Free The Fall of Tartarus by Eric Brown Page B

lads. Two
minutes, that’s all we’ve got. Then it’s either nimble be or a watery grave.
Hark Gastarian and be ready to leap like fleas!’
    ‘The
first two boats are still in sight,’ someone said, ‘which at this stage is
welcome indeed. By God, if fate shines on us and keeps us dry, we can win this
one!’
    ‘Don’t
speak too soon. We’re not even halfway there - more die between here and the
sea than anywhere else.’
    Ahead,
the two leading ships were weaving this way and that through a stretch of
boiling rapids, their masts rocking to and fro like metronomes. At times they
were almost on their sides as their deckhands scurried from port to starboard
and back again in a frantic effort to avoid the lethal corals.
    I
was struck by a sudden trembling panic - soon we would be in their position,
fighting for our very lives! I was almost sick with apprehension. Glancing
around at my team-mates, I saw my fear reflected in their faces, and I was torn
between relief that I was not the only coward aboard, and fright that these
hardened sailors should so fear what awaited us.
    ‘Be
ready...’ Gastarian growled at us. ‘This is it! We enter the rapids!’
    ‘Nimble
to it lads,’ said the sailor behind me.
    ‘To
starboard!’ Gastarian yelled, and to starboard we leapt. I clung to the
timbers, shaking in every limb. The ship tipped alarmingly and we were
submerged. I gasped, drenched and breathless. It was fortunate that there was
no coral on this side of the ship or we would have been ripped to death in
seconds.
    ‘To
port!’ came Gastarian’s yell, muffled in my water-filled ears. I flung myself
left, slipping on the wet timbers, and somehow, miraculously, found myself
clutching the timber port frame as we were doused again, for so long this time
that I thought we had gone under for good. All was a chaotic maelstrom of
silver bubbling water and filtered sunlight, a roaring of the churned river and
a protracted creaking of straining timbers.
    ‘And
to starboard!’
    ‘Starboard,
lads,’ called the sailor behind me, for the benefit of those deafened by the
dunking.
    We
charged across the deck, launched ourselves at the frames, and clung on for
dear life as the ship tipped quickly like a spinning top, waltzing between the
underwater hazards.
    This
set the pattern for what seemed like hours. Not once did we rest, not for more
than fifteen seconds at any one time did we stay on our frames before we were
ordered off again. I lost all track of time. I seemed to have been performing
this manic dance for all my life; in minutes I had become experienced, my
concentration honed. I no longer felt fear, but a kind of head-spinning,
ecstatic excitement. No longer did I worry at what might become of me if we
went under. I lived for the second, charged with an insane confidence in
Blackman, in Gastarian, in my crewmates and myself. We worked as one, for each
other and for the ship. I realised, after what seemed like an age, that each of
us was shouting like a man possessed, echoing Gastarian’s commands, a
synchronised chant that bonded us into a well-drilled, efficient unit.
    Each
second, I realised in retrospect, brought ever more near-death experiences;
every metre of water presented us with perils. I was hardly aware of individual
incidents at the time - they were over so rapidly, and the next one upon us,
that we had no time to dwell on what had been. Now I recall the highlights, and
marvel that we ever survived.
    At
one point a crucifix with a sailor upon it struck an outcrop of coral and was
instantly snapped. The crewman dropped over the gunwale, and then, thanks to
his secure rope, was tossed back onto the deck, shaken and half-drowned but
otherwise uninjured. From then on he doubled up on the timber frame of his
neighbour. Repeatedly our projecting frames scraped the corals, shaving
fragments from the living rocks that blasted us like shrapnel. Soon our arms
and bodies were slick with our life-blood as well as