English, it was clear they did not approve of the small amount of food.

Water had to be distributed the same way, one eight-ounce measure at a time. The dipper was about the size and shape of one of Podlaski’s fat cigars.

Before passing the first beaker forward, the officer held it aloft. “You should hear how I determined the amount,” he said. “
Newcastle
was three days out of Liverpool when we were struck. For her, Ireland would be a day’s steaming at most. For us”—Browne shrugged—“it depends on if we have favorable winds or have to go against them. With the sail drawing fully we could see Galway in six days.”

“Please, sir,” Connor asked, waving his hand as if in a classroom, “are we sailing back to Ireland, then? Are we not going to stay where the navy will be looking for us?”

Browne spoke quickly before Podlaski could remind us again how he was the senior political official on board. “The destroyers will do a box search. They will comb an area twenty miles across. Each pass will take an hour; then they move a mile or so and make another run. This searching they can do in a day and they will find us…if we are still inside that box. What I propose is that we remain here for one more day. I have apportioned our rations, especially the water, to last twice as long as our voyage should take, just in case. Are we all clear on that?”

None of us, not even Podlaski, had any comment to make. We were all sobered and thoughtful as we chewed salty, oily sardines and gnawed on brick-like biscuits.

The officer announced that supper and the next water ration would be shared at six in the evening. I tried not to count how many hours remained until then.

It was late afternoon of the second day afloat when Connor spotted another rescue vessel. This time no one, not even Podlaski, dismissed the claim. All strained their eyes toward the point indicated by the boy.

“I hope it’s not the Germans again,” John said.

“Will they take us prisoner?” James asked.

Peter began to tremble violently, as if with cold. Tomas hugged him and whispered in Czech, “Don’t be afraid, my brother. No fear.”

“Coming back to finish us off,” Podlaski ventured.

“Them Jerries monitor our radio, same as we do theirs,” Wilson said. “We’d blow that sub-tender out of the water was we to catch him. No worries, lads. They won’t come near us again, ’cause they know the whole bloomin’ navy is out hunting for us.”

So not the Germans. But where was the rescue ship?

I held my breath with anticipation. Rescue! Safety! No anxiety about making a sea voyage to Ireland in an open boat on the North Atlantic.

“There!” Raquel exclaimed. “I see it too.”

“Me too,” Robert said, tossing back his hood. “Shall I wave my cloak, Aunt Elisa? Shall I?”

“Not yet, sweetheart. Wait a bit.”

Beneath the low-hanging clouds a dark object rose against the horizon, hung there a moment, then disappeared again.

“I don’t understand,” Tomas said. “The big waves have gone down. Why do we see that ship and then not see it? Is it another submarine?”

A jet of spray shot upward where we had last marked the approaching vessel.

“It’s a whale,” Wilson remarked. “Whole pod of ’em, looks like.”

Within minutes Number 7 was surrounded by a half score of whales, passing us on both sides.

“Amazing!” Connor exulted. “Look how fast they swim. Could we throw out a line and get a tow?”

“They’re headed toward America,” James observed, holding a compass in his hand.

“Isn’t that where we want to go as well?”

The biggest animal in the pod rose no more than twenty yards away. Carried by the breeze, his jet floated across us like another drenching rain. Immediately afterward he stood on his head and dove, giving a mighty slap of his tail that rocked us with the waves.

“I’ve heard tales they sometimes come up underneath small boats,” Podlaski said. “One whip of such a tail will splinter us to toothpicks.”

First fears of Nazis and now of malicious whales.

The lascar crewmen evidently took Podlaski’s warning seriously. Jerking the oars up and down, they pounded out a warning to the whales intended to keep them away from us. Either the demonstration worked, or perhaps the animals were not really dangerous, but either way they disappeared into the west.

On board Number 7, disappointment once again reigned.

“The wind is dead against us,” Browne noted, “so there’s no point in raising the sail. But we’ll row awhile, I think.”

Somehow, without further discussion, the false alarm had determined our course. We were going to attempt to make it to Ireland. We would no longer wait for, or expect, rescue.

“Two men to an oar,” Browne continued. “Fifteen-minute shifts. The exercise will do us good. I think all the men should take a turn.”

“Not me,” Podlaski demurred.

“I will,” John offered. “If you’ll let me.”

“Glad to have you,” Browne said approvingly.

There was muttering among the native sailors.

“Sanjay,” Browne called to one of the lascars, “what are they saying?”

“They say the ration is too small. How can we row?”

Browne put his hands on his hips. “I already explained the amounts. Anyone want to question a direct order? Do they?”

There was a tense silence.

“One moment, Cap’n,” Wilson said. “We won’t be stopping again for a time, will we? If I’ve got a chance to warm up after, then I fancy a swim first.”

Tomas and Peter exchanged incredulous looks, as did James and John. We had spent two days trying to remain dry and out of the clutches of the waves. Now this crazy man was going to deliberately jump in? Besides, we had just witnessed the power of the whales. What other great, sinister creatures of the deep were out there?

“Who’s coming with me? Sanjay? Haji?”

Many turbans shook in response.

“I will!” Connor volunteered.

“You most certainly will not,” I corrected. “You’re staying inside the boat.”

“Maybe another time, eh, old chap?” Wilson offered. “Anyone?”

John darted a glance toward Angelique, then dropped his gaze without speaking.

“Right, then.” Shedding shoes and coat and stripping to undershirt and shorts, Wilson dove cleanly over the side. He executed three laps around Number 7 without stopping, then climbed back to his position.

“Bracing, that is,” he said cheerfully, toweling off with a bit of burlap sacking. “Nothing better. Cheerio, Cap’n. What’s our heading?”

And the oars began their rhythmic rise and fall.

The gray light dimmed toward nightfall as the choristers sang Psalm 136:

“Give thanks to the Lord of lords
His love endures forever.”

I prayed as they caroled for us. James and John sang each verse while Tomas, Peter, and Connor offered the refrain.

“To Him who alone does great wonders…
His love endures forever.
To Him who by understanding made the heavens…
His love endures forever.
To Him who spread out the earth above the waters…
His love endures forever.”

Here where there was no “earth above the waters,” I wondered if I had ever really known the importance of this hymn.

The carol to the loving-kindness of the Lord was a regular part of the Evensong service at Westminster Abbey, so I had heard it performed many times. Had I ever really paid attention to the message?