Duval grunted and sat down on the railing again. Overhead a few stars began to shine very palely on the sea. Bervick hammered in the dark. Then, working too quickly, he hit his own hand. “Christ!” he said and dropped the hammer.
“Now what’s wrong?” asked Duval irritably, shifting his position on the railing.
“Hit my hand,” said Bervick, grasping it tightly with his good hand.
“Well, hurry up and get that thing nailed.”
Anger flowed through Bervick in a hot stream. “Damn it, if you’re in a hurry, do it yourself.” He picked up the hammer and threw it at Duval.
The hammer, aimed at Duval’s stomach, curved upward and hit him in the neck. The Chief made a grab for the hammer and then the ship descended into a trough.
Duval swayed uncertainly on the railing. Then Duval fell overboard.
There was a shout and that was all. Bervick got to his feet and ran to the railing. He could see the Chief, struggling in the cold water. He was already over a hundred feet away. Bervick watched him, fascinated. He could not move.
His mind worked rapidly. He must find Evans and stop the engines. Then they would get a lifeboat and row out and pick the Chief up. Of course, after five, ten minutes in the water he would be dead.
Bervick did not move, though. He watched the dark object on the water as it slipped slowly away. The ship sank into another deep trough and when they reached the crest of the next wave there was no dark object on the water.