Suddenly, he was plummeting downwards again, into an abyss again.He could feel the rushing waters crash over his shoulders, cooling the white hot heat at his temple, warming the ice cold incisions in his stomach and his legs and . . .
His chest. His chest was in agony! He had beennstryck -- the blowncrushing, the impact sudden and intolerable. It happened again! Let menalone. Give me peace.
And again!
And he clawed again, and kicked again . . . until he felt it. A thick oily object that moved only with the movements of the sea. He could not tell what it was, but it wasn't here and he could feel it, hold it.
Hold it! It will ride you to peace. To the silence of darkness . . .
and peace.
The rays of the early sun broke through the mistsnof the eastern sky, lending glitter to the calm waters of the Mediterranean. The skipper of the smallnfiahing boat, his eyes bloodshot, his hands marked with rope burns, sat on the stern gunwale smoking a Gauloise, grateful for the sight of the smooth sea. He glanced over at the open wheelhouse; his younger brother was easing the throttle forward to make better time, the single other crewman checking a net several feet away. They were laughing at something and that was good; there had been nothing to laugh about last night. Where had the storm come from? The weather reports from Marseilles had indicated nothing; if they had he would have stayed in the shelter of the coastline. He wanted to reach the fishing grounds eaighty kilometers south of LA Seyne-sur-mer by daybreak, but not at the expense of costly repairs, and what repairs were not costly these days?
Or at the expense of his life, and there were moments last night when that was a distinct consideration.
'Tu es fatigue, mom Frere!' his brother shouted, grinning at him. 'Vas the cousher! Fe suis très capable!'
'Yes, you are,' he answered, throwing his cigarette over the side and sliding down to the deck on top of a net. 'A little sleep won't hurt.'
It was good to have a brother at the wheel. A member of the family should alwaysnbe the pilot on the family boat; the eyes were sharper. Even a brother who spoke with the smooth tongue of a literate man as opposed to his own coarse words. Crazy! One uyear at the university and his brother wished to start a compagnie. With a single boat that had seen better days many years ago. Crazy. What good did his books do last night? When his compagnie was about to capsize.
He closed his eyes, letting his hands soak in the rolling water on the deck. The salt of the sea would be good for the rope buirns. Burns received while lashing equipment that did not care to stay put in the storm.
'Look! Over there!'
It was his brother; apparently sleep was to be denied by sharp family eyes.
'What is it?' he yelled.
'Port bow! There's a man in then water! He's holding on to something! A piece of debris, a plank of some sort.'
The skipper took the wheel, angling the boat to the right of the figure in the water, cutting the engines to reduce the wake. The man looked as thought the slightest motion would sendn-im sliding off the fragment of wood he clung to, his hands were white, gripped around the edge like claws, but the rest of his body was limp -- as lim as a man fully drowned, passed from this world.
'Loop the ropes!' yelled the skipper to his brother and bthe crewman. 'Submerge them around his legs. Easy now! Move them up to his waits. Pull gently.'
'His hands won't let go of the plank!'
'Reach down! Pry them up! It may be the death lock.'
'No. He's alive . . . but barely, I think. His lips move, but there's no sound. His eyes also, thought I doubt he sees us.'
' The hands are free!'
'Lift him up. Grab his shoulders and pull him over. Easy, now!'
'Mother of God, look at his head!' yelled the crewman. 'Its split open.'
'He must have crashed it against the plank in the storm,' said the brother.
'No,' disagreed the skipper, staring at the wound. 'It's a clean slice, razorlike. Caused by a bullet; he was shot.'
'You can't be sure of that.'
'In more than one place,' added the skipper, his eyes roving over the body. 'We'll head for Ile de Port Noir; it's the nearest island. There's a doctor on the waterfront.'
'The Englishman?'
'He practices.'
'When he can,' said the skipper's brother. 'When the wine let's him. He has more success with his patients' animals than with his patients.'
'It won't matter. This will be a corpse by the time we get there. If by chance he lives, I'll charge him fore the extra petrol and whatever catch we miss. Get the kit; well bind his head for all the good it will do.'
