“Ill,” said the passenger patiently. “In great pain. It’s rather obvious that the man is suffering from a badly infected appendix.”
The mate stared at him a moment, shrugged, and then turned back to his work, bawling an order to the deckhands. The small passenger frowned; his voice became icy.
“Mate! Did you hear what I said? I said—”
Miguel cast his eyes toward the heavens in supplication; the growing fury there certainly offered no solution. “All right! All right!” he said with irritation. “I’ll have a look at him.”
He shouted out a string of orders and turned toward the bow, shaking his head in disgust. He stamped up the tilted deck, turned into a passageway, and marched angrily toward the forecastle. Stewards! And passengers! The steward had probably only been sampling the wine; or in even greater probability was only suffering from the increased roll of the ship. And with all the work to be done on deck, he had to waste time going off to hold the man’s hand!
He ducked his head beneath the low portal of the forecastle and peered downward, allowing his sight to become accustomed to the dimness. A low, tortured moan came to him, intermingled with the snores of several crew members who were off duty, and also punctuated by the creaking of the ship’s beams, louder and more threatening here in the confined space. The mate edged forward, frowning down at the white old-young face on the bunk. Nacio stared back. There was the rattle of a metal basin as the mate’s foot inadvertently came in contact with it; the stench of vomit came to him.
“I hear you’re sick...”
Nacio wet his lips, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I was fine, clearing the dishes, and the next—” His pale face cringed as another spasm shook it.
Miguel’s irritation drained away in an instant. This man was honestly sick; this was no result of wine-sampling, nor of enjôo. And as a good first mate who someday wanted to be a good master, the welfare of the crew ranked high among his responsibilities. He bent forward solicitously. “Do you have pain?”
The man in the bunk tried to raise himself on his elbows and then turned his head swiftly aside to avoid vomiting on the mate. He hung over the edge of his bunk a moment, retching violently, and then fell back. “My side...” One hand clutched at his lower groin on the outside of the thin cover; beneath the blanket his other hand tightly cupped the bottle of ipecac he had stolen from the dispensary. “It hurts...”
The first mate straightened up, studying the white face in the bunk with deep concern. “You’ll be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll see to it. I’ll be right back.”
He mounted the forecastle steps thoughtfully, paused a moment to catch his balance as the ship struck an even greater roller, and then made his way through the creaking ship. This could be bad; very bad. The ship’s dispensary was barely adequate for setting broken bones, or settling men’s stomachs after a too-hectic shore leave, and he also knew that none of the passengers was a medical man, or at least none of them carried the title. An infected appendix could be serious trouble.
Captain Juvenal watched him climb the companionway to the bridge, recognizing in the scowl and the rigid set of the shoulders that something had happened to upset his first mate.
“What’s the trouble?”
“The steward.” The mate braced himself against the rail. “He’s sick. I think it’s his appendix. And bad.”
Captain Juvenal frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.” Miguel shook his head. “He has all the symptoms — pain in his side, and he’s throwing up...” He mentally scolded himself for not having checked to see if the man had a fever, but then dismissed the thought. Any man that sick obviously had to have a fever. He sighed. “He’s not in good shape.”
Captain Juvenal’s eyes went to the black skies; clouds boiled closer, split in the distance by jagged flashes of lightning. His large hand locked to the rail, balancing himself, as he negated the first thought that had automatically come to him.
“It’s no good. We still can’t dock at Rio. The reports of the storm are getting worse.” He rubbed the back of his hand against his bearded face wearily, thinking. “And if the man has a bad appendix and it should happen to burst...” He paused.
“So what do we do?”
Captain Juvenal sighed. “The only thing we can do, I suppose. We’ll have to advise their coast guard — what they call their Sea Rescue Squad over here. Maybe they can be of help.” He thought a moment more, spat into the ocean, and walked over, rapping sharply on the door of the radio shack. A head popped out almost instantly.
“Send a radio. To the nearest Sea Rescue Squad station; you’ll find it in your book. Tell them we have a desperately sick man aboard, and we can’t risk docking at Rio. Give them our coordinates and bearing and tell them—”
The mate interrupted. “It won’t be easy rigging him aboard another ship in this weather.”
“That’s their problem. They’ll know best.” Captain Juvenal turned back to the waiting radioman. “Tell them we’re logging between eight and ten knots, and that the seas alongside are running” — he made a rapid estimate — “five to eight meters. And tell them to hurry; the storm’s getting worse. Though they should know that...”
“Maybe they can send a doctor,” the radioman suggested.
The captain shook his head decisively. “With the Santa Eugenia pitching like this? It would be a pigsticking. No. Tell them the man must be removed. And soon.” He waited a moment and then glared, expending his feeling of helplessness on the innocent radioman. “Well? Well? What are you waiting for?”
The radioman, who had been waiting until he was sure the captain was finally finished, pulled his neck in, turtle-fashion, and closed the door behind him. The captain turned to the mate.
“Go down and tell the man he’ll be all right. Tell him we’re making arrangements to help him.” His voice became crisp. “And then get back to that deck-cargo. Do you hear?”
“Yes, sir!” said the mate, and scampered down the companionway.
The crew and the passengers hung over the heaving rail of the Santa Eugenia, their oilskins small protection against the driving rain, but too engrossed in the drama they were watching to think of seeking shelter. Above their heads, outlined against the black sky like some prehistoric flying monster, a squat helicopter sought to hold its position while a cable snaked itself from its belly. The thin steel rope whipped back and forth, slashing at the ship’s superstructure, threatening to wind itself about the deck crane rigging.
Three times the craft above was swept out of reach and had to fight itself back again, attempting to hold itself steady over the pitching deck, and also attempting to keep the cable free. Nacio, strapped tightly on a litter beneath the snapping steel cord, bit his lip and wished — not for the first time — that he had never fallen into the scheme in the first place. Cowardice was certainly not one of his vices, but the thought of being snatched from the relative safety of the deck into that terrifying sky was beyond his experience. He swallowed convulsively, fighting down an illness that had nothing to do with the ipecac, and closed his eyes, praying desperately.
There was a series of disconnected shouts, and then a sharp jerk as the cable momentarily dragged across the deck and was hastily hooked to the litter. Men stood quickly away; Captain Juvenal bent close to the shrouded figure, his beard scraping the protective tarpaulin. He spoke rapidly, well aware that another gust of wind could sweep his words away.