Ocean Prize (1972) (6 page)

He was also extremely polite, and whenever Wilson managed to cross his path and mutter some form of greeting he would smile and nod in a friendly sort of way, and Wilson would spend the next few hours trying to decide whether there had been some hidden meaning in that smile. Had Sparks perhaps been smiling because he knew?

Wilson, plagued by uncertainty, was almost driven to asking him outright whether there had been any signal concerning a murder in Montreal. And in fact on one occasion he did go so far as to stop Scotton with the intention of making an attempt to get some information from him in a roundabout way. But when it came to the point he found it impossible to do anything but make some futile remark on an altogether different subject, leaving Scotton gazing at him in a rather puzzled manner, as though suspecting that Wilson was not quite right in the head.

In the seamen’s mess his moodiness had become a subject for comment. Things finally came to a head when Trubshaw, leaning across the long, narrow table that was bolted to the deck and had swivel chairs on each side of it, said: “What’s eatin’ you, Charlie boy?”

“Nothing’s eating me,” Wilson said. “What makes you think there is.”

Trubshaw drank some tea to wash down the food he had been taking on board, belched loudly and said: “Because you bin lookin’ like a bloody dyin’ duck ever since we left Montreal, that’s why.”

“I can look how I please, can’t I?” Wilson felt a surge of resentment. What had it got to do with Trubshaw how he looked? “It’s none of your business, is it?”

“None o’ my business? Well, that depends on the way you look at it. An’ the way I look at it’s like this ’ere. When there’s a messmate o’ mine goin’ about all day wiv a face
as sour as a pint o’ milk left out in the sun it affects me. It makes me feel as ’ow life ain’t as good as it oughter be, an’ I don’t like that. So I’m askin’ you again—what’s eatin’ you?”

“And I’m telling you again,” Wilson said, his voice rising. “Mind your own damned business. I don’t poke my nose into your affairs, so keep your big nose out of mine.”

Trubshaw’s scarred and ill-used face turned red with anger. Nobody talked to him like that, nobody; least of all this young whippersnapper who was still sucking his mother’s tits when he, Trubshaw, had already been in fights from Buenos Aires to Singapore and from Hong Kong to San Francisco. Who in hell did he think he was with his baby face and his sulks?

“Why, you—” Trubshaw said; and he stood up and reached across the table with his long, gorilla-like arms and took two large handfuls of the front of Wilson’s blue jersey. “Why, you cheeky young bastard. I’ll learn you to talk to me like that.” He pulled Wilson towards him across the table, dragging him down on to the remains of the recently concluded meal, the dirty plates and bits of bread, the cups and the sauce bottles. “’O d’you think you are? Givin’ yerself airs, aincher?”

Wilson had been fed up with Trubshaw already, and this indignity suffered in front of a messroom half full of grinning seamen was the last straw. At any other time the older man’s evil reputation might have been enough to deter him, but now he was in no mood to care about reputations. Moreover, it was Trubshaw he blamed for all his misery; if Trubshaw had not coerced him into going out on the booze with him and Lawson and Moir; if Trubshaw had not picked a quarrel with the Swedes, all would have been well; there
would have been no fight, no police, and he would not have met Bobbie Clayton. He would not have killed her.

“Damn you!” he shouted. “Damn your rotten eyes!” He felt his groping right hand make contact with an enamel pie-dish, still containing the congealed residue of an Irish stew. Without a second thought he picked it up and smashed it into Trubshaw’s face.

Trubshaw gave a yell and released his hold on Wilson’s jersey. Wilson pulled himself away from the table and stepped back against the bulkhead behind him, watching Trubshaw, a little apprehensive now that the heat of the moment had passed.

There was silence in the messroom. No one was saying a word. Everyone was looking at Trubshaw and waiting to see what he would do to Wilson.

Trubshaw wiped the stew from his face and stared across the table at Wilson with his little, piggy eyes. He said nothing either; he just began to walk round the table. The others made way for him.

Wilson watched Trubshaw coming and did not move. He knew that he was no match for this broad, squat tank of a man; nobody in the ship was. Trubshaw could kill him with his bare hands if he had a mind to do so. And that, judging by the expression on his face, might well be just what he did have a mind to do.

And might it not be the best way out? It would solve everything. No more wondering whether the body had been found and whether the police were on to him; no more nightmares in which he strangled the woman again and again, and from which he woke sweating and shuddering; all that would be finished if Trubshaw killed him.

But he knew, just the same, that he did not want to die, that he would fight Trubshaw if he had to fight him with
every ounce of strength in his body, every last gasp of breath in his lungs. And he knew also that, whatever he did, Trubshaw would win, because that was the way it had to be.

Trubshaw had reached the end of the table and was edging between it and the sink with the water heater above it and the plate racks and the lockers. He was not moving fast but with a solid deliberation that was somehow far more menacing than any bull-like rush would have been.

Wilson said, breaking the silence: “You asked for it.”

Trubshaw did not answer.

“You started it,” Wilson said. “You grabbed me.” He looked at the others for confirmation. “You all saw him, didn’t you?”

Nobody said anything. They were not taking sides against Trubshaw.

Trubshaw walked towards Wilson, down between the backs of the chairs and the side of the messroom. The ship rolled a little and a glimpse of sea was visible through the portholes with their screwed-down covers, a plateau of broken water heaving up into view and then sinking away again. The roll did not affect Trubshaw’s stability; he had spent half his life in ships and he knew their ways.

“Keep away from me, Trub,” Wilson said. “I’m warning you.”

“An’ I’m warning you, sonny boy,” Trubshaw said; and he drove his clenched fist into Wilson’s stomach.

Wilson was slammed against the bulkhead as if a battering-ram had struck him. He could not breathe; he wanted to be sick; he knew that he ought to be fighting back, ought to be hitting Trubshaw, but his arms refused to do anything about it. He could see a fragment of meat clinging to Trubshaw’s hair and gravy on the side of his face and on his
shoulder. And Trubshaw was grinning, a sadistic kind of grin, as if he were beginning to enjoy himself and meant to go on doing so.

He hit Wilson again, on the side of the jaw, and Wilson’s legs began to fold. Trubshaw hit him a third time before he reached the deck and then started kicking him.

Wilson rolled over, pain stabbing at him. He struck upward blindly and felt his fist bury itself in the softness of Trubshaw’s groin, felt it go in deep, all his desperation driving it.

It stopped Trubshaw. It stopped the kicking. Wilson managed to get himself up into a sitting posture, his back against one of the chairs, his head singing. Trubshaw was doubled up, not grinning now, but with his mouth twisted into a grimace of agony. Wilson had really hurt him.

Again there was silence in the messroom, broken only by the creaking of timber, the rattle of cutlery, and a laboured, grunting noise coming from Trubshaw. Wilson looked at Trubshaw and was scared, scared of what Trubshaw would do to him when he recovered from that punch in the groin. He thought about getting away, but Trubshaw was between him and the door. And even if he escaped from the messroom, where would he go? Once more the hard fact forced itself upon him: in a ship at sea there was nowhere to go.

Trubshaw straightened up slowly, carefully, as though testing the way before committing himself. When he had reached his full height of five feet nothing he moved towards Wilson. Wilson got up quickly and backed away. Trubshaw followed. Wilson retreated until he was brought to a halt by the end bulkhead of the messroom. Trubshaw came to a halt too and stood looking at Wilson.

“I’m goin’ to make you sorry you done that,” he said. “I’m goin’ to smash you, kid. Oh, yes, I’m really goin’ to
smash you now. When I’ve finished with you you’re goin’ to need plastic surgery.”

This time Wilson did not wait for Trubshaw to start things; he put his head down and rushed at the other man, arms flailing, fists beating at Trubshaw’s iron face like hailstones rattling against a brick wall, and with little greater effect. Trubshaw gave a shake of the head like a horse bothered by flies, then slugged Wilson with a left and a right to the stomach. Wilson went down again, retching, and once again Trubshaw began to kick him systematically, without passion, but with a deadly accuracy, picking his targets.

“Give it a rest, Trub,” Lawson said. He sounded worried. “The kid’s had enough. You wanter kill him?”

Trubshaw paused in his kicking and stared at Lawson. “Keep out of this, Aussie, ’less you want a sample of it yerself.”

Lawson’s mouth tightened. It looked for a moment as though he might be about to take Trubshaw up on that; but he thought better of it.

“You’ll kill him,” he said, but he made no move to stop the killing.

“Maybe I will,” Trubshaw said, and he started kicking Wilson again.

Wilson could taste the blood in his mouth and his jaw felt as though it might be cracked. His whole body seemed to be on fire, nothing but pain and more pain as the kicks exploded in his quivering flesh. Oh, God! he thought, when will it end? Oh, God, make it end!

It went on.

When he thought about it afterwards Wilson could not help wondering whether Trubshaw would have gone on until he had really kicked the life out of his victim. It was
possible; for Trubshaw had a kind of brute mentality that did not look beyond the immediate moment, did not consider the possible consequences of any action. So he would probably have gone on kicking Wilson until there was no life left in the boy, not because he had any real desire to kill him but simply because he was in the mood to take his revenge by inflicting pain. Wilson had dared to provoke him and for that must take his punishment; that was Trubshaw’s code.

That he did not in fact kick Wilson to death or at best permanent injury was not the result of any change of heart but simply the intervention of Orwell, the black-bearded carpenter. Orwell, passing the doorway of the messroom, looked in and saw what was happening. And he did not like what he saw. In fact he liked it so little that he went into the messroom at a quicker pace than was normal with him.

The first that Trubshaw knew of Orwell’s presence was a heavy hand on his shoulder and a voice bellowing in his ear: “Give over!”

Trubshaw stopped kicking Wilson and turned to face the carpenter, breathing hard from exertion and anger. “Get your bleedin’ ’and off my shoulder.”

Orwell drew his hand away without haste. “Are you trying to kill the lad?”

“It’s nothing to do with you, Chippie. You keep out of this.”

“Nowt to do with me, is it? Well now, I don’t happen to agree. I’d say it’s to do with anybody when a young lad’s being hammered senseless.” He looked at the other men and there was contempt in his eyes. “Why were you lot letting this go on? Haven’t you got any spirit in you? Why didn’t you stop it?”

They shifted their feet uneasily and avoided his eyes, but said nothing.

Trubshaw sneered. “They knew they couldn’t stop it. No more than you can.”

“Ah, but I can,” Orwell said. “And I will.”

Trubshaw said, coldly menacing: “Get away from me, Chippie. Don’t try to stop me or it’ll be the worse for you. I’m goin’ to learn that young cub some manners, and not you nor nobody else ain’t stoppin’ me.”

“I’m stopping you, Trub,” Orwell said, and he moved in between Trubshaw and Wilson. “I’m stopping you.”

“Are you lookin’ for a fight too?” Trubshaw sounded surprised. He thrust his chin out belligerently. “Cos if so, that’s what you can ’ave.”

“I’ll not fight with you,” Orwell said. “I’m not daft.”

“Then get out of the way, an’ stay out.”

Orwell stood his ground. “I’m not moving. You let him be. I’m telling you.”

“And I’m tellin’ you, Chippie—” Trubshaw made a move to thrust Orwell aside and found a wide-bladed knife with its point no more than an inch from his stomach.

“Don’t start anything, Trub,” Orwell said. The knife had been in a pigskin sheath on the back of his belt and again he had moved more swiftly than was usual with him.

Trubshaw glanced down at the knife and then up at Orwell. The carpenter overtopped him by more than a foot. “You wouldn’t do it.”

“Want to try me?”

Trubshaw looked as though he would have liked to do so but could not quite bring himself to the mark. The muscles on each side of his jaw stood out, iron-hard, as he clenched his teeth.

“When it comes to a choice betwixt sticking a knife into
your guts and being beat up,” Orwell said evenly, “it’s the knife every time for me.”

Trubshaw stared into Orwell’s eyes, clenching and un-clenching his fists. And Orwell stared coolly back at him, the knife held firmly in his right hand. It was obvious to everyone present that he was perfectly prepared to sink the blade into Trubshaw’s belly if such an action should become necessary.

It must finally have become obvious to Trubshaw also. He gave a harsh laugh that sounded more than a little forced. “Okay, Chippie, ’ave it your way. You can put that knife back where you found it. I’ve finished with the kid. I reckon I’ve learnt ’im ’is lesson anyway.”

He moved to a chair and sat down, took a tin of tobacco and papers from his pocket, and began to roll a cigarette.

The tension eased. Men started talking again. Orwell slipped the knife back into its sheath and helped Wilson to his feet. The incident was ended.

I
t
was
nine days since the
Hopeful
Enterprise
had left Montreal, and in all that time the weather had been good, the engines had given no trouble, and to all appearances there had been nothing to worry even the most nervous of men. Yet, in spite of everything, there were worried men on board: no amount of good weather could ease Barling’s mind as the days passed and the moment drew inexorably nearer when the ship must be sold and the Company go into liquidation. Nor were the engines now Jonah Madden’s sole, or even chief, concern; for what did it matter about engines if this was to be the last voyage? And all things pointed to the probability that it was.

The third worried man was Charlie Wilson, still gloomily anticipating inevitable arrest when the ship reached England. The effects of his beating-up bothered him less; the stiffness in his limbs, the bruises all over his body, the cuts on his face—all these were painful enough, but they were merely physical pains from which he would recover, and indeed recover quickly, since he had the resilience of youth on his side; but the other trouble was in a different class; from that there was no recovery; it simply got worse.

Barling was not too preoccupied with his own affairs to notice Wilson’s injuries. Wilson’s face was not a pretty sight.
Barling mentioned the fact to Loder and instructed the mate to find out what had happened.

Loder made inquiries and brought back a report. “He tripped over on the deck and hit his face on a winch.”

Barling stared hard at Loder. “Do you believe that?”

“It’s what I was told.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

Loder shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“That boy looks to me as if he’d been in a fight.”

“It’s possible.”

“I don’t like brawling in my ship.”

A faint smile appeared to flicker across Loder’s blotchy face. It was gone in a moment, but Barling detected it and guessed the cause: no doubt Loder was thinking that it might not be his ship for much longer.

“There’s another matter I’ve been meaning to speak to you about,” he said.

“Yes?” Loder’s eyes seemed to mock him.

“I think you’ve been spreading rumours.”

“Rumours?”

“One rumour. I think you know what it is.”

“I’d like you to tell me.”

Barling controlled his temper with some difficulty. “Did you or did you not tell Madden that the Company was going down the drain?”

“By Company I take it you mean Barling and Calthorp?”

“Of course.”

“Well,” Loder said, “I can’t recall my exact words, but I wouldn’t say I told him that—not as a fact.”

“You said you believed it was so.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe I did. I’d hate to call Jonah a liar.”

“What right have you to go around spreading tales of that sort?”

“Oh, come now; let’s not call it spreading a tale.” Loder was smiling his crooked smile, which infuriated Barling. “Let’s just say I was voicing a legitimate suspicion.”

“Legitimate?”

“Oh, yes, I think it could be called that, all things considered. But of course, if there’s nothing to it, I’ll be only too pleased to tell Madden so. Just give me that assurance and I’ll be happy to pass it on. I’m sure it will relieve his mind a great deal.”

Barling wanted to hit Loder; it took all his self-control to avoid doing so. But it would never have done to give vent to his anger in that way, though perhaps it was just what Loder would have liked. Loder had him in a corner and they both knew it. Without lying, he could not give any assurance that the Company was not going into liquidation, and he would not lower himself to giving the direct lie. As he had done in his interview with Madden, he resorted to a refusal to be drawn into any discussion of the affairs of Barling and Calthorp.

“My advice to you is to wait and see.”

Loder nodded, still with that infuriating smile on his lips. “I’ll do that. Yes, that’s just what I will do.”

He turned away and left Barling to his none too pleasant thoughts.

Wilson was avoiding Trubshaw as much as possible; he did not wish to be drawn into any more arguments with that hard, vicious man. One experience of that kind was enough to last for a very long time indeed. Not that Trubshaw himself showed any inclination to resume hostilities; he had had time to cool down, and probably considered
that he had taught Wilson his lesson thoroughly enough. He grinned when he saw Wilson’s bruised and swollen face the next morning and indulged in some heavy banter.

“Wotcher bin doin’, kid? ’Avin’ an argument with the wrong end of a mule?”

Wilson did not answer.

“Lost your tongue too? Well, ain’t that just too bad.” He gave Wilson a smack on the shoulder. “Never mind, kid; you’ll get over it.”

Wilson knew that; he did not need Trubshaw’s assurance. But there was that other matter which Trubshaw knew nothing about; he would not get over that. Ever.

Towards Orwell Trubshaw’s manner was different. He looked darkly at the carpenter but said nothing. Orwell had pulled a knife on him and had humiliated him in front of witnesses. That he would not forget. That he would never forgive.

So, for nine days, apart from these outbreaks of friction between members of the ship’s company, all went smoothly for the
Hopeful
Enterprise.
But on the morning of the tenth day the first hint of a change came up. It was a small hint, and could not have been described exactly as a warning of trouble, since it was something that was to be expected in that part of the ocean at that time of year. It was in fact a weather report picked up by Mr. Scotton, the radio officer, and it told of deteriorating conditions to the west moving rapidly eastward.

Scotton took the report to Captain Barling, and Barling read it through impassively. It was nothing to worry about. The bad weather would almost certainly catch up with them, and life on board ship would be rather less comfortable as a result, but it would probably not last long, and in a few
days at the most they would be in port, this last voyage ended, finished; everything finished. Bad weather was a very minor problem.

“Thank you,” Barling said.

Scotton left him and went back to the radio cabin, reflecting that Barling seemed to have aged a lot in the past few weeks. He wondered whether the Old Man was ill. Perhaps he had an ulcer. Scotton thought about it for a while and then forgot it. It was not really his concern.

It was an hour later when he came up with another signal, and this one was considerably more interesting: it was in fact the first Mayday call that Scotton had ever intercepted.

Barling was on the bridge with the third mate, a rather colourless young man named Stephen Walpole. Scotton was fairly bubbling over with excitement at the news he was bearing. A freighter called the
India
Star
had sustained considerable damage from an explosion in the engine-room and was asking for assistance. The position given by the
India
Star
put her about two hundred and fifty miles to the southwest of the
Hopeful
Enterprise.

Captain Barling read the signal, and he remembered afterwards the faint tingling sensation that came over him; he remembered it as the first intimation that here was something of importance, something that might affect him profoundly, even though as yet there was no more than the smallest hint of why or how; indeed, scarcely so much as a hint, but rather some inexplicable tremor of the nerves, a vibration, a vague stirring at the back of the mind.

“Any other ships answering the call?”

“There’s a Panamanian tanker, the
Sargasso
Queen,
about fifty miles south of her. They expect to close with her in three to four hours.”

“Any others?”

“None closer than us, sir. At least, none answering.”

Barling looked out through the wheelhouse window. The sky was overcast and there had been a little rain. The decks were wet and the tarpaulins on the hatches were stretched tight. He stared musingly at the bows of the ship cleaving through the water in a wash of foam, and he was thinking. Two hundred and fifty miles in the wrong direction. With the
Sargasso
Queen
already on the way, was there any need to go? The
Hopeful
Enterprise
could not hope to reach the stricken ship before the following day, and by that time all that was necessary would almost certainly have been done. It would be a wasted journey.

And yet, would it? Again that tingling of the nerves, that feeling that there was something here, something of importance, something not to be ignored. Call it a hunch. Besides, was it not his duty to answer the call, even though another ship was ahead of him? The
Sargasso
Queen
might break down, might never reach the
India
Star
; at sea nothing could be taken for granted.

He turned away from the window. “Make a signal to the
India
Star
that we are on our way.”

“Yes, sir,” Scotton answered with enthusiasm, and went away like a winged Mercury.

Barling addressed the third mate. “Come into the chart-room. We’ve got a new course to plot.”

Loder, when he became aware of the alteration in the ship’s course and the reason for it, received the news with slightly cynical amusement. So Barling was off on an errand of mercy, was he? And an errand which was likely to prove quite unnecessary. Well, let him have his last fling, let him play the game out to the end if that was what he wanted. Loder, for his part, took a detached view of the entire
business. His future did not lie with the
Hopeful
Enterprise,
and already he was making his own plans.

Jonah Madden was again worrying about the engines. Barling had called for all possible speed, and it was not going to do them any good to stretch them to the limit. They needed nursing, and instead they were getting a hammering.

“It’s just asking for trouble,” he complained to Barling.

But Barling refused to listen. He had that hunch, and Madden could have as many qualms as he liked, it was not going to make any difference.

“There’s a ship in distress, Chief.”

Madden was gloomy. “We may be in distress ourselves before the night’s out.”

To Charlie Wilson it was a reprieve; it meant that a few extra days must pass before that inevitable arrest, and even though those days might be spent in purgatory he clutched at them none the less eagerly for that. Perhaps some miracle would happen to get him off the hook.

The rest of the crew on the whole accepted the situation with indifference, though a few of the younger men were mildly excited.

To Trubshaw it meant simply money. “More days, more dollars. It’ll ’elp pay that fine. Wotcher say, Aussie?”

Lawson agreed. “Suits me. What’s this
India
Star
carrying?”

“Machinery, so I ’eard.”

“She could sink easy then.”

“She could sink afore we even get near ’er. Depends ’ow bad the damage is.”

“Maybe we’ll be getting passengers.”

“Not likely,” Trubshaw said. “By the time we get there in this old crate they’ll all ’ave bin took off. Always supposin’
they decide to abandon ’er, which ain’t by any means certain.”

During the day more information concerning the
India
Star
was picked up by Scotton and gradually made its way, sometimes in rather garbled form, round the ship. It appeared that the explosion had been very severe; three men had been killed and two others injured; a fire had started, and the vessel had developed a slight list. The
Sargasso
Queen
was making about fifteen knots and could be expected to arrive on the scene well before nightfall. Two other ships had answered the distress signal, but they were more than a day’s steaming away. For all practical purposes, and barring accidents, the
Sargasso
Queen
had the rescue operation to herself.

“We’re wasting our time,” Loder remarked to Madden. “You’re straining your engines just for the Old Man’s whim. We might as well turn about and head for home.”

“You think so?” Madden’s troubled eyes searched Loder’s face. “You really think that?”

“It stands to reason,” Loder said.

But Barling was not going by reason. There was that hunch. He continued to press Madden for all possible speed, ignoring all the chief engineer’s prophecies of mechanical doom. The
Hopeful
Enterprise
continued on her southwesterly course and the weather became progressively worse.

In the middle of the afternoon news came through that the
Sargasso
Queen
had reached the
India
Star
and was taking off all survivors. The two other ships that had been heading for the scene of the disaster concluded that their help would not be needed and reported that they were resuming their normal courses. Everyone on board the
Hopeful
Enterprise,
on hearing this news, assumed that their ship would do the same. Indeed, Mr. Thompson, the second mate, who was on watch at the time, took it so much for granted that he merely consulted Barling as a matter of form.

“You’ll be calling it off now, sir?”

“No,” Barling said. “Not yet.”

Mr. Thompson was a stolid, thoroughly unimaginative man who took things much as they came and seldom showed the least trace of surprise even at the most unusual occurrence. In this instance, however, he made an exception, and his eyebrows, which in normal circumstances might have been regarded almost as fixtures, rose just a shade.

“Not yet?”

“That is what I said.”

Mr. Thompson wished to get it quite clear in his mind so that there could be no possibility of a mistake. “You mean we are to continue on the same course, sir?”

“That is so. Have you any objection?”

“No,” Thompson said. “I’ve no objection.”