The Wheel of Fortune, page 20
“Had we better steer farther north?”
“I think we’d better,” Connell said.
It was the uncertainty that was so hard to bear, not knowing where they were, not knowing how many more miles they had to cover, knowing only that the ocean was a fence around them beyond which they could not see.
There was a day when a storm blew up out of the west, screaming at them in a fury that transcended the usual bluster to which they had long since become accustomed. There was no alternative but to put out the sea-anchor, stow the sail, and drift. For three days they existed thus; drifting, drifting before the wind, scarcely sleeping, menaced by towering seas, bailing for their lives, weak and sick from privation.
When the storm had abated and they were able to sail on again it was discovered that one of the boards had been strained, and a trickle of water was coming into the boat. It was not much, but it meant that periodically they must bail. It added to their misery, and they were apprehensive that it might grow worse.
Haggard appeared to be sinking. He no longer took any active part in the sailing of the boat, but lay for most of the time sheltered by the awning, sometimes sleeping, sometimes muttering to himself. Occasionally it was possible to distinguish his words: “My fault, my fault, my fault!” repeated again and again. And then, “Margaret, Margaret. I am coming; I am coming!”
There were times when he refused food and drink. “I have no right; no right!” It would then take all Ruth’s powers of persuasion to bring him to swallow a few crumbs of biscuit and a mouthful of water.
John never ceased to be amazed at Ruth’s resilience, her cheerfulness. Once he saw her peering into a small pocket mirror that she had brought with her. She noticed that he was watching her, and grimaced.
“I never thought I should look so awful.”
Her face had thinned; there were lines about her eyes and mouth; her lips had cracked open into little wind-sores aggravated by the salt; her eyes were tired, her hair matted with brine. Yet, seeing her thus with the marks of privation and suffering upon her, John thought that he had never seen her look so beautiful. Her spirit seemed to shine through the transparent shell of her body, lending it a radiance that was unquenchable.
“Not awful,” he said. “Just very beautiful.”
“Nonsense,” she answered; but he noticed that a flush of colour flowed into her cheeks and ebbed again. “Look at yourself.”
He took the mirror from her and glanced into it. A stranger peered back at him, a bearded, unwashed tramp, with red eyes and hollow cheeks. He handed the mirror back to Ruth. “You keep disgusting company,” he said; and his reward was to hear her laugh.
There was a day when Slewkin refused to take his watch at the tiller.
“I’m sick,” he grumbled. “You can’t make me do it.”
Connell said, “We’ll see about that.” But Connell was beaten by passive resistance. Slewkin lay in the bottom of the boat and simply refused to stir. There was nothing that could be done about it; it was impossible to force a man to work.
But when ration-time came round, the second engineer, prompted by Connell, withheld Slewkin’s share.
Slewkin whined, “You got no right. I’m entitled to my share same as anybody else.”
“If you do your work,” Wales said. “Otherwise — ”
“Well, I’m sick, ain’t I? I told you I’m sick. I got pains in the stummick — ’orrible.”
Connell sneered, “You’ll feel better if you lay off the grub for a spell. You been eating too much; that’s what’s the trouble.”
Slewkin’s face screwed up into an expression of venom. He stabbed a finger in the direction of Captain Haggard. “What about him? He don’t do no work, but he gets his whack. Be rights he shouldn’t have none.”
Haggard, sunk in the stupor which had now become habitual with him, took no notice. He continued to mumble to himself.
“You mind your own business,” Connell said. “Anyway, no work no grub. That’s right, ain’t it, Mr Wales?”
The second engineer nodded. “Exactly, bos’n.”
With surprising agility for a sick man, Slewkin got up and went to the tiller. “All right, you shower of bastards! Give us it.”
The insurrection was over.
There was a day when they sighted land.
CHAPTER XVI
THE MIRACLE
It was a bleak coast: The waves beat against it, sending up founts of spray, as though a hundred geysers were gushing forth to send their boiling columns skyward.
The wind had backed until now it was blowing from the south-west, and with this favourable breeze to fill the sail they travelled northward, searching for an inlet. They found it at last, a channel through which the sea rushed in a torrent of broken water.
“This is the place,” said Connell. “Now for it.”
Rocks menaced them on either side, rocks like jagged teeth, green and slimy.
“Careful now; careful does it.”
With his red moustache and red untrimmed whiskers blowing in the wind, Connell seemed like some Old Man of the Sea crouched over the tiller, keeping the boat in the middle of the channel, keeping it away from danger.
As they moved on the inlet widened, fanning out into a broad bay like a Scottish loch. The shore upon their port side curved away northward. Connell, hugging this shore, brought the boat under the shelter of the land into calmer water and sailed on, searching for a beach.
To starboard, far across the bay, they could discern another land mass, perhaps five miles away, rising out of the water to a broken, hilly sky-line capped with trees. But they had no desire to travel farther. After so many long and weary days at sea they were eager above all else to feel the solid earth beneath their feet; they had a wish to dig their fingers in the soil, press it to their lips and hold it fast, never to let it go.
“Come on; come on. What are we waiting for?”
But Connell was watching for his opportunity and at last, bringing the boat’s head round to the shore, let her run in towards a shelving beach, nosing her gently up on the shingle. There was a grating noise beneath the keel, and the boat came to rest.
“We made it!” Slewkin cried. “We made it!”
To feel the land under their feet again — that was indeed something for which to be thankful; to stretch their legs after the cramps and aches of living in a boat; to be free at last from the incessant tossing and rolling.
“I never thought we’d make it; I never did!” They could admit such doubts now, now that it was over. It would have been madness to do so before.
And yet it was but a bleak land; bare, rocky soil, hills, a few trees; no sign of living creatures, of habitation; a gloomy aspect, rugged and wild, even forbidding. But it was land; that was the point; it was land.
They were as men released from prison — intoxicated with freedom, and yet scarcely knowing what to make of it. They waded through the cold, shallow water and stood gazing at the trees, at the boulders; stooping down and feeling the solid earth, letting grains of soil filter through their fingers. They stamped their feet, listening to the crunch of stones under their boots and feeling the blood flow more warmly through their limbs. Land! Land!
It was a moment such as would never come to them again; a moment when, joined in that common flood of happiness, the great ordeal behind them, they were suddenly brothers, loving one another, all pettiness washed momentarily from their souls.
But Connell brought them out of their dreams back to the needs of the moment. Under his directions they made the painter of the lifeboat fast to an outcrop of rock.
“Now, some of you, give a hand to carry the captain ashore.”
As gently as possible Haggard was lifted out of the boat. He weighed so little now that, even in their weakened condition, they had no difficulty in carrying him. He seemed scarcely aware of what was happening; of all of them he alone appeared to find no relief, no gladness, in the touch of land. His lips moved, and a word or two dropped from his mouth like the few last coins tipped from an almost empty purse. John thought he heard: “You must come to tea with us one of these days — yes, really — we should be pleased” Then the voice faded. It was like hearing very distant churchbells carried by a variable breeze — faint bursts of sound, then silence, then sound again. But it meant nothing; there was no tune, no coherence.
“We shall have to build a shelter of some sort,” Connell said. “We may have to spend the night here. There’ll be wind, though that hill should break some of the force. There’ll be rain as well, likely.”
As if in answer to his words there came a sudden scurry of cold rain, and the water of the bay was whipped into waves. The stern of the lifeboat lifted uneasily.
“You, Garrett, fetch the axe from the boat. We shall need timber. We’ll make a fire”
Connell wasted no time; he was completely in charge now, paying scant lip-service to the nominal authority of the second engineer. He sent out scouts to reconnoitre along the shore: Warren in one direction, John in the other.
“See what you can find — any sign of life — anything. But don’t go too far; remember you’ve got to get back.”
John found it rough going; his feet were soft after being so long in the lifeboat, and the stones galled him. In patches there was a kind of rough vegetation — it could scarcely be called grass — but for the most part it was only shingle and boulders varying in size from ones no bigger that a cricket-ball to others weighing many tons.
He stumbled often; not until now had he realized just how weak the privations of the voyage had made him. His limbs no longer seemed to be properly under control; they gave way without warning, and he would find himself suddenly falling, his body at last brought to a jarring halt by the impact of hard earth. Yet, since it was earth that halted him, solid, boneshaking earth, he did not care; it might bruise, it might gash, but at least it could not drown him. So, stony, barren, lifeless though it might be, it was good to feel it under his feet; and those dark, storm-battered trees clinging to the rocky land upon his left — they were as beautiful to his eyes then as all the pleasant woods and spinneys of his own country.
He supposed that he had walked some two or three miles — though it might well have been less — when further progress was made almost impossible by an expanse of broken, jagged rocks covering the shore and stretching out into the waters of the bay. They presented the appearance of a gigantic dump of builder’s rubble, and though it would have been possible to negotiate them with some difficulty, it was not a task on which John felt eager to embark. He decided that he had come far enough and that it was time to go back. He had found nothing to suggest the presence of men, nor anything that was likely to attract them.
On his return he found that the others, with the help of branches cut from trees, driftwood, and a sheet of canvas, had erected a rough shelter. In addition they had started a fire, and it was cheering to see the flames leaping and twisting from the wood, to crouch and warm one’s limbs before the glow.
John was greeted with eager questions. “Any luck?” “What did you find?” “Any sign of life?”
He shook his head; he felt tired, both physically and mentally; he was thankful to rest his legs, to sink down by the warmth of the fire. Sitting, the hollow emptiness of his stomach seemed easier to bear.
“Nothing.”
Ruth came and crouched beside him. “We were getting worried about you; you’ve been gone nearly four hours.”
“As long as that? I had no idea of the time. I suppose I went too far — got tired. The legs don’t seem so good as they used to be.”
He saw that one of the empty biscuit-tins from the lifeboat had been suspended over the fire. He could not imagine that there was anything to cook. He asked Ruth, “What’s in the tin?”
“Water,” she said. “Warren found a stream. At least we shan’t die of thirst. I believe hot water’s a good drink when you’ve got nothing better.”
He asked, “How’s the captain?”
“Sleeping.” She was silent for a while, the frown of worry creeping over her face. John noticed that the bone structure of her features was more apparent than it had ever been; her cheeks had hollowed and the skin was roughened with exposure. The effect was to accentuate the brilliance of her eyes, almost as though she had some fever that had wasted the body.
She said at last, “I don’t think he has any idea of what is happening now. It’s as if his mind were somewhere else; when he speaks he seems to be living in the past; he mutters about tea-parties, cricket matches, plays — things that happened years ago. Perhaps it’s better that way.”
“At any rate, Connell is capable of taking command.”
“The bos’n is marvellous.”
The initial joy of landing had worn away. By nightfall disenchantment had crept in. Empty bellies were as importunate now as they had been at sea, and there was no more with which to fill them than a morsel of biscuit and a mug of hot water. Garrett and Slewkin were soon grumbling.
“Might as well be drownded as starved — it’d be quicker,” Slewkin muttered.
“You haven’t lost the chance, lad,” Connell said grimly. “If you want to drown there’s plenty of water and nobody’s going to stop you.”
Slewkin’s ferret-like face twisted with impotent resentment, partly against Connell, partly against the working of Fate which had contrived to put him in the position in which he now found himself.
“It’s all very well to talk like that; but what are we going to do? That’s what I’d like to know. Are we going to wait here and starve? Precious fine look-out that’d be.”
With a sidelong glance at the second engineer, as though to acknowledge that all orders in theory came from him, as the person officially in charge now that Haggard was incapable of command, Connell said, “I think, sir, that to-morrow I’ll take one of the hands with me and see if we can find anything inland. It’s higher ground; we might get a sight of something from there.”
Mr Wales nodded. “Why, yes, bos’n, yes; I fancy that would be best. If only we knew where we were — what latitude, even; but there’s no way of telling.”
“I’ll take my oath we’re pretty near the Cape,” Connell said. “It’s Cape weather. But the population don’t run very thick down these parts.”
“And who in hell would want to live here anyway?” Garrett asked. “Did you ever see such a god-forsaken wilderness?”
“You were glad enough to set your big feet on it,” Connell reminded him. “Anyway, we’re not dead yet — not by a long chalk. And maybe we’ll all feel better when we’ve had a dose of sleep.”
But sleep came uneasily in the cramped hovel. Huddle together closely though they might, they could attain no warmth, and the ground beneath them was hard and stony, boring into their thin, starved bodies. Wind tore at the canvas, bringing icy rain that filtered in upon them like the clammy breath of the far South. And strangely, now that their bed was the solid earth, immovable beneath them, they missed the rocking movement of the boat; and that very stability which formerly they had desired now joined in league with the wind and the rain to stand guard all night against the forces of slumber.
John dozed fitfully, dreaming of Gargantuan feasts which melted away at the very moment when he thrust out his hands to grasp them. Great rounds of beef floated before his vision, gravy trickling from them; roast turkeys flanked with sausages; boiled hams of magnificent proportions; Christmas puddings, black and heavy, capped with brandy sauce; apple dumplings; rich cheeses; thick pats of dairy butter; jugs of cream; chocolate biscuits; iced cakes — he raised them to his mouth and they were gone, melting like snow upon his eager lips. He awoke to the flapping of the canvas and the mumbling of his companions, the smell of unwashed bodies.
It was because he had no wish to listen to the moaning of Garrett and Slewkin that he volunteered to accompany Connell on his reconnaissance. It might be hard work, but at least it would help to pass the time. Breakfast was a morsel of ship’s biscuit and a mug of hot water. With that inside them to aggravate rather than still the pangs of hunger, they set out.
“Straight inland,” Connell said. “We don’t want to waste our strength with deetors. We’ll take that tree for a guide.” He pointed to a small tree standing solitary upon what from the distance appeared to be a pinnacle of rock. “Well, let’s be going.”
The ground sloped fairly gently at first, but as they progressed the way became steeper. The trees were scattered and bent as though by the impact of innumerable storms.
“At least,” John remarked, “the weather’s improved a little.” In fact, the wind was less strong than it had been, and though the sky was heavily overcast no rain was falling.
Connell snorted. “Don’t talk too soon. It’ll be bad again before we’re back.”
It taxed John’s strength to keep pace with Connell. It seemed that the man felt no weakness. True, there may not have been quite the same spring in his step as was usual, but otherwise he appeared as active as ever, as if there had been no weeks of semi-starvation behind him, far fewer than sixty years of life. But for the ignominy, but for the fear of being sneered at, John would have begged him to ease his step. As it was, he struggled on, fighting the weakness in his own body.
Luckily, when they were out of sight of the camp, Connell slowed down of his own accord. Perhaps, after all, privation had not been without its effect even on his rough constitution.
“No need to kill ourselves. There’s a way to go yet.”
The tree was farther off than he had supposed. He heard the whistle of Connell’s breath and saw him clench his fists now and then, as though a sudden pain had racked his body. But he gave no other sign, pressing steadily, and for the most part silently, on. There was no path, no track of any animal that might have smoothed the way; well might theirs have been the first feet ever to tread that rocky soil.
