The Dark Crusader. Alistair MacLeanЧитать онлайн книгу.
it ought to have been, lying loose on top of the hatch-cover. I lowered it gently to the deck, bent my back as I took another two steps up the ladder, hooked my fingers over the edge of the hatch-cover and straightened both back and arm in one movement so that the hinged cover swung vertically open and my head was suddenly two feet above deck level. A jack-in-the-box couldn’t have done any better. Nobody shot me.
Nobody shot me because there was nobody there to shoot me, and there was nobody there to shoot me because no one but a very special type of moron would have ventured out on that deck without an absolutely compelling reason. Even then he would have required a suit of armour. If you were willing to stand at the bottom of Niagara Falls and to say to yourself that it was only raining, then you could have said it was raining that night. If anyone ever gets around to inventing a machine-gun that fires water instead of bullets I’ll know exactly what it will be like at the receiving end. Enormous cold drops of water, so close together as to be almost a solid wall, lashed the schooner with a ferocity and intensity I would not have believed possible. The decks were a welter of white seething foam as those cannonball giant drops disintegrated on impact and rebounded high into the air, while the sheer physical weight, the pitiless savagery of that torrential rain drumming on your bent back was nothing short of terrifying. Within five seconds I was literally soaked to the skin. I had to fight the almost overwhelming impulse to pull that cover over my head and retreat to the haven of that suddenly warm and dry and infinitely desirable hold. But then I thought of Fleck and his knock-out drops and of a couple of nice new shiny skeletons on the floor of the sea, and I had the hatch-cover fully back and was on deck, calling softly for the water-drums, before I was properly aware of what I was doing.
Fifteen seconds later Marie and the two drums were on deck and I was lowering the hatch-cover back into position and placing the bolt in approximately the original position in case someone did venture out later on a tour of inspection.
With the darkness and the blinding rain visibility didn’t exceed a few feet and we felt rather than saw our way to the stern of the schooner. I leaned far over the rail on the port counter to try to establish the position of the screw, for although the schooner was making hardly any more than three knots now – I supposed the lack of visibility must have forced Fleck to reduce speed – even so that screw could still chop us up pretty badly. At least that.
At first I could see nothing, just a sea surface that was no longer that but a churned and hissing expanse of milky white froth, but my eyes were gradually becoming more adjusted to the darkness and after a minute or so I could clearly make out the smooth black water in the rain-free shelter under the long overhang of the schooner’s stern. Not quite black – it was black flecked with the sparkling iridescence of phosphorus, and it wasn’t long before I traced the area of maximum turbulence that gave rise to the phosphorescence. That was where the screw was – and it was far enough forward to let us drop off over the sternpost without any fear of being sucked into the vortex of the screw.
Marie went first. She held a water drum in one hand while I lowered her by the other until she was half-submerged in the water. Then I let go. Five seconds later I was in the water myself.
No one heard us go, no one saw us go. And we didn’t see Fleck and his schooner go. He wasn’t using his steaming lights that night. With the line of business he was in, he’d probably forgotten where the switch was.
Tuesday 7 p.m.–Wednesday 9 a.m.
After the numbing stinging cold of that torrential rain the water in the sea was almost blissfully warm. There were no waves, any that dared show its head was beaten flat by that deluge, and what little swell there was was long enough to be no more than a gentle undulation on the surface of the sea. The wind still seemed to be from the east: that was if my assumption that the schooner had still been travelling south had been correct.
For the first thirty seconds or so I couldn’t see Marie. I knew she could be only yards away but the rain bouncing off the water raised so dense and impenetrable a curtain that nothing at sea level could be seen through its milky opacity. I shouted, twice, but there was no reply. I took half a dozen strokes, towing the can behind me, and literally bumped into her. She was coughing and spluttering as if she had swallowed some water, but she still retained hold of her water drum and seemed otherwise unharmed. She was high in the water so she must have remembered to operate the CO2 release switch on her lifebelt.
I put my head close to hers and said: ‘All right?’
‘Yes.’ She coughed some more and said: ‘My face and neck. That rain – they feel cut.’
It was too dark to see whether her face was, in fact, cut. But I could believe it, my own face felt as if it had blundered into a wasps’ nest. Black mark for Bentall. The first and most obvious thing that I should have done after opening that hatch and feeling the lash of that cannonading rain should have been to dig some of the left-over clothes out of our suitcases and wrap them round our heads, bandanna-fashion. But too late for tears now. I reached for the plastic bag attached to my drum, ripped it open and spread the blanket over our heads. We could still feel the impact of that rain like a shower of huge hailstones but at least our skins were no longer exposed. It was better than nothing.
When I’d finished arranging it Marie said: ‘What do we do now? Stay here in our tent or start swimming?’
I passed up all the obvious remarks about wondering whether we should swim for Australia or South America, they didn’t even begin to seem funny in the circumstances, and said: ‘I think we should try to move away from here. If this rain keeps up Fleck will never find us. But there’s no guarantee that it will last. We might as well swim west, that’s the way the wind and the swell are running, and it’s easiest for us.’
‘Isn’t that the way Fleck would think and move to the west looking for us?’
‘If he thinks we’re only half as twisted as he is himself, he’ll probably figure we’ve gone in the other direction. Heads you win, tails you lose. Come on.’
We made poor speed. As she’d said, she was no shakes as a swimmer, and those two drums and the soggy heavy blanket didn’t help us much, but we did cover a fair bit of ground in the first hour, swimming for ten minutes, resting for five. If it hadn’t been for the thought that we could do this sort of thing for the next month and still not arrive anywhere, it would have been quite pleasant: the sea was still warm, the rain was beginning to ease and the sharks stayed at home.
After an hour and a half or what I guessed to be approximately that, during which Marie became very quiet, rarely speaking, not even answering when I spoke to her, I said: ‘Enough. This’ll do us. Any energy we have left we’ll use for survival. If Fleck swings this far off course it’s just bad luck and not much that we can do about it.’
I let my legs sink down into the sea, then let out an involuntary exclamation as if I had been bitten or stung. Something large or solid had brushed my leg, and although there are a lot of large and solid things in the sea all I could think of was of something about fifteen feet long with a triangular fin and a mouth like an unsprung bear-trap. And then it came to me that I’d felt no swirl or disturbance in the water and I cautiously lowered my legs again just as Marie said: ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘I wish old Fleck would bring his schooner by here,’ I said yearningly. ‘That would be the end of both of them.
It wasn’t that something large and solid had brushed by my leg, it had been my leg brushing by something large and solid, which was a different thing altogether. ‘I’m standing in about four feet of water.’
There was a momentary pause, then she said: ‘Me, too.’ It was the slow dazed answer of one who cannot believe something: more accurately, of one who can’t understand something, and I found it vaguely puzzling. ‘What do