Lynne Barrett-Lee - Able Seacat Simon

I had known this from the outset, of course, because it would be impossible not to, but now their loss anguished me anew. It was one thing to move around all the familiar lighted places, but now I was keen to hunt again, I was doubly bereft to be without them as, when night fell – and particularly in the dark places below – I found it so much harder to see.

But see I must – and as a matter of urgency, too – because the rats, who must have rubbed their nasty little claws together in spiteful glee, had become bolder than at any time since I’d joined the crew of the Amethyst . As I lay up, cleaning my wounds, trying to will myself stronger, I could hear them moving about the ship, creeping and scuttling and defecating along their rat runs – an advancing horde (much like Mao Tse-tung’s communists, I thought grimly) with just one thing on their minds. The spoiling and purloining of our now doubly precious stores.

I made my first rat-catching foray in the small hours of the night. The ship, always sleepy at this hour, was preternaturally still, with just the slap of river water sploshing weakly against the hull and the ever-present drone of the night insects.

I took a route I knew well: past the wardroom, down to the galley, through the tight space between the ovens, then down to the very back of the stores, where everything ahead of me was solid black. And oh, how I felt crippled without my whiskers to help guide me, constantly having to stop and nudge my nose up to make up for the unsettling loss of vision.

I hobbled. Doubly lame. Like a blind animal in a blind alley. And because no one had ever told me, I had no idea when, or even if, new whiskers might start growing. I could only trust in logic, albeit without a great deal of confidence, and hope that they would grow again, and soon.

I padded on doggedly, and at last I caught a strong rodent scent – strong enough to have me quivering with anticipation, and pausing to take both stock and soundings. And almost immediately after that came the all-too-familiar scufflings and scratchings of a rat dining on food that didn’t belong to it.

I slunk round a pipe then, cold against me, and at last spied my prize. And when I fixed it in my vision (albeit hazily, without the reassuring confirmation from my whiskers) I sank down again slowly, trying to focus; trying to ignore the scream of protest in my hips. Whatever I currently lacked, I reminded myself firmly, one advantage I did have was my silence – my ability to stalk prey without creating so much as a whisper of unsettled air.

But there was no point in lingering. I would only stiffen up. I tensed myself and sprang.

And, to my horror, I missed. My claws found nothing more substantial than a scrape of scaly tail, and even that, as if to taunt me, caught my ear like a whiplash, as the filthy animal made good its escape.

There was no getting away from it. I felt desperately sorry for myself. My body ached, my ear hurt – the rat must have caught the spot that had been burned already – and it took some minutes before I was able to properly catch my breath.

Worse still, though, were the thoughts swirling in my head, which, like the rat, seemed to mock me for my arrogance. What had possessed me? I was in no fit state to hunt – even a cockroach could now evade me – and I had no idea when or if I would be. I had gone, at a stroke, from being a valued crew member to a burden, a useless liability to my friends. And as I made my way forward, with no clear idea where next to lie, I felt the welling of shame stinging my eyes and my gait becoming sluggish – as if grinding to a halt, much like the Amethyst herself, a prisoner of my own feeble state.

Thank God for my ears, though. At least they hadn’t failed me, and for the noise that, though distant, was caught by them now. I turned my head a little. Listened hard. It was regular. Tinny. And I realised – daring to hope now, my failure all but forgotten – that it was coming from the wireless room. Was it Jack?

I limped off to find out, climbing awkwardly over the barriers beneath the doorways, which, it seemed to me, had almost doubled in size. But as I neared the noise, the deficiencies of my hind legs mattered less to me, with my only goal – my only need – being to know if Jack was alright.

I halted, however, just a few yards from the wireless room, confused by what looked like sacks of flour arranged around it. Had it suffered terrible damage? Was it flooded? No longer in use? But as I sat there, uncertain, I realised I could hear voices – ones that seemed to be coming from inside the room, talking urgently.

‘So, this to C in C.’ Was that Captain Kerans speaking? He reeled off a message about deadlocks and meetings. From his tone it was obvious he wasn’t very happy. ‘Quick as you can, Flags,’ he finished. I imagined Jack (let it be Jack!) scribbling furiously with his pencil, ready to turn the message the captain had given him into Morse code.

Then came Lieutenant Hett’s voice, as ever, deep, clear and strong. ‘I’ll have Lieutenant Fearnley give you something,’ he said. ‘Some more Benzedrine will help, lad. And what about some food, eh? When did you last eat?’

‘I’m not hungry, sir. I’m fine. Just the Benzedrine’ll be fine, sir.’

It was Jack’s voice! It was Jack! I was so excited I almost forgot myself, emerging from the shadows and only narrowly avoiding cannoning into the captain and lieutenant as they swept out of the room and hurried off back to the bridge.

The wireless room was warm and looked untouched by the shelling; still humming and cosy and exactly as it always was, a constant in a world that had been so changed.

Jack was alone, with his back to me, busy working on the message at his little fold-down desk. As I entered he straightened, pulled his Morse code machine towards him, and began tapping out the message in that curious staccato rhythm that ‘another Jack’, he’d explained to me, ‘will hear through his earphones, translate, and write down – and that’s it – job done. Bob’s your uncle!’

I sat back on my haunches, carefully, and waited for him to finish, only going to him once he peeled his headphones from his ears, and stuck the pencil back in place over the right one.

Then I mewled. He looked down. Then he blinked. Then his mouth gaped. ‘Blackie!’ he exclaimed, pushing his chair back and patting his knees. ‘Love a duck! Where’ve you been ? We thought we’d lost you!’

I couldn’t jump. Didn’t try. Didn’t dare. He quickly realised. He bent down, and as he did so, he let out a heavy groaning sigh.

‘Aww, look at the state of you,’ he said, picking me up very gingerly by cupping his hands around my front legs. ‘You okay, boy? When d’you last eat? You’re skin and bone. Look at you…’ He gently turned me this way and that, so he could get a better look at me, and I forced myself to cope with the pain even this small movement gave me – it didn’t matter. I was just so grateful for the comfort of his touch.

I studied Jack too. He looked exhausted. His skin was the colour of paper. I wondered when he had last eaten, as well. ‘Those ruddy bast— ’scuse my French, Blackie, but look what those bastards have done to you! Here, sit yourself down. That’s the way. That’s the way. Lord , it’s good to see you. Been getting awful lonely sitting in here, hour after hour, all on my lonesome.’ He grimaced. ‘’S only me now, my friend. Ruddy commies got the others. Just me now. Been up round the clock for ruddy days now.’ He laid a hand on my head, taking care to mind my ear. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you. We all thought you’d bought it. Taken yourself off and died somewhere, we thought – and here you are ! You’re a sight for sore eyes, you know that?’ Then he suddenly leaned forward. ‘Eh oh. Here we go. Hang on, Blackie. Let’s get this down, eh?’ Then he pulled the chair up to the desk again, plonked his earphones on his head, and began transcribing the reply to the message the captain had sent, while I sat in his lap, feeling warm and safe and humbled.