Uncharted Seas (7 page)

There ensued a few moments’ gloomy silence, then Basil broke up the meeting. The afternoon sun was beating down so fiercely on his head and back that he feared he would get heat-stroke if he didn’t move. As it was, he had covered up every portion of himself that he could to prevent sunburn and blistering. Now, wiping the perspiration from his face, he crossed a couple of thwarts and lowered himself on to the bottom boards to get in the shadow of the sail.

He was feeling rotten again. The tonic effect of finding himself still alive when he woke in the morning had worn off. He needed a drink. He would have needed one anyway, having been deprived of his normal before-lunch cocktails; but facing the grim prospects his imagination conjured up as a result of Luvia’s statement made him need one extra badly.

The temptation to go aft and plead with Luvia for a tot of rum was a strong one, but he knew the Finn would refuse him and it seemed senseless to submit to such humiliation to no purpose. He thought of Synolda and her flask of Van der Hum, but could not bring himself to ask her for a pull at it. It wasn’t fair to rob the girl when she might need the stuff herself later on.

He tried to sleep, but could not. His mind seemed obsessed with the craving. As he dozed, visions of iced horses’ necks, ginslings, whisky-sours and planters’ punch came up before him—all those long, cool, spirituous concoctions which men drink in the tropics directly the sun goes down. Again and again he roused up just as he was dropping off to pass his tongue round his dry mouth and face reality.

A movement near by caused him to turn over. Hansie, having
helped to complete the men’s shelter in the bow, was settling down in the shade beside him.

‘Well, Mister Sutherland, hot enough for you?’

‘Too hot by half,’ Basil muttered. I wonder you weren’t burnt to a cinder up in the bow there.’

Hansie regarded the backs of his hands ruefully, and began to feel his cheeks, ears and neck. They were a bright brick red, glowing hot to the touch, and the skin seemed to be stretched abnormally taut across the red patches. ‘I’ve caught it,’ he declared bitterly. ‘It’ll start in about two hours’ time—burn like I was being held in front of a red-hot fire. Ain’t life hell!’

‘Hell’s the word,’ agreed Basil, ‘and it’s triple hell not being able to get a drink.’

The barman looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Of course, you’ve been used to your bottle a day, Mister Sutherland, haven’t you? It’s not easy to go on the wagon all at once. Here, don’t let the others see you, but take a pull at this.’

With a cautious movement Hansie extracted a large flat flask of Bourbon from under his jacket and passed it beneath Basil’s upraised leg.

Basil reached down a hand and gripped it, turning slowly over on one side. Hansie leant above him, shielding his head from view as he unscrewed the cap and sucked down a couple of gulps of the fiery liquid.

‘Bless you, Hansie!’ he said, when the flask was safely back in the barman’s pocket. ‘God! that was good. I’ll manage to keep sane until sundown now.’

To while away the time he amused himself composing some lines of poetry; a cynical summing up of his companions in misfortune which he scribbled in a notebook he had on him. They ran:

To these ends did I carve you said our Maker,
you dozen painted dolls within a boat.
(I was an Artist; your lives brand me Faker.)

Carden, a man born brave, grown old a goat;
Hans with his soul behind a steward’s coat
mixing oblivion in a cocktail-shaker;
Vicente with a purse around his heart;
Synolda, shop-soiled by exchange and mart;
Four negroes, children who would not grow old
till civilisation gave them guns and gold;
Basil, a scarecrow, dressed in the ragged tatters
of love and genius—and of all that matters
.

Such lives are jangled mockeries of my craft,
poems so out of tune they will not scan.
My last gift to you then—your epitaph;
‘the improper image of mankind is man
’.

Luvia came towards him some time afterward. ‘You were saying this morning that you’d done some yacht sailing, Mr. Sutherland—isn’t that so?’

Basil nodded.

‘Good. Then you’ll take the tiller for the next hour. The men passengers must break even with the crew. The Colonel’s coming forward to do a spell at look-out and Mr. Vedras will take over from him later.’

‘The old man will be fried like a fritter up there in the bow,’ Basil grinned.

‘Not he,’ Luvia smiled back. ‘He’ll have gotten the hide of an elephant after all those years in Burma.’

Basil stood up and went off to take over the tiller from Jansen. Having surrendered it, the carpenter accompanied the Colonel forward to his post.

Just as the change-overs were being effected Synolda popped her head out of the low tent where she and Unity were sheltering. Vicente seized the opportunity to produce a pack of cards from his pocket.

‘You’re very bored, eh?’ he smiled. ‘Let me tell your fortunes. Vicente is very good fortune-teller with ‘is cards.’

Synolda spoke to Unity, and then turned back to him. ‘All right. You’d better come in here out of the sun. If we squeeze up we can just make room for you.’

‘
Gracia, gracia
,’ he accepted the invitation instantly, and eagerly scrambled in beside them.

He told Synolda’s fortune first and muttered a lot over it rather unhappily. The King of Spades, which obviously represented himself, was constantly in her vicinity, but the King of Diamonds persistently came between them. It appears that she had just escaped from a grave danger and others threatened her. However, she had all the ‘luck’ cards, and so he was able to promise her health, wealth, and a happy marriage.

Unity’s cards troubled him much more; not from his own point of view, as he had no personal interest in her, but from hers. He told her of an unhappy love affair in the recent past and spoke of a Club man in her future; but he stuttered, became tongue-tied and so obviously agitated, that both the girls insisted on his telling them what else he could see. At last, unwillingly, he confessed it. ‘Death comes up next to you again and again.’

Meanwhile, only a couple of feet further forward, Basil was at the artificially lengthened tiller, with Luvia beside him. Ever since his talk with Hansie in the early morning he had been watching for a chance to get the Finn for a few moments on his own; at last luck had favoured him.

In a low voice he gave a detailed account of Hansie’s disquieting information about Harlem Joe.

Luvia heard him out and sat silent for a little. ‘So the man’s a killer, eh!’ he said slowly. ‘Doesn’t exactly add to the gaiety of nations having a guy like that along—does it?’

Basil had little time for large, blond, hearty men in the ordinary way, but he looked at the strong-featured Finn now with considerable sympathy. He had been so immersed in his own personal misery that he had not given a thought before to what Luvia must be feeling. The situation was bad enough for any of them individually, but the young engineer had in addition the responsibility of keeping discipline, navigating the boat, and looking after them all; a responsibility which seemed almost certain to bring hideously increased anxieties the further one looked into the desperately uncertain future. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Harlem as far as I can,’ he volunteered.

‘Thanks. I’ll tip off the Colonel and Mr. Vedras too. Between us we’ll watch him plenty.’ Luvia yawned and lowered himself to the bottom of the boat. It was many hours since he had closed an eye and almost instantly he was asleep.

Through the long hours of the afternoon the whole party tried to make the most of every inch of shadow, and where it was insufficient they hid themselves under blankets or odd pieces of clothing from their bundles. They sweltered there in acute discomfort, but that was better than suffering the agony of being blistered by the relentless sun.

Unceasing watch was kept for smoke trails or any other sign of shipping, but when sundown came, and the shadows crept in upon them from the surrounding emptiness, there had not even been a false alarm from the look-outs during the whole day.

By the light of a hurricane lantern Luvia superintended the distribution of the evening ration; a slice of meat, a biscuit and half a mug of tea laced with a dash of rum. The men could hardly restrain themselves from snatching at the pannikins. It was over seven hours since they had sipped down their third of a pint of water, and in the baking heat of the afternoon the thoughts of all of them had become centred in wishing away the crawling minutes which separated them from their next drink.

When the other members of the crew had gone forward Harlem Joe remained behind and sat himself down on the rear thwart. Having drunk his tea and rum in sips, rolling each noisily round his mouth, he looked at Luvia and said, ‘Der boys had a li’l meetin’ dis afternoon, Bass. Dey ‘pointed me dair spooksman to ask yoo one or two questions.’

‘Ask away,’ Luvia replied quietly.

‘Jus’ where d’you reckon we is right now?’

‘About a thousand miles from the coast of South America.’

‘Is dat so! An’ how do we go fer der eats?’

‘Our stores will last us about two more days.’

‘We’ll need to be a whole lot faster dan we are to git der in dat time.’

‘We may be picked up.’

‘Shoo—but say we ain’t?’

‘Well—what then?’

Harlem cocked his head on one side. ‘If der was less folks dey could make der eats last longer. Den dey’d stan’ a better chance o’ commin’ to der land.’

‘Perhaps, but fate’s already fixed our number for us.’

‘Fate! dat’s jus’ another word fer God. Well, Harlem don’t believe in God. No sur! He’s seen der mighty cities o’ der world an’ lived rich like der white people do. All dat Hosanna an’ der Lawd business is jus’ fer der poor coloured folk what don’t know no better.’

‘The fellow’s crazy,’ boomed the Colonel. ‘Never heard such blasphemous nonsense in my life. Send him about his business, Luvia.’

‘I’ll have you leave this to me, Colonel,’ Luvia replied evenly. ‘Go on, Harlem, but make it snappy.’

‘Shoo, Bass. I’d jus’ hate to make you late if yoo’s goin’ some place—yoo’s got a date with a dame, maybe? I’se a great one for der dames myself.’

A little titter of laughter greeted the Negro’s sally. The rest of
the men had come quietly up behind him and settled themselves just beyond the circle of light on the midships thwarts, where they were listening to the conversation.

Luvia’s eyes narrowed. At that moment he would have given a lot for the apt retort that would turn Harlem into a figure of ridicule in front of the others, but unfortunately he lacked the gift of repartee. He itched to exercise his authority in a curt reprimand, but he was no longer on the
Gafelborg
and knew by what a slender thread that authority remained attached to him in these very different circumstances. If it was to be put to the test, it must be on some major issue where he could depend on the support of all the best elements of the boat’s company—not because Harlem had raised a laugh at his expense.

‘Never mind dates and dames, Harlem,’ he said mildly. ‘I was only trying to keep you to the point. You don’t believe in God you say—so what?’

‘Dat’s so, Bass, but I believe in Man—man an’ Nature. It’s Man who is Nature’s greatest creation an’ he shoo is her master. Maybe yoo’s heard o’ dat old proverb, “Man proposes an’ God disposes”. Well, dat li’l old proverb ought to be rewrit, “Nature arranges an’ Man rearranges”

‘What’s all this leading to?’

‘You says, Bass, dat ’cause Fate or God or whatever yoo call it has fix der number o’ folks in dis boat dat can’t be altered. I’m sayin’ dat Man bein’ Man wi’ all der freewill in der world—it can.’

‘How?’

‘Der shoo is a variety o’ ways.’

‘Let’s hear ’em.’

‘Only der strong guy is goin’ to make der grade dis trip, Bass. I’s sorry fer der dames an’ der feller who got smacked down by dat oar, and der ole puss here with der dicky leg, but dey ain’t got no chance nohow. Der grub dey’s eatin’ would keep us tough fellers goin’ another day or maybe two. Six folks less in dis boat ‘ud give us an extra thirty per cent chance o’ gettin’ some place or bein’ picked up alive; so der six weakest folks is jus’ unfortunate. Dey got to liquidate or be liquidated, like dem Russian Communist guys say—see?’

‘Harlem’s right, mister,’ the half-caste Gietto Nudäa backed him up.

‘You infernal scoundrels,’ Colonel Carden lurched forward and raised his fist to shake it in the Negro’s face. Basil grabbed his shoulder and forcibly pulled him back again.

‘Take your hands off me, sir!’ the Colonel bellowed, turning furiously upon the young man. ‘If you had a spark of manliness in your drink-sodden carcase you’d help me throw this murderous devil out of the boat.’

‘Oh, dear no!’ Basil laughed lightly. ‘I’m a bit of a gourmet you know and I’ve never eaten Colonel. If we let him have his way I’ll be able to try a slice of Colonel’s saddle naturally pickled for forty years in port. I really couldn’t resist that.’

It was Tuesday, 11th January, and they had been thirty-two hours in the boat when they roused next morning, but there was no bright dawn to wake them; the sky was overcast, and the daylight filtered through grey banks of cloud.

Watches had been kept throughout the night in case the lights of a passing ship showed on the horizon, so that they could be roused immediately to pull towards it while the look-out signalled with the lantern, but no friendly glimmer had appeared to bring them hope.

Basil’s sally the night before had mortally offended the Colonel, but that was of little moment as the old man had never regarded him with anything except cordial dislike. What did matter was that, temporarily at all events, it had dissipated a very tense and dangerous atmosphere. Not a man in the boat, apart from Harlem, was yet so mentally warped by thirst and privation as even to dream of laying a hand on one of the passengers, and Basil’s purposely ludicrous suggestion that they should eat the old boy had been followed by a sudden roar of laughter. Angry and discomfited, Harlem had abandoned the discussion and shuffled off forward with his tittering cronies to settle down for the night.