'That was twenty minutes ago. You know how painful burns can be. Dr Singh is sure to have given them painkillers and sometimes the only way they can work is by knocking you out.'
'And the other possibility?'
'The chart house. Mr Batesman was working on a chart — he still had a pencil in his hand. I'll go.'
Patterson grimaced. 'Sooner you than me.'
'Don't forget Flannelfoot, sir.' Patterson touched his overalls where he had concealed his gun. 'Or the burial service.'
Patterson looked at the leather-covered folder in distaste. 'And where am I supposed to leave that? On the operating table?'
'There are four empty cabins in the hospital, sir. For recuperating VIPs. We don't have any at the moment.'
'Ah. Ten minutes, then.'
The Bo'sun was back in five minutes, the Chief Engineer in fifteen. An air of almost palpable gloom hung over Patterson.
'No luck, sir?'
'No, dammit. You guessed right. They're under heavy sedation, may be hours before they come to. And if they do start coming to, Dr Singh says, he's going to sedate them again. Apparently, they were trying to tear the bandages off their faces. He's got their hands swathed in bandages — even an unconscious man, the doctor says, will try to scratch away at whatever irritates him. Anyway, their hands were burnt — not badly, but enough to justify the bandages.' 'They've got straps for tying wrists to the bed-frames.' 'Dr Singh did mention that. He said he didn't think Captain Bowen would take too kindly to waking up and finding himself virtually in irons on his own ship. By the 'way, the missing helmsman was Hudson. Broken ribs and one pierced his lung. Doctor says he's very ill. What luck did you have?'
'Same as you, sir. Zero. There was a pair of parallel rules lying beside Mr Batesman so I assume he must have been pencilling out a course.'
'You couldn't gather anything from the chart?' 'It wasn't a chart any more. It was just a bloodstained rag.'
THREE
It was snowing heavily and a bitter wind blew from the east as they buried their dead in the near-Stygian darkness of the early afternoon. A form of illumination they did have, for the saboteur, probably more than satisfied with the results of his morning's activities, was now resting on his laurels and the deck floodlights were working again, but in that swirling blizzard the light given off was weak, fitful and almost ineffectual, serving only to intensify the ghoulish effect of the burial party hastening about their macabre task and the ghostlike appearance of the bare dozen of snow-covered mourners. Flashlight in hand, Chief Engineer Patterson read out the burial service, but he might as well have been quoting the latest prices on the stock exchange for not a word could be heard: one by one the dead, in their weighted canvas shrouds, slipped down the tilted plank, out from under the Union flag and vanished, silently, into the freezing water of the Barents Sea. No bugle calls, no Last Post for the Merchant Navy, not ever: the only requiem was the lost and lonely keening of the wind through the frozen rigging and the jagged gaps that had been torn in the superstructure.
Shivering violently and mottled blue and white with the cold, the burial party and mourners returned to the only reasonably warm congregating space left on the San Andreas — the dining and recreational area in the hospital between the wards and the cabins.
'We owe you a very great debt, Mr McKinnon,' Dr Singh said. He had been one of the mourners and his teeth were still chattering. 'Very swift, very efficient. It must have been a gruesome task.'
'I had six willing pairs of hands,' the Bo'sun said. 'It was worse for them than it was for me.' The Bo'sun did not have to explain what he meant: everybody knew that anything would always be worse for anybody than for that virtually indestructible Shetlander. He looked at Patterson. 'I have a suggestion, sir.'
'A Royal Naval one?'
'No, sir. Deep-sea fisherman's. Anyway, it's close enough, these are the waters of the Arctic trawlers. A toast to the departed.'
'I endorse that, and not for traditional or sentimental reasons.' Dr Singh's teeth still sounded like castanets. 'Medicinal. I don't know about the rest of you but my red corpuscles are in need of some assistance.'
The Bo'sun looked at Patterson, who nodded his approval. McKinnon turned and looked at an undersized, freckle-faced youth who was hovering at a respectful distance. 'Wayland.'
Wayland came hurrying forward. 'Yes, Mr McKinnon, sir?'
'Go with Mario to the liquor store. Bring back some refreshments.'
'Yes, Mr McKinnon, sir. Right away, Mr McKinnon, sir.' The Bo'sun had long given up trying to get Wayland Day to address him in any other fashion.
Dr Singh said: That won't be necessary, Mr McKinnon. We have supplies here.'
'Medicinal, of course?'
'Of course.' Dr Singh watched as Wayland went into the galley. 'How old is that boy?'
'He claims to be seventeen or eighteen, says he's not sure which. In either case, he's fibbing. I don't believe he's ever seen a razor.'
'He's supposed to be working for you, isn't he? Pantry boy, I understand. He spends nearly all his day here.'
'I don't mind, Doctor, if you don't.'
'No, not at all. He's an eager lad, willing and helpful.'
'He's all yours. Besides, we haven't a pantry left. He's making eyes at one of the nurses?'
'You underestimate the boy. Sister Morrison, no less. At a worshipful distance, of course.'
'Good God!' the Bo'sun said.
Mario entered, bearing, one-handed and a few inches above his head, a rather splendid silver salver laden with bottles and glasses, which, in the circumstances, was no mean feat, as the San Andreas was rolling quite noticeably. With a deft, twirling movement, Mario had the tray on the table without so much as the clink of glass against glass. Where the salver had come from was unexplained and Mario's business. As became the popular conception of an Italian, Mario was darkly and magnificently mustachioed, but whether he possessed the traditional flashing eyes was impossible to say as he invariably wore dark glasses. There were those who purported to see in those glasses a connection with the Sicilian Mafia, an assertion that was always good-humouredly made, as he was well-liked. Mario was overweight, of indeterminate age and claimed to have served in the Savoy Grill, which may have been true. What was beyond dispute was that there lay behind Mario, a man whose rightful home Captain Bowen considered to be either a prisoner-of-war or internment camp, a more than usually chequered career.
After no more than two fingers of Scotch, but evidently considering that his red corpuscles were back on the job, Dr Singh said: 'And now, Mr Patterson?'
'Lunch, Doctor. A very belated lunch but starving ourselves isn't going to help anyone. I'm afraid it will have to be cooked in your galley and served here.'
'Already under way. And then?'
'And then we get under way.' He looked at the Bo'sun. 'We could, temporarily, have the lifeboat's compass in the engine-room. We already have rudder control there.'
'It wouldn't work, sir. There's so much metal in your engine-room that any magnetic compass would have fits.' He pushed back his chair and rose. 'I think I'll pass up lunch. I think you will agree, Mr Patterson, that a telephone line from the bridge to the engine-room and electric power on the bridge — so that we can see what we are doing — are the two first priorities.'
Jamieson said: That's already being attended to, Bo'sun.'
'Thank you, sir. But the lunch can still wait.' He was speaking now to Patterson. ''Board up the bridge and let some light in. After that, sir, we might try to clear up some of the cabins in the superstructure, find out which of them is habitable and try to get power and heating back on. A little heating on the bridge wouldn't come amiss,
