Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

Nicol peered back through the smoke and chaos below the bridge. His own fears were not for the dog.

‘You get into that one, Nicol.’ His marine captain appeared behind him, pointing to the one alongside. ‘Make sure they’ve all got their jackets on.’

‘Sir, I’d rather wait on deck, if that’s—’

‘I want you in the boat.’

‘Sir, if it’s all the same I’ll—’

‘Nicol, in the boat. That’s an order.’ The marine captain nodded him towards the little vessel, as Margaret’s lifeboat disappeared down the side of the ship, then did a double-take. ‘What the bloody hell has happened to your face?’

Several minutes later, Nicol’s boat hit the waters with a flat wet thud that made several girls shriek. Fumbling with safety straps and the problem of getting a lifejacket round a particularly hysterical bride, Nicol scanned the boats already on the water until he spotted Emmett. The young marine was gesturing at his single oar. ‘There’s no bloody ropes,’ he was shouting, ‘and half the oars are missing. Bloody ship’s a floating scrapyard.’

‘They were half-way through replacing them. Denholm ordered it after the last drill,’ said another voice.

Nicol searched for and found his own oars – he was lucky. They were safe. They could float all night for all it mattered. Around them, the sea churned dark grey, the waves not high enough to induce real fear, but sizeable enough to keep the women’s hold firm on the sides of the little boats. Above, through the whistling in his ears, he could hear the increasingly rapid piped instructions, now joined by the siren. He stared at the creaking ship; the faint but distinct plume of smoke that had emerged from the space below the women’s cabins.

Get out, he told her silently. Get to somewhere I can see you.

‘I can’t keep close to you,’ shouted Emmett. ‘How are we going to keep the boats together?’

‘Get out. Get out now,’ he said aloud.

‘Here,’ said a woman behind him, ‘I know what we can do. Come on, girls . . .’

‘I’m not going.’

Frances had hold of Avice now, no longer caring what the girl thought of her, no longer caring how any physical contact would be received. She could hear the sound of the lifeboats hitting the water, the shouts of those leaving the ship, and was filled by the blind fear that they would not get out.

She tried to convey none of this to Avice who, she suspected, was beyond sensible thought. She hated the stupid girl, too shallow even to recognise the threat to their lives.

‘I know it’s hard but you’ve got to go now.’ She had kept her voice sing-song light for the past ten minutes. Sweet, reassuring, detached, the way she used to talk to the worst-injured men.

‘There’s nothing for me now,’ said Avice, and her voice rasped like sandpaper. ‘You hear me? Everything’s ruined. I’m ruined.’

‘I’m sure it can be sorted out—’

‘Sorted out? What do I do? Unmarry myself? Row myself back to Australia?’

‘Avice, this is not the time—’ She could smell smoke now. It made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

‘Oh, how could you possibly understand? You, with the morals of an alleycat.’

‘We’ve got to get out.’

‘I don’t care. My life is over. I may as well stay here—’ She broke off as, above them, something crashed on to the deck. The shudder it sent through the little room seemed to knock Avice out of her trance.

A man’s face appeared round their door. ‘You shouldn’t still be in here,’ he said. ‘Leave your things and go.’ It seemed as if he were about to come in, but he was distracted by a shout from the other end of the passageway. ‘Now!’ he said, and vanished.

Frances stared in horror at the door, just long enough to see the back legs of the little dog disappear through it. She toyed with the idea of going after her, but a glance at Avice’s wild expression told her where her priorities lay.

There was another crash and a man’s voice at the end of the hangar deck yelling, ‘Secure hatches! Secure hatches now!’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Frances’s grip was strong. She grabbed an arm and a handful of Avice’s dress and pulled her out of the cabin, conscious that she was at last movable. The corridor was full of smoke. Frances tried to duck below it, a hand over her mouth and nose. ‘Gun turret,’ she yelled, pointing, and they stumbled, half blinded, their lungs scorched and protesting, towards it.

They fumbled with the hatch door, and fell outside, gasping and retching. Frances made her way to the edge and leant over, so relishing the clearer air that it took her a minute to register the scene below: a web of boats spanning beneath them, linked by knotty brown lengths. She glanced up at the empty gantries and saw that all the boats were in the water. She knew there must still be men on deck – she could hear their voices filtering downwards. But she could not work out how to get to them.

Someone saw them and shouted. Arms gesticulated from below. ‘Get out!’ someone was shouting. ‘Get out now!’

Frances stared at the water, then at the girl beside her, still in her best dress. Frances was a strong swimmer: she could dive down, emerge among the lifeboats. She owed Avice nothing. Less than nothing. ‘We can’t head up to the flight deck. There’s too much smoke in the corridor,’ she said. ‘We’re going to have to jump.’

‘I can’t,’ said Avice.

‘It’s not that far. Look – I’ll hold on to you.’

‘I can’t swim.’

Frances heard the crack of something giving outside, the hint of an inferno she did not want to face. She grabbed Avice and they struggled, Frances trying desperately to drag her towards the edge.

‘Get off me!’ Avice screamed. ‘Don’t touch me!’ She was wild, scratching and pounding at Frances’s arms, her shoulders. Smoke was seeping under the hatch. From somewhere far below, Frances could hear women’s voices calling up to them. She smelt something acrid and her heart was filled with fear. She grabbed a handful of Avice’s silk dress and dragged her on to the gun turret. Her foot slipped, the rubber sole of her shoe sliding off metal, and she thought suddenly: What if no one rescues me? Then she heard a scream and, entangled, they were falling, arms and legs flailing, towards the inky black below.

The captain had the wrench in his hands, and was struggling to get the bomb off its clamp on the wall. ‘Get out!’ he shouted at the men who, three strong, were carrying the penultimate bomb from the magazine. ‘Get the hose! Flood the compartment! Flood it now!’ He had removed his mask to be better heard, and his voice was hoarse as he tried to speak and breathe.

‘Captain!’ yelled Green, though his mask. ‘Got to get out now.’

‘She’s not going up. Got to be safe.’

‘You can’t get them all off, sir. You don’t have time. We can flood it now.’

Afterwards, Green thought Highfield might not have heard him. He did not want to leave his skipper there, but he knew there was only so much a man could do before the need to keep the other men safe overrode his concern.

‘Start the flooding,’ Highfield was shouting. ‘Just go.’

He turned, and as he did so, he heard something fall. He threw his smoke helmet blindly towards the captain, hoping it would reach him, that somehow he would see it through the smoke. His heart heavy with foreboding, he was out, pushing his men before him.

Frances broke through the surface, her mouth a great O, her hair plastered over her face. She could hear voices, feel hands pulling at her, trying to heave her out of water so cold it had knocked the breath hard from her chest. At first the sea had not wanted to relinquish her: she felt its icy grasp on her clothes. And then she was flopping, gasping, on the floor of the little boat like a landed fish, retching as voices tried to reassure her, and a blanket swiftly wrapped round her shoulders.