alistairmaclean.bearisland-第1部分

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　To　even　the　least　sensitive　and　perceptive　beholder　the　Morning　Rose；　at　this　stage　of　her　long　and　highly　chequered　career；　must　have　seemed　ill…named；　for　if　ever　a　vessel　could　fairly　have　been　said　to　be　approaching；　if　not　actually　arrived　at；　the　sunset　of　her　days　it　was　this　one。　Officially　designated　an　Arctic　Steam　Trawler；　the　Morning　Rose；　560　gross　tons；　173　feet　in　length；　30　in　beam　and　with　a　draught；　unladen　but　fully　provisioned　with　fuel　and　water；　of　14。3　feet；　had；　in　fact；　been　launched　from　the　Jarrow　slipways　as　far　back　as　1926；　the　year　of　the　General　Strike。
　The　Morning　Rose；　then；　was　far　gone　beyond　the　superannuation　watershed；　she　was　slow；　creaking；　unstable；　and　ing　apart　at　the　seams。　So　were　Captain　Imrie　and　Mr。　Stokes。　The　Morning　Rose　consumed　a　great　deal　of　fuel　in　relation　to　the　foot…pounds　of　energy　produced。　So　did　Captain　Imrie　and　Mr。　Stokes；　malt　whisky　for　Captain　Imrie；　Jamaican　rum　for　Mr。　Stokes。　And　that　was　what　they　were　doing　now；　stoking　up　on　their　respective　fuels　with　the　steadfast　dedication　of　those　who　haven't　attained　septuagenarian　status　through　sheer　happenstance。
　As　far　as　I　could　see　none　of　the　sparse　number　of　diners　at　the　two　long　fore　and　aft　tables　was　stoking　up　very　much　on　anything。　There　was　a　reason　for　this；　of　course；　the　same　reason　that　accounted　for　the　poor　attendance　at　dinner　that　night。　It　was　not　because　of　the　food　which；　while　it　wouldn't　cause　any　sleepless　nights　in　the　kitchens　of　the　Savoy；　was　adequate　enough；　nor　was　it　because　of　any　aesthetic　objections　our　cargo　of　creative　artists　might　have　entertained　towards　the　dining　saloon's　decor　which　was；　by　any　standards；　quite　superb：　it　was　a　symphony　in　teak　furniture　and　wine…coloured　carpets　and　curtains；　not；　admittedly；　what　one　would　look　to　find　on　the　average　trawler　but；　then；　the　average　trawler；　when　its　fishing　days　are　over…as　the　Morning　Rose's　were　deemed　to　be　in　1956…doesn't　have　the　good　fortune　to　be　re…engined　and　converted　to　a　luxury　yacht　by；　of　all　people；　a　shipping　millionaire　whose　enthusiasm　for　the　sea　was　matched　only　by　his　massive　ignorance　of　all　things　nautical。
　The　trouble　tonight　lay　elsewhere；　not　within　the　ship　but　without。　Three　hundred　miles　north　of　the　Arctic　Circle；　where　we　at　the　present　moment　had　the　debatable　fortune　to　be；　the　weather　conditions　can　be　as　beautifully　peaceful　as　any　on　earth；　with　mirror…smooth；　milky…white　seas　stretching　from　horizon　to　horizon　under　a　canopy　of　either　washed…out　blue　or　stars　that　are　less　stars　than　little　chips　of　frozen　fire　in　a　black；　black　sky。　But　those　days　are　rare　and；　usually；　to　be　found　only　in　that　brief　period　that　passes　for　summer　in　those　high　latitudes。　And　whatever　summer　there　had　been　was　long　gone。　We　were　deep　into　late　October　now；　the　period　of　the　classical　equinoctial　gales；　and　there　was　a　real　classical　equinoctial　beauty　blowing　up　right　then。　Moxen　and　Scott；　the　two　stewards；　had　prudently　drawn　the　dining…saloon　curtains　so　that　we　couldn't　see　quite　how　classical　it　was。
　We　didn't　have　to　see　it。　We　could　hear　it　and　we　could　feel　it。　We　could　hear　the　wild　threnody　of　the　gale　in　the　rigging；　a　high…pitched；　ululating；　atonic　sound；　as　lonely；　lost；　and　eerie　as　a　witch's　lament。　We　could　hear；　at　monotonously　regular　intervals；　the　flat　explosive　clap　of　sound　as　the　bluff　bows　of　the　trawler　crashed　into　the　troughs　of　the　steep…sided　waves　marching　steadily　eastwards　under　the　goad　of　that　bitter　wind　born　on　the　immensity　of　the　Greenland　icecap；　all　of　seven　hundred　miles　away。　We　could　hear　the　constantly　altering　variation　in　the　depth　of　the　engine　note　as　the　propellor　surged　upwards；　almost　clearing　water　level；　then　plunged　deep　down　into　the　sea　again。
　And　we　could　feel　the　storm；　a　fact　that　most　of　those　present　clearly　found　a　great　deal　more　distressing　than　just　listening　to　it。　One　moment；　depending　upon　which　side　of　the　fore　and　aft　tables　we　were　sitting；　we　would　be　leaning　sharply　to　our　left　or　right　as　the　bows　lurched　and　staggered　up　the　side　of　a　wave：　the　next；　we　would　be　leaning　as　sharply　in　the　other　direction　as　the　stern；　in　turn；　rode　high　on　the　crest　of　the　same　wave。　To　pound　the　steadily　increasing　level　of　misery　and　disfort　the　serried　ranks　of　waves　beyond　the　damask　drapes　were　slowly　but　ominously　beginning　to　break　down　into　confused　seas　which　violently　accentuated　the　Morning　Rose's　typical　fishing　boat　propensity　for　rolling　continuously　in　anything　short　of　millpond　conditions。　The　two　different　motions；　lateral　and　transverse；　were　now　bining　to　produce　an　extremely　unpleasant　corkscrewing　effect　indeed。
　Because　I'd　spent　most　of　the　past　eight　years　at　sea；　I　wasn't　experiencing　any　distressing　symptoms　myself；　but　I　didn't　have　to　be　a　doctor　…which　my　paper　qualifications　declared　me　to　be…to　diagnose　the　symptoms　of　mal　de　mer。　The　wan　smile；　the　gaze　studiously　averted　from　anything　that　resembled　food；　the　air　of　rapt　munication　with　the　inner　self；　all　the　signs　were　there　in　plenty。　A　very　mirth…provoking　subject；　seasickness；　until　one　suffers　from　it　one's　self：　then　it　ceases　to　be　funny　any　more。　I'd　dispensed　enough　Dramamine　to　turn　them　all　buttercup　yellow　but　Dramamine　is　about　as　effective　against　an　Arctic　gale　as　aspirin　is　against　cholera。
　I　looked　round　and　wondered　who　would　be　the　first　to　go。　Antonio；　I　thought；　that　tall；　willowy；　exquisite；　rather　precious　but　oddly　likeable　Roman　with　the　shock　of　ludicrously　blond　and　curling　hair。　It　is　a　fact　that　when　a　person　reaches　that　nadir　of　nausea　which　is　the　inevitable　prelude　to　violent　sickness　the　plexion　does　assume　a　hue　which　can　only　be　described　as　greenish：　in　Antonio's　case　it　was　more　a　tinge　of　apple…green　chartreuse；　an　odd　coloration　that　I'd　never　seen　before；　but　I　put　it　down　to　his　naturally　sallow　plexion。　Anyway；　no　question　but　that　it　was　the　genuine　symptom　of　the　genuine　illness：　another　particularly　wild　lurch　and　Antonio　was　on　his　feet　and　out　of　the　saloon　at　a　dead　run…or　as　near　a　dead　run　as　his　land…lubber　legs　could　achieve　on　that　swaying　deck…without　either　farewell　or　apology。
　Such　is　the　power　of　suggestion　that　within　a　very　few　seconds　and　on　the　very　next　lurch　three　other　passengers；　two　men　and　a　girl；　hurriedly　rose　and　left。　And　such　is　the　power　of　suggestion　pounded　that　within　two　minutes　more　there　were；　apart　from　Captain　Imrie；　Mr。　Stokes；　and　myself；　only　two　others　left：　Mr。　Gerran　and　Mr。　Heissman。
　Captain　Imrie　and　Mr。　Stokes；　seated　at　the　heads　of　their　respective　and　now　virtually　deserted　tables；　observed　the　hurried　departure　of　the　last　of　the　sufferers；　looked　at　each　other　in　mild　astonishment；　shook　their　heads　and　got　on　with　the　business　of　replenishing　their　fuel　reserves。　Captain　Imrie；　a　large　and　splendidly　patriarchal　figure　with　piercing　blue　eyes　that　weren't　much　good　for　seeing　with；　had　a　mane　of　thick　white　hair　that　was　brushed　straight　back　to　his　shoulders；　and；　totally　obscuring　the　dinner　tie　he　affected　for　dinner　wear；　an　even　more　impressively　flowing　beard　that　would　have　been　the　envy　of　many　a　biblical　prophet：　as　always；　he　wore　a　gold…buttoned；　double…breasted　jacket　with　the　thick　white　ring　of　a　modore　of　the　Royal　Navy；　to　which　he　wasn't　entitled；　and；　partly　concealed　by　the　grandeur　of　his　beard；　four　rows　of　medal　ribbons；　to　which　he　was。　Now；　still　shaking　his　head；　he　lifted　his　bottle　of　malt　Scotch　from　its　container…not　until　that　evening　had　I　understood　the　purpose　of　that　two…foot…high　wrought…iron　contraption　bolted　to　the　saloon　deck　by　the　side　of　his　chair…filled　his　glass　almost　to　the　top　and　added　the　negligible　amount　of　water　required　to　make　it　brimming　full。　It　was　at　this　precise　moment　that　the　Morning　Rose　reared　unusually　high　on　the　crest　of　a　wave；　hovered　for　what　appeared　to　be　an　unconscionably　long　time；　then　fell　both　forwards　and　sideways　to　plunge　with　a　resounding；　shuddering　crash　into　the　shoulder　of　the　next　sea。　Captain　Imrie　didn't　spill　a　drop：　for　any　indication　he　gave　to　the　contrary　he　might　have　been　in　the　taproom　of　the　Mainbrace　in　Hull；　which　was　where　I'd　first　met　him。　He　quaffed　half　the　contents　of　his　glass　in　one　puff　and　reached　for　his　pipe。　Captain　Imrie　had　long　mastered　the　art　of　dining　gracefully　at　sea。　Mr。　Gerran；　clearly；　hadn't。　He　gazed　down　at　his　lamb　chops；　Brussels　sprouts；　potatoes；　and　glass　of　hock　which　weren't　where　they　ought　to　have　been…they　were　on　his　napkin　and　his　napkin　was　on　his　lap…with　a　vexed　frown　on　his　face。　This　was；　in　its　small　way；　a　crisis；　and　Otto　Gerran　could　hardly　be　said　to　be　at　his　ineffectual　best　when　faced　with　crisis　of　any　kind。　But　for　young　Moxen；　the　steward；　this　was　routine　：　his　own　napkin　at　the　ready　and　bearing　a　small　plastic　bucket　he'd　apparently　conjured　from　nowhere　he　set　about　effecting　running　repairs　while　Gerran　gazed　downwards　with　an　expression　of　perplexed　distaste。
　Seated；　Otto　Gerran；　apart　from　his　curiously　narrow；　pointed　cranium　that　widened　out　to　broad；　fleshy　Jowls；　looked　as　if　he　might　have　been　cast　in　one　of　the　standard　moulds　which　produce　the　vast　majority　of　human　shapes　and　forms：　it　was　not　until　he　stood　up；　a　feat　he　performed　with　great　difficulty　and　as　infrequently　as　possible；　that　one　appreciated　how　preposterous　this　misconception　was。　Gerran　stood　five　feet　two　inches　in　his　elevator　shoes；　weighed　two　hundred　and　forty…five　pounds　and；　were　it　not　for　his　extremely　ill…fitting　clothes…one　would　assume　that　the　tailor　just　gave　up…was　the　nearest　thing　to　a　perfect　human　sphere　I'd　ever　clapped　eyes　on。　He　had　no　neck；　long　slender　sensitive　hands　and　the　smallest　feet　I've　ever　seen　for　a　man　of　his　size。　The　salvage　operation　over；　Gerran　looked　up　and　at　Imrie。　His　plexion　was　puce　in　colour；　with　the　purple　much　more　in　evidence　than　the　brown。　This　did　not　mean　that　he　was　angry；　for　Gerran　never　showed　anger　and　was　widely　believed　to　be　incapable　of　it：　puce　was　as　standard　for　him　as　the　peaches　and　cream　of　the　mythical　English　rose。　His　coronary　was　at　least　fifteen　years　overdue。
　〃Really；　Captain　Imrie；　this　is　preposterous。〃　For　a　man　of　his　vast　bulk；　Gerran　had　a　surprisingly　high…pitched　voice：　surprisingly；　that　is；　if　you　weren't　a　medical　practitioner。　〃Must　we　keep　heading　into　this　dreadful　storm？〃
　〃Storm？〃　Captain　Imrie　lowered　his　glass　and　looked　at　Gerran　in　genuine　disbelief。　〃Did　you　say　〃storm'？　A　little　blow　like　this？〃　He　looked　across　to　the　table　where　I　was　sitting　with　Mr。　Stokes。　〃Force　7；　YOU　would　say；　Mr。　Stokes？　A　touch　of　eight；　perhaps？〃
　Mr。　Stokes　helped　himself　to　some　more　rum；　leaned　back　and　deliberated。　He　was　as　bereft　of　cranial　and　facial　hair　as　Captain　Imrie　was　overendowed　with　it。　With　his　gleaming　pate；　tightly　drawn　brown　face　seamed　and　wrinkled　into　a　thousand　fissures　and　a　long；　thin；　scrawny　neck　he　looked　as　aged　and　as　ageless　as　a　Galapagos　turtle。　He　also　moved　at　about　the　same　speed。　Both　he　and　Captain　Imrie　had　gone　to　sea　together…in　minesweepers；　as　incredibly　far　back　as　World　War　I…and　had　remained　together　until　they　had　officially　retired　ten　years　previously。　Nobody；　the　legend　went；　had