Free Bear Island by Alistair MacLean Page B

my choice: if the Morning Rose was running into trouble, and I had a strange fey conviction that it was, Smithy was the man I wanted around.
        Smithy's eyes were open and the look in them intelligent. Among other things the aconite article had stated that full intelligence is maintained to the very end. Could this be the end? Paralysis of motion, the article had said, and paralysis of motion we undoubtedly had here. Then paralysis of sensation-maybe that's why they weren't crying out in agony, it could have been that they had been screaming their heads off up on the bridge here with no one around to hear them, but now they weren't feeling anything any more. I saw and vaguely recorded the fact that there were two metal canteens lying close together on the floor, both of them very nearly emptied of food. Both of them, I would have thought, were in extremis, but for one very odd factor: there was no sign of the violent vomiting of which the article had spoken. I wished to God that somewhere, sometime, I had taken the trouble to learn something about poisons, their causes, their effects, their symptoms and aberrant symptoms which we seemed to have here-if any.
        Mary Stuart came in. Her clothes were soaking and her hair was in a terrible mess, but she'd been very quick and she'd got what I'd asked her to-including a spoon, which I'd forgotten. I said: "A mug of hot water, six spoons of salt. Quick. Stir it well." Gastric lavage, the book had said, but as far as the availability of tannic acid and animal charcoal was concerned. I might as well have been on the moon. The best and indeed the only hope lay in a powerful and quick-acting emetic. Alum and zinc sulphate was what the old boy in my medical school had preferred but I'd never come across anything better than sodium chloride-common salt. I hoped desperately that aconitine absorption into the bloodstream hadn't progressed too far-and that it was aconitine I didn't for a moment doubt. Coincidence is Coincidence but to introduce some such fancy concoction as curare at this stage would be stretching things a bit. I levered Smithy into a sitting position and was just getting my hands under his armpits when a dark-haired young seaman, clad-in that bitter weather-in only jersey and jeans came hurrying into the wheelhouse. It was Allison, the senior of the two quartermasters. He looked-not stared-at the two men on the deck: he was very much a seaman cast in Smithy's mould.
        "What's wrong, Doctor?”
        “Food poisoning.”
        “Had to be something like that. I was asleep. Something woke me. I knew something was wrong, that we weren't under command." I believed him, all experienced seamen have this in-built capacity to sense trouble. Even in their sleep. I'd come across it before. He moved quickly to the chart table then glanced at the compass. "Fifty degrees off course, to the east.”
        “We've got all the Barents Sea to rattle about in," I said. "Give me a hand with Mr. Smith, will you?"
        We took an arm each and dragged him towards the port door. Mary dear stopped stirring the contents of the metal mug she held in her hand and looked at us in some perplexity.
        "Where are you going with Mr. Smith?”
        “Taking him out on the wing." What did she think we were going to do with him, throw him over the side? "All that fresh air. It's very therapeutic.”
        “But it's snowing out there! And bitterly cold.”
        “He's also-I hope-going to be very very sick. Better outside than in. How does that concoction taste?"
        She sipped a little salt and water from her spoon and screwed up her face. "It's awful.“
        "Can you swallow it?"
        She tried and shuddered. "Just.”
        “Another three spoons."We dragged Smithy outside and propped him in a sitting position. The canvas winddodger gave him some protection but not much. His eyes were open and following our actions and he seemed aware of what was