“Ferris, get back to the boat and tell Ames and Docherty to work it aft as far as the well deck here. I don’t care how they do it, or how much damage is done to the boat — we can’t get sick and wounded men up here. Leave your crowbar.”
Nicolson had swung down on his hands and dropped lightly to the deck below before he had finished speaking. In ten paces he had crossed the deck, rung the haft of his axe hard against the steel door of the aftercastle.
“Anyone inside there?” he shouted.
For two or three seconds there was complete silence, then there came a confused, excited babble of voices, all calling to him at once. Nicolson turned quickly to McKinnon, saw his own smile reflected in the wide grin on the bo’sun’s face, stepped back a pace and played his torch over the steel door. One clip was hanging loose, swinging pendulum-like with the heavy, water-logged rolling of the Kerry Dancer, the other seven jammed hard in position.
The seven-pound sledge-hammer was a toy in MeKinnon’s hands. He struck seven times in all, once for each clip, the metallic clangs reverberating hollowly throughout the sinking ship. And then the door had swung open of its own accord and they were inside,
Nicolson flashed his torch over the back of the steel door and his mouth tightened: only one clip, the one that had been hanging loose, was continued through the door — the rest just ended in smooth rivet heads. And then he was facing aft again, the beam circling slowly round the aftercastle.
It was dark and cold, a dank, dripping dungeon of a place with no covering at all on the slippery steel deckplates, and barely enough headroom for a tall man to stand upright. Three-tiered metal bunks,” innocent of either mattresses or blankets, were ranged round both sides, and about a foot or sa above each bunk a heavy iron ring was welded to the bulkheads. A long, narrow table ran fore and aft the length of the compartment, with wooden stools on either side.
There were maybe twenty people in the room, Nicolson estimated ; some sitting on the bottom bunks, one or two standing, hanging on to the uprights of the bunks to brace themselves, but most of them still lying down. Soldiers they were, those who were lying on the bunks, and some of them looked as if they would never get up again: Nicolson had seen too many dead men, the waxen cheek, the empty lustreless eye, the boneless relaxation that inhabits a shapeless bundle of clothes. There were also a few nurses in khaki skirts and belted tunics, and two or three civilians. Everyone, even the dusky skinned nurses, seemed white and strained and sick. The Kerry Dancer must have lain in the troughs since early afternoon, rolling wickedly, continuously, for endless hours.
“Who’s in charge here?” Nicolson’s voice beat back at him hollowly from the iron walls of the aftercastle.
“I think he is. Rather, I think he thinks he is.” Slim, short, very erect, with silver hair drawn back in a tight bun beneath a liberally be-skewered straw hat, the elderly lady by Nicolson’s side still had the fire of authority in the washed-out blue of her eyes. There was disgust in them now, too, as she pointed down at the man huddled over a half-empty whisky bottle on the table. “But he’s drunk, of course.”
“Drunk, madam? Did I hear you say I was drunk?” Here was one man who wasn’t pale and sick, Nicolson realised: face, neck, even the ears were burnt brick in colour, a dramatic background for the snow-white hair and bristling white eyebrows. “You have the effrontery to– to—–” He rose spluttering to his feet, hands pulling down the jacket of his white linen suit, “By heaven, madam, if you were a man—–”
“I know,” Nicolson interrupted. “You’d horsewhip her within an inch of her life. Shut up and sit down.” He turned to the woman again, “What is your name, please? “” Miss Plenderleith. Constance Plenderleith.” “The ship is sinking, Miss Plenderleith,” Nicolson said rapidly. “She’s lower by the head every minute. We’ll be on the rocks in about half an hour, and the typhoon is going to hit us again any moment.” Two or three torches were on now, and he looked round the silent half-circle of faces. “We must hurry. Most of you look like death, and I’m quite sure you feel that way, but we must hurry. We have a lifeboat waiting on the port side, not thirty feet away. Miss Plenderleith, how many can’t walk that far?”
“Ask Miss Drachmann. She’s the sister in charge.” Miss Plenderleith’s quite different tone left no doubt that she thoroughly approved of Miss Drachmann. “Miss Drachmann?” Nicolson asked expectantly. A girl in a faraway corner turned to look at him. Her face was in shadow, “Only two, I’m afraid, sir.” Beneath the overtones of strain, the voice was soft and low and musical, “You’re afraid?”
“All the other stretcher cases died this evening,” she said quietly. “Five of them, sir. They were very sick — and the weather was very bad.” Her voice was not quite steady,
“Five of them,” Nicolson repeated. He shook his bead slowly, wonderingly,
“Yes, sir.” Her arm tightened around the child standing on the seat beside her, while her free hand pulled a blanket more tightly round him. “And this little one is just very hungry and very tired.” Gently she tried to remove a grubby thumb from his mouth, but he resisted her efforts and continued to inspect Nicolson with a certain grave detachment.
“He’ll feed and sleep well tonight,” Nicolson promised. “Right, all those who can, walk into the boat. Fittest first — you can help steady the boat and guide the wounded into it. How many arm or leg wounds, apart from the stretcher cases, nurse?”
“Five, sir.”
“No need to call me ‘sir’. You five wait till there’s someone down there to help you.” He tapped the whisky-drinker on the shoulder. “You lead the way.”
“Me?” He was outraged. “I’m in charge here, sir — the captain, in effect, and a captain is always last to—–”
“Lead the way,” Nicolson repeated patiently.
“Tell him who you are, Foster,” Miss Plenderleith suggested acidly.
“I certainly shall.” He was on his feet now, a black gladstone bag in one hand, the half-empty bottle in the other. “Farnholme is the name, sir. Brigadier Foster Farnholme.” He bowed ironically. “At your service, sir.”
“Delighted to hear it.” Nicolson smiled coldly. “On your way.” Behind him, Miss Plenderleith’s low chuckle of amusement came unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
“By God, you shall pay for this, you insolent young—–”
He broke off hurriedly and took a step backwards as Nicolson advanced on him. “Dammit all, sir,” he spluttered. “The traditions of the sea. Women and children first.”
“I know. Then we’ll all line up on the deck and die like little gentlemen while the band plays us under. I won’t tell you again, Farnholme.”
“Brigadier Farnholme to you– you—–”
“You’ll get a seventeen gun salute as you go aboard,” Nicolson promised. His stiff-armed push sent Farnholme, still clutching his bag, reeling back into the arms of the expectant bo’sun. McKinnon had him outside in less than four seconds.
Nicolson’s torch probed round the aftercastle and came to rest on a cloaked figure sitting huddled on a bunk.
“How about you?” Nicolson asked. “You hurt?”
“Allah is good to those who love Allah.” The voice was deep, almost sepulchral, the dark eyes deepset above an eagle nose. He stood up, tall, dignified, pulling his black cap tightly over his head. “I am unhurt.”
“Good. You next, then.” Nicolson swivelled the torch round, picked out a corporal and two soldiers. “How do you boys feel?”
“Ach, we’re fine.” The thin, dark corporal withdrew his puzzled, suspicious stare from the doorway through which Farnholme had just vanished and grinned at Nicolson. It was a grin that belied the bloodshot eyes, the yellow, fever-ridden face. “Britain’s hardy sons. We’re just in splendid form.”
“You’re a liar,” Nicolson said pleasantly.’ “But thanks very much. Off you go. Mr. Vannier, will you see them into the boat, please? Have them jump every time the lifeboat rides up near the well-deck — it should come within a couple of feet. And a bowline round each person — just in case. The bo’sun will give you a hand.”
He waited until the broad, retreating back of the cloaked man had vanished through the door, then looked curiously at the little lady by his side. “Who’s the boy friend, Miss Plenderleith?”
“He’s a Muslim priest, from Borneo.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “I spent four years in Borneo once. Every river bandit I ever heard of was a Muslim.”
“He should have a wealthy congregation,” Nicolson murmured. “Right, Miss Plenderleith, you next, then the nurses. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind staying a bit longer, Miss Drach-mann? You can see to it that we don’t do too much damage to your stretcher cases when we start carrying them out.”