Read Online Seagulls in My Soup by Tristan Jones - Free Book Online Page B

her steel hull, everything seemed to happen all at once. One round shattered the starboard windscreen, splintering it into a thousand opaque slivers of plexiglass. By that time we were, all three of us, heads-down—Tony and Reynaud flat on the wheelhouse deck and me squatting low, holding the steering wheel steady on course. I remember that I shut my eyes, until the thought flashed to me that it would not prevent my being shot. I opened them again and stared like a madman at the wheelspokes in front of me as, with a terrifying rumbling noise, the hull slowed down. There was a seeming eternity of straining and wrenching, with the engines now screaming in protest and the propellers grinding and whizzing in a high pitch. It was as if the boat were suspended on a high-wire. Suddenly she lurched forward so violently that my head was banged against the steering wheel. This knocked into me the presence of mind to raise myself high enough to just peep over the lower edge of the windscreen. The only light on the inside of the wheelhouse was the dim pink glow of the compass.
    As far as I could see, when I glanced around, we were being fired upon from every direction except the dark gap of the wide harbor mouth. I kept the compass lined up with the course and assured myself that the throttle could be rammed no farther forward. We raced toward the harbor exit and, in a matter of what must have been no more than two minutes, we shot through the exit like a bullet—although to me it seemed a funereal pace.
    By now, with the spray slashing over the bow, the windscreen was completely wet, and, as I didn’t know where the wiper switch was, the view was totally obscured. I was steering blindly by compass alone. As we roared past the mole-heads a machine gun on each side of us fired away. Every window on the superstructure sides was shattered, but few bullets actually penetrated the inch-gauge steel hull and upperworks. The row from ricocheting bullets inside the cabins and wheelhouse was ear-shattering, even above the screaming of the propeller shafts and the roar of the engines. It was an almost paralyzing pandemonium of nerve-jangling noise, and the only thing that kept me holding onto the helm, I think, was the realization that this
bastard
Reynaud had really set us up; that he was a maniacal psychopath, and that he would probably finish Tony and me off before we reached Marseilles—and that I was going to make damn sure he didn’t get either the chance or the excuse. Besides, I couldn’t leave this world without making sure
Cresswell
was all right—and Nelson.
    I peered out as best I could through the spray and splintered plexiglass of the windshields. The course ahead seemed to be clear. There were patches of pale moonlight here and there as clouds moved over the thin, weak scimitar of the new moon.
    When the firing grew fainter I called to Tony. “Get the hand-bearing compass—it’s in the navigation table drawer. Put in on the deck below my feet.”
    This he did quickly, keeping his head low. When he reached me he was panting hard, both with exertion and fear. I realized that I was, too. Reynaud ran, crouching, over to the starboard wheelhouse door, where he peeped aft around the bulkhead, watching for pursuers.
    â€œWhat’s that for?” breathed Tony as he put the compass below me.
    â€œIn case the bastards start firing again—so I can keep my head down.” I bent toward him. “This sod is dangerous,” I said.
    Tony turned his spectacles toward me and gave me a sad grin. “The understatement of the year, old chap.”
    â€œThere’s a wheel-lashing lanyard in the second drawer of the navigation desk. Get it out as quietly as you can and keep it in your pocket. As soon as he goes into any compartment, lash the bas . . . but wait ’til I give the word.”
    â€œRight, got you.” Tony went straight away and pulled the length of thin line,