Jamrach's Menagerie - Carol Birch [91]
“How do you know it’s dead?” said Tim. “How do you know it didn’t get home and it’s sitting there right now on its little island with its grandchildren at its knee telling them all about its big adventure amongst the madmen?”
“Sit down, Skip,” said Dan. “Don’t open your mouth again.”
Mr. Rainey came down with a bad head cold. His eyes watered constantly and his nose ran like a tap. “I’ll be coughing next,” he said, “it always goes to my chest. You lot better keep away from me.”
Fat chance.
“Remember, lads,” Dan said, dispensing our water, “for every day that passes we are one day closer to rescue.”
“Aye, by God,” Rainey agreed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
We drank a little then baled some more, till Dag gave a shout and we saw dogfish between the boats. Gabriel reached for his spear. Shining fins, three, four, came and went. It was no good. We couldn’t get anywhere near close enough. We stalked them as well as we could for the best part of an hour before they left us, heading west in a line. Darkness fell complete, no moon, no stars. It was Tim’s watch, then Dan’s. I slept. When I woke, Mr. Rainey, coughing irritatingly, was talking with Gabriel.
“The boat’s gone, Jaf,” Tim said in a wonderstruck voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Gone.”
“What? The other boat?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“It was just gone when the light came up.”
I sat up. The sea was empty. Skip woke up and raised himself slowly, blinking. No one spoke. There was nothing to be done. We drank our ration. Mr. Rainey spewed his back up, nearly flinging himself overboard in the action.
“Lie down, man,” said Dan.
“How can they be gone?” asked Skip in a puzzled tone.
I tried not to think.
“I think I will,” Rainey said, blinking. His forehead was bright red, dripping.
“Where have they gone?”
“Hush, Skip.” Gabriel put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no answer to it. It’s not a question worth asking.”
“Give us your knife, Gabe,” I said, “I want to cut my toenails.”
“Don’t cut your toes off, boy.” He handed it over.
“Can’t look for them,” Dan said. “Nothing we can do.”
“They’ve got the quadrant,” I said, setting about my nails.
“And the matches,” Skip added.
“No matter. We can dead reckon.” Dan smiled bravely. “Valparaiso, here we come.”
We would miss the fiddle. I concentrated on my toes. My eyes filled. Our friends over there, their faces always glimpsed sideways, the captain big and owly, Yan’s handsome, slanted cheeks, Simon brooding, Wilson stoic, Dag’s hair like white cheese. And poor, worried John Copper biting his lips. Never see them again? They weren’t dead though, not like those other ones, and now I must number them again, for to forget is death. I laid the knife by. I was blind, full of tears. Billy Stock, Henry Cash, Martin Hannah, Abel Roper, Joe Harper, Mr. Comeragh, Felix. Who else? Sam. How could I forget old Sam? If I closed my eyes he was there. If I closed my eyes anything was there: Ishbel, Meng’s fireplace with its meerschaum pipes, the corner of Watney Street.
We sailed blind all day and all the next.
“How far away do you think it is to Chile?” asked Tim.
Dan laughed. “A little way yet.”
“At least two weeks,” said Gabriel.
Mr. Rainey had ripped his shirt open at the front and, still sleeping, was scratching fretfully away at three red sores the size of shillings that had formed a triangle on his hairless chest.
It rained. The weather at sea is like running paint. All the sky smudges. The shades of sky move in a dance, run along the curving horizon, take on form. The east was a shining slate and shimmered at us like a god. Mr. Rainey slept in the rain. It cooled our sores. We held up our faces to catch the drops and it ran in our eyes and washed all sweat away, singing like a choir, millions of voices in perfect harmony. The boat began to buck and prance. Big waves rolled under us.
“It’s coming. Down sails,” Dan said.
The gale raged all night and all the next day and all the night after that. There was nothing to be done with the boat. We lay low, all huddled together in the bottom. When darkness came we held