The White Voyage (12 page)

With evident good humour, Olsen said: ‘So we have breakfast! You have done well, ladies.’

‘We could only manage soup and sandwiches,’ Mary said. ‘We’ve been having to hold the pot on top of the stove, with another two holding the stove itself.’

Olsen took a can and helped himself to a sandwich from the box as she opened it.

‘That’s a fine breakfast,’ he said. ‘With this in our bellies we shall work twice as hard.’ He nodded to Stefan. ‘And you, Stefan – do you eat, too? Will you take the risk that your stomach does not like it?’

Stefan managed a faint grin. ‘I will take that risk.’

Olsen crammed the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth, and slapped Stefan rudely but genially on the back.

‘We will cure your sea sickness,’ he said. ‘Before this voyage is over, we will cure it!’

The sea grew calmer during the day, and as it wore on the pumps began taking out more water than was coming aboard. In late afternoon, with the seas quieter, though still stormy, and with the
Kreya
riding higher for being free of some of her unaccustomed ballast of water, only the occasional wave was breaking over the gunwale, and the pumps got well ahead. There was half an hour’s anxiety when the generator broke down, but Mouritzen, prodded and pestered rather than helped by Olsen, finally got it running again. As dusk closed in on them, the pumps were gulping air each time the roll of the
Kreya
carried the residue of water across to the other side.

After a further inspection, Olsen said:

‘That is enough. What is left does not matter for now.’

Mouritzen, in a blur of fatigue, was hanging on to the rail. Josef was leaning back against the hatch. The other three lay slumped on the deck.

‘What do you think of?’ Olsen asked. ‘Something to eat, maybe, hot coffee – and then sleep for a few hours, in your bunks, rocked by these gentle waves?’

They made no answer. Olsen surveyed them through eyes drawn tight for want of sleep.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘But first there is work to do. First we get a tarpaulin across this hatch.’

Jones said, in a croaking voice: ‘Can’t it wait a bit? Until we’ve had the coffee, at least.’

‘If you rest another five minutes,’ Olsen said, ‘I will need a whip to get you working again, coffee or no coffee. Up, now. Stefan!’

They roused up to their feet with jerky marionette movements and, following Olsen’s sharp-voiced orders, began the task, which had proved impossible the night before, of hauling the heavy tarred canvas up over the open hatch. It was a slow business, but they made progress and at last had the tarpaulin across and well lashed down at each corner. When the last corner was secured, Mouritzen said, his voice heavy with weariness and relief:

‘So that’s that.’

‘Yes,’ Olsen said. ‘That’s that.’ He looked at Mouritzen, his face contorted into an attempt at a smile. ‘Now we go and get another tarpaulin to fasten over this one.’

Mouritzen protested: ‘This one will hold well enough.’

‘You told me last night,’ Olsen said, ‘that even if you had managed to secure the tarpaulin, the seas would have ripped it to shreds. So we make it a double strength, I think.’

‘That was at the height of the storm,’ Mouritzen said. ‘We were taking waves fifty feet high. By comparison, the sea is harbour calm now.’

‘Things are better,’ Olsen acknowledged. ‘They may go on getting better; but they may get worse.’ He called to the others: ‘Right! Now we go aft to fetch the second tarpaulin.’

Jones collapsed on the way back, as they heaved the awkward roll along the deck. Olsen and Mouritzen bent over him together.

‘It would do you no good to hit him,’ Mouritzen said, ‘however hard you hit.’

Olsen nodded. ‘And I have not much strength now to hit hard.’

‘Shall we get him inside?’

Jones was lying on his side, with his head near a pool of water. ‘When we have the hatch secured,’ Olsen said. ‘He does no harm there.’ He stood up and spoke to the others. ‘We continue.’

Wearily they stooped again to pick up the tarpaulin.

When Olsen was satisfied with the sealing of the No. 1 hatch, he dismissed them to the lounge. Mouritzen and Josef Simanyi picked up Jones and carried him with them. For Mouritzen the burden was almost too much; protecting Jones, he found himself swaying and lurching, his own body cannoning against obstructions as they made their way along the deck. When they set him down on the leather couch, Mouritzen leaned over him for a time, his forearm resting against the couch head, before he could straighten up and turn to the others.

Sheila Jones came out of the kitchen at the far end, saw Jones lying there, and moved towards him. She knelt down by him, and looked up at Mouritzen.

‘What happened?’

‘The work was too much for him. He will be all right. He needs rest.’

Jones stirred, opening his eyes. ‘Rest.’ His voice was slurred with weariness. ‘Darling, are you all right?’

She lifted his head, and sat down so that it rested in her lap.

‘Rest now,’ she said. ‘Just rest.’

Olsen, coming in through the swing doors, examined the scene. Mouritzen, having yielded place to Sheila, had slumped down in a chair, as the other men had done already. Olsen, impeccably upright, put his hands down to the table’s edge, as though he stood to address a public meeting.

‘Duty cook,’ he said. ‘Where is the duty cook?’

Mrs Simanyi put her head out of the hatch between kitchen and lounge.

‘It is Sheila and I,’ she said.

‘Where is our soup?’ Olsen demanded. ‘We have worked hard, and we must be nourished.’

‘Nearly ready,’ she said. ‘In two, three minutes. We have a lot of trouble with the paraffin cooker.’

Olsen nodded. ‘From now you can use the electric cooker. And the other ladies?’

‘Mary is upstairs with the child. Nadya sees to Katerina.’

‘That bear,’ Olsen said, ‘– she will not interfere with work. Otherwise I myself throw her overboard.’

‘She does not interfere,’ Mrs Simanyi said. ‘You interfere, Captain. I will go back to the soup.’

It was thick, tinned soup, studded with meat and vegetables. They drank and chewed it with relish, and returned their billycans for more. Sheila sat by Jones, holding the can to his lips.

Olsen said to Stefan: ‘How is the stomach, Stefan? You have not been sick today?’

Looking up from his can, Stefan said: ‘Too tired to be sick.’

‘Soon you rest.’

‘Soon?’

‘When the burials are finished. Have you forgotten we carry two dead men?’

‘They are patient,’ Stefan said. ‘They will wait till morning.’

Olsen shook his head. ‘One does not keep corpses on a ship longer than must be. I excuse Jones. Mouritzen, you will take the others and see that the bodies are laid out on the No. 4 hatch, on planks. You can cover each with a sheet. I go now to get my prayer-book. I will see you there.’

They looked at him apathetically, neither consenting nor disputing. To Mrs Simanyi, Olsen said:

‘The ladies need not attend this ceremony. When we return, I want all to be present here. You will see to that, Mrs Simanyi.’

The two Simanyis went to bring Herning from the forecastle, and Mouritzen took Thorsen down to the engine room to get Møller. Møller’s body lay sprawled, as he had fallen, a few feet from the bottom of the staircase. His arms were flung out, his head turned up as though looking for help. Mouritzen felt ashamed that he had not composed the body, or at least covered it, during earlier visits to the engine room. Thorsen curiously lifted an arm, and let it fall again.

‘Stiff,’ he said. ‘It will not be easy.’

Mouritzen went to the stand-by generator and examined it. It seemed to be running all right still. He took a can of diesel and topped the tank up. That would hold it for three or four hours.

‘Shall we call for the others?’

‘Others?’ Mouritzen said. ‘Why?’

Thorsen pointed. ‘We’ve got to get him up those stairs.’

‘We can manage. I’ll get him on my back. You can support him from behind.’

It was a nightmarish, struggling business, holding the cold, bony wrists, feeling the cold dead flesh pressing against his neck. This is one of your quiet times, Bernard, he thought – I have never known you so quiet, nor so intimate. Who hath honour now? He that died of Tuesday. It was a brave thing, a stupid thing; unless he had not known Stövring had a gun. If so, it was an accident. But whether an act was brave or stupid or accidental was itself an accident. God help us, he thought, to deceive ourselves.

When Olsen came down, they had the two bodies on planks, side by side on the hatch, and Thorsen was wrapping a sheet round Møller. The sheet had to go well over his head to cover the arms.

Olsen gestured. ‘Untidy.’

‘A man cannot always die,’ Mouritzen said, ‘and leave his body tidy.’

Olsen stared at him. ‘That was not what I meant.’

‘We could break the arms, perhaps,’ Mouritzen suggested, ‘– tie them down to his sides?’

Olsen looked as though he was considering this. Then he gave his attention to his prayer-book.

‘The service for the burial of the dead at sea,’ he said.

Standing by him, Mouritzen said in a low voice: ‘Do we need the whole service? Neither was a churchgoer – Bernard was an atheist.’

‘We will do what is usual.’

Darkness was well-nigh complete; they stood like shadows around the white-sheeted figures that alone had substance and a positive shape. The sea was still running high, but for the most part did not break inboard. The wind remained strong, and howled through every hole and channel as though the ship were honeycombed. Olsen held the book in his left hand, and directed a light on to it with his right.

He reeled off the sonorous Danish phrases in a clear sharp voice, It was not possible, owing to the rolling of the
Kreya
, to hold the planks on the gunwales throughout: at the appropriate moment Olsen halted his reading and ordered the others to bring the bodies up. They had to time the bestowal to coincide with the bottom of a roll. The sheeted figures slid down to the dark, heaving waters and the
Kreya
, as though in revulsion, rolled away from them.

In the lounge again, Olsen paused for a while and surveyed them all before speaking.

‘We have done well,’ he said at last. ‘The
Kreya
still floats. She is dry again. The hatch is covered, and the storm is abating. Now it is only necessary to wait until we sight another vessel, or are sighted.’

Nadya said: ‘Where are we? Are we near Copenhagen?’

‘I do not know where we are, except that we are in the North Sea. The gale has been carrying us to the north-west. If we sight land, I think it will be Scotland.’

‘And if we get driven on to the coast?’ Josef asked.

‘We will face that, if we come to it. For present, we man a ship that is sound, but rudderless and powerless. We cannot call for help. There is nothing we can do but wait. I warn you that the waiting may take longer than you think, because the seas are wide and ships, like men, do not stray far from the paths of their fellows. If we are in, or if the winds drive us into such a path, then we are lucky. If not, we may drift for two days, three days, more, and see nothing. There need be no anxiety. We have plenty of food and water. The hard time is over. Now there is only the waiting.’

‘Katerina,’ Nadya said.

‘What is that?’

‘Can we put her in a cabin in the forecastle, until her cage is fixed? Here she may keep people awake, if she is restless in the night.’

Olsen closed his eyes, shutting them tight as though to force tiredness away. When he opened them again, he said:

‘I have had enough of the bear. That can wait till morning. Listen. Lieutenant Mouritzen remains my First Officer. He is my deputy, and acts for me when I am not present. Mr Thorsen, as the only other ship’s officer, is next in command. When I am not there, gentlemen, you will take orders from one of these or the other. But I do not wish to lay on them the task of controlling the ladies. So, just as Mr Mouritzen is my right-hand man, I will have a right-hand woman. Mrs Simanyi, you are that woman. Under me, you will be responsible for the other ladies, and also for the cooking and cleaning. You are no longer passengers, remember, you are crew. Mr Thorsen will not have time now to look after you. Is all this clear?’

He stared at them, accepting their silence as consent.

‘For the moment you may rest. Get some sleep. Niels, you will come with me.’

Mouritzen followed Olsen to the bridge. There was an uncanny feeling in going up there to find it empty, silent, the useless wheel unattended. He felt as though they were intruders on a derelict.

Olsen said: ‘Fortunately we have plenty of oil. We can carry lights and we can put the scanner back in operation.’

Mouritzen said doubtfully: ‘The scanner is a heavy load for that generator.’

‘We will run it when the ladies are not cooking. Tell them they are to notify me when the cooker is in operation.’

Mouritzen looked out through the glass towards the bow light and the invisible sea.

‘Do you think we run a risk of piling up on the Scottish coast?’

‘I don’t think so. I guess we have been driven well north in the last twenty-four hours. The Shetlands, maybe.’

Mouritzen yawned. Olsen looked at him critically.

‘I will not keep you long. I will wake you at midnight. Then you wake me for six o’clock, unless there is an emergency first.’

Mouritzen yawned again. ‘Yes.’

‘Other matters we can discuss in the morning. Go and sleep now, Niels. Tell the women to bring me up some black coffee.’

Mouritzen emerged to some extent from his cocoon of drowsiness.

‘You are taking this watch by yourself?’

With irony, Olsen said: ‘Do you want to take it?’

‘All I want is sleep.’

‘With me, desire is never so simple.’ He looked angry for a moment, and then smiled. ‘Go and get your sleep, Niels.’

Mouritzen hesitated by the door of his cabin and then, rousing himself, turned away and went down the steps to the passengers’ deck. He knocked at the door of Mary’s cabin, and she called to him to enter.