Authors: John Christopher
‘No, seriously.’
‘Seriously, there is nothing to worry about. We have had storm after storm, but storms do not go on without stopping some time. When we come into calmer seas, we try again with the rudder. We will fix it, and when we have fixed it we can see to the engines. Then we limp quietly to the south, into the shipping lanes. With clear skies, we can fix our position. Even if we do not sight a ship, we can make a port.’
‘What port?’
‘Maybe Reykjavik – Iceland, that is.’
‘I know. We’ve been blown so far north?’
‘Farther, maybe.’
‘And then – I suppose the
Kreya
will be in port for some time, while the rudder is mended?’
Mouritzen laughed. ‘Truly, for some time!’
‘And us – the passengers?’
‘You will be taken to your destinations. By air, I guess.’
‘I see.’
‘And all the bells of Amsterdam will ring for the marrying.’
Her hand, which he still held, was drawn away.
She said: ‘Please, Niels. Please don’t make fun of me.’
‘I make fun of you,’ he said, ‘because I love you. Don’t turn away from me, Mary. You are listening? I love you. I will always love you.’
Her voice stifled, she said: ‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’ve heard it before. Because it doesn’t mean anything, except loneliness and misery.’
‘Words can be good or bad, true or false. What do you think I want of you?’
‘The same. It’s always the same.’
‘Listen. You will not go to Amsterdam, you and Annabel. You will go to Copenhagen, where my mother and my two sisters and my two sisters-in-law will look after you both until the
Kreya
can come back. And when the
Kreya
comes back, there will be a wedding, and much talk and laughing and drinking, and afterwards I will take you to bed. And not until then will I even kiss you on the mouth. Not even though you beg for it.’
Mary looked at him. She said:
‘Now I think you mean it. But people change. They think they’re strong, constant, but they’re not.’
‘I am not strong,’ Mouritzen said. ‘I cannot say you will be getting a strong husband. But constant is something else. A weak person can be constant.’
‘It’s easier if they’ve had practice. Harder if the practice has been in something else.’
‘All right,’ he protested. ‘I have known a lot of women. That gives me firmer judgment. I have searched the world for an honest woman. At last, I have found one.’
Her face showed pain. ‘Honest?’
‘That before anything else.’
She got up from the sofa and went to the dressing-table where her handbag lay. She opened it, and took out her passport. Coming back, she gave it to Mouritzen.
‘Something you should see.’
He held the passport without opening it, looking up at her and smiling. He said:
‘I love you very much when you look grave. When we are married, I must give you lots of troubles, so that you will look sad and serious over them.’
‘Open it.’
He did so, and studied the photograph. He shook his head. ‘Here you are grave also, but the expression is different. I do not like this one.’
‘Read it.’
Instead he looked up. ‘To find that little Annabel is a love-child? I knew that.’
‘How?’
‘At the beginning. Thorsen is a creature that pries. Do not waste anger on him. He is a sorry thing. The other day, when he was drunk and soaked in whisky – I think perhaps he tried to make love to Nadya and she poured the whisky over him. I think that from something she said, and the way he looked at her. You will not worry about Thorsen?’
‘No. But you …’
‘For me,’ he said, ‘I am sorry you have had so much unhappiness. But I am glad he did not marry you, because you would have been a true wife even though he was not worthy of you, and if, somehow, I had met you, you would not have let yourself look at me. And I am glad you were seduced, for otherwise there would not have been an Annabel, and I have always wanted such a daughter.’
She started to sob. Mouritzen drew her down beside him.
‘I think you will like Copenhagen,’ he said. ‘It is better than Amsterdam. Amsterdam smells of stale cigarette ends, and all the men spit in the streets. I think you and Annabel will be happier in Copenhagen.’
She sobbed against his chest.
‘Do not cry,’ Mouritzen said. ‘I do not want you to cry.’ He put his hands to her cheeks and lifted her face. ‘I would like to ask a question,’ he said, ‘but since you are an honest woman, I fear the answer.’
She stopped crying. Her eyes were a little red but she looked, he thought, more beautiful than ever.
‘You needn’t ask,’ she said. ‘I love you, Niels. I do love you.’
‘Then I am entirely happy.’ As their faces came together, he raised his lips and kissed her on the forehead. ‘As I told you,’ he said. ‘Not even though you beg for it.’
Mouritzen had the night watch. In the evening of the previous day, after a sudden squalling tempest of hail, the winds and seas had moderated, and they continued to lessen throughout the night. About three o’clock the clouds began to break up and, for the first time in weeks, Mouritzen saw the stars. The clouds went quite rapidly, and the seas slackened until there was no more than a long swell astern. On it the
Kreya
rolled at her ease.
So it had come at last, Mouritzen reflected – the end of this overlong symphony with its tyranny of repeated crescendos. In the morning they would be able to rig the jury-rudder, and the
Kreya
would have direction and purpose again. It would be good if she could come, under her own steam, into port, for other ships to gape and wonder at. There would be something to make them wonder. By now the company would be looking for the insurance.
A memorable voyage – storm, wreck, mutiny, a ship driven aimlessly by wind and waves for two weeks nearly, and for himself, a wife. Mouritzen smiled. It was good to have a direction, after drifting so long. They would like her at home. It was always easy to know the things the family would like. I will marry before Eiler does, he thought: that will be a surprise for them.
The stars overhead were very bright. The radar scanner revolved, showing an empty screen. There should be a half-moon – no, three-quarter, rising later in the night. When it did, he decided, he would cut the radar. The generator had been running with a very ragged note the last time he had attended to it. Even though they should have the engines working by midday, there was no sense in not continuing to observe reasonable precautions.
The starlit sea was empty; the long swell rolled across it like a dark, dipping shadow that repeated itself again and again. Mouritzen turned from it. He contemplated the new life that lay ahead. Perhaps a little house out towards Virum. Perhaps near Inge; she could look after Mary, help her with all the things that would be hard at the beginning. And Annabel and Viggo would be almost the same age – they would play together. And there would be the holidays at Aarhus, by the sea, in the old house. It would be pleasant to take Mary and Annabel there – and, in time, the other children. It was a wonderful house for children, in the summer. He could see Mary, in the big room, surrounded by children …
The fog came up suddenly, on the port bow, and he was not aware of it until the stars lying lower in that arc of sky were blotted out. After that he could see it advance, a vaulting shadow that moved in over the rippling shadow on the sea, and swallowed it. Soon the poop-light was dimmed and then the fog was all round. It settled on the ship like cold, translucent fur.
Mouritzen thought of calling Olsen, but decided against it. There was nothing to be done, and Olsen was getting little enough sleep these days. The
Kreya
lay at her ease in the middle of nowhere; the fog made little difference to that. They were in calm seas at last; that was what mattered. He glanced at the screen, but there was only emptiness.
After a time he put a heavy coat on and walked out on to the quarter-deck. There was nothing to be seen but the ship’s lights and the chilled and thickened air. Mouritzen turned up his coat collar. It was bitterly cold – colder than it had been during the previous evening’s hailstorm. The very stillness of the air seemed to make it bite deeper. He stamped the deck energetically to keep warm.
When he went inside again he took the thermos flask and poured himself a mug of coffee. The cold followed him in, and he held his two hands around the mug to warm them. He drank from the mug slowly and poured himself another. It was when he was half-way through this second one that his ears caught the dull, distant roar of surf.
The screen showed nothing, and he could not understand that. A very low foreshore … but the noise was distinct, and these were not heavy seas. He would have to call Olsen now. He went to the speaking-tube that led to the Captain’s cabin, and blew. There was no immediate reply. That also surprised him. The surprise lasted only a few moments, until he heard footsteps on the ladder. He turned as Olsen put his head above deck-level.
‘I was just calling you,’ he said. ‘That is surf breaking. Listen.’
Olsen nodded. ‘I hear it.’
‘But the screen is blank.’
‘That is not surprising. You do not know these waters, Niels?’
‘No.’
‘I know them. Is there any coffee left?’
‘In the second thermos. I’ll get you some.’
Olsen took the coffee and drank it. Hunched against the cold, he looked smaller than ever, an old, wise and wizened man. He nodded towards the windows.
‘The moon comes up.’
He was right; the fog was taking on a whiter, pearly look forward. Probably it did not rise very high above the surface of the sea. Olsen walked over to the radar screen and Mouritzen followed him. He pointed.
‘There is your foreshore.’
The glowing line was scarcely visible, but it was clear and extensive, covering more than ninety degrees.
‘We should not hear the noise of surf so soon from that,’ Mouritzen observed. ‘Something is wrong with the screen, maybe?’
‘You should have wakened me when the seas dropped and the fog came down.’
‘I thought of that. But all was clear, and you need the rest.’
‘Yes. And we are helpless still – one forgets that. The fog woke me; it always makes me cough.’ He cleared his throat, as though to emphasize this. ‘And then, feeling the cold, I guessed what it was even before I heard the noise.’
‘The surf?’
‘Not surf. Pack-ice. The floes grinding against each other on the swell. With these seas you hear it before the screen shows anything. The sound carries far.’
‘I thought it might be the coast of Iceland. Pack-ice! Have we come so far north?’
‘Before the fog – was the sky clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you take a fix?’
‘No. I thought there was no urgency.’
Olsen stared at him. ‘Give up the sea, Niels. You are young still. And if you think there is ever a time at sea when there is no urgency, you are in the wrong profession.’
‘Perhaps I am. Perhaps I will find a job on land, and sail a little boat at weekends.’
‘If we get back to land. I will take over here. Rouse the men. Get them to work on that rudder.’
‘Now?’
‘You have never seen pack-ice. You will, soon enough. Right away. We may hold clear until we have time to get steam up and start the engines. Or maybe it is a mirage and will vanish. Go to it. Waste no more time.’
By the time he had them mustered, the mist was whiter yet from the rising moon, and the crackling thunder of the ice sounded nearer and more menacing. The cold was still intense, and all of them found difficulty in handling gear. The business progressed slowly, with many checks and fumblings. The length of piping which they were using to sleeve the shaft presented the major problem; it had to be lashed securely and the metal was burningly cold to the fingers.
From the quarter-deck, Olsen called down to them:
‘How does it go?’
Mouritzen called back: ‘Nearly ready. But I don’t know whether we have enough clearance. It is going to take some pushing to move her, anyway.’
The blade of the home-made rudder dipped in the water as, with the sleeve lashed, Mouritzen released the block on the shaft and they let it down. It was a very rough fit. At first they could not move the tiller but slowly, reluctantly, it swung over. The
Kreya
still drifted through the milky sea of mist. Without power she had no purchase on the water.
He went back to the bridge to report to Olsen, who nodded in silent acknowledgment. Over his shoulder, Mouritzen saw something whiter than the pervading grey appear, take on shape as a raft of ice, and glide past. He drew Olsen’s attention to it.
‘Yes,’ Olsen said, ‘I have seen others.’
‘If we hit it …’
‘Such small clumps will do no damage to a ship like this.’ He pointed to starboard. ‘There is our danger.’
Dimly through the mist it was possible to see a long, unbroken line of white, without beginning or end. From it came the now familiar throbbing roar, louder and heavier.
‘My God!’ Mouritzen said. ‘We must be within a couple of hundred metres of it.’
‘A little more, I fancy. Perhaps three hundred. And a current – one knot, maybe. So in ten minutes we make our ice-fall.’ He grinned. ‘I do not think we shall manage to get a head of steam up in that time.’
‘Then what?’
‘We trust to luck. And we must hope she will keep her screws clear of the ice.’
The line loomed nearer out of the mist as the minutes passed. There was no break. It appeared to rise no more than a foot or two out of the sea, but the greater bulk, naturally, would be below the water-level. As they approached it, Mouritzen could see individual turrets and blocks of ice rising out of the featureless mass, and could see, too, that the vast plain was in slow, undulant motion, as the tide lifted it and sucked it down again. The sound, also, broke up as it grew louder; one could hear the crashes and grindings of individual encounters.
‘I never thought ice would frighten me,’ Mouritzen said.
Olsen clutched his arm. It was a rare gesture; he was not physically demonstrative.