them as it dragged behind. The shark swerved and made its first pass; it seemed to hump up out of the water, and its mouth opened. The upper jaw bulged out, the lower jaw gaped, and the multiple rows of teeth came erect like the quills of a porcupine, and it hit the sack.
Locking its jaws into the coarse jute material, worrying it, still humped out of the water, shaking its blunt head clumsily, scattering a spray of water drops that flew like shattered glass in the sun.
'Grab here!' commanded Sebastian, leaning out to offer the blade of the oar to the pair in the water. They clutched at it with the strength of fear, and Sebastian drew them in.
But the sack and the shark were still attached to Flynn, its threshing threatening to break Flynn's hold on the lifeline around the raft.
Dropping to his knees, Sebastian fumbled the knife from its sheath and sawed at the rope. It parted. The shark, still worrying the sack, worked away from the raft and Sebastian helped the Arabs to drag first Flynn, and then Mohammed, over the side.
They were not finished yet. There were still half a dozen men in the water.
Realizing its error at last, the shark relinquished its hold on the sack. It backed away. For a moment it hung motionless, puzzled, then it circled out towards the nearest sound of splashing. One of the gun-boys, clawing at the water in exhausted dog- paddle. The shark hit him in the side, and pulled him under. Moments later he reappeared, his mouth an open pink cave as he screamed, the water about him clouded dark red-brown by his own blood. Again he was pulled under as the shark hit his legs, but again he floated. This time face down, wriggling feebly, and the shark circled him, dashing in to chop off a mouthful of his flesh, backing away to gulp it down before coming in again.
There was suddenly more sharks and so many that Sebastian could not count them, as they circled and dived in ecstatic greed, until the sea around the raft trembled and swirled in agitation.
Sebastian and his Arabs managed to drag two more of the crew into the raft and they had a third half out of the water when a six-foot white-pointer shot up from the depths, and fastened on his thigh with such violence that it almost jerked all of them overboard. But they steadied themselves and held on to the man's arms, frozen in this gruesome tug-of-war, while the shark worried the leg, so dog-like in its determination that Sebastian expected it to growl.
Little Mohammed staggered to his feet, snatched up an oar and swung it against the pointed snout with all his strength. They had dragged the shark's head from the water, and the oar fell on it with a series of rubbery thumps, but the shark held on. Fresh, bright blood squirted and trickled from the leg in its jaws, running down the shark's glistening snake-like head into the open slits of its gill covers.
'Hold him!' gasped Sebastian, and drew his knife. The raft rocking crazily under him, he leaned over the man's outstretched body and drove the knife blade into the shark's expressionless little eye. It popped in a burst of clear fluid, and the shark stiffened and trembled. Sebastian withdrew the blade and stabbed into the other eye. With a convulsive gulp the shark opened its jaws and slid back into the sea to meander blindly away.
There were no more swimmers. The little group on the raft huddled together and watched the shark pack milling hungrily, seeming to sniff at the tainted water as they gathered the last morsels of meat.
The shark victim hosed the deck with his severed femoral artery and died before any of them could rouse themselves to apply a tourniquet.
'Push him oVer,' grunted Flynn.
'No,' Sebastian shook his head.
'Chrissake, we're crowded enough as it is. Chuck the poor bastard over.'
'Later on, not now.' Sebastian could not stand to watch the sharks squabble over the corpse.
'Mohammed, get a couple of your lads on the oars. I want to pick up as many of those coconuts as we can.'
By the time darkness stopped them, they had retrieved fifty-two of the floating coconuts, sufficient to keep the seven of them thirst-free for a week.
It was cold that night. They crowded together for warmth and watched the underwater pyrotechnics, as the shark pack circled the raft in phosphorescent splendour.
'You've got to cut for it,' Flynn whispered, and he shivered with cold in the burning heat of the midday sun.
'I don't know anything about it,' Sebastian protested, yet he could see that Flynn was dying.
'You've got to do it!' Flynn's eyes had sunk into plum-coloured cavities and the smell of his breath was that of something long dead.
Staring at the leg, Sebastian had difficulty controlling his nausea. It was swollen fat and purple. The bullet hole was covered with a crusty black scab, but Sebastian caught a whiff of the putrefaction under it and this time his nausea came up acid sweet into the back of his throat. He swallowed it.
'You've got to do it, Bassie boy.'
Sebastian nodded, and tentatively laid his hand on the leg. Immediately he jerked his fingers away, surprised by the heat of the skin.
'You've got to do it,' urged Flynn. 'Feel for the slug. It's not deep. Just under the skin.'
He felt the slug, It moved under his fingers, the size of a green acorn in the taut hot flesh.
'It's going to hurt like Billy-o.' Sebastian's voice was hoarse.
The rowers were resting on their oars, watching with frank curiosity, while the raft eddied and swung in the drift of the Mozambique current. Above them the sail that Sebastian had rigged from salvaged planking and canvas flapped wearily, throwing a shadow across the leg.
'Mohammed, you and one other to hold the master's shoulders. Two others to keep his legs still.'
Flynn lay quiescent, pinioned beneath them on the slats of the deck.
Sebastian knelt over him, gathering his resolve. The knife he had sharpened against the metal edge of the raft, and then scrubbed clean with coconut fibre and seawater.
He had sluiced the leg also, and washed his hands until the skin tingled. Beside him on the deck stood half a coconut shell containing perhaps an ounce of evaporated salt scraped from the deck and the sail, ready to pack into the open wound. 'Ready?'he whispered.
'Ready,' grunted Flynn, and Sebastian located the lump of the bullet and drew the edge of the blade across it timidly.
Flynn gasped, but human skin was tougher than Sebastian allowed. It did not part.
'Goddamn you!' Flynn was sweating already. 'Don't play with it. Cut, man, cud'
This time Sebastian slashed, and the flesh split open under the blade. He dropped the knife and drew back in horror as the infection bubbled up through the lips of the knife wound. It looked like yellow custard mixed with prune juice and the smell of it filled his nostrils and his throat.
'Go for the slug. Go for it with your fingers.' Flynn writhed beneath the men who held him. 'Hurry. Hurry. I can't take much more.'
Steeling himself, closing his throat against the vomit that threatened to vent at any moment, Sebastian slipped his little finger into the slit. Hooking with it for the bullet, finding it, easing it up although tissue clung to it reluctantly, until it popped from the wound and dropped on to the deck.
A fresh gush of warm poison followed it out, flowing over Sebastian's hand, and he crawled to the edge of the raft, choking and gagging.
'Wished we had some red cloth.' Flynn sat against the rickety mast. He was still very weak but four days ago the fever had broken with the release of the poison.
'What would you do with it?' Sebastian asked.
'Catch me one of those dolphins. Man, I'm so god damned hungry I'd eat it raw.'
A four-day diet of coconut pulp and milk had left all their bellies grumbling.
'Why red?'
'They go for red. Make a lure.'
'You haven't any hooks or line.'
'Tie it to a bit of twine from the sack and tease them up to the surface then harpoon one with your knife tied to an oar.'
Sebastian was silent, peering thoughtfully over the side at the deep flashes of gold where the shoal of dolphin played under the raft. 'It's got to be red, hey?' he asked, and Flynn looked at him sharply;
'Yeah. It's got to be red.'
'Well...' Sebastian hesitated, and then flushed with embarrassment under his tropical sunburn.
'What's wrong with you?'
Still blushing, Sebastian stood up and loosened his belt then, shyly as a bride on her wedding night, he drew down his pants.
'MY God,' breathed Flynn in shock, as he held up his hand to shield his eyes.
'Haul Haul'was the chorus of admiration from the crew.
'Got them at Harrods,' said Sebastian with becoming modesty.
Red, Flynn had asked for but Sebastian's underpants were the brightest, most beautiful red; the most vivid sunset and roses red, he could have imagined. They hung in oriental splendour to Sebastian's knees.
'Pure silk,' said Sebastian, fingering the cloth. 'Ten shillings a pair.'
'Whoa now! Come on,
