We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [75]
"It's all ruined ... who is the bastard ... if only I could find that accursed bastard."
He scowled at me as if I too were suspected of a crime, the nature of which I couldn't fathom. His plans, whatever they were, had been thwarted. He owed me an explanation for the nightmare we'd just lived through. But I realized that now was the wrong time to ask him. If I valued my life, there might never be a right one.
I glanced over at him anxiously, trying to gauge the mood that accompanied his stream of muttered expletives. So when his face lit in a sudden smile, it caught me off guard.
"Well, I never," he exclaimed, as though he'd just spotted a much-missed friend whom he'd soon be welcoming with open arms.
I turned to see what had caught his attention and there, half a cable's length astern, the natives' canoe was bobbing up and down in our gleaming wake. I could barely believe my eyes. How could they possibly think they had a chance of defeating us now?
They worked their paddles feverishly. They were all sitting down; not one of them stood to aim a gun. There were seven or eight of them left: perhaps they wanted to be sure in advance they'd hit their target this time. They might even be planning to board us. Had they learned nothing?
I didn't for one moment worry about their attacking us. I simply pitied them and their naive folly, for it seemed they were not just dicing with death, but positively inviting it. Their daring filled me with deep sadness on their behalf.
No, I didn't fear the natives and their suicidal attack. I feared Jack Lewis's reawakened blood lust.
"What a delightful surprise," he declared. "And I was just thinking that the fun was over."
He grabbed his rifle and placed it on his shoulder. Then he lowered it.
"They're too far away," he said, sounding disappointed. "Let them catch up a bit. Sail closer to the wind."
"But Captain," I objected, "they've no chance of reaching us. Surely enough blood has been shed by now?"
He looked at me dispassionately. "We were attacked and we defended ourselves. That's all."
"But we're not being attacked now. And as long as we stick to our course, we won't be."
"Sail closer!"
My hands still hesitated on the wheel. He stepped up close to me, and his small eyes widened with rage.
"Mr. Madsen, I'm the captain of the Flying Scud and I have just given you an order. If it doesn't please the young gentleman to obey, he will be regarded as a mutineer, and mutineers get short shrift from me."
He poked the barrel of the gun into my face and for a moment we stared into each other's eyes.
It wasn't his stare or the menacing closeness of the gun barrel that made me follow his order. The weapon was shaking in his hands, and I sensed that although his voice was calm, he was in an uncontrollable rage—not at me or the natives who had spoiled his plans, but at the entire world. And he didn't care who paid the price: the natives or his first mate. It was all the same to him.
"Aye, aye, Captain," I said, and turned the wheel.
He lowered the rifle and returned to the stern. The ship dropped speed until we lay still, with the sails flapping in the breeze. The natives' canoe came closer. Jack Lewis raised his rifle and began picking them off one by one. With each direct hit, he emitted a short, contented grunt.
The canoe kept gliding forward. One after another, the natives stood up with their guns, aimed, fired, and fell dead.
At last there was only one left—but he kept paddling toward us. Jack Lewis paused in his shooting, and his attention seemed to drift momentarily. It was clear that his rage had abated.
"Leave him be," I said. "It's enough."
He looked up and gave me a small, sleepy smile, and in that moment his face had the strange gentleness of a newly wakened child.
"You're right," he said. "It's enough." He joined me.
"Aye, aye, Captain, straight ahead."
Once more the wind filled our sails and we raced ahead at the same speed as before. Neither of us spoke for a while.