Hungry as the Sea Read Online Free PDF

AIRES.
    Nick grunted like a boxer taking a low blow, and turned away from the machine. He walked out on to the open wing of the bridge and the wind tore at his hair and clothing.  La Mouette , the sea-gull, a fanciful name for that black squat hull, the old-fashioned high box of superstructure, the traditional single stack; Nick could see it clearly when he closed his eyes. There was no doubt in his mind at all. Jules Levoisin was already running hard for the south, running like a hunting dog with the scent hot in its nostrils. Jules had discharged in the southern Atlantic three days ago. He would certainly have hunkered at Cornodoro. Nick knew how Jules mind worked, he was never happy unless his bunkers were bulging.
    Nick flicked the stub of his cigar away, and it was whisked far out into the harbour by the wind. He knew that La Mouette had refitted and installed new engines eighteen months before. With a nostalgic twinge, he had read a snippet in lloyd’s List. But even nine thousand horsepower couldn’t push that tubby hull at better than eighteen knots, Nick was certain of that. Yet even with Warlock‘s superior speed, La Mouette was better placed by a thousand miles. There was no room for complacency. And what if La Mouette had set out to double Cape Horn instead of driving north up the atlantic? If that had happened, and with Jules Levoisin’s luck it might just have happened, then La Mouette was a long way inside him already.
    Anybody else but Jules Levoisin, he thought, why did it have to be him? And oh God, why now? Why now when I am so vulnerable - emotionally, physically and financially vulnerable. Oh God, why did it come now?
    He felt the false sense of cheer and well-being, with which he had buoyed himself that morning, fall away from him like a cloak, leaving him naked and sick and tired again. I am not ready yet, he thought; and then realized that it was probably the first time in his adult life he had ever said that to himself. He had always been ready, good and ready, for anything. But not now, not this time.
    Suddenly Nicholas Berg was afraid, as he had never been before. He was empty, he realized, there was nothing in him, no strength, no confidence, no resolve. The depth of his defeat by Duncan Alexander, the despair of his rejection by the woman he loved, had broken him. He felt his fear turn to terror, knowing that his wave had come, and would sweep by him now, for he did not have the strength to ride it. Some deep instinct warned him that it would be the last wave, there would be nothing after it. The choice was go now, or never go again. And he knew he could not go, he could not go against Jules Levoisin, he could not challenge the old master. He could not go — he could not reject the certainty of the Esso tow, he did not have the nerve now to risk all that he had left on a single throw. He had just lost a big one, he couldn’t go at risk again. The risk was too great, he was not ready for it, he did not have the strength for it.
    He wanted to go to his cabin and throw himself on his bunk and sleep — and sleep. He felt his knees buckling with the great weight of his despair, and he hungered for the oblivion of sleep. He turned back into the bridge, out of the wind. He was broken, defeated, he had given up. As he went towards the sanctuary of his day cabin, he passed the long command console and stopped involuntarily. His officers watched him in a tense, electric silence.
    His right hand went out and touched the engine telegraph, sliding the pointer from “off” to “stand by”.
    “Engine Room,” he heard a voice speak in calm and level tones, so it could not be his own.
    “Start main engines,” said the voice. Seemingly from a great distance he watched the faces of his deck officers bloom with unholy joy, like old-time pirates savouring the prospect of a prize.
    The strange voice went on, echoing oddly in his ears, “Number One, ask the Harbour Master for permission