Part 13 (1/2)

”You won't mind obliging us,” he said, ”by gathering up your things?”

”Gathering up our things?” I parroted, stupidly. ”Why?”

”Because,” he said, ”we are going to put you off the s.h.i.+p.”

Eileen grabbed my arm, but neither of us could think of a thing to say. I was vaguely conscious of the stillness of the boat, of the people in the room, staring at us.

”I'm very much afraid that I shall have to ask you to hurry,” said the captain, ”for it is getting rather late. The rescue vessel is already on its way, you see. You, uh, _do_ understand?”

”No,” I said, slowly, ”we don't. And we're certainly not going anywhere until we do.”

Captain Protheroe drew up to his full height and glanced sharply at McKenzie. ”Really,” he said, ”I should've thought you'd have antic.i.p.ated this.”

McKenzie shrugged. ”Didn't want to worry them.”

”Indeed. And now we're in a mess, for, of course, we've no time at all for lengthly explanations.”

”In that case,” said Burgess, ”let's skip them.” His eyes were twinkling. ”I rather think they'll understand eventually.”

The captain nodded. He said. ”Excuse me,” walked out of the room, returned a moment later with a pistol. Then, aiming the pistol at me: ”Sorry, but I must insist you do as we say. McKenzie, take this thing and see to it that the Ransomes are ready within ten minutes.”

McKenzie nodded, brandished the gun. ”Come along,” he said. ”And don't take it too hard, my boy.”

He prodded us down to the cabin and kept waving the pistol until we'd packed our bags. He seemed hugely delighted with his new role.

”Now, gather up the life jackets and follow me.”

We returned to the boat station, where almost everyone on the s.h.i.+p had gathered.

”Lower away!” cried the captain, and a useless-looking white lifeboat was cranked over the side.

”Now then, if you will please climb down that ladder . .

”For G.o.d's sake,” I said. ”This--”

”The _ladder_, Mr. Ransome. And do be careful!”

We clambered down into the lifeboat, which was rocking gently, and watched them raise the rope.

We could see the McKenzies, the Burgesses, Van Vlyman, Sanders and Captain Protheroe standing by the rail, waving. They had never looked so pleasant, so happy.

”Don't worry,” one of them called, ”you'll be picked up in no time at all. Plenty of water and food there; and a light. You're sure you have all your luggage?”

I heard the s.h.i.+p's engines start up again, and I yelled some idiotic things; but then the _Lady Anne_ began to pull away from us. The old people at the rail, standing very close to one another, waved and smiled and called: ”Good bye! Good bye!”

”Come back!” I screamed, feeling, somehow, that none of this was actually happening. ”d.a.m.n it, come back here!” Then Eileen touched my shoulder, and we sat there listening to the fading voices and watching the immense black hull drift away into the night.

It became suddenly very quiet, very still. Only the sound of water slapping against the lifeboat.

We waited. Eileen's eyes were wide; she was staring into the darkness, her hand locked tightly in mine.

”Shhh,” she said.

We sat there for another few minutes, quietly, rocking; then there was a sound, soft at first, hollow, but growing.

”Alan!”The explosion thundered loose in a swift rus.h.i.+ng fury, and the water began to churn beneath us.

Then, as suddenly, it was quiet again.

In the distance I could see the s.h.i.+p burning. I could feel the heat of it. Only the stern was afire, though: all the rest of it seemed untouched--and I was certain, oddly certain that no one had been harmed by the blast.

Eileen and I held each other and watched as, slowly, as gracefully and purposefully, the _Lady Anne_ listed on her side. For an eternity she lay poised, then the dark ma.s.s of her slipped into the water as quickly and smoothly as a giant needle into velvet.

It could not have taken more than fifteen minutes. Then the sea was calm and as empty as it ever was before there were such things as s.h.i.+ps and men.

We waited for another hour in the lifeboat, and I asked Eileen if she felt cold but she said no.

There was a wind across the ocean, but my wife said that she had never felt so warm before.

Introduction to

LAST RITES.

by Richard Matheson

I have referred (in print) to Chuck Beaumont's stories with such phrases as ”alight with the magic of a truly extraordinary imagination,” ”shot through with veins of coruscating wit,” ”feather light and dancing on a wind of jest” and ”flashes of the wondrous and delightful.”

All true; and this may well be the over-riding image of his work.

But there is more. Other stories which cut deeper. Which move the reader and speak of things profound.

Such a story is ”Last Rites.”

I don't know whether Chuck was raised as a Catholic. I don't think so but I'm not positive. I know he married a woman who was deeply committed to Catholicism. Perhaps his knowledge--and insight--into the religion came from his relations.h.i.+p with his wife Helen.

Wherever it came from, there is a sense of truth to it. For my money, Graham Greene never wrote a story any more perceptive about Catholicism than ”Last Rites.” I find it extremely moving, shot through not with ”veins of coruscating wit” but with a deep vein of humanity and love.

What more could any reader ask of a story? What greater legacy could any writer leave?

LAST RITES.

by Charles Beaumont---------------------------- Somewhere in the church a baby was shrieking. Father Courtney listened to it, and sighed, and made the Sign of the Cross. Another battle, he thought, dismally.

Another grand tug of war. And who won this time, Lord? Me? Or that squalling infant, bless its innocence?