A day passed, heavy weather beset us, a falling glass, white tops extending to the horizon. In the wireless shop I was kept busy handling traffic for passengers, urgent telegrams to the world, less urgent replies. A ship two hundred miles west of our position reported a force nine winter gale, I wrote out the warning, and sent the slip up to the bridge. As I did so, I glanced out of the port hole. I would have settled for Rykard’s station, but then as the ship pitched more violently and a wall of black water was thrown powerfully against the hull and shook its old iron frame, I remembered that his station was below the sea. My watch over, I handed the slips of radio traffic to my relief, placed the headphones on the wireless table, and headed for the mess hall.
After a meagre meal, I returned to the cabin, undressed and swung into the bunk. I closed my eyes and listened to the ship as she protested and fretted in the water, bracing my body when the bow dipped in a sickening slow motion. At some point I fell asleep. I was awakened by harsh knocking at the cabin door.
“Cap’n’s compliments,” said the steward, “but you are to attend your post.”
I sat up and blinked in the low electric light; the steward stood nervously before me, his chest enveloped by a life preserver and his face by a look of terror. “You are to attend your post urgently sir, a fire’s broke out in the hold.”
Fire! My stomach turned as I looked at him, his face was deathly pale with bloodless lips. I struggled into my clothes, buttoned my jacket haphazardly, and reached for my preserver. Our ship was five hundred miles from land, the closest vessel had reported a position one hundred miles to the north. I ran through the falling corridor, as the ship plunged before me. We were all dead men.
As I climbed the companionway, I heard the Morse key, its dread tapping plaintive and incessant. I threw myself toward the wireless office door and burst into the cramped room. The wireless operator sat with his head bent forward, straining to listen as he tapped out three letters, repeating the sequence calmly but insistently. He stopped and turned toward me; in spite of our peril, he offered a short smile.
“Well, this is a to do,” he said. “Captain has ordered all hands to stations.”
“What about the passengers?”
“They haven’t been woken yet. Keep ‘em calm. No traffic to shore.”
“What ships have responded to the distress call?”
“Three,” and his head dipped to his note pad, “but only one closer than one hundred miles. She’s a merchantman out of Monte Video, bound for Liverpool, with a cargo of refrigerated beef. She’s making twelve knots.” My heart sank.
“She’ll take six hours to reach us. Can we control the fire?”
As I uttered these words, the fire bell in the wireless room erupted shrilly, its hammer beating manically against the steel casing.
I will only once in my life hear the bosun shout “Muster to lifeboats! Muster to lifeboats!”
I stood on the after deck; it was a cold, dark, open cavern. As I scanned the black horizon, the sky flecked with distant stars, the spume of a large wave rose up tinged with scarlet hues, its iridescent colouring a reflection of the inferno which now had consumed the ship as far as the wheelhouse. In spite of the heat from the fire it was biting cold; people around me were whimpering, passengers clung to each other for warmth and in a vain attempt to drive away fear. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure standing alone by the starboard derrick. I knew that it was O’Driscoll. I pushed through the huddle of passengers and strode over to him. He had the same look on his face as the night he had ensnared us in his mad scheme; he laughed, and his eyes shone with a dark light.
“Is this your doing O’Driscoll?!”
“This is the dance!” he cried. “We’re the richest men in the ocean!”
“What do you mean?!”
“It’s deathly quiet below decks. No one in the lounge, or the dining room. No one in the purser’s office,” and he patted his jacket where there was a deep pocket and laughed again.
“If you started the fire, you’ll hang for this!”
He looked hard at me; his eyes bored into my fears. “You and I are the only men who know that the diamonds are not in the safe in the purser’s office. All we have to do is get to a lifeboat.”
At that moment, the bosun approached us; he was a solid squat man with prematurely turned grey hair and beard.
“Why aren’t you at your posts?!” he shouted. “Get to the lifeboats! The captain may give the order to abandon ship at any moment!” And he strode away, leaning into the deck as the ship pitched in the coal black night and a plume of spray washed over us. O’Driscoll’s face was illuminated by the inferno forward that even now had engulfed the wheelhouse. “To Rykard’s station! His lifeboat is almost empty!” he cried and clasped my arm. We struggled forward, the ship silhouetted by the devouring flames. We felt the searing heat on our faces and hands, and all around us the screams and cries of the passengers and crew, as the crew struggled in vain to swing out lifeboats from their davits. At Rykard’s station, besides Rykard, there was only a seaman and a stoker. Terror had rendered them as statues, and the stoker whimpered like a child.
Copyright © David Alexander 2023