Uncharted Seas (15 page)

The rest of the crew were not idle. As each case was landed they flung it on a low-wheeled trolley they had got up from the storeroom and ran it along to the after well, where they were stacking the salvaged cargo. By these means the ship was not only lightened at her head as each load came up, but weight added in her stern which further helped to restore her length to horizontal.

A sea mist had risen with the rain and following on the heat of previous days it clung warm and damp about them. Luvia’s shouted orders were muffled and the figures of the toilers shrouded in its greyness appeared strangely ghostlike.

During the afternoon Corncob’s vigour began to fail him. He was forced to dive deeper to get at lower cargo and sometimes it took three or more dives to get the hooks fast in a bale where in the morning it had required only one. The periods of rest he had to take between each dive grew longer and each time he came up he clung to the combings of the hatch grey-faced and gasping.

Luvia saw that the man was nearing the end of his tether and, at four o’clock, ordered him out of the water; giving him a few words of hearty praise for sticking it so long, and a promise that a triple ration of rum should be brought with a hot meal to his bunk where he was to tuck himself up immediately.

As no more cargo could be raised that day, Luvia turned his attention to getting out some of the water. The pumps were set going and in addition two chains of men with buckets organised. It was slow work as each bucket of water had to be drawn up on the end of a rope before it could be passed along and slung over the side, but by evening the water was five feet below the rim of the hatch and as a result of the day’s labour the bow of the ship was now a good twelve feet clear of the sea level.

That night Luvia arranged for all his men, except De Brissac, to take short watches in couples, so that the boiler furnace might be fed and the pumps kept going. In the morning it was found that a further eight feet of water had been sucked up from the
hold and, with comparative ease, Corncob was able to reach cargo which had been extremely difficult for him to get at the day before.

Just before midday Jansen spotted the leak. It was about fifteen feet down on the port side and as the water in the hold seeped away with each slight movement of the ship the pressure of the sea on the far side of the plate forced a jet through the gap.

That leak had gradually waterlogged the forehold in the first place; the water already pumped out had entered from above only after the great wave had smashed in the fore-hatch.

Luvia and the carpenter went down to inspect it. They could not repair the sprung plate with the limited equipment at their disposal, but both agreed that the leak could be stopped up. A weighted canvas awning was lowered over the ship’s side to lessen the pressure from without, so that the jet became a dribble; the under edge of the plate was caulked with oakum well hammered home until the dribble ceased, a tarred mattress boarded over it and the boards braced by staves to the staunchions and deck beams.

It was a rough-and-ready job, although it took them all the afternoon, but when it was finished they were confident that, short of another storm which might spring the plate still further, any water that trickled through their tar-and-canvas plaster would not be more than the pumps could cope with.

After it was done Luvia called the whole company together and thanked them for their herculean labour which had enabled him to salvage the ship. He declared that for the first time since they had abandoned the
Gafelborg
, ten nights before, they could now consider themselves reasonably safe. The pumps must be kept going in order to clear the forehold entirely of water; so short watches of two men each would continue until the morning, but the rest could knock off for a lazy evening. Extra rations were issued for a celebration and, in the best of good spirits, the men gave him a rousing cheer.

Li Foo insisted on cooking dinner that night, and Hansie voluntarily returned to his old post of passengers’ steward. He opened the bar again officially for the first time and Luvia ordered champagne with the meal to be at the ship’s charge.

‘Tomorrow,’ he announced as they sat down, ‘I mean to get the boilers going. We’re short handed, but I think we’ll make it. Here’s to another few days seeing us safe in port.’

They drank the toast with enthusiasm and De Brissac made a short speech expressing the feelings of them all that they owed their lives to Luvia’s tireless energy and unflinching devotion to duty.

The big man smiled uncomfortably and came as near to blushing as he ever had, under his short golden beard. ‘Oh shucks!’ he shrugged. ‘Maybe I haven’t done too badly for an engineer, but every one of you’s given all the help you could so let’s cut out the bouquets; forget it, and enjoy ourselves.’

Willingly enough they agreed and, relaxing after the long days of strain, made it a gala night. The sparkling wine warmed them to carefree conviviality; each member of the party now knew all the others intimately, so they bandied jests without restraint and laughed uproariously.

In the saloon below the men were singing. Knowing the value of good feeling, Luvia agreed to Basil’s suggestion of taking a couple of bottles of whisky down to them with the best wishes of the passengers. He drank a glass to their health himself and brought old Jansen up to drink another in the lounge, so that the carpenter could convey the compliments of the men to the ladies and the passengers.

The party did not break up until eleven, when De Brissac, now almost well again but still needing to take care of himself, said he thought he would get to bed; Basil and Unity went below with him. Luvia left at the same time to go forward and see how the pumping was going before turning in, so Vincente Vedras and Synolda were left on their own.

Both had imbibed pretty freely of the champagne. Synolda liked her drink and plenty of it. She was a little flushed, but showed no other signs of having partaken liberally, except that her easy-going good nature was even more apparent than usual. Vicente was outwardly quite calm, but his hands trembled slightly and his dark eyes caressed her with a hungry look. His passion for her had been gaining force again these last few days, since his recovery, and this evening the wine had inflamed it to fever pitch.

They were seated side by side and now that they were alone together his heart was pounding like a hammer; he could hear it beating and his chest seemed about to burst with its steady throbbing.

Suddenly he threw his arm around her shoulders, leaned over, and kissed her hard on the cheek.

She did not struggle, but pushed him away gently as she murmured, ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

He seized her again and got his lips firmly on her mouth. For a moment, her head thrown back, she let them remain there, surrendering to his kiss and enjoying it herself, but with a quick jerk she broke away and thrust him back into his chair, ‘Vincente!’ she said a little breathlessly, ‘you mustn’t do that. I don’t want you.’

‘Why?’ he burst out. ‘You ’ave been kissed before—plenty. Is it not so?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve been kissed before. More times than I care to remember—and sometimes by men I didn’t like.’

‘Then, Synolda
mia
, why not me?’

‘Because I don’t want you.’

‘But I ’ave love you ever since I see you first.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want you,’ she repeated stubbornly.

‘Listen please.’ He spread out his thick hands. ‘You ’ave for me no love—yes—that I understand. But the love it comes presently.’

‘No, Vincente, no. I’m sorry, but it won’t in this case. I know myself.’

‘Yet yourself you say you ’ave been kiss by men you love not at the first time.’

‘I didn’t come to love them afterwards either. The thought of them makes me hate men so much sometimes that I feel I never want to have anything to do with a man again.’

‘Ah, my poor beautiful, that will pass. You ’ave ’ad bad experience, eh? Tell me then of it and ease yourself.’

She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not. I want to forget it.’

‘The way to forget it is in the love of one who is tender for you. I love with gentleness—yes. I would not harm one ’airs of your ’ead.’

‘I’m sure you could be very kind, but I don’t want you, Vincente.’

‘You are ’ard—’ard as the iron nail.’

‘I’m not. I’d like to be friends with you, but I just don’t want you the other way; that’s all.’

‘Friends!’ he stamped his foot angrily. ‘Friends! What is that? Between man and woman it is never to be. A pretence only: a fooling of themselves when very young. A cover up necessary for peoples of position sometimes. What interest ’as each in each but one—that which the good God ’as made natural to them?’

Synolda could appreciate his Latin point of view. She knew that in her own Anglo-Saxon race genuine friendships were quite common, but such an experience had never come her way. Almost since she could remember anything, boys had done crazy things for the chance to kiss and maul her; later on, a hundred different men had pleaded, threatened, schemed with the object of inducing her to submit to their caresses, but if their efforts failed they soon showed that they had no other use for her. ‘I’m sorry, Vincente,’ she repeated once more, ‘but I don’t
want
you.’

His face became sullen as he leant towards her. ‘You are ’ard—all right then; I will be ’ard too.’

She shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘Surely you’re not going to start all that old business over again?’

‘In love as in war all is fair play. We are derelict no more. Tomorrow we sail again. For what port who can say? but in three, five, six days we get there. You are not so foolish you make me so desperate and tell the police what I ’ave to say.’

‘You’ve never told me what you could say yet.’

‘Once I start—much. One little word and the police press to know all.’

‘All what?’

‘First place—why do you come on board last moment with no luggage?’

‘I had a perfectly good reason.’

He nodded his dark head. ‘Yes—I know it.’

Synolda paled and with unnatural calmness picked up her glass to drink some champagne. ‘If you do, I wonder that you’re so keen to have an affair with me.’

‘That you sail without your ’usband makes you not less desirable.’

‘I’ve told you again and again that I only decided to make the trip on the spur of the moment and the fool porter at the hotel must have taken my luggage to the wrong quay. I’ve told you, too, countless times, that I have no husband. I’m a widow.’

‘When since? The very day before we sail I see you with your ’usband at the St. James ’otel, Muizenberg.’

‘What nonsense! You may have seen me with a man, perhaps, but that doesn’t say he was my husband.’

‘Ha!’ he jerked forward. ‘You make admission you was in Muizenberg then. That you deny before.’

‘I neither deny nor admit it, since it’s no concern of yours.’

‘But you have done so and now I tell you something. On the
terrace of the St. James I see you with ’im. You, I admire—I become loving instantly. ’Im I recognise: ’is face, yes, I know it well, but ’is name elude. Who is ’e? I ask, that I may make reacquaintance and so meet you; for I am certain that I’ve spoken with ’im before. But ’is name—no, it refuses to come. I would make inquiry at the ’otel, but business friends arrive and at once I ’ave to drive back with them to Cape Town. The opportunity is gone from me. I think of you all night and puzzle for ’is name, but it is useless. Next morning I come on board. Before the ship sail I buy a paper. There I see the name plain to my eyes, ’Enriques Ortello. That night, when the ship is well at sea, the beautiful Señora Ortello, she appear suddenly at the dinner-table. She is wife to my acquaintance of old days in Venezuela—’Enriques. She travels in this name because it is on ’er passport and she can use no other. When I learn that she comes ’urriedly to sea without luggage I know for certain the thing that ’as ’appened.’

For a moment Synolda was silent. She drew heavily on her cigarette before crushing it out. ‘I see,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t know about the paper. What was in it?’

‘You can make the guess.’

‘Yes, I can guess. They must have got on to it very quickly.’

‘Truly. And you, I think, must ’ave laid a false trail with much skill. I fear each day they broadcast for you by radio.’

‘They have by now, I expect, but they left it too late. Those first few days they were probably chasing somebody they thought was me over half South Africa.’

There was a long pause until she asked, ‘And you’re quite determined to hand me over to the police when we reach port?’

‘That I would ’ate to do. But it is my nature to want what I want most badly.’

‘So, if you don’t get it?’

‘My ’eart would break, I think, but you are ’ard so I must be ’ard also.’

‘It’s only your word against mine and I’ve always found that a man will give the benefit of the doubt to a pretty woman. The police wouldn’t believe you.’

Vicente pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘You go wrong there. I keep the newspaper an ’ave it still in my cabin. Once I show that, your sweetest smile, it will get you nowhere.’

‘What d’you want me to do?’ she asked a little hoarsely.

His hand trembled on her shoulder. ‘Tonight we are celebrating—yes? Let us keep up the celebrations. Over there is one
fine bottle of champagne unopened. We will take ’im down to your cabin and when it is drunk up you shall forget all your troubles there in my arms.’

‘You’re taking a pretty mean advantage—aren’t you?’

‘No, for I will run much risk to ’elp you afterwards. I force your ’ands only because I love you.’

‘If you do you’ll destroy that paper?’

‘Yes, and be a slave to you in all things if you will let me love you.’

Once again Synolda fell silent.

Vicente had played his last card, but knew it to be a good one. From the age of fifteen a long succession of women had occupied an almost regular and very considerable percentage of his time. The majority of them had been Latins with the warm temperament which quite naturally made them regard physical love as the most important thing in life. Circumstances, rather than morals, governed their chastity.