They worked on the boat for three weeks. There was no need for haste. They did not lack tools; the carpenter’s equipment was theirs for use. They cut boards and clamped them over the big hole in the boat. They made plugs for the smaller holes; they found pitch and oakum to caulk the seams; and they painted the whole boat with grey paint.
‘Looks like new‚’ Bristow said when they had finished. ‘We’re pretty good at this game, Charlie, though I say it myself.’
‘We don’t know yet if it’ll keep the water out.’
‘I bet it will. I’ll lay you two to one in gold bars it won’t let in a drop.’
Bristow was right. When they tested the boat in the water, using small tackles on the falls to help them with the weight, it floated perfectly and appeared thoroughly sound.
‘There you are‚’ Bristow said. ‘We could sail round the world in that beauty.’
‘Maybe we could‚’ Keeton said, ‘if either of us knew how to navigate. How are you up in that business?’
‘I don’t know the first thing about it. Do you?’
‘I don’t yet, but maybe I’ll learn.’
‘Learn? Who’s going to teach you?’
‘I’ll teach myself.’
The idea had already occurred to him, and it was part of a much larger idea, one that made his heart beat faster when he thought about it.
‘I’ve found some books. You can learn a lot from books.’
It was the books that had given him the idea. There were manuals of navigation, volumes on meteorology, everything. And he had found Peterson’s sextant. Mathematics had always come easily to him and he did not doubt for a moment that with these textbooks to aid him he would eventually master the science of navigation. He had all the time in the world for study.
Bristow was staring down at the boat. ‘You aren’t really thinking of going off in that shell, are you?’
‘Not yet. Might be forced to in the end though. For the present I’d say we were better off here. We may be picked up.’
But already he had begun to wonder whether he really wanted to be picked up, for that would spoil the plan that had begun to germinate in his mind.
It was no easy task to haul the boat out of the water and back on deck even with the extra tackle, but they managed it. Bristow was panting and sweating.
‘I wouldn’t want to do that too often. I never did go a lot on boat drill.’
‘You won’t need to do it often‚’ Keeton said.
Secretly Keeton believed that it was unlikely that any ship would sight them. Vessels were sure to keep well clear of the reef, since it was bound to be a known danger to shipping. After being disabled the Valparaiso could well have drifted far away from the regular trade routes and it might be many months, years even, before the wreck was discovered. This, he now felt, was all to the good; the plan, as yet only vaguely worked out, would require time; it could not be put into operation while the war continued. For the present, therefore, he was content to stay on board the Valparaiso, biding his time.
So he struggled with the mysteries of navigation and gradually mastered them, so that the day finally came when he was able to mark on one of the charts in the chart-room the exact location of the reef on which the Valparaiso was lying. He did not tell Bristow this, but kept it to himself, checking and re-checking, and then imprinting the longitude and latitude on his memory until they became as unforgettably fixed there as his own name.
Bristow found his own amusement. Much of it came out of a bottle. There were enough bottles to keep him going for quite a time, and the fumes of alcohol took his mind off the subject of their hazardous situation. He offered to share the liquor with Keeton, but Keeton drank only sparingly; he had no wish to clog his brain with rum or whisky.
Bristow amused himself in other ways also. He practised gunnery with the Oerlikons. He fired at projections of coral when they showed above the water. The guns chattered, flaring tracers hissed along the surface of the sea and the shells exploded in red bursts of flame. Bristow loved it.
‘Why waste the ammo?’ Keeton said. ‘Suppose a Jap plane came over. We might need it.’
Bristow scoffed at the idea. ‘You won’t get any Jap planes coming over here. If they did they wouldn’t trouble to bomb a wreck. They’ve got more important things on their plate.’
He played with a rifle too. He threw bottles and empty tins overboard and shot at them. The crack of the rifle broke in upon the soft hiss of surf on the reef and the lapping of water against the ship’s sides.
Keeton was sick of Bristow, of his drunkenness, of his gluttony, of everything about him. He preferred the cat for a companion. He carried it on his shoulder, and when he lay in his hammock in the sun the cat would curl up beside him and go to sleep.
‘That cat‚’ Bristow said. ‘I reckon it’s fallen in love with you.’ He sounded almost jealous, as though he resented the cat’s liking for Keeton. ‘It’d better not get in my way. I’m allergic to cats.’
‘You leave it alone‚’ Keeton said.
‘I’m not touching it. But it had better not get in my way.’
‘The cat won’t get in your way. You’ve got the whole ship, haven’t you? Isn’t it big enough for you?’
‘Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t‚’ Bristow said darkly. ‘I’m just giving you fair warning.’
‘And I’m warning you, Johnnie. Keep your hands off that cat.’
It happened two days later. Keeton saw the cat when he went out on deck. It was lying on number four hatch. He thought at first that it was asleep; but then he realized that no cat ever slept in that kind of position. Its forepaws were stretched out on the hatch and its hind legs were dangling over the edge, its tail between them.
Keeton ran towards the cat, but he knew before he reached it that it was dead. There was a wound in its head and the fur was matted with blood. Keeton’s anger almost blinded him. It was such a pointless thing to do; destruction for destruction’s sake.
Bristow was not in sight, so Keeton went in search of him. He found Bristow on the forecastle with the rifle in his hands, taking aim at a bottle bobbing up and down in the sea.
Bristow fired and missed, the bullet kicking up a jet of water a foot to the right of the target. He was wearing nothing but a pair of dirty shorts, and the sweat glistened on his soft, plump body with its peeling skin and its host of freckles.
Keeton dropped a hand on Bristow’s shoulder and swung him round.
‘You bastard!’ Keeton said.
He lifted his right hand and struck Bristow on the cheek with the open palm. The sound of the blow was almost as loud as the report of the rifle. The blood flamed in Bristow’s cheek.
‘You shot my cat‚’ Keeton said; and he struck Bristow’s other cheek.
He wanted Bristow to hit back; he wanted to goad Bristow into retaliation so that he could really hurt the man. Unless Bristow fought back it would not be possible to punish him as he deserved to be punished.
Bristow said: ‘What the hell are you talking about? What are you hitting me for?’
Keeton could tell that Bristow had been drinking again. He was not drunk, but there was the smell of spirits on his breath. His eyes looked bloodshot and the two stinging smacks on his cheeks had brought tears into them.
‘You know damn well what I’m talking about. You know why I hit you. You killed my cat.’
‘Your cat? Since when has it been yours? I’ve as much right to it as you.’
‘You had no right to shoot it.’ Keeton’s voice was flint hard. Anger was burning in him and he wanted to crush Bristow, to beat him to pulp. He hated Bristow at this moment as he had never hated anyone in his life.