The Golden Reef (1969) by James Pattinson

whether he really wanted to be picked up, for that would spoil the plan that had begun to germinate in his mind.
    It was no easy task to haul the boat out of the water and back on deck even with the extra tackle, but they managed it. Bristow was panting and sweating.
    ‘I wouldn’t want to do that too often. I never did go a lot on boat drill.’
    ‘You won’t need to do it often‚’ Keeton said.
    Secretly Keeton believed that it was unlikely that any ship would sight them. Vessels were sure to keep well clear of the reef, since it was bound to be a known danger to shipping. After being disabled the Valparaiso could well have drifted far away from the regular trade routes and it might be many months, years even, before the wreck was discovered. This, he now felt, was all to the good; the plan, as yet only vaguely worked out, would require time; it could not be put into operation while the war continued. For the present, therefore, he was content to stay on board the Valparaiso, biding his time.
    So he struggled with the mysteries of navigation and gradually mastered them, so that the day finally came when he was able to mark on one of the charts in the chart-room the exact location of the reef on which the Valparaiso was lying. He did not tell Bristow this, but kept it to himself, checking and re-checking, and then imprinting the longitude and latitude on his memory until they became as unforgettably fixed there as his own name.
    Bristow found his own amusement. Much of it came out of a bottle. There were enough bottles to keep him going for quite a time, and the fumes of alcohol took his mind off the subject of their hazardous situation. He offered to share the liquor with Keeton, but Keeton drank only sparingly; he had no wish to clog his brain with rum or whisky.
    Bristow amused himself in other ways also. He practised gunnery with the Oerlikons. He fired at projections of coral when they showed above the water. The guns chattered, flaring tracers hissed along the surface of the sea and the shells exploded in red bursts of flame. Bristow loved it.
    ‘Why waste the ammo?’ Keeton said. ‘Suppose a Jap plane came over. We might need it.’
    Bristow scoffed at the idea. ‘You won’t get any Jap planes coming over here. If they did they wouldn’t trouble to bomb a wreck. They’ve got more important things on their plate.’
    He played with a rifle too. He threw bottles and empty tins overboard and shot at them. The crack of the rifle broke in uponthe soft hiss of surf on the reef and the lapping of water against the ship’s sides.
    Keeton was sick of Bristow, of his drunkenness, of his gluttony, of everything about him. He preferred the cat for a companion. He carried it on his shoulder, and when he lay in his hammock in the sun the cat would curl up beside him and go to sleep.
    ‘That cat‚’ Bristow said. ‘I reckon it’s fallen in love with you.’ He sounded almost jealous, as though he resented the cat’s liking for Keeton. ‘It’d better not get in my way. I’m allergic to cats.’
    ‘You leave it alone‚’ Keeton said.
    ‘I’m not touching it. But it had better not get in my way.’
    ‘The cat won’t get in your way. You’ve got the whole ship, haven’t you? Isn’t it big enough for you?’
    ‘Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t‚’ Bristow said darkly. ‘I’m just giving you fair warning.’
    ‘And I’m warning you, Johnnie. Keep your hands off that cat.’
     
    It happened two days later. Keeton saw the cat when he went out on deck. It was lying on number four hatch. He thought at first that it was asleep; but then he realized that no cat ever slept in that kind of position. Its forepaws were stretched out on the hatch and its hind legs were dangling over the edge, its tail between them.
    Keeton ran towards the cat, but he knew before he reached it that it was dead. There was a wound in its head and the fur was matted with blood. Keeton’s anger almost blinded him. It was such a