The explosives must have detonated, because Bobby Shaftoe has just gone deaf. That’s his cue to get the fuck out of here. He forgets about the gold—morphine’s good enough plunder for one day. He half scrambles and half climbs up the grid, up the passageway, up the skipper’s cabin, smoke pouring out of its hatch, its bulkheads now weirdly ballooned by the blast wave.