Shout at the Devil - Smith Wilbur - Страница 21
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"It means, Big winds will blow across the sea," interpreted Sebastian, and glowed with achievement.
"And I'm not joking either." Flynn stood up, crouching to favour his bad leg, and shaded his eyes to peer into the east. "You see that line of cloud?"
Laying aside the oar, Sebastian stood beside him and flexed the aching muscles of his back and shoulders.
Immediately all activity ceased among the other rowers.
"Keep going, me beauties!" growled Flynn, and reluctantly they obeyed. Flynn turned back to Sebastian. "You see it?"
"Yes." It was drawn like a kohl line across the eyelid of a Hindu woman, smeared black along the horizon.
"Well, Bassie there's the wind you've been griping about.
But, my friend, I think it's a little more than you bargained for."
In the darkness they heard it coming from far away, a muted sibilance in the night. One by one, the fat stars were blotted out in the east as dark cloud spread out to fill half the midnight sky.
A single gust hit the raft and flogged the makeshift sail with a clap like a shotgun, and the sleepers woke and sat up.
"Hang on to those fancy underpants, "muttered Flynn, "or you'll get them blown right up your backside."
Another gust, another lull, but already there was the boisterous slapping of small waves against the sides of the raft.
"I'd better get that sail down."
"You had, and all," agreed Flynn, "and while you're at it, use the rope to fix lifelines for us." In haste, spurred on by the rising hiss of the wind, they lashed themselves to the slats of the deck.
The main force of the wind spun the raft like a top, splattering them with spray; the spray was icy cold in the rush of the wind. The wind was steady now and the warm raft moved uneasily like the jerky motion of an animal restless at the prick of spurs.
"At least it will push us towards the land , Sebastian shouted across at Flynn.
"Bassie boy, you think of the cutest things," and the first wave came aboard, smothering Flynn's voice, breaking over their prostrate bodies, and then streaming out through the slatted deck. The raft wallowed in dismay, then gathered itself to meet the next rush of the sea.
Under the steady it" of the wind, the sea came up more swiftly than Sebastian believed was possible. Within minutes the waves were breaking over the raft with such weight as to squeeze the breath from their lungs, submerging them completely, driving the raft under before its buoyancy reasserted itself and lifted it, canting crazily, and they could gasp for air in the smother of spray.
Waiting for the lulls, Sebastian inched his way across the deck until he reached Flynn. "How are you bearing up?" he bellowed.
"Great, just great," and another wave drove them under.
"Your leg?" spluttered Sebastian as they came up.
"For Chrissake, stop yapping, "and they went under again.
It was completely dark, no star, no sliver of moon, but each line of breaking water glowed in dull, phosphorescent malevolence as it dashed down upon them, warning them to suck air and cling with cramped fingers hooked into the slats.
For all eternity Sebastian lived in darkness, battered by the wind and the wild, flying water. The aching chill of his body dulled out into numbness. Slowly his mind emptied of conscious thought, so when a bigger wave scoured them, he heard the tearing sound of deck slats pulling loose, and the lost wail as one of the Arabs was washed away into the night sea but the sound had no meaning to him.
Twice he vomited sea water that he had swallowed, but it had no taste in his mouth, and he let it run heedlessly down his chin and warm on to his chest, to be washed away by the next torrential wave.
His eyes burned without pain from the harsh rake of wind flung spray, and he blinked them owlishly at each advancing wave. It seemed, in time, that he could see more clearly, and he turned his head slowly. Beside him, Flynn's face was aleprous blotch in the darkness. This puzzled him, and he lay and thought about it but no solution came, until he looked beyond the next wave, and saw the faint promise of a new day show pale through the black massed cloud banks
He tried to speak, but no sound came for his throat was swollen closed with the salt, and his tongue was tingling numb. Again, he tried. "Dawn coming," he croaked, but beside him Flynn lay like a corpse frozen in rigor mortis.
Slowly the light grew over that mad, grey sea but the scudding black cloud-banks tried desperately to oppose its coming.
Now the seas were more awesome in their raging insanity. Each mountain of glassy grey rose high above the raft, shielding it for a few seconds from the whip of the wind, its crest blowing off like the plume of an Etruscan helmet, before it slid down, collapsing upon itself in the tumbling roar of breaking water.
Each time, the men on the raft shrank flat on the deck, and waited in bovine acceptance to be smothered again beneath the white deluge.
Once, the raft rode high and clear in a freak flat of the storm, and Sebastian looked about him. The canvas and rope, the coconuts and the other pathetic accumulation of their possessions were all gone. The sea had ripped away many of the deck slats so that the metal floats of the raft were exposed; it had torn the very clothing from them so they were clad in sodden tatters. Of the seven men who had ridden the raft the previous day, only he and Flynn, Mohammed and one more, were left the other three were gone, gobbled up by the hungry sea.
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