‘We take him with us‚’ Keeton said. Bristow might argue as much as he liked, but Peterson was not going to be abandoned a second time. ‘We take him with us and you’ll help me. Let’s toss for first watch.’
The spin of the coin gave Bristow the privilege of using the settee first. In less than a minute he was fast asleep. Keeton sat in an arm-chair listening to the rain and the wind. The ship rolled sluggishly and shuddered when the sea battered her. The lantern swayed and flickered, casting uneasy shadows in the cabin.
Keeton got up and took an oilskin coat and sou’wester off a peg and put them on. The coat was too small, but he managed to struggle into it, his wrists protruding from the sleeves. He took an electric torch and went out on deck.
Immediately the rain lashed at his face and the wind wrenched at his coat, flapping it wildly against his legs. He went to the port side and leaned against the rail and shone the beam of his torch on the sea. There was a glimmer of phosphorescence on the breaking water and where it fell on the decks the phosphorescence dribbled away in little islands of moving fire.
It was difficult to tell whether the ship had settled lower. The night was so dark that even the outline of the Valparaiso’s superstructure was indistinguishable from the background. Standing there, it seemed to Keeton as though he were perched on a tiny rock surrounded by an invading ocean. But this rock moved; it rose and fell; it shifted this way and that; and every now and then it shuddered as though in fear.
Keeton shone his torch on the raft; it was hanging in the slipway ready to go; and he wondered just how long men could hope to survive in such a sea on such a primitive craft, a framework of slatted timbers given buoyancy by iron drums.
‘Forget it‚’ he muttered. There was no point in worrying about questions like that.
He went back into the shelter of the accommodation and shone his torch down into the engine-room. The white beam touched the man hanging in the cold embrace of twisted iron, and his grotesque shadow danced and postured as though the devil had been in it. Keeton could hear the dismal sound of water slopping from side to side as the ship rolled, but he could not be certain that it had risen any higher.
He returned to the cabin and found Bristow snoring with his mouth wide open. For a moment or two he gazed down at the slack, soft face and then walked into the adjoining room, leaving the door hooked open so that the light from the lantern shone through.
Peterson looked exactly the same; his eyes were still open.
Keeton said: ‘I’ve been out on deck. It’s a rough night.’ He slipped out of the oilskin coat and hung it, dripping, on a peg. ‘I borrowed this.’ He moved closer to the bed, hoping that Peterson would show some sign of understanding. ‘I had a look at the engine-room. I don’t think the water’s coming in all that fast, but it’s a job to tell.’
Keeton could not help reflecting on the strangeness of the situation. Here he was, talking to a paralysed sea captain in the cabin of a derelict ship which was being driven blindly through a pitch-black night. And still he felt a compulsion to go on talking.
‘I wonder where the boats are now. If Mr Rains and his lot caught this weather they’ll be having a nasty time of it. Of course they may have been picked up by now.’
The cat came into the room and jumped on to the foot of the bed. It curled itself up and went to sleep.
‘There’s one joker that doesn’t think the ship’s going to sink,’ Keeton said.
He walked to the porthole. He could see drops of water running down the outside of the glass, but beyond that all was black and impenetrable darkness. A sudden roll of the ship caught him off balance and flung him on to the bed, and he could feel Peterson’s thin body under the covers.
‘Sorry‚’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ But there was no reaction from Peterson.
When Keeton got up he discovered that it was more difficult to stand because the deck was sloping more steeply. There could be no doubt that the ship’s list had in the last few moments increased to alarming proportions. The cat still slept, but the bed had tilted so much that Peterson’s head was now far higher than his feet and he was in effect resting on an inclined plane.
Keeton heard a sound behind him and found Bristow standing in the doorway. Bristow’s voice was hoarse and frightened.
‘She’s going. There’s no doubt about it. She’s had it now for sure. We’ve got to get away.’
Keeton said: ‘That raft is going to be pretty bad in this sea.
‘It’s that or an iron coffin.’ Bristow’s hair was sticking out in spikes, as though it had caught the atmosphere of terror. ‘Are you coming?’
Keeton pointed at the bed. ‘There’s Captain Peterson.’
‘Leave him. Leave the corpse.’
‘He’s alive.’
‘He’s as near dead as makes no difference. Leave him, I say.’
‘No‚’ Keeton said. ‘We’ll take him with us. Give me a hand.’
He moved to the bed and put his arm under Peterson’s shoulders. It was easy to lift the man; there was no weight in him.
‘Take his legs, Johnnie.’
‘Damn you,’ Bristow said. He was almost weeping with terror and frustration; but he obeyed Keeton. He pulled off the coverings and gripped Peterson’s legs. Peterson was wearing blue and white striped pyjamas and his legs were lost inside them. Together they lifted him off the bed.
‘You go first, Johnnie.’
‘Damn you‚’ Bristow said again. He started to back towards the door and the cat got under his feet and squealed as he trod on it. Bristow stumbled and dropped Peterson’s legs.
‘Be careful‚’ Keeton said.
‘It was that cat. Nearly had me down.’
‘Never mind the cat. Get a move on.’
Bristow picked up Peterson’s legs again and backed out through the doorway. Another wave struck the ship and Bristow stumbled and fell. Keeton yelled at him.
‘What’s wrong with you? Get up, you slob.’
Bristow got up, but he did not take Peterson’s legs.
‘I’m going. It’s time to go. If you want to drag that corpse along with you, that’s your concern. But not mine, not this boy’s. I’ve had enough.’
He turned and clawed his way towards the outer door. Keeton snarled at him.
‘Come back, you bastard.’
Bristow did not even look at him.
It happened just as Bristow was about to go through the doorway. He did not get through because the shock sent him reeling backwards and he fell heavily against the settee.
There was a harsh grating and grinding noise, a noise that seemed to push its way up through the decks. It made Keeton’s teeth chatter, as though he had become an integral part of the ship and the tremor that ran through the Valparaiso was running through his body also.
And then he realized that the ship had stopped moving; she was no longer rising and falling, no longer swinging drunkenly from side to side; and had it not been for the shuddering as the waves struck her it might have been imagined that she had at last come safely into harbour.
Bristow sat up, rubbing his bruised head. ‘What happened Charlie?’
He gazed about him in amazement. The carpet beneath him was no longer sloping steeply; it had returned almost to the horizontal. Moreover, the lack of motion in the ship was so strange that it was frightening. Again he muttered: ‘What happened?’
‘I think we’ve run aground,’ Keeton said. He spoke in a hushed, awed voice, hardly able to believe that this could really be true, yet unable to think of any other explanation. ‘What else could it have been? There’s something solid under the keel. Must be.’
Bristow got to his feet. His voice shook with excitement. ‘It’s land then. We drifted to land. We’re safe.’