How To Be Brave (10 page)

Every mealtime, prick, pain, blood-reading. And again, prick, pain, blood-reading. Only the numbers differed; ten-point-seven, eight-point-six, eighteen-point-three. Then one hand squeezing her flesh, while the other injected. Over and over and over. Repetition can be a comfort. In difficult times you resort to habit. But this was one I’d never enjoy.

Before Rose scoffed thick custard and a slice of apple pie at teatime, I measured insulin and pumped it into her thigh, a favourite spot where pain is concerned. Then I read the roll call of the fourteen men on the lifeboat for the second time; I’d listed them that morning too. Then I’d described their various injuries, broken ribs and feet, cut heads and burnt skin. I’d told her how disheartening it was for them to watch a boat two of the men had arrived on sink, taking precious rations before they could do anything.

‘The roll call’s like the school register,’ Rose had said then. ‘Yes miss, no miss.’

‘How can you say no miss if you’re absent,’ I’d laughed.

‘So tell me all their names again,’ she said now, ‘even though I’ll have forgotten again by tomorrow.’

I did; I listed them, every one. They were:

That morning I’d told Rose they had seen five vicious-looking, white-bellied sharks as soon as they were all aboard the lifeboat. Though not too large at four feet long, the men knew what sharp teeth they possessed and were relieved to be safely – for now – aboard Colin’s lifeboat. They made no attempts that day to move the boat because Officer Scown said they’d managed to get an SOS signal out before the ship went down and if it had been heard by any nearby vessels they should hang around a while and keep a lookout.

‘Like in that film
Jaws
,’ said Rose, of the sharks.

‘I suppose,’ I said.

‘They’re the only animals I don’t much like.’

‘Neither did they,’ I said.

At lunchtime I’d opened Colin’s diary and read the letter that had been sent home to his family from the owners of the
SS Lulworth Hill
weeks after the ship went down.

Colin described next to it tremendous feelings of sadness that his mother had received it. He wrote that had he known of its existence while on the lifeboat he might not have gone on, and certainly would have felt guilt at causing his mum grief she had already endured when Stan was lost at sea.

Now I tried to go on with the story. I feared not doing it right. I had been faltering at certain words, trying to find one that Rose would understand but also not berate me for patronising her. How did the professional writers that she so loved keep their readers hooked? I supposed it was because they knew the audience was out there, in the dark, waiting for words, for escape. They knew that audience trusted their ability.

But my small audience of one was critical.

‘Okay,’ I began, ‘so the sun came up very gently on …’

‘Don’t baby me!’

‘I’m not. The sun
would
have been gentle in a morning.’

‘Okay,’ she sighed.

‘The sun rose on day two … 150’

‘Are we definitely done with day one?’ asked Rose.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Not much happened really, apart from the men getting acquainted. They were tired, remember. Too tired to make proper plans yet. Relieved just to be out of the water, I imagine. To have found one another.’

Rose nodded, patiently, and said, ‘Now Colin. What about him?’

And so I told her.

Dawn on the second day and Colin grudgingly opened his eyes. He knew before he came fully conscious where he was. The boat’s persistent motion, his damp clothes after a night of spray, and the smell of salt meant no escape, not even in dreams. He had woken over and over to the crew’s cries of
mum
and
help us
. Perhaps today would bring rescue.

He said softly to himself, ‘Maybe today a ship.’

Ken close by asked gruffly, ‘What’s that, lad?’

‘We
must
keep watch all the time, Chippy.’

‘We are. Officer Scown ordered it.’

‘I know,’ said Colin. ‘But I’m watching even when I’m not on duty. We all should. Can’t rely on the younger ones.’

At sunset the previous night Officer Scown had suggested the men try and sleep, setting a rota of two on watch for four hours. Looking out for a ship round the clock, he said, was their most likely hope of rescue so far from land. But four hours proved too long for the men to stay awake. With nothing but black sky and sea, the sameness lulled them into lethargy.

‘Aye,’ said Ken now. ‘Some of the young ’uns are barely eighteen. This is their first voyage. We’ll need to look out for them as much as for a ship.’

‘Look lively,’ said Colin. ‘Some of ’em are stirring.’

It was a sorry-looking lot of men they beheld as the sun lit a new day; violent water and explosions had torn clothes. Barely recognisable faces were black with fuel oil, and many were already severely sunburnt by the mixture of salt and sun. But, despite an uncomfortable night where they couldn’t lie down in unison due to lack of space, most woke quite cheerful.

‘Where’s room service?’ demanded Weekes.

‘Shocking quarters they’ve given us on here.’ Colin continued the joke. ‘I mean to complain to the highest powers.’

‘Right, shake a leg,’ ordered Officer Scown, to exaggerated groans.

Last night he’d suggested they not issue food or water until dawn. ‘We’re not feeling too bad yet, lads,’ he’d said, ‘and we may have a long way to go. Also, I’ve still to assess rations.’ Quietly he’d admitted to Colin and Ken that he was afraid to look at what they had, both from Colin’s lifeboat and in the things they’d picked up from the sea through the first day.

‘Tomorrow,’ he’d said. ‘When we know what’s what.’

Scown had been the fourth survivor Ken and Colin found; he was swimming so weakly when they spotted him that they had known he was mere hours from death. He was a great seaman, a strong leader, a man who’d long earned his position as the ships’ first officer. Though weak for his first hours aboard the lifeboat, and unable to issue orders, he’d recovered enough by evening to take charge of the fourteen men.

Now, with everyone awake, Scown said he’d decided that since no one had the energy for a longer watch, it would just be a two-hour shift. ‘The gunners Bott, Leak and Bamford will only do days. They’re not accustomed like we are to night duty. Any objections?’ He paused as though bracing himself. ‘Right, let’s see what rations we’ve got.’

The men had endured over thirty-six hours without so much as a drop of water, during which time much effort had been made rowing, tying the two rafts together, and constantly bailing water out of the boat’s well. Due to excess weight, a slight dip meant seawater pooled quickly at their feet, rotting all it touched.

Hunger gnawed at Colin’s stomach. He imagined it as a living creature with teeth as sharp as blades and bloodshot eyes. Thirst hurt more; it fattened his tongue, dried out his lips, and thickened his blood.

‘A drink,’ he heard Young Fowler say softly. ‘Oh, for a drink.’

Officer Scown ordered Platten, the ship’s steward, to put together a list of what they had. At twenty-six, Platten had been a seaman for five years. Though a slightly built man with wiry arms and legs, he was incredibly strong, a father to twin girls at home. Stoically, he set about his assigned task.

Scown found a damp pencil in his pocket and asked who had paper. Most did but naturally it had been soaked to pulp by this point. Young John Arnold came forward with his bible. The seventeen-year-old was an apprentice from the south of England, and fervently religious. Many had mocked and bullied him for quoting from holy text so frequently. Now he held the book out with thin fingers – it too was soggy mush. But inside was a protected picture of the Virgin Mary.

Gratefully, Officer Scown took the card from its cover and let it dry for a few minutes in the sun. The men closed in and watched as though they might be witness to some spiritual vision. Colin was never sure what he believed. He supposed he believed in what he saw, what he could touch. But it was not lost on him that the Holy Mother had remained unaffected by the elements.

When the picture had dried Officer Scown drew a small-scale chart from memory, marking their last observed position on the angle formed by the lines of nine degrees south and nine degrees west of Greenwich. Like an artist, he sketched deftly, eyes narrowed, tongue slightly protruding.

‘I reckon we’re about ninety-five miles from the ship’s last definite position,’ he said. ‘That puts us here.’ He marked a large X. ‘Which means Ascension Island is our nearest land. But we’ll never make it there – too hard to find. So our best hope is to find the coast of Africa.’

‘What about Pernambuco?’ asked Colin. ‘Couldn’t we pick up the southeast trades? Aren’t we right in the shipping lanes?’

The officer shook his head. ‘If we were a few more degrees south, maybe. No, the nearest mainland is Cape Palmas on the border of Liberia. Strong currents sweeping up the shores of Africa might bring us in line with the Europe-bound traffic. So that’s where we hope to reach – Africa.’

Bamford, one of the gunners, asked the question everyone dreaded knowing the answer to: ‘And how long will that take us?’

‘I estimate thirty days,’ said Officer Scown.

The words settled heavily on the crew. Thirty days. Four weeks. A month. Scown could have said forever and Colin doubted the men would feel more hopeless. Was it better not knowing?

No, survival at sea was about planning.

‘So that’s what we’ll set the rations for – thirty days,’ said Scown. ‘Any objections? If you have, make them now.’ Platten had totted up what food and water there was and quietly spoke with the officer. Grim-faced, Scown then addressed the men. ‘Right then, daily rations will be as follows – one biscuit, one ounce of Bovril, four Horlicks milk tablets, and three squares of chocolate. Water will be two ounces per man, three times daily.’

No one spoke. Even the sea seemed to listen, calm for a moment, its many colours merging into sparkling gold. Colin cut off thoughts beyond two days ahead. He was unable to imagine his hunger on so small an amount of food and so little water. Looking around at the craggy faces of his mates, he could see in their eyes the same fear. But it had to be. Much as the craving was there, they couldn’t eat more heartily for fear of how long rescue might be in coming.

‘Now,’ said Scown, ‘there are men on board with more serious injuries. The Second has nasty wounds on both feet and Davies has broken ribs. I suggest they’re allowed a few extra rations. Any objections?’

There were none.

The Second was an engineer, a quiet, morose man who had never made any close friends, and therefore no one on the lifeboat ever knew his name; everyone called him the Second or occasionally the commonly used nickname, chum. Extremely good at his job, he was well respected. He met the constant pain his injured feet must have caused with silence, never grumbling or asking for help. Being thrown by the constant movement of the raft caused those injured or most severely sunburnt to cry out as they hit wood or each other. But not the Second.

‘Right, we’ll have breakfast,’ said Scown. ‘Platten will issue it.’

‘About time,’ joked Weekes. ‘Make mine three eggs.’

Scown held up a plastic cup. ‘This’ll measure the water,’ he said. ‘It’s marked with ounces so no man will get more or less than another. And this spoon will measure out the Bovril.’

Food was eaten and water consumed, with no joy. It hardly took the edge off Colin’s hunger. So small a meal only served to remind him how much he needed.

‘I’d give anything for a nice cuppa now,’ joked Weekes. Colin knew he was trying to lessen their misery but many swore.

‘Aye, milky and sweet,’ continued Ken.

‘No, strong, a good brew,’ insisted Platten.

‘Oh, for a ciggie,’ said Leak, one of the gunners. ‘Why can’t them rations include cigs?’

‘Stop will you,’ snapped Bott. ‘Just stop it!’

His words worked; the men fell quiet again and resumed their positions about the boat. Time passed slowly, as it does when nothing changes. The sun kept up her persistent baking temperature. Only six men at a time could shelter under the canvas awning, so they took turns escaping the heat, panting unanimously.

Mid-morning during his lookout shift Weekes leapt from his position on the foredeck and cried out. Colin expected a ship on the horizon and when it didn’t materialise he very much wanted to punch Weekes.

‘Another boat!’ cried Weekes. ‘One of ours. Down wind, to port. Look there. Low in the water, mind. I reckon it’s slowly sinking.’

‘How far do you think it is?’ asked Ken.

‘Maybe a few hundred yards,’ said Officer Scown.

‘Reckon we can get to it,’ wondered Colin. ‘Might we use our smaller raft?’ Two men had slept on it last night to make more room on the bigger boat but it could easily be untied again.

‘Reckon there’ll be anyone on it?’ asked Young Arnold.

‘Maybe,’ said Scown, ‘but it’s what else is aboard that I’m thinking of.’

Extra rations might mean the difference between life and death. Though this was not spoken, they all knew it. Officer Scown asked for volunteers to go out to it and Ken, Weekes and Colin offered.

In unison they rowed the smaller boat for ten minutes and retrieved what felt like an abundance of tins. Exhaustion set in halfway back and they had to encourage one another to keep going. Weekes joked about lemonade waiting in the luxury quarters and received a hearty slap or two. Back at the lifeboat the men patted them on the back for the gifts they brought.

‘No need to open these to see what they are,’ said Platten. ‘I know these tins alright, biscuits most of them, and water the rest.’

‘They’ll cover unforeseeable events,’ said Officer Scown. ‘And as extra for those most injured.’

Colin, Ken and Weekes were spent and rested briefly, flopping like marooned fish on the deck. Platten and Bamford tied the small raft to the big one. Though the smaller boat could be rowed easily, the big craft was entirely unnavigable. Throughout the day everyone tried a hand with the broken steering oar but to no avail; the sails took them where the wind chose.

Colin hated that they were ruled by the elements and must go where they were taken. He liked to take charge. At least when it came to his turn for lookout duty he had something of substance to occupy him.

Young Fowler, the cabin boy, joined him. Officer Scown teamed more experienced men with the younger lads. Colin and Fowler took positions on the foredeck, one concentrating on the south, the other the north, each occasionally looking east and west.

Astern of the boat half a dozen dolphins followed in their wake, darting left and right, seeking prey. Shoals of flying fish shot out of the water, followed by streaks of silver lightning as the dolphins sought lunch. Colin knew that sea lore hailed dolphins as a symbol of protection. There were many tales of them helping those in peril at sea, but he reckoned these creatures were just after a good meal.

‘I should like a piece of fish very much,’ said Young Fowler, his pale face a picture of desperate longing.

‘Ken told me last night that he’s going to make some sort of spear,’ said Colin. ‘He hopes to catch us something. I think  all of us would like to sink out teeth into a meaty morsel, lad.’

‘Do you think we’ll get picked up?’ asked Young Fowler.

‘We have to think so don’t we, lad, or else what’s the point in going on?’

‘But what do
you
think?’

Colin realised that though he was only maybe three years older than the boy, Fowler thought the gap was much bigger. The blunt truth came to his lips;
God only knew
. But he bit the words down. Better to give the lad a meaty morsel of hope. ‘I think there’s a very good chance of it,’ he said.

Young Fowler seemed happy with this; he settled back and spoke little for the rest of their watch. Colin whistled gently, unaware he was doing so until Weekes spoke up.

‘For God’s sake, make it a cheery one – we’re not at a funeral.’

With a grin, Colin whistled a ridiculously upbeat melody. Some of the men joined in, though it must have hurt their throats, until the entire crew were following Colin’s lead. Like a band of soldiers marching merrily home from war, they whistled, the tune rising and falling like the endless ocean. When the song died, the silence was somehow louder.

Officer Scown broke it. ‘Right, let’s check the flare tins.’

Platten dragged them from under a bench. ‘Water’s got in ’em,’ he said.

‘Better dry them out, just in case,’ said Scown. ‘Our lives may depend on it. You’d better make a list of what we’ve got in the firework line even if you keep it in your head.’

There were twenty-four Port Flare Type Red Distress Flares and three smoke-floats.

‘Take charge of them, Platten,’ ordered Scown. ‘See that one is always handy. Men on watch will, upon seeing a vessel of any description, set off a flare without awaiting orders. Understood?’

Colin eyed the flares and imagined grabbing one at the sight of a ship on the horizon. How quickly could he let it off? Would they still work after having been damp? No point dwelling on it. They’d find out when the event arose.

With the sun at its highest point, some of the men stripped off and dried their damp clothing on the deck. Their grey garments looked like squares of faded paper awaiting words. Colin thought again about the last letter he’d written his mother when he was still aboard the
Lulworth Hill
. He wished for a notepad. Wished he could reassure her there was hope, he was alive, not gone like Stan.