forward, which meant that we were still steaming northeast. I raised
myself on my elbow to have a look at the sea conditions, for the campari
had developed a definite if gentle pitching movement, and it was then
that I discovered that my neck was rigidly bound in a plaster cast. At
least it felt exactly like it. I could move it about an inch to either
side and then a pair of clamps took hold. A dull steady ache, but no
pain worth mentioning. I tried to force my head beyond the limits of
the clamps, but I only tried once. I waited till the cabin stopped
swaying round and the red-hot wires in my neck had cooled off to a
tolerable temperature, then climbed stiffly out of my bunk. Let them
call me stiff-neck carter if they wanted. That was enough of that lot.
I crossed to the window. Still a cloudless sky with the sun,
white, glaring, already high above the horizon, striking a glittering,
blinding path across the blueness of the sea. The swell was deeper,
longer, heavier than I expected and coming up from the starboard
quarter. I wound down the window and there was no wind I could notice,
which meant that there was a fair breeze pushing up from astern, but not
enough to whiten the smoothly roiled surface of the sea.
I showered, shaved-i’d never before appreciated how difficult it is
to shave when the turning motion of your head is limited to an arc of
two inches-then examined the wound.
seen in daylight, it looked bad, much worse than it had in the
night: above and behind the left temple, it was a two inch gash, wide
and very deep. And it throbbed heavily in a way I didn’t much care for.
I picked up the phone and asked for doc marston. He was still in bed
but, yes, he would see me right away, an early-bird hippocratical
willingness that was very much out of character, but maybe his
conscience was bothering him about his wrong diagnosis of the previous
night. I dressed, put on my hat, adjusted it to a suitably rakish angle
till the band just missed the wound, and went down to see him. Dr.
marston, fresh, rested, and unusually clear of eye no doubt due to
bullen’s warning to lay off the rum didn’t look like a
conscience-stricken man who’d tossed and turned the sleepless night
long. He didn’t seem unduly worried about the fact that we carried
aboard a passenger who, if he’d truthfully listed his occupation, would
have put down the word “murderer.” all he seemed concerned about was
the entry in last night’s log, and when I told him no entry about
brownell had been made or would be made until we arrived in nassau, and
that when it was made no mention of my name would appear in connection
with the diagnosis of brownell’s death, he became positively jovial. He
shaved off a few square inches of hair, jabbed in a local anaesthetic,
cleaned and sutured the wound, covered it with a sticking plaster pad,
and wished me good morning. He was through for the day.
it was quarter to eight. I dropped down the series of
accommodation ladders that led to the focsle and made my way forward to
the carpenter’s store. The focsle was unusually crowded for that time
of the morning. There must have been close on forty members of the
ship’s company gathered there, deck staff, engine-room staff, cooks and
stewards, all waiting to pay their last respects to brownell. Nor were
these all the spectators. I looked up and saw that the promenade deck,
which curved right round the forward superstructure of the campari, was
dotted with passengers, eleven or twelve in all: not many, but they
represented close on the total male passenger complement aboard-i could
see nb women therewith the exception of old cerdan and possibly one or
two others. Bad news travelled fast, and even for millionaires the
chance of seeing a burial at sea didn’t come along too often. Right in
the middle of them was the duke of hartwell, looking nautical as
anything in his carefully adjusted royal yachting club cap, silk scarf,
and brass-buttoned navy doeskin jacket.
I skirted number one hold and thought grimly that there might
indeed be something in the old superstitions: the dead cried out for
company, the old salts said, and the dead men loaded only yesterday
afternoon and now lying in the bottom of number four hold hadn’t been
slow to get that company. Two others gone in the space of a few hours,
near as a toucher three; only i’d fallen sideways instead of toppling
over the rail. I felt those ice-cold fingers on the back of my neck
again and shivered, then passed into the comparative gloom of the
carpenter’s store, right up in the forepeak.
everything was ready. The bier-a hastily nailed-together platform
of boards, seven feet by two-lay on the deck, and the red ensign, tied
to two corners of the handles at the top of the bier but free at the
other end, covered the canvas wathed mound beneath. Only the bo’sun and
the carpenter were there. To look at macdonald you would never have
guessed that he hadn’t slept the previous night. He had volunteered to
remain on guard outside the wireless office until dawn; it had also been
his idea that, though the chances of any trouble in daylight were
remote, two men should be tailed for holystoning the deck outside the
wireless office after breakfast, for the entire day if necessary.
Meantime the radio office was closed-and heavily padlocked-to allow
peters and jenkins to attend the funeral of their colleague. There was
no difficulty about this: as was common, there was a standard
arrangement whereby a bell rang either on the bridge or in the chief
wireless operator’s cabin whenever a call came through on the distress
frequency or on the campari’s call sign.
the slight vibration of the campari’s engines died away as the
engine slowed and the revs dropped until we had just enough speed to
give us steerageway in that heavy swell. The captain came down the
companionway, carrying a heavy brass-bound bible under his arm. The
heavy steel door in the port hand focsle side was swung open and back
till it secured with a clang in its retaining latch. A long wooden box
was slid into position, one end level with the opening in the side of
the ship. Then macdonald and the carpenter, bareheaded, appeared,
carrying bier and burden, and laid them on the box.
the service was very brief, very simple. Captain bullen said a few
words about brownell, about as true as words usually are in those
circumstances, led the tattered singing of “abide with me,” read the
burial service, and nodded to the bo’sun. The royal navy did this sort
of thing better, but we didn’t carry any bugles aboard the campari.
Macdonald lifted the inboard end of the bier; the canvas-swathed mound
slid out slowly from beneath the red ensign and was gone with only the
faintest of splashings to mark its departure. I glanced up at the
promenade deck and saw the duke of hartwell there, standing stiffly at
attention, right arm bent up to his peaked cap in rigid salute. Even
allowing for the natural disadvantages lent him by his face, I had
seldom seen a more ludicrous sight. No doubt to the unbiassed observer
he was putting up a more fitting show than myself, but I find it hard to
be at my reverent best when I know that all i’m committing to the deep
is a length of canvas, large quantities of engine-room waste, and a
hundred and fifty pounds of rusty chain to give the necessary negative
buoyancy.
the door in the ship’s side clanged shut; captain bullen handed
over the bible to a cadet; the engine revs mounted, and the campari was
back in business again. And the first item on the agenda was breakfast.
in my three years aboard the campari I had rarely seen more than
half a dozen passengers in the dining saloon for breakfast. Most of
them preferred to have it served in their suites or on the private
verandahs outside their suites. Barring a few aperitifs followed by
antoine’s or henrique’s superb cooking, there was nothing to beat a good
funeral to bring out the sociable best in our passengers. There could
only have been seven or eight missing altogether.
I had a full complement at my table, except, of course, for the
invalid mr. cerdan. I should have been on watch, but the captain had
decided that, as there was a very able quartermaster on the wheel and no
land within seventy miles, young dexter, who usually stood the watch
with me, could stand it alone for the length of breakfast.
no sooner had I pulled in my chair than miss harrbride fixed her