The Cruel Sea
Chapter Ten
Athos took a great gulping breath of air and began to cough. He could feel a constriction around his chest which bordered on being painful. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't suppress the hacking cough that racked his body. A mixture of water and bile rushed up his throat. He turned his head to the side and spewed it out. More followed and then more until he thought it would never end. The pain in his chest increased as his abdominal muscles grew weaker and weaker.
There was a voice in his ear murmuring encouragement and he realised there were arms around him, supporting him in his misery. As memory returned he began to move his own legs under the water to keep himself afloat. He recognised the voice now and gave thanks that d'Artagnan had come looking for him. He opened his eyes. The worry on d'Artagnan's face immediately changed into a broad grin.
"I thought you were dead."
It was a challenge to speak. Athos' throat felt raw and tender and his lungs hurt. "I would have been if not for you," he managed to gasp out.
"Are you injured? You were face down in the water when I found you."
Athos thought about that. He remembered diving from the ship and starting to swim. There had been an explosion which knocked the breath out of him and which propelled him inelegantly through the water. He reached up to touch the back of his head, finding a tender lump. "I think some of the debris hit me. I remember swimming for a while and then everything went black." He moved his arms and an immediate spike of pain travelled up his left arm, causing spots to dance across his vision. Fortunately, d'Artagnan still had hold of him because for a moment he forgot where he was.
"Athos!"
"I think I have a broken arm."
"Don't try to move it. Just hold onto me. Let me do all the work."
They were both trembling uncontrollably and Athos could see a blue tinge to d'Artagnan's lips and a lack of any other colour in his face. If they weren't rescued soon both of them would succumb to hypothermia. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"My plan…it's my fault we're stuck out here."
"We all agreed to go along with it. You have nothing to reproach yourself for."
Athos wasn't so sure about that but he didn't have the energy to argue. "Aramis? Porthos?"
"They're alright. We managed to get Porthos onto a piece of the hull. Aramis is with him."
It was some consolation to know that his brothers had survived. "I was worried about Porthos," he admitted.
"It was difficult for him. He panicked when he first hit the water and I thought we were going to lose him."
"He's one of the bravest men I know. Not many would have trusted us enough to do what he did."
They lapsed into silence. Athos did what he could to lessen the burden on d'Artagnan. He knew the young man must be exhausted. His own strength was waning fast and still the waves kept buffeting them. The wind had risen, driving clouds across the face of the moon. It began to rain. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so despondent. Their lives could be measured in minutes rather than hours and he knew it was only a matter of time before the lure of the depths would become too great to ignore.
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Aramis tightened his failing grip on the edge of the wood. The temptation to let go, to give up the fight, was almost overwhelming. The only thing encouraging him to persevere was his refusal to leave Porthos alone and vulnerable.
"D'you think d'Artagnan found him?"
"We can only hope so, my friend." Every muscle in his body was contracting uncontrollably. He couldn't feel his feet and the numbness seemed to be creeping up his body. His grip began to loosen. The wood suddenly rocked violently and a hand closed around his right wrist.
"None of that," Porthos said. "You don't get to let go."
Aramis drew in a shuddering breath. "You shouldn't move. You don't want to capsize."
"I'm goin' to pull you up."
"No!" Aramis began to struggle weakly against Porthos' grip.
"Give me your other hand."
"There isn't enough space."
"Stop arguin' with me."
Despite his efforts Porthos captured his left hand and heaved. His torso flopped onto the wood, leaving his legs dangling in the water. The makeshift raft dipped down before settling again. It was no warmer out of the water than in it. A cold north wind and rain assaulted him without mercy.
"Climb up," Porthos ordered.
By wriggling like a fish Aramis managed to get more than half his body onto the raft. He drew up his right knee while his fingers scrabbled for purchase on the wood. Porthos grip never wavered, inexorably drawing him towards a precarious measure of safety. He lay on his stomach for a minute while he tried to gather the strength to turn over and sit up. His heart was hammering wildly and he was feeling light-headed. He recognised the symptoms. Soon his pulse would slow down, the shivering would stop and he would gradually slip into unconsciousness. Already he was weak and uncoordinated. with the simple act of sitting up being almost beyond him.
With Porthos' help he managed to get upright. When he tried to express his thanks his words came out as a barely heard mumble. They huddled together and waited either for rescue or for death to claim them.
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Athos had stopped shivering and that told him that the end was very near. D'Artagnan's pallor had increased and his skin now had a waxy sheen to it. Speech was impossible and his thoughts were sluggish. He had spent years self-destructing, uncaring if he lived or died. Yet, he had never imagined that this was how it would end. It was a source of sorrow that his brothers would perish with him. At the same time, he was grateful not to be alone. It wasn't that he feared death but rather it was a belief that no-one should die alone. There should be someone there to mark his passing. He wished that he had Aramis' strongly held faith that something better was waiting for him on the other side but he had long since stopped believing in God and the afterlife.
He could feel d'Artagnan's grip loosening and looked towards the horizon, hoping that he would see the sun rise for one final time. The sky wasn't as dark now and, just at the edge of his vision, there was a pinprick of light. He watched it, fascinated. It was growing closer and he tried to interpret what that meant. Gradually, a shape emerged from out of the gloom and his heart gave a painful thud. He turned his head to look at d'Artagnan. The young man's eyes were almost closed and his breathing had slowed. Athos could tell that he was on the verge of giving up.
"A ship." It came out as a croaking whisper which failed to reach d'Artagnan's ears. He tried again. "A ship."
There was the slightest stirring of interest and d'Artagnan forced his eyes open. Athos used his good arm to turn them so that d'Artagnan was looking towards the east and their salvation.
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