The Restless Sea, page 27
The Chief shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘It won’t warm. It will only kill you.’
A squabble breaks out. More than one man wants to drink. ‘Who’re you to tell us what to do?’ they say, desperation in their eyes.
‘He’s the only officer here,’ says Burts.
‘He’s not even British,’ says the man.
‘What’s that got to do with it? He’s still ranked. Same as us.’
‘I’m not taking orders from no foreigner.’
‘Who would you take orders from? Who’s next?’
‘It’s the boy,’ says Burts, looking at Jack. Hard as it is to believe, he is right. Not one officer apart from the Chief made their boat.
Jack shakes his head. ‘It’s the Chief. He came down on our ship. He’s one of us.’
The Chief holds up his hand. ‘Let them do it,’ he says. ‘They’ll see.’
The men pass the bottle around the boat. Three of them swig at it. When it gets to Fred, he stares at it before looking at Jack and then back at the bottle, which is shaking in his hand. He cannot stop shivering.
‘Go on, son,’ says the man with the neck. ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’
‘Warm your cockles,’ says another, snorting with laughter. Fred looks apologetically at Jack and then lifts the bottle to his lips. The men chant as he drinks. The bottle goes around again. The same men drink. Jack tries not to watch. At least Fred’s teeth have stopped chattering. The Chief gazes out to sea.
As the night progresses, the drinkers become more rowdy. Jack pretends to sleep, but he keeps his hand on Olivia’s knife. When it is their turn to row, the men strip down to their vests, their pale skin steaming in the cold night air. When it is Jack’s turn to row, their faces swim in and out of his vision, leering at each other, babbling nonsense until eventually they quieten, their heads lolling with the swell.
In the morning the Chief shrugs. ‘I told them,’ he says. ‘It warms you on the inside and you forget about the outside.’
All four of the drinkers are dead, their bodies pale and stiff, so cold from their alcoholic slumber that ice crystals have formed in their bellies. Jack helps to remove their clothes as Burts whispers a prayer. They tip the cold, heavy bodies into the sea. Fred is lighter than the rest. He was only fourteen. Jack huddles closer to his neighbour.
‘More food for us,’ says the Chief.
‘Might as well have been the rest of us,’ says Grifter, gazing back at the wake of the boat, where the dead have long since disappeared.
‘What you say that for?’
‘What’s the use in us drifting about here? We won’t get paid for it. Our pay stopped as soon as we was sunk.’
‘You’re wrong. That’s changed. They promised to pay us even if our ships do go down.’
‘You think a country that abandons us cares about what it promises?’
‘I’m not even from your country.’
‘Look,’ says Burts. ‘Andersson was a good captain. I’m sure he’s made provision.’
‘It’s not him that decides. It’s the company that owns the ship,’ says Grifter.
‘What are you saying? Because he is Norwegian, he can’t look after us?’ says the Chief.
‘Stop talking shit.’
‘Who’s talking shit? You’re the stupid one.’
Grifter pulls a knife. ‘Don’t call me stupid.’ The rowers stop rowing. Everyone stares at Grifter with the knife.
The Chief flicks his fingers. ‘Come on, then.’
Grifter slashes the air in front of him. ‘I’m warning you …’
Some of the men start chanting, egging them on as Grifter lurches to his feet and lunges, but, as he does so, Jack stands and grabs hold of his arm. ‘Enough!’ he says. The boat rocks wildly. Grifter’s knife is caught in the air between them, but Olivia’s knife is against Grifter’s throat. ‘I said enough!’ Silence. All eyes on Jack, glittering in dark faces. ‘We’ve got to pull together. Or we’ll never survive.’
There are no blankets. Only dead men’s clothes. Jack lets the gunwale slam deep into his back as the boat bumps up and down. Olivia’s knife sits like a stone in his pocket. It comforts him to feel as if she is near, though he barely dares to think of her because when he does, he feels as though he might break. He knows Mart went down trying to help release a lifeboat for his men. He knows Andersson went down with the ship. He swallows. ‘Does anyone know what happened to Carl?’ he says.
‘He pulled you in,’ says Burts.
‘So he’s here? On the boat?’ Jack looks around, confused. He knows his friend’s face isn’t one of the weary and haggard, bearded men frowning back at him. Burts glances at the forepeak. It is only then that Jack realises the other person he had lain next to under the canopy has not moved during their regular rotation. Jack falls to his knees and crawls forward. The figure is wrapped in heavy, sodden clothes. Jack tries to find the place where the face is. He finds hair. The skin is black and charred. The eyes are shut. There is a faint noise, the wheeze of an injured animal.
Jack works slowly, gently. He finds the shoulders, the feet. He works his way up the forearm. There is a clear patch, free from the melted, raw skin. Jack can just make out a badly drawn star tattoo.
Carl’s burnt body is the worst thing he has ever seen or smelt, but Jack knows he needs to clean it and stop infection setting in. He sets to work, peeling away the soggy, salty clothes as carefully as he can. Carl says nothing. But afterwards, when Jack has managed to clean the worst bits and dress Carl in the spare clothes, he is sure he feels his friend squeeze his hand.
The weather changes constantly. One minute it is fine and bright, as if they are bobbing along on a holiday. The sea is calm and flat, the air pure and clear. The next moment, the sea swells and they are smashed from all sides, disappearing into the troughs of churning waves so it feels as if they are under water, only to rise to the top of the next peak. It is exhausting. Their bodies are covered in bruises. They tie themselves to any part of the lifeboat that they can. Jack remembers teaching David and Si their knots. He would do anything to be back at training school again. He understands why men like The Barker must find the strength to hold a crew together against whatever is thrown their way.
The wind squeals through their bodies and the tears freeze to their faces. The relentless thudding against the waves makes their bones ache, their eyeballs roll. They mumble and mutter, brief prayers, poems, ramblings. One man calls to his mother. They rub whale oil into their sore skin, but still it prickles and stings, and the tips of their fingers turn white as if they’ve been dipped in lime. Jack pushes against the gunwale, pressing it into his spine, concentrating on the pain, anything to keep him alive. He allows himself to picture Olivia, but only briefly. She is his strength and his weakness; the image of her keeps him going, but also brings the tears choking into his throat. Every few hours, he checks over Carl’s body, helps his friend sip his ration of water, swallow his biscuit. Carl seems no worse, but he is no better either. Jack whispers in his ear, tells him it will be fine. That they are near land. That help is on the way.
In a blizzard, Jack opens his mouth, hopes the snow will quench the thirst, but the flakes are salty like everything else. Even beneath the canopy, they settle in his hair, on his shoulders. The shape of Burts appears and disappears. The snow swirls around them and they close their eyes against its bite. The wind moans and wails like a child. They bail and row and relieve each other hour after hour. Burts does not move from his lookout. When it is time for him to swap, Jack crawls from under the canopy, stretching his legs out for one last time, enjoying the sensation of the muscles and ligaments bending and lengthening. He pulls himself up and shakes Burts on the shoulder. ‘Burts,’ he says. Burts doesn’t move. Jack shakes him again. Burts is solid, unmoveable. He has frozen to the spot. Three of them work hard to unwedge the body from between the mast. Snow has settled on his beard and eyebrows, frosting his face, making him look like an old man, only now he will never grow old.
As with the others, they undress Burts and bury him in the deep, taking his papers and the letter to his wife from his pocket, sending him on his way with a quiet prayer. Jack has to remind himself that this is not Burts any more as he slips into the sea, and the grey sky turns pale pink as the snow clouds clear.
The men begin to argue and fight over rations. Jack doesn’t dare sleep in case someone steals what remains. Grifter hovers in front of him with his knife flashing in the pale light, but Jack is immediately awake and on his feet, shoving Grifter into the bottom of the boat, one hand around his throat, the other grabbing the knife. Grifter cries. They all cry.
Grifter is on watch when a ship materialises on the horizon.
Jack struggles to speak, his lips are so cracked and swollen. ‘Friendly?’ he says.
The rest of the men are suddenly alert. They force the words through their chapped and bleeding lips. ‘Is it German?’
‘Is it the Navy?’
‘Are we rescued?’
Grifter shakes his head, trying to see. ‘I can’t tell,’ he says, as the ship draws closer. Jack hasn’t the energy to be scared. What can they do anyway? They can’t outrun a battleship.
‘Is it firing?’
‘What’s that in the water?’
‘Torpedo?’
‘Sit down!’ yells Jack, as the boat tips.
‘It’s American!’ says Grifter.
‘It’s from our convoy,’ says the Chief.
‘We’re saved.’
The merchant ship is soon alongside, flashing its hello. The men’s relief is only momentary. The sailors yell down at them, in accents that remind Jack of the pictures he used to sneak into in London. He tries to grab hold of the scrambling nets on the side of the ship but his fingers are numb, so he grabs at the rope with his arms as if he has no hands. The men are all talking at once.
‘Shut up!’ says Jack. ‘I can’t hear.’
The men fall silent, each craning their necks up at the Americans.
‘You’ll be better off where you are,’ a sailor shouts down at them. ‘The Germans are on to us. Our convoy’s given Hitler something to crow about. He’s determined to take us all out.’
The horror of the situation sinks in. The men in the lifeboat avoid each other’s eyes.
‘He’s right,’ says the Chief.
‘Let them go,’ says Grifter.
‘But it’ll be warm.’
‘And dry.’
‘There’ll be food.’
‘Let go. We’re better off in here. No one will torpedo a lifeboat.’
The boat is rocking ominously as half the men try to grapple with the others who are scrabbling for the net. ‘Sit down,’ says Jack. But the men aren’t listening. They are using their sore hands like claws to try to pull themselves up, scraping and kicking at each other in their attempt to leave the boat.
Jack resists the urge to join them. He knows the Americans are right, but the disappointment is like a punch in the stomach. Still he can’t let go of the net.
The American shouts down again: ‘We’ll send a message. Let your Navy know you’re here.’ Still, their hands grip the net. One man is almost on it, one leg dangling. The lifeboat tips. Jack reaches for the rifle. A warning shot might stop the panic.
Then something hits him on the shoulder. Things are dropping from the sky. ‘Bread!’ someone says. And the men collapse back into the boat with their arms outstretched and Jack unhooks his hands from the net and holds them upwards too. The rolls plop into the boat and into their arms. And now no one is holding the net – they are grabbing the bread rolls and the ship is steaming away, the sailors calling ‘Good luck!’ as they disappear as quickly as they came.
The bread is manna from heaven, soft and sweet, but after a few bites, Jack’s stomach starts to gripe, and his mouth is too dry and blistered to eat any more. He looks around. It is the same for all of them. He stuffs the bread into his pocket; he will give it to Carl later. ‘We should save it anyway,’ says the Chief, collecting the bits that are left and sealing them away. But it’s fresh water that they really need.
Jack turns his attention to his feet, which are so swollen that he has to have his boots cut off. Most of the other men have already done this. His socks are damp and clinging to the lumps that were once his toes. As he leans down to massage life into them, a noise fills his ears and the men start to shout. A plane is hurtling out of the sky towards them, probably on the trail of the American ship. The Chief tries to fire the rifle, but it is too damp and his fingers are too cold. The plane dives at them, and the men scream, and all Jack can do is fling his ruined boots at it as it banks away, teasing, melting into the sky in the direction of the merchant ship.
Once again all they can hear is the sea. It is too much for one man. He simply gives up, falling awkwardly forward over his knees. No one says anything as Jack helps to remove the clothes. It takes hours to do it, as if he is half-asleep. Every button saps more strength from his body. It takes his last ounce of energy to tip the corpse over the side and into the sea. This time he feels nothing as it is sucked into the darkness. He slumps on the bench, exhausted, every inch of his body aching with effort.
It has been eleven days. They have lost six men. There are nine left. They pass the last of the fresh water around like holy wine in the two metal mugs. Most of the survivors are too weak to help or even feed themselves. The stench of urine and death burns Jack’s nostrils.
The Chief is on watch, staring out across the dazzling water, squinting, glaring. He can barely keep his eyes open. Suddenly he shifts, pulls himself more upright. An energy sparks off him, radiating out to the men huddled around him. ‘I see something,’ he says.
Jack stands, wincing as his feet take the weight of his body. The men on the oars pull and pull with their last ounce of strength. The boat creeps slowly towards it. It is hard to tell. It could be a cloud or a ship …
‘Land ahoy!’ Jack fingers the knife in his pocket. Hope thaws his insides. Strangely, he feels like laughing.
The men row close enough to the shoreline to search for somewhere safe to land their boat. It is continuous rock, bleak and craggy and harsh. They are all on lookout, hanging over the sides of the boat. A rock could tear a hole at any moment and they are too weak to swim.
‘There,’ says the Chief, pointing at a sheltered bay. They steer inland, hear the rasp of the rocky beach against the hull of the boat. Jack is one of the few that can still walk. He clambers into the water, collapsing as his feet hit the ground. Seawater soaks his legs, his waist, his arms, but land feels good beneath his sore soles. He is surprised by how much he wants to live. Slowly he stands, shaking with the effort. Pins and needles bite at his muscles. None of them has walked for twelve days.
Jack helps lift and drag men from the lifeboat up the shore and away from the sea. Carl is the last. The Chief helps carry him gently to where the men are already beginning to build a fire. Those that are able to crawl, and stumble around the beach, searching for driftwood. First, smoke trickles up into the air, and soon flames crackle. It barely gives off any heat, but it’s something. The men stare into it, each one thinking of fires at home. Jack is thinking of his first day on the beach with Olivia, cooking the flatfish. The memory makes his mouth water.
Some of the survivors hold their fingers and toes by the flames, trying to encourage the warmth into them.
‘No!’ says the Chief. ‘Slowly. Or you will get rot.’ He shows them how to massage and rub their feet.
‘Do as he says.’ Jack’s words are an order, and no one argues.
The Chief points inland, to the bare rock and the snow. ‘Who’s coming?’ he says. Grifter steps forward and Jack nods.
The three of them clamber slowly to the top of the cliff, slipping and stumbling as their sore feet give way, or the shingle crumbles beneath them. Jack prays that they will see something – a wood or a village – even a field – when they reach the top. But there is nothing apart from a barren landscape of stone and boulders that rise into rocky hills riven by ice and snow. A desolate wind howls in his ears. Behind him lies miles of Arctic ocean. No person could live here. There is no food. There is nothing. For a brief moment, he wishes he had died when the Aurora first went down.
The three of them slump to the ground. They don’t dare look at each other. As they sit there, gazing down at the ragged bunch of men scattered across the beach below, Jack suddenly realises that there is something else, a familiar sound cutting through the whistle of the wind, conjuring up images of another place, another time. ‘Birds!’ he says.
The Chief and Grifter twist their heads from side to side. ‘He’s right,’ says the Chief, pointing. They push themselves up on to their feet again and start to follow the coast. The cliffs rise higher and higher beneath them until they are confronted by a squawking, wheeling barrage of seabirds scrabbling in and out of their nests in the side of a sheer drop. For the first time since their ship went down, the men smile at each other, their blackened faces folding and cracking awkwardly with the effort. Grifter begins to pull a bundle of string from his pocket. It is so absurd that they start giggling. Jack snaps Olivia’s knife open and they cut some lengths. Together they find a good place to lie above the cliff, the smell of bird shit making their eyes water. Jack and Grifter dangle their nooses over the edge of the cliff as the Chief gives them directions. The bickering and squealing birds remind Jack of his classroom before Mr Morgan appeared in the morning.
The Chief is giving Jack the thumbs-up and yelling his name, and he pulls the noose tight and feels the heaviness at the end. He drags the string upwards and on the end is a black and white seabird, thrashing and squawking. But Jack is ready with the priest: he bashes the bird on the head hard and fast and it goes rigid as it is stunned, convulsing, the feet sticking straight out as if it’s trying to land, and its eye glitters at him and then the lid comes down over it and the bird stops moving. It is dead. Jack feels nothing for it: he has seen enough death over the last two weeks.
