The Golden Reef (1969) (7 page)

Keeton answered sharply, impatient with Bristow: ‘I don’t know. How could I? Help me carry the Old Man back to his bed. Then we’ll go and look.’

When they went out on deck the wind flicked rain in their faces and a monster with a white head reared up in front of them.

Keeton yelled a warning. ‘Look out! Hang on!’

The spout of water crashed with a sound of thunder on the deck, drenching them. It ran away in gurgling torrents and they made their way to the side. There they clung to the rails and looked at what appeared to be a white carpet visible in the darkness, a shifting, twisting carpet full of queer spiral patterns constantly changing.

Keeton put his mouth close to Bristow’s ear and shouted to make himself heard above the racket of the storm.

‘It’s a reef. A coral reef.’

They clawed across to the other side, and there too was the ghostly glimmer of the surf, a pale hand stretching out into the night. They could hear the wind piling the sea against the ship, making it leap up in great fountains of water, and they could hear the ship groaning.

‘Where do we go from here?’ Keeton said.

The reef lay under the sun, white as a bone. It lay with the water rippling over it like a man dozing in a warm bath. Beyond the reef the sea stretched away, blue and placid, apparently with no memory of the storm of yesterday; all that was past and forgotten. Now the wind had fallen, the water was calm, and out of a cloudless sky the glaring disc of the sun poured down its heat like molten metal tipped from a crucible.

Keeton and Bristow stood on the boat-deck of the
Valparaiso
and gazed around them. Keeton had a pair of binoculars that he had taken from the captain’s cabin; with them he swept all that wide expanse of water lying between the ship and the horizon. It was empty.

‘No neighbours‚’ he said.

Bristow took a wad of cotton waste from the pocket of his shorts and wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘Not even a proper island.’ There was disgust in his voice. ‘Not even a bit of sand and a couple of palm trees. We might have expected better than this.’

‘Last night you were expecting worse. We’ve been lucky. The ship hasn’t sunk.’

‘But how long will it be before she does? Get more bad weather and she may go to pieces.’

Keeton looked over the side. The water was so limpid that he could see the corral touching the ship’s hull. The
Valparaiso
appeared to have slid into a kind of groove in the reef; she was
wedged there, almost on an even keel, as though she had been put into a dry dock for repairs.

‘She could last a long time. The reef has got a good hold on her.’

Bristow seemed determined to look on the dark side of things. ‘Wait till the sea starts pounding her. If you ask me, we’re going to have trouble before long.’

‘At least we’ll be no worse off than we were. We may be able to do something about repairing that boat.’

‘Are you a boat-builder?’

‘A man can do most things if the need is strong enough.’

Bristow walked over to the damaged lifeboat. ‘So you really think you can patch this up good enough to keep the water out?’

‘It’d do no harm to try.’ Keeton fingered the splintered edges of the broken boards. ‘I think it could be done. Let’s swing the boat inboard. We can have a better look at it then.’

‘It’ll be hard work.’

‘A bit of hard work won’t kill you.’

They released the gripes and lowered the griping spar against which the boat had been resting. The davits were operated by handles that turned a worm and cog and swung the boat inboard. It was sweating work in the hot sun, but Keeton drove Bristow to it and finally they had the boat resting on its crutches on the deck.

‘You see‚’ Keeton said. ‘It didn’t kill you.’

Bristow looked at the palms of his hands. ‘It’s given me blisters.’

‘You shouldn’t be so soft. I don’t get blisters.’

He climbed over the gunwale of the boat and examined it from the inside. There were some chunks of metal embedded in the timber and the blades of two of the oars had been shattered. Fortunately, the compass appeared to be undamaged.

Bristow peered over the gunwale. ‘Well, boat-builder? What’s the expert verdict?’

‘We could maybe clamp some wood over that big hole and put in some more here where the upper boards have been splintered. The rest of the damage doesn’t amount to much.’

‘I wouldn’t like to trust myself in a patched-up boat.’

‘You may not have to. It’d be a last resort. Maybe we’ll be picked up. But you can’t count on it.’

He climbed out of the lifeboat and made his way down to the poop. Bristow followed him, as though fearful of being left alone, and they went into the gunners’ quarters. There was water in the washplace and the bulkheads dripped with moisture. After the blaze of heat on deck the air felt almost chilly.

They paddled through the water and stepped over the high sill through the doorway into the sleeping quarters and mess-room. On the table were still some plates and a few dirty knives and forks and spoons which the high fiddle round the edge had prevented from sliding off, and on the floor lay an enamel teapot in company with a slab of cheese, a tin of butter and half a loaf of bread.

The bunks were just as they had been left when the gunners had leapt to action; one could imagine that at any moment the men might come clattering back down the ladder to resume the normal routine. It was hard to realize that for them the last stand-down had been given, that for them there would never again be any call to action. For all of them the game was played out.

Bristow said with his nervous laugh: ‘This place gives me the creeps. Look at all that kit and nobody to claim it. And there’s Lofty’s girl.’ He pointed at a photograph of a blonde pinned above one of the bunks. ‘He’ll never marry her now. Sweet little face and all.’

‘Brainless‚’ Keeton said. ‘You can see that.’

‘She’d have suited Lofty. You could have spread all his brains on a sixpence without covering the date.’

There was a sheet of paper lying on the bunk. Keeton picked it up and saw that it was covered with Lofty’s scrawling, unformed handwriting.

‘My darling Shirley‚’ he read. ‘I am thinking of you always. Maybe it won’t be so long now. When I come home for good ….’

Keeton folded the paper and tore it into small pieces. He let the pieces flutter down to join the debris on the deck. Then he picked up his own kit and moved towards the door.

‘I’m shifting my quarters. I’m getting myself a cabin amidships.

Captain Peterson lay on his bed and his breathing was so slight it would hardly have stirred a cobweb. Keeton had the odd feeling that, though Peterson was looking at him, he was in fact seeing something altogether different; perhaps a picture in his own mind. But it was impossible to tell; one could talk to Peterson, and perhaps the words would reach his brain, but there was no way of being certain that they did, for the old man gave no sign.

‘I wish you could talk‚’ Keeton said. ‘Hell, I wish you could tell me things. There’s so much I need to know.’

This old, old sea-dog could have helped him so greatly; could, out of the vast store of his accumulated knowledge, have given so much valuable advice. There was a world of knowledge locked away in his brain and no way of getting at it. Keeton felt frustrated, as a starving man might feel when peering through a plate glass window at food beyond his reach.

‘You could tell us where we are. Maybe you know how to work that wireless transmitter. And you can’t say a word.’

Peterson made no movement. He stared at Keeton and gave no sign that he had heard. Keeton turned and went out of the cabin, nearly tripping over the cat. It arched its back and rubbed against his leg, purring fiercely.

In the galley Keeton found Bristow cooking. He had started a fire in the stove and the galley was sweltering. Bristow, stripped to the waist, was sweating freely.

‘Fried Spam and spuds‚’ he said. He shook the frying-pan and the fat hissed and crackled. ‘You hungry?’

‘Could be.’

‘You know something? There’s enough grub on board this ship to last the two of us for years.’

‘And Peterson?’

‘Him too if he wants any. Number two hold is full of cases of canned stuff – meat, fruit, vegetables, milk.’

‘Peterson can’t take anything. I tried him with some milk but I couldn’t get his mouth open.’

‘Well, that’s his worry. We got enough worries of our own without losing sleep over him.’

‘I wish he could talk‚’ Keeton said.

‘You want him to give you orders?’ Bristow took the frying-pan off the stove and filled two plates with the hot, greasy food. ‘I’d say we was better off not having him talk. We’re free now. No bosses. We do what we like when we like. No drill, no watches, just the easy life. Could be worse.’

‘You make it sound like a rest home‚’ Keeton said. He was surprised to find Bristow so cheerful, but when he got close to him and smelled his breath he knew the source of the cheerfulness. ‘Where’d you get the liquor, Johnnie?’

Bristow grinned. ‘Plenty of it lying around. I found a bottle of Scotch in the chief steward’s cabin. He won’t be claiming it.’

‘Looks as if it’s put Dutch courage into you. You don’t seem so scared now.’

‘When was I scared?’ Bristow was indignant. ‘You ain’t seen me scared.’

‘So you’re just an impressionist.’

‘Now cut it out, Charlie‚’ Bristow said belligerently. ‘You keep the clever remarks to yourself, see. I don’t go for that stuff.’

‘So you don’t go for it‚’ Keeton said. ‘OK, Johnnie.’

He sat down on a crate and began to eat fried Spam and potatoes.

Captain Peterson lay on his bed where Keeton had left him. Keeton went into the cabin on silent feet, as if walking into a church. He spoke softly.

‘I don’t know what I can do to help you, sir. I don’t have any medical knowledge. You need a doctor.’ He made a gesture of hopelessness. ‘And I suppose the nearest doctor is hundreds of miles away.’

Peterson did not move. Keeton walked across the cabin and stood with his back to the porthole. His shadow fell across the bed.

‘It’s a queer situation, isn’t it? You and me and that fat slob Bristow; the three of us and the cat. We’ve got food and comfort, and yet we’re all dead men unless somebody finds us.’

His words dropped into the hot, sickly air of the cabin like pebbles falling into a well, to be swallowed up and lost. The man on the bed made no sign that he had heard. Keeton moved away from the porthole and looked down at Peterson.

The captain’s eyes were still open but they no longer made the slightest movement. There was no light in them. They were dead eyes in a dead face.

Keeton touched Peterson’s cheek with the tips of his fingers and it was like touching a coarse brush. There was no greater warmth there than there is in a brush, no greater life. Keeton bent down and put his ear to Peterson’s mouth. There was no sound of breathing; the lips were tightly closed and the thin, pinched nose was waxlike and artificial in appearance, as though it had been the nose of a dummy in an exhibition.

Keeton stood up and turned away from the bed. It should have made no difference to him, this death of Peterson; the man had been as good as dead for days; the thread of his life had been so tenuous that it had taken scarcely a touch to break it for ever.

Yet that fine thread had meant something to Keeton; it had meant that the captain was still with his ship even if he could no longer use his arms or his legs or his voice; even if he could do nothing but move his eyes and breathe thinly through waxen nostrils. He had been still the one in authority, and Keeton had drawn comfort from a fact that had at best been little more than a pretence.

But now Peterson was dead and a phase was over. Now it was just Keeton and Bristow and the cat.

Keeton worked away at the padlock while Bristow watched him. A fine dust of steel fell to the deck of the alleyway as the blade sank deeper into the tempered metal.

‘You’re nearly through‚’ Bristow said. ‘Pity we couldn’t find the key. It’d have been easier.’

Keeton went on sawing and suddenly the blade was through. The strong-room was theirs. They levered off the severed padlock, swung the heavy iron door open and went in.

Bristow rubbed his hands. ‘Well, here it is, Charlie. Now we’ll really know what kind of secret machinery we’ve got.’ The cases had been carefully stacked, wedged tightly into position, so that the rolling and tossing of the ship had scarcely disturbed them. They eased one of them from the stack, thrust a spike under the lid and ripped it off. Inside were bars of yellow metal – gold.

Keeton lifted one bar out and laid it on the deck. They both stared at it, fascinated. It lay on the iron floor of the strong-room and the light coming in through the doorway seemed to make it glow with warmth. It held the two men as though it had cast a spell upon them.

‘The treasure‚’ Bristow whispered. ‘The treasure of the
Valparaiso
.’

Keeton wiped the sweat off his forehead and his hand shook. He looked at the ingot at his feet and he looked at the cases piled in the strong-room. He began to count them, but gave it up. The thought of how much they might be worth made his mind reel. His voice was hoarse.

‘It’s gold all right. Gold.’

Bristow stooped and drew his fingers along the bar, caressing it.

‘It’s a fortune. And it’s ours, all ours. We’re rich, Charlie. We’ve got enough here to live on in luxury for the rest of our lives. No more work for us – never.’

Keeton’s mind cleared; he shook off the effect of that slab of yellow metal lying on the cold iron. He forced himself to look at the facts.

‘You’ve forgotten two things, Johnnie.’

Bristow stopped fingering the gold and looked up at Keeton. ‘What things?’

‘First, the gold doesn’t belong to us. Second, even if it did, we’ve no means of carrying it to a place where it would be of any value. Here it’s worth no more than the coral of that reef outside.’

Bristow straightened up slowly. ‘You’re right. Damn you, Charlie, you’re always right.’ He still could not take his gaze off the ingot. ‘Just the same, it ought to be ours. We was the only ones to stay with the ship. I reckon we’ve got a moral right to it, you and me. What’s the law of salvage say?’

‘I don’t know; I’m not a marine lawyer. Anyway, it makes no difference. Right or no right, how could we get it away? And if we did, where could we sell it?’

‘There’s countries where you can sell anything and no questions asked.’

‘There’s still the problem of getting to them.’

‘Oh, God‚’ Bristow said. ‘To think of all that lovely stuff lying there for the taking and us not able to take it. It’s enough to make you weep, straight it is.’

‘Maybe we’ll find a way‚’ Keeton said. ‘Maybe we’ll think of something.’ He turned his back on the gold. ‘And for a start we’ll fix that boat.’

They worked on the boat for three weeks. There was no need for haste. They did not lack tools; the carpenter’s equipment was theirs for use. They cut boards and clamped them over the big hole in the boat. They made plugs for the smaller holes; they found pitch and oakum to caulk the seams; and they painted the
whole boat with grey paint.

‘Looks like new‚’ Bristow said when they had finished. ‘We’re pretty good at this game, Charlie, though I say it myself.’

‘We don’t know yet if it’ll keep the water out.’

‘I bet it will. I’ll lay you two to one in gold bars it won’t let in a drop.’

Bristow was right. When they tested the boat in the water, using small tackles on the falls to help them with the weight, it floated perfectly and appeared thoroughly sound.

‘There you are‚’ Bristow said. ‘We could sail round the world in that beauty.’

‘Maybe we could‚’ Keeton said, ‘if either of us knew how to navigate. How are you up in that business?’

‘I don’t know the first thing about it. Do you?’

‘I don’t yet, but maybe I’ll learn.’

‘Learn? Who’s going to teach you?’

‘I’ll teach myself.’

The idea had already occurred to him, and it was part of a much larger idea, one that made his heart beat faster when he thought about it.

‘I’ve found some books. You can learn a lot from books.’

It was the books that had given him the idea. There were manuals of navigation, volumes on meteorology, everything. And he had found Peterson’s sextant. Mathematics had always come easily to him and he did not doubt for a moment that with these textbooks to aid him he would eventually master the science of navigation. He had all the time in the world for study.

Bristow was staring down at the boat. ‘You aren’t really thinking of going off in that shell, are you?’

‘Not yet. Might be forced to in the end though. For the present I’d say we were better off here. We may be picked up.’

But already he had begun to wonder whether he really wanted to be picked up, for that would spoil the plan that had begun to germinate in his mind.

It was no easy task to haul the boat out of the water and back on deck even with the extra tackle, but they managed it. Bristow was panting and sweating.

‘I wouldn’t want to do that too often. I never did go a lot on boat drill.’

‘You won’t need to do it often‚’ Keeton said.

Secretly Keeton believed that it was unlikely that any ship would sight them. Vessels were sure to keep well clear of the reef, since it was bound to be a known danger to shipping. After being disabled the
Valparaiso
could well have drifted far away from the regular trade routes and it might be many months, years even, before the wreck was discovered. This, he now felt, was all to the good; the plan, as yet only vaguely worked out, would require time; it could not be put into operation while the war continued. For the present, therefore, he was content to stay on board the
Valparaiso,
biding his time.

So he struggled with the mysteries of navigation and gradually mastered them, so that the day finally came when he was able to mark on one of the charts in the chart-room the exact location of the reef on which the Valparaiso was lying. He did not tell Bristow this, but kept it to himself, checking and re-checking, and then imprinting the longitude and latitude on his memory until they became as unforgettably fixed there as his own name.

Bristow found his own amusement. Much of it came out of a bottle. There were enough bottles to keep him going for quite a time, and the fumes of alcohol took his mind off the subject of their hazardous situation. He offered to share the liquor with Keeton, but Keeton drank only sparingly; he had no wish to clog his brain with rum or whisky.

Bristow amused himself in other ways also. He practised gunnery with the Oerlikons. He fired at projections of coral when they showed above the water. The guns chattered, flaring tracers hissed along the surface of the sea and the shells exploded in red bursts of flame. Bristow loved it.

‘Why waste the ammo?’ Keeton said. ‘Suppose a Jap plane came over. We might need it.’

Bristow scoffed at the idea. ‘You won’t get any Jap planes coming over here. If they did they wouldn’t trouble to bomb a wreck. They’ve got more important things on their plate.’

He played with a rifle too. He threw bottles and empty tins overboard and shot at them. The crack of the rifle broke in upon
the soft hiss of surf on the reef and the lapping of water against the ship’s sides.

Keeton was sick of Bristow, of his drunkenness, of his gluttony, of everything about him. He preferred the cat for a companion. He carried it on his shoulder, and when he lay in his hammock in the sun the cat would curl up beside him and go to sleep.

‘That cat‚’ Bristow said. ‘I reckon it’s fallen in love with you.’ He sounded almost jealous, as though he resented the cat’s liking for Keeton. ‘It’d better not get in my way. I’m allergic to cats.’

‘You leave it alone‚’ Keeton said.

‘I’m not touching it. But it had better not get in my way.’

‘The cat won’t get in your way. You’ve got the whole ship, haven’t you? Isn’t it big enough for you?’

‘Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t‚’ Bristow said darkly. ‘I’m just giving you fair warning.’

‘And I’m warning you, Johnnie. Keep your hands off that cat.’

It happened two days later. Keeton saw the cat when he went out on deck. It was lying on number four hatch. He thought at first that it was asleep; but then he realized that no cat ever slept in that kind of position. Its forepaws were stretched out on the hatch and its hind legs were dangling over the edge, its tail between them.

Keeton ran towards the cat, but he knew before he reached it that it was dead. There was a wound in its head and the fur was matted with blood. Keeton’s anger almost blinded him. It was such a pointless thing to do; destruction for destruction’s sake.

Bristow was not in sight, so Keeton went in search of him. He found Bristow on the forecastle with the rifle in his hands, taking aim at a bottle bobbing up and down in the sea.

Bristow fired and missed, the bullet kicking up a jet of water a foot to the right of the target. He was wearing nothing but a pair of dirty shorts, and the sweat glistened on his soft, plump body with its peeling skin and its host of freckles.

Keeton dropped a hand on Bristow’s shoulder and swung him round.

‘You bastard!’ Keeton said.

He lifted his right hand and struck Bristow on the cheek with the open palm. The sound of the blow was almost as loud as the report of the rifle. The blood flamed in Bristow’s cheek.

‘You shot my cat‚’ Keeton said; and he struck Bristow’s other cheek.

He wanted Bristow to hit back; he wanted to goad Bristow into retaliation so that he could really hurt the man. Unless Bristow fought back it would not be possible to punish him as he deserved to be punished.

Bristow said: ‘What the hell are you talking about? What are you hitting me for?’

Keeton could tell that Bristow had been drinking again. He was not drunk, but there was the smell of spirits on his breath. His eyes looked bloodshot and the two stinging smacks on his cheeks had brought tears into them.

‘You know damn well what I’m talking about. You know why I hit you. You killed my cat.’

‘Your cat? Since when has it been yours? I’ve as much right to it as you.’

‘You had no right to shoot it.’ Keeton’s voice was flint hard. Anger was burning in him and he wanted to crush Bristow, to beat him to pulp. He hated Bristow at this moment as he had never hated anyone in his life.

‘It was just a bit of sport.’

‘I’ll make you pay for your sport. I warned you.’

‘Ah, what’s one cat more or less? They’re filthy devils, anyway. I did right shooting it.’

Bristow’s voice was defiant, the liquor making him bold. Keeton slapped him again, harder. Bristow still had the rifle in his hands; he swung it up, striking at Keeton’s head. Keeton caught the rifle and wrenched it out of Bristow’s grasp. He flung it away and it fell with a clatter on the deck. He clenched his right fist and struck Bristow between the eyes. Bristow’s head jerked back and Keeton hit him again, in the throat. He heard Bristow choking and he hit him again, twice, in the stomach. It was like hitting a boiled pudding; the flesh seemed to close round his fist. Bristow doubled up, retching, and collapsed on the deck.

‘I ought to kick your teeth in‚’ Keeton said. But there was no
more to be done. If he got a rope’s end and flogged Bristow the cat would not be brought back to life. He would simply be working off his own anger, and there was not enough resistance in Bristow to give satisfaction; it would have been no better than flogging a mattress. He felt cheated, robbed. ‘You’d better keep out of my way, Johnnie. You’d better do that.’

He turned away and walked to the ladder leading down from the forecastle. He did not look back.

His hand was on the ladder rail when he heard the breech bolt snick. He turned slowly and saw that Bristow had picked up the rifle and was aiming it at him. Bristow was on one knee and the rifle butt was against his shoulder. The barrel was not very steady, but it was pointing in the general direction of Keeton’s chest.

‘Put it down‚’ Keeton said.

Bristow’s nose was bleeding and the blood had made a bright red stain on his mouth and chin. Drops of blood were falling on to his chest.

‘I’m the one that gives the orders now‚’ Bristow said.

Keeton stood with his hands against his sides and his back to the ladder, staring into the muzzle of the Lee-Enfield.

‘You give no orders to me, Johnnie.’

‘I’m going to shoot you‚’ Bristow said. He was breathing heavily and he looked half-mad, half-scared.

‘You’re not, Johnnie. You’re going to put that gun down. You’re going to put it down on the deck.’

The sweat was pouring from Bristow’s face and the blood was running down from his nose. Scared or not, he was dangerous. He had enough liquor inside him to give him some courage, enough to blunt the edge of his fear and blind him to the consequences of his actions. Keeton knew this; he knew that Bristow had been hurt by the blows that he had received and that the desire to strike back was driving him. Keeton knew all this when he began to walk towards Bristow.

‘Keep back‚’ Bristow shouted. ‘You keep back, Charlie; else you get it.’

‘Put the gun down, Johnnie.’

‘I’ll put it down all right‚’ Bristow yelled. ‘I’ll put it down your bloody throat. Stop, d’you hear? Stop where you are.’

Keeton continued to walk towards Bristow, his gaze fixed on the rifle. He saw Bristow’s finger curled round the trigger. Bristow shouted something but the report of the gun extinguished his words. Keeton saw the butt kick back against Bristow’s shoulder and something whined past his ear so close that he felt the wind of it passing.

Bristow was working the bolt of the rifle. The empty cartridge case shot out of the breech and rang as it fell to the deck. It rolled a short way and stopped, glinting brassily in the sun.