Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

“What—”

A form came out of the darkness. The clouds parted long enough for the glint of moonlight to reflect itself from steel. There was a thrust, a gasp, a harsh screaming cry. Then there was the mixture of shadows in confused array; the final glimmer as light from a stateroom caught the bit of steel as it fell into the water to disappear. Then the hurried labor as something heavy was lifted to the top of the railing…

Fourth Officer W. T. Clifford was tired. The duties of seeing that the provisions obtained in Walvis Bay were brought aboard had fallen to him, and no more had he seen to their storage to the satisfaction of the principal chef than he had been called upon to verify the arrangements for the ship’s concert that night. He lay back in a deck chair on the windy and deserted deck and reviewed the program for the evening, satisfied that the decorations in the large saloon were adequate, at least for such short notice. The fat lady — whatever her name was — would begin the evening with several songs; he only hoped the orchestra had rehearsed them with her. Then there was to be an exhibit of amateur magic by the passenger from Cabin 16; Clifford only hoped no animals would be involved, as the last time animals had appeared in a ship’s concert, one of them had committed a nuisance. It was something he really ought to check — but later. Then Mr. Barnato was scheduled to do a recitation. It was said that Mr. Barnato at one time had been an acrobat, and a juggler; possibly he could be talked into doing a little juggling, afterward, or even some acrobatics—

He sat up suddenly with a frown; had he heard the cry of “Murder”? There seemed to be a scuffling sound in the area and he came to his feet wondering, now, if he had indeed heard the word “Murder” or whether it had been his imagination. There seemed to be some sort of a disturbance over in the shadows beneath the lifeboats; then he heard — and this cry was clear and tinged with the edge of hysteria — “ Man overboard! ”

Clifford immediately raised his own deep voice in repeating the cry, and ran for the rail. Two men were there, a second seeming to have just joined the first; the newcomer was staring down into the water and Clifford recognized him as one of the crew, a seaman named Luckner. The other man had turned his back to the rail and, hands cupped about his mouth, was screaming “Man overboard!” at the top of his voice in the direction of the bridge. Solly Loeb, Clifford thought automatically, and pushed his way between the two men, staring down. In the lights cast by the stateroom portholes he could see a man being swept away from the ship’s side in the rough sea. Clifford wasted no time; he tore off his uniform jacket, threw aside his cap, and sprang over the rail, landing in the water feet first. He came to the surface and struck out for the body, now barely seen in the darkness as the waves between them crested and then fell away.

The waves whipped at him; above him the ship’s decks were now alight with flares. People were coming from within the ship to line the rails. He could imagine the davits beginning to lower a lifeboat, almost hear the creaking of the cables as he forced himself through the rough sea. Then, almost to his own amazement, he topped a wave and saw the body before him, face downward in the water. He reached out and turned it over, staring in shock at the face of their most famous passenger, Barney Barnato; then he put one arm about the flaccid body and began towing it back to the ship. He paused to tread water once, looking over his shoulder toward the ship, and then shook his head, clearing water from his eyes. One davit had stuck, the lifeboat was tilted sharply, almost unshipping its crew, and there it seemed to remain. Clifford felt himself growing weaker, the weight of his uniform dragging him down; the waves seemed to be drawing him farther from the ship. He paused again, gulping air and drawing in a bit of water at the same time. A paroxysm of coughing overtook him; he loosened his grip on the body momentarily to take a better hold. The sea responded with a higher wave, and Clifford found himself alone, the body he had been towing swept from his sight.

He tried to tread water and get a better view, but a cloud now covered the moon and in the darkness all he could see was the ship ablaze with lights and the bareness of the water between him and it. He swam a few sluggish strokes farther from the ship, trying to spot the body, but then he knew it was hopeless. If he wanted to save himself he would have to forget the search until the lifeboat was in the water. He turned back to the ship and saw the problem with the faulty davit had been corrected; the lifeboat was in the water and pulling in his direction. He was just able to get a hand on the gunwale; then men pulled him in as he lost consciousness.

Clifford was assisted up the ship’s ladder and sent to the hospital. The lifeboat returned to the search and searched the waters in the vicinity of the ship for several hours before the captain of the Scott conceded defeat and gave orders for the ship to proceed, and as the screw began to push the vessel on its way once again, he wrote in his log: June 14, 8 P.M., Lost at sea, a passenger , B. Barnato . And that night, instead of the gala ship’s concert, the saloon was used for an official inquiry into the tragedy.

Fay Barnato sat unhearing, her face pale, her eyes slightly unfocused, for the ship’s surgeon had given her a large dose of laudanum to ease some of the pain and shock of the unexpected blow. The words of the inquiry seemed to come to her as from a distance, through a buzzing as if the room were full of insects.

Fourth Officer Clifford was testifying. He was still pale from the ordeal of the sea. “I was dozing off in a deck chair, and I heard a scream. I thought what I heard was—” He hesitated and wet his lips.

The captain’s eyes were upon him, steady, his voice calming. “You thought you heard what?”

“I heard — at least I thought I heard — someone scream the word” — he glanced at Fay apologetically, as if disliking to use the word in her presence — “I thought I heard the word… ‘Murder’… sir.” He shrugged deprecatingly. “I must have been wrong.”

Fay sat unmoving, her mind blank to the proceedings.

“And then?” the captain prompted.

“Then, when I got to the rail, there were two men there, sir. Luckner, a crew member, and Mr. Loeb.” His eyes went to each man in turn as he mentioned their names. “I looked down and saw a man in the water, and I… I went in after him.”

“You deserve great credit for that, Mr. Clifford, especially in that sea,” the captain said approvingly. “And then?”

“I… I had him, but I… I lost him, sir. But” — again there was the apologetic look in Fay’s direction — “but I’m pretty sure he was already dead when I reached him…”

Fay suddenly spoke. It was if the words were forced from her subconscious without her volition. “Barney couldn’t swim,” she said, and returned to her impassive, stunned state.

The captain glanced at her sympathetically, and then back to the fourth officer. “Thank you, Mr. Clifford. Your actions this evening shall be reported to the proper authorities together with my commendations. I wish to thank you personally for your efforts.” He turned his head. “Mr. Loeb?”

Solly Loeb, pale and with his hands twitching, took the chair abandoned by Officer Clifford. “Sir?”

“What can you tell us of this tragedy, Mr. Loeb?”

“He — my uncle — Barney, that is—” He wet his lips, avoiding looking at Fay. “I don’t know what happened, Captain. It seems to me a plain case of suicide. He’s been, well, depressed, lately. The condition of the market, certain business reversals, the possiblity of war in South Africa between the Boers and the English, the end of his friendship with President Kruger of the Transvaal…” He spread his hands. “It got to be too much for him, as I see it, Captain.”