Findhorn smiled at him and tried to speak, but again there was only the bubbling cough and more blood at his mouth, bright arterial blood that contrasted pitifully with the whiteness of the lips. His eyes were sick and glazed.
Quickly, urgently, Nicolson searched body and head for evidence of a wound. At first he could see nothing, then all at once he had it — he’d mistaken it for one of the drops of blood soaking into Findhorn’s shirt. But this was no blood-drip, but a hole — a small, insignificant looking hole, quite circular and reddening at the edges. That was Nicolson’s first shocked reaction — how small a hole it was, and how harmless. Almost in the centre of the captain’s chest, but not quite. It was perhaps an inch or so to the left of the breastbone and two inches above the heart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GENTLY, CAREFULLY, Nicolson caught the captain by tne shoulders, eased his back off the bulkhead and turned to look for the bo’sun. But McKinnon was already kneeling by his side, and one glance at McKinnon’s studiously expressionless face told Nicolson that the stain on the captain’s shirt-front must be spreading. Quickly, without any word from Nicolson, McKinnon had his knife out and the back of the captain’s shirt slit open in one neat movement, then he closed the knife, caught the edges of the cut cloth in his hands and ripped the shirt apart. For a moment he scanned the captain’s back, then, he closed the tear together, looked up at Nicolson and shook his head. As carefully as before Nicolson eased the captain back against the bulkhead.
“No success, gentlemen, eh?” Findhorn’s voice was only a husky, strained murmur, a fight against the blood welling up in his throat.
“It’s bad enough, not all that bad though.” Nicolson picked his words with care. “Does it hurt much, sir?”
“No.” Findhorn closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Please answer my question. Did it go right through?”
Nicolson’s voice was detached, almost clinical. “No, sir. Must have nicked the lung, I think, and lodged in the ribs at the back. We’ll have to dig for it, sir.”
“Thank you.” ‘Nicked’ was a flagrant meiosis and only a fully equipped hospital theatre could hope to cope with surgery within the chest wall, but if Findhorn appreciated these things he gave no sign by either tone or expression. He coughed painfully, then tried to smile. “The excavations will have to wait. How is the ship, Mr. Nicolson?”
“Going,” Nicolson said bluntly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You can see the flames, sir. Fifteen minutes if we’re lucky. Permission to go below, sir?”
“Of course, of course! What am I thinking of?” Findhorn struggled to rise to his feet, but McKinnon held him down, talking to him in his soft Highland voice, looking at Nicolson for guidance. But the guidance came not from Nicolson but in the shape of a crescendoing roar of an aircraft engine, the triphammer thudding of aircraft cannon and a shell that screamed through the smashed window above their heads and blasted the top of the chartroom door off its hinges. Findhorn ceased to struggle and leaned back tiredly against the bulkhead, looking up at McKinnon and half smiling. Then he turned to speak to Nicolson, but Nicolson was already gone, the chartroom door half closing behind him, swinging crazily on its shattered hinges.
Nicolson dropped down the-centre ladder, turned for’ard and went in the starboard door of the dining-saloon. Van Effen was sitting on the deck by the door as he went in, his gun in his hand, unhurt. He looked up as the door opened.
“A great deal of noise indeed, Mr. Nicolson. Finished?”
“More or less. I’m afraid the ship is. Still two or three Zeros outside, looking for the last drop of blood. Any trouble?”
“With them?” Van Effen waved a contemptuous pistol barrel at the crew of the Kerry Dancer: five of them lay huddled fearfully on the deck at the foot of the for’ard settees, two more were prostrate under the tables. “Too worried about their own precious skins.”
“Anyone hurt?”
Van Effen shook his head regretfully. “The devil is good to his own kind, Mr. Nicolson.”
“Pity.” Nicolson was already on his way across to the port door of the dining-saloon. “The ship’s going. We haven’t long. Herd our little friends up to the deck above — keep ’em in the passageway for the time being. Don’t open the screen doors—–” Nicolson broke off suddenly, halted in mid-stride. The wooden serving hatch into the pantry was riddled and smashed in a dozen places. From the other side he could hear the thin, quavering sobbing of a little child..
Within three seconds Nicolson was out in the passage, wrestling with the handle of the pantry door. The handle turned, but the door refused to open — locked, perhaps, more probably jammed and buckled. A providential fire axe hung on the bulkhead outside the fifth engineer’s cabin and Nicolson swung it viciously against the lock of the pantry door. On the third blow the lock sprang open and the door crashed back on its hinges.
Nicolson’s first confused impressions were of smoke, burning, a sea of smashed crockery and an almost overpowering reek of whisky. Then the rush of fresh air quickly cleared the air and he could see the two nurses sitting on the deck, almost at his feet, Lena, the young Malayan girl, with her dark, sooty eyes wide and shadowed with terror, and Miss Drachmann beside her, her face pale and strained but calm. Nicolson dropped on his knees beside her.
“The little boy?” he asked harshly.
“Do not worry. Little Peter is safe.” She smiled at him gravely, eased back the heavy metal door of the hot press, already ajar. The child was inside, snugly wrapped in a heavy blanket, staring out at him with wide, fearful eyes. Nicolson reached in a hand, gently ruffled the blond hair, then rose abruptly to his feet and let his breath go in a long sigh.
“Thank God for that, anyway.” He smiled down at the girl. “And thank you, too, Miss Drachmann. Damned clever idea. Take him outside in the passage, will you? It’s stifling in here.” He swung round, then halted and stared down in disbelief at the tableau at his feet. The young soldier, Alex, and the priest were stretched out on the deck, side by side, both obviously unconscious — at least. Farnholme was just straightening up from examining the priest’s head. The smell of whisky from him was so powerful that his clothes might have been saturated in it.
“What the hell’s been going on here?” Nicolson demanded icily. “Can’t you keep off the bottle for even five minutes, Farnholme?”
“You’re a headstrong young man, young man.” The voice came from the far corner of the pantry. “You mustn’t jump to conclusions, especially wrong conclusions.”
Nicolson peered through the gloom. With the dynamos and lighting gone the windowless pantry was half-shrouded in darkness. He could barely distinguish the slight form of Miss Plenderleith sitting straight-backed against the ice-box. Her head was bent over her hands and the busy click-click, click-click of needles seemed unnaturally loud. Nicolson stared at her in utter disbelief.
“What are you doing, Miss Plenderleith?” Even to himself, Nicolson’s voice sounded strained, incredulous.
“Knitting, of course. Have you never seen anyone knitting before?”
“Knitting!” Nicolson murmured in awe. “Knitting, of •course! Two lumps or three, vicar.” Nicolson shook his head in wonder. “If the Japs knew this they’d demand an armistice tomorrow.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Miss Plenderleith demanded crisply. “Don’t tell me that you’ve lost your senses, too.”
“Too?”
“This unfortunate young man here.” She pointed at the young soldier. “We jammed some trays against the serving hatch when we came in — it’s only wood, you know. The Brigadier thought it might give protection from bullets.” Miss Plenderleith was talking very rapidly, very concisely, her knitting now laid aside. “When the first bombs hit, this young man tried to get out. The Brigadier locked the door — and very quick he was about it, too. Then he started to pull the trays down — going to go out the hatch, I suppose. The — ah — priest here was trying to pull him back when the bullets came through the hatch.”
Nicolson turned away quickly, looked at Farnholme and then nodded down at the Muslim priest. “My apologies, Brigadier. Is he dead?”
“Thank God, no.” Farnholme straightened on his knees, his Sandhurst drawl temporarily in abeyance. “Creased, concussed, that’s all.” He looked down at the young soldier and shook his head in anger. “Bloody young fool!”
“And what’s the matter with him?”
“Laid him out with a whisky bottle,” Farnholme said succinctly. “Bottle broke. Must have been flawed. Shockin’ waste, shockin’.”
“Get him outside, will you? The rest of you outside, too.” Nicolson turned round as someone entered the door behind him. “Walters! I’d forgotten all about you. Are you all right?”