feeling that it was a heroic act. Hardie exuded more strongly than ever that air of omnipotence and the ability to bend nature and events to his will, but it now seemed slightly tinged with malice. In the succeeding days, I tried to think that his hesitation in rescuing Rebecca stemmed from an honest indecision about the manner in which a rescue could safely be accomplished given the choppy surface of the sea, the overcrowded situation in the boat, and the precarious balance of those who had jumped to their feet rather than remaining seated as they had been told. At the same time, it occurred to me—and it must have occurred to Mr. Hardie as well—to wonder if Rebecca was the victim of some sort of natural selection and to think that if she had fallen overboard, maybe it was for the best. This thought was followed by the idea that Hardie’s dedication was to those of us in the boat, not those outside of it, however they came to be there. Then, underneath everything else came the notion, sneaking into the strongbox of my thinking like water through an uncaulked chink, that Hardie was attempting to teach us a lesson of sorts. Oh, I knew my fate was in his hands already. It was not a lesson I needed to learn.
I don’t think I was the only one who felt this way, given the silence that stretched between us, taut and thin as a rope, and the number of times I caught one or another of the passengers staring fixedly at Hardie after he had finally hauled Rebecca in and the Italian women had stripped off her clothing and sandwiched her in among the blankets. It was fear in their eyes as much as awe and respect, though those words wouldn’t describe the way Hannah looked at him, or Mrs. Grant. Of course, it could have been the wind, which seemed to press down on us rather than blow, or our hunger, or the fact that many of us were now wet through; and of course we had all watched Rebecca almost die. We sat shivering in our places like bedraggled dogs as Mrs. Grant made her way forward one careful step at a time to comfort Rebecca while the boat rocked and Mr. Hardie shouted at the bailers and the Italian women emitted a chorus of operatic wailings and turned their tragic faces to the sky. All the while, Mrs. Cook, who when she wasn’t telling stories was strangely submissive, ineffectually dabbed at Rebecca’s hair with a sodden rag and Hardie held the tin of wafers up to the dark afternoon sky and the deacon forced false enthusiasm into his voice at the repeated mention of Jesus Christ and we finally ate our scrap of crust in spiritless dejection.
I don’t know what Rebecca was thinking, if she was thinking at all. For a long time she cowered in the dormitory and didn’t speak. At one point she said, “If only little Hans were here.” She shook visibly beneath the damp blanket. Hardie said gruffly, “Well, we don’t have room for ’im.” Hardie was not the only one who seemed angry. Mr. Hoffman and his friend Nilsson were talking in low voices and now and then they looked from Rebecca to the rail of the boat, which was riding very low in the water, though probably no lower than it had been before, and I could see they were thinking that Hardie had made the wrong decision about fishing Rebecca out of the sea.
Overnight the wind lessened, but a thick fog had set in. When it lifted a day and a half later, the other lifeboat was nowhere in sight. I can’t tell you how I missed it. Knowing other people were out there somewhere was not the same as seeing them floating more or less within reach and occasionally within hailing distance, even if we never got close enough to recognize their faces or to make out what was said.
Days Seven and Eight
DURING THOSE TWO days of fog, we all heard the sounds of a foghorn. There was no mistaking it. Mrs. Grant asked if the other lifeboat might have carried such an instrument with it, and Hardie said, “It’s possible, but it sounds to me like the horn of a ship.”
Everyone was
I don’t think I was the only one who felt this way, given the silence that stretched between us, taut and thin as a rope, and the number of times I caught one or another of the passengers staring fixedly at Hardie after he had finally hauled Rebecca in and the Italian women had stripped off her clothing and sandwiched her in among the blankets. It was fear in their eyes as much as awe and respect, though those words wouldn’t describe the way Hannah looked at him, or Mrs. Grant. Of course, it could have been the wind, which seemed to press down on us rather than blow, or our hunger, or the fact that many of us were now wet through; and of course we had all watched Rebecca almost die. We sat shivering in our places like bedraggled dogs as Mrs. Grant made her way forward one careful step at a time to comfort Rebecca while the boat rocked and Mr. Hardie shouted at the bailers and the Italian women emitted a chorus of operatic wailings and turned their tragic faces to the sky. All the while, Mrs. Cook, who when she wasn’t telling stories was strangely submissive, ineffectually dabbed at Rebecca’s hair with a sodden rag and Hardie held the tin of wafers up to the dark afternoon sky and the deacon forced false enthusiasm into his voice at the repeated mention of Jesus Christ and we finally ate our scrap of crust in spiritless dejection.
I don’t know what Rebecca was thinking, if she was thinking at all. For a long time she cowered in the dormitory and didn’t speak. At one point she said, “If only little Hans were here.” She shook visibly beneath the damp blanket. Hardie said gruffly, “Well, we don’t have room for ’im.” Hardie was not the only one who seemed angry. Mr. Hoffman and his friend Nilsson were talking in low voices and now and then they looked from Rebecca to the rail of the boat, which was riding very low in the water, though probably no lower than it had been before, and I could see they were thinking that Hardie had made the wrong decision about fishing Rebecca out of the sea.
Overnight the wind lessened, but a thick fog had set in. When it lifted a day and a half later, the other lifeboat was nowhere in sight. I can’t tell you how I missed it. Knowing other people were out there somewhere was not the same as seeing them floating more or less within reach and occasionally within hailing distance, even if we never got close enough to recognize their faces or to make out what was said.
Days Seven and Eight
DURING THOSE TWO days of fog, we all heard the sounds of a foghorn. There was no mistaking it. Mrs. Grant asked if the other lifeboat might have carried such an instrument with it, and Hardie said, “It’s possible, but it sounds to me like the horn of a ship.”
Everyone was
Similar Books
