Philip nodded.
"Well, then, we'd better get you straight down to the ship's hospital. I'm afraid I'm going to have to empty your stomach for you. Can't have chaps dying, you know. It's against regulations."
Philip turned to Catriona, who was kneeling dose beside him. "I suppose I ought to say that I'm sorry," he said through thick lips.
"Yes," said Catriona, taking his hand. "I think you ought to."
At that moment, George Welterman appeared to see what was going on; and he timed his arrival perfectly. Standing as he was quite close to Catriona, in anticipation of being able to help her up, and perhaps to take her hand, he was able to hear her quite dearly as she told Philip what she and Mark had decided.
"We're not going to sell Keys Shipping to IMM. Never. And we're not going to hide what happened to the Orange, and all of those other ships, either. Perhaps it'll ruin father's reputation; but then he didn't really deserve that reputation, did he? The Arcadia will still be sailing across the Atlantic long after all of this is forgotten, and she can be his reputation."
"What will you do?" asked Philip. Two seamen had brought over a stretcher now, and were unfolding it beside him.
"I'll tell you all the details later." Catriona smiled. "But Mark will buy the Arcadia; and he'll guarantee Keys' debts for five years, in exchange for a twenty-five per cent share of common stock. My stock, which I'm quite happy to give him. Particularly since we're going to be married.
"And there's one thing more. Mark would like to see someone really competent put in charge of Keys Shipping; someone who could oversee all the refitting of old ships, and plan to build new ships, and make the company profitable again. Someone who really cares about the company."
George Welterman was staring at Catriona with a face like a white theatrical mask; and when Edgar Deacon appeared next to him, he clutched Edgar's wrist so tightly that Edgar yelped, "What? What is it?" and tried to tug himself away.
The two seamen were carrying Philip down to the hospital now. Catriona touched his grimy forehead and said very softly, "I need you, Philip. I want you to succeed where father failed. Our father."
Mark and Catriona watched Philip taken away. But then Edgar came up to them, and he was stiff and pale and his fists were clenched.
"George just told me what you've been saying," he announced.
Mark put his arm around Catriona and grinned. "George was always excellent at eavesdropping. But, yes, it's true."
"For your information, Miss Keys, you have neither the authority nor the voting power to do it."
Mark turned to Catriona and beamed even more broadly. "I think you'll find, Mr. Deacon, that Miss Keys has all the supporting votes she needs. Her own twenty-five per cent, plus Thistle Maritime, with five per cent, plus a little collection of trusts and insurance companies who all happen to be colleagues and associates of Mr. Philip Carter-Helm, with nineteen per cent."
Edgar said stiffly, "I think you'll find that you're still a fraction short of a majority, Miss Keys. I already have your mother's assurance that she will support whatever course of action I recommend. And I scarcely think that she will be in favour of passing the management of the company into the hands of Mr. Keys' illegitimate son by her own sister, do you?"
Catriona said, 'Whatever my mother thinks, Philip Carter-Helm's mother thinks differently. I'm sorry, Mr. Deacon, but this plan is a fait-accompli. I've already had a wireless message this morning from Aunt Isabelle saying that she will vote in favour of selling the Arcadia to American TransAtlantic. Her two per cent gives us at least fifty-one per cent; and that's even supposing that Mr. Fearson and Mr. Thurrock don't vote with us, which I believe they will."
Mark said to Edgar, "Miss Keys, you see, will remain mistress of the Arcadia; and, after winning the ship herself, that's what I wanted more than anything."
Edgar stood where he was, saying nothing at all. His eyes were like two black stones.
At last he said, "Don't think for one moment that you've heard the end of this," and he turned on his heel and stalked off.
"British India to the finish," said Mark, and hugged Catriona close.
SIXTY-NINE
They were in sight of the Statue of Liberty now, but the fire in the first-class cabins was still burning out of control. Dick Charles had taken charge of the fire-fighting, and he had twenty crewmen forming a bucket-chain from the outside swimming pool, while ten more were inside the first-class section frantically spraying the walls and ceiling with fire-extinguishers.
As the Arcadia steamed majestically through the Verrazano Narrows into Upper Bay, accompanied by dozens of pleasure boats and yachts, and flanked on the starboard side by plumes of water from New York fireboats, black smoke was belching out of her port superstructure, and fragments of blazing curtains were whirling through the air.
"She's taken the Blue Riband," announced the reporter for WEAF News, "but there's something wrong there. She has smoke pouring out of her upper decks... and she's coming in to dock at what I would judge to be a very high speed—maybe ten or fifteen knots... She's approaching the Battery like an express train."
Up on the bridge, Sir Peregrine stood beside the helmsman with a grim, magnificent expression on his face. Ralph Peel stood close beside him, trying to keep as calm as possible.
"Sir Peregrine, our speed," he suggested.
From the forward windows of the bridge, it looked as if the Arcadia was already towering over Battery Park and about to sail right up Broadway, but she was still short of Governor's Island on her starboard side, and hadn't yet passed Liberty Island to port.
"Forward speed, Mr Peel?" asked Sir Peregrine.
"Seven knots, sir."
"How's the fire?"
Ralph Peel looked back along the Arcadia's superstructure. "Still burning, sir. Looks serious. Shall we call the New York fire people, sir?"
"No need, Mr Peel," said Sir Peregrine, nodding towards the fireboats. "They're already with us."
"I'll signal them round to our port side, sir."
"No need, Mr Peel," said Sir Peregrine. "Hard to port."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Hard to port, Mr Peel. On the double."
"Yes, sir. At once, sir. Helmsman, hard to port."
"Hard to port it is, sir."
Ralph Peel knew exactly what Sir Peregrine was doing. It was a last spectacular act of seamanship to end a voyage in which he had vindicated himself as one of the greatest ship's masters in modern maritime history. It would have been far more practical to call up the New York fireboats to their port side than to have turned the Arcadia through 180 degrees in Upper Bay, especially when she was so closely surrounded by cheering spectators in hundreds of small pleasure craft; but Sir Peregrine was not interested in practicalities; and he believed that anyone who was foolish enough to sail close to a giant ocean liner in a fifteen-foot dinghy deserved whatever swamping they happened to get.
Blasting her whistle so that it echoed all the way to Harlem and out to Brooklyn and Elizabeth, New Jersey; the Arcadia swung around with her starboard propellers churning up tumultuous geysers of spray, the entire 960-foot ship like a floating cliff moving around on her axis until she was broadside across the bay, and was at last facing back out towards the Verrazano Narrows, with her high stern counter only hundreds of feet away from the shore of Governor's Island.