Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (7 page)

 
          
 
By extraordinary contortions Fitz managed to
get into his hammock. But sleep was impossible. The motion of the ship became
that of a barrel-churn, threatening to dash them against its walls. He had no
idea (how much later it was when someone thrust in a wet head and ordered them
out; he followed Biggs as the marine lieutenant hustled along the reeling,
vomiting line of his men to the pumps.

 
          
 
And there Fitz swung into the rhythm of up and
down, up and down, long before a faint grayish light :rept out to show them the
nature of the machines they labored at. His clothes were plastered to him by a
sort of salty glue from the sea water, and his lashes were sealed by it to his
cheeks. Both his hands and arms were numb and he moved only to the swing of the
pump. Fogler loomed up in the dusky light.

 
          
 
"Here be
th
'
relief, sir. Give over t' th' boys now!”

 
          
 
But Fitz remained stupidly where he was until
someone elbowed him aside, and he found himself with langing hands watching
another line of men at work. Fogler caught his arm and turned him around as if
le were a wooden puppet.

           
 
"Best get below, sir. Rub yourself down
like an' take a swig o'
th
' right stuff int' warm yer
belly.
'Tis cruel cold."

 
          
 
Perhaps the sergeant propelled him there,
perhaps his own numb feet carried him; Fitz had no clear memory of how he reached
his cabin. But once there he summoned sufficient energy to strip off his salt-encrusted
clothing and towel himself with one of the blankets. He was pulling on a dry
shirt when Biggs bumped in, caught a hammock square in the face and swore
bitterly.

 
          
 
The marine lieutenant was as soaked as Fitz
had been, and his face was pinched blue with cold. When he attempted to pull
off his coat his hands shook uncontrollably and tears of fatigue and pain cut
through the salt stains about his bloodshot eyes. Fitz pushed the fumbling
hands aside and plucked his superior officer out of the wet wool and linen,
using a second blanket to rub circulation back into the other's shivering body.

 
          
 
"
Rum "
Biggs forced out the word. "Top tray . . . chest . . ."

 
          
 
Fitz found the squat bottle. But on his first
attempt to drink, Biggs spilt more across his chin than he got between his
chattering teeth. A second gulp made him sputter, and then he forced the bottle
on Fitz who choked and gagged as liquid fire trailed down his throat and came to
full blaze in the pit of his stomach.

           
 
"When do we founder?" Fitz's tongue
was limber enough now to shape words.

 
          
 
"Not yet," Biggs had recovered
enough to start pawing through his chest for fresh clothing. "Though only
the Good Lord knows where we are. Matthews was right when he said this ship
wasn't built for
th
' north seas. She's shipped half o'
'em down her gullet already."

 
          
 
Fitz tried to stretch the kinks out of his
aching shoulders. "Yes, and we've pumped 'em all out again! I'll warrant
I've sprung all my muscles."

 
          
 
"Be glad you've still got 'em t'
spring," snapped Biggs. "Under any other master you might well be
shark food by now!"

 
          
 
Where we fell in with a British ship,

            
Bound homeward from the
Main
;

            
We gave her two bow-chasers,

            
And she returned the same.

 
          
 
—cruise of the Fair American

 
          
 
But the
crew of the
Retaliation were
far from becoming fish-fodder. When Fitz came back on
deck the sun greeted him, lighting a scene of feverish activity as the sailors
set about repairing storm damage. Waves had shrunk from mountainous reaches to
reasonable swells, and a circle of white birds dipped and screamed above the
mainmast.

 
          
 
Fogler stood by the pumps, watching the
outflow with a judicious and experienced eye. As Fitz joined him the sergeant
glanced up.

 
          
 
"She's a stout-bottomed piece,
sir, that
she is!
Wi
' all that
batterin' she's started nary a seam. Th' Cap'n, he knows how t' pick a ship, he
does!"

 
          
 
"How long do we keep at the pumps
then?" Fitz wanted to know.

 
          
 
" 'Til
we
lighten her t' th' bilges, sir. She answers a right smart quicker now than she
did even a half hour ago. We're past
th
' worst."

 
          
 
The wind which curled around their bodies
lacked the icy lash which it had cracked during the storm. It was fresh, almost
balmy, against Fitz's peeling and salt-sore skin. He noted alongside in the
water trails of brown hairy weed which laced across the deep green-blue of the
waves with the grace of a horse's blowing mane.

 
          
 
Fogler pointed to it. "That says we're
off course fer sure, sir.
Southward.
That there's gulf weed afloatin' free.
They say as how
somewheres off
th
' islands there's a kinda land o' it
what draws t' it ships an' holds 'em tight 'til Judgment Day.
It's
queer stuff, right enough, wi' all sorts o' fish an'
crabs an' such like a-livin' in it."

 
          
 
The word "crabs" awoke certain
memories dear to the stomach of any Marylander. For the first time in a great
many hours Fitz recognized the empty ache under the curve of his breast bone
for what it was—the pangs of honest hunger. And at the same time the thought of
the ever-present salt pork aroused in him real revulsion.

 
          
 
"Can one fish overside?" he asked
Fogler.

 
          
 
"You can try, sir. Sometimes if a man be
quick enough he can git him a fish or two."

 
          
 
"Is it fishing now?"
Watts
had come up and was regarding the drifting
weed with a critical eye. "You are a sportsman then, Mr. Lyons?"

 
          
 
"I'm hungry," returned Fitz flatly.
"Do we have lines and hooks on board?"

 
          
 
Watts
nodded. "I think I shall join you. And, Sergeant, are you minded to make
one of the party? A bit of fish would be most tasty."

 
          
 
Fogler touched the cocked brim of his hat.
"Aye, aye, sir.
Where d'you favor castin'—from
th
' stern?"

 
          
 
Watts
looked again at the weed and then at the activity around them. "That would
seem wisest—'less we wish a mess of Sargasso weed or to be thumped on the head
with loose tackle."

 
          
 
The lines and hooks which Fogler brought were
outsize. But when Fitz commented on that, his companions laughed and the doctor
said:

 
          
 
“Gad, man, you're not tickling a stream trout
now. Be thankful if your line holds when you do snare one of the monsters which
lurk here. Yes, Sergeant, that is a morsel any sea creature should relish.
Over with it, man, before I send my breakfast with it as a free
contribution!"

 
          
 
Fogler rammed the hook skillfully into a nasty
greasy gray ball and threw it over the rail. When they had five lines out and
drifting,
Watts
leaned over, watching the foam spun in the
Retaliation's wake.

 
          
 
"Even if we don't raise a fish with our
bait we'll have a better meal after this morning's work," he announced.
"Salt water has a fine temporary influence on
pork,
it softens it until a man is well able to chew it."

 
          
 
Fitz was suspicious of that, but
Watts
was apparently in earnest as he watched the
lines with a fond eye.

 
          
 
"How far off course d'you think the storm
drove us?" The Marylander inquired.

 
          
 
"Ask one of the deck officers. I make no
pretense of understanding the mysteries of navigation. But, before such a wind
as tried to trip us up, we must have run far and fast—as far and fast as we
might have sailed in several days of fairer weather. It has this advantage for
us, however, we may have been driven so far south that we are now bowling along
across the path of the homeward bound Indiamen, and if that is so, luck may
smile on us to the tune of fat prizes. Ha!"

 
          
 
Fitz crowded to the rail as
Watts
pulled in the nearest line. Bait and hook
were gone, the line cleanly bitten through. With an exclamation of disgust the
surgeon tossed the wet coils on deck and started to pull in the next—to
discover that it had been served in the same fashion.

 
          
 
Fogler shook his head gloomily.
" 'Tis
one o' th' big ones right enough, sir. He'll
spoil any sport for
us "

 
          
 
"Big ones?" repeated Fitz.

 
          
 
"Shark," explained
Watts
.
"And a wary one.
He hasn't showed where we might sight
him "

 
          
 
"Fishing,
gentlemen?"
Croft came across the deck. "Well, we can use the
fresh meat. The storm found out the storeroom and we're the poorer for several
casks of meat as well as for the livestock which went overboard when a gust
ripped off the gig."

 
          
 
"We'll have no luck this morning,
sir,"
Watts
held up the bitten line. "A shark's
taking bait and
hook "

 
          
 
"Is he?" The Captain examined the
line and then peered over the rail. "Aye," his voice went up with
excitement, "there he is now!"

 
          
 
All three of the fishermen joined him in an
instant, but it was several seconds before Fitz sighted the dark shadow which
kept effortlessly beside the ship.

 
          
 
"Not such a big one after all," was
Watts
' first comment. "But we might get a
steak or two off him."

 
          
 
"My thought exactly, Dr. Watts.
Sergeant," Crofts turned to Fogler, "ask the carpenter for shark
lines and hooks. And have the boys
roll
out one of the
small kegs of spoiled pork."

 
          
 
"Aye, aye, sir!"

 
          
 
"He's a wicked looking beast,"
Watts
observed, "and dangerous."

 
          
 
Crofts grinned.
"Oh,
aye, as dangerous as a British mail packet, and with almost as many teeth.
We'll have to outsmart him just as we outsmart the lobsters at their games. But
he'll be tasty served up with onions! Pass the word for Samkin Jones to stand
by with a harpoon —a whaling man has a true eye for this business."

 
          
 
Two of the ship's boys pattered across the
deck, rolling a small keg before them.
And with them tramped
two men, one carrying an axe and a handspike, both well sharpened, and the
other, a six-foot Negro, cradling a knife-edged harpoon.
Fogler brought
up the rear of the procession, a coil of thick line about his arm and several
giant hooks in his hand. All the men and officers not on duty were gathering at
the rail to point out to each other the skulking shadow below.

 
          
 
Under Crofts' orders the cask was opened and
the boys flung chunks of meat overboard. Fitz watched the evil shape rise
silently and almost gracefully, flash a mouth of ugliness, and vanish with the
bait. The shark fed leisurely and without fear for several minutes until the
Captain nodded to Fogler.

 
          
 
The sergeant dug one of the vicious hooks into
another lump and pitched it over. The shark took it.

 
          
 
Not only took it but fought while Fogler and
the carpenter tried to bring it alongside where the tall harpooner could use
his weapon or the clamoring men could slip another line about the flailing
tail. That was done at last, and they heaved up a second after the noose
slipped into place. But, as the fighting shark broke water, it snapped
partially free, slapping the side of the Retaliation hard enough to stow in
cabin windows and make the whole ship shudder. Cursing, the men tried to put
the rope back. But they were elbowed aside by the harpooner who thrust down
several times while the spectators cheered.

 
          
 
"Heave!" The bos'n took a hand on
the line. "Heave, ye
blasted,
butter-fingered
landlubbers!"

 
          
 
They brought the shark up but it was not yet
defeated. Once over the rail, that murderous tail lashed inward, sending them
all flying. The man at the wheel ducked, though he did not desert his post, and
arose again to find two of the spokes shorn cleanly away.

 
          
 
An officer sprang to pass Fitz, handspike in
hand, just as the Marylander skidded out of the path of that tail. They
collided and went down together. Fitz kicked free. His groping fingers closed
about the shaft of the handspike as he scrambled up. Hardly knowing what he was
doing, he poked the weapon at the slippery roundness of that flopping silver
belly. At the touch of the iron, the huge fish contorted, needle teeth scoring
the planking, tearing splinters from the deck.

 
          
 
"That's it, sir!" someone shouted.
"Tickle 'im again!"

 
          
 
Obediently Fitz prodded a second time,
circling warily and trying to avoid the shearing tail.

 
          
 
There was the flash of metal through the air,
and a spurt of dark blood fountained up. Fitz stumbled back as the carpenter
brought his axe down for a second and fatal stroke. The shark quivered, its
tail raised a last inch or two from the deck, and then it was still. Fitz
dropped the handspike and stood where he was, breathing hard.

 
          
 
Across the body of the fish Ninnes faced him,
hat-less, a rent in the shoulder of his jacket. And Fitz realized it had been
the lieutenant with whom he had tangled.