by David B Hill
‘Faster, boys,’ said Jock.
They raised the tempo of their stroke, and by the time the setting sun began to reach the horizon, they could make out the island’s landscape in detail.
★ ★ ★
It was almost dark when they brought the prahu to shore, nudging it quietly onto a narrow beach of broken coral overhung by coconut palms. They had paddled almost non-stop for twenty-four hours. Now it was time to be alert to a different threat: discovery by hostile locals or even enemy land forces. But they had observed few lights on the coast, and there was no large settlement that they were aware of until Pangkal Pinang.
The five men unwound from the prahu and stretched, shared a tin of bully beef and opened a fresh coconut. They sat or squatted along the sand in silence, gazing out into the night in the direction they had just come from.
‘What do you think?’ asked Johnny. ‘It’s cooler at night.’
The wisdom of his thinking was irrefutable. They all knew that the end of the voyage, if they got that far, involved sailing some distance over open sea, where there would be no shelter from the elements, and they would need all their energy and skills for that task.
Paddling by night made perfect sense. And so they buried the tin and the coconut remains, dragged the prahu back into deeper water and carried on. The sea was flat calm and there was no point in hoisting their sail, but in the relative cool of the night air and uplifted by a star-filled sky, they rowed steadily, taking their turn to rest. Len curled his small frame up on the floorboards as best he could and snatched sleep in fits and starts.
It had been impossible to determine exactly when they passed Pangkal Pinang, since it was blacked out, but by the time the sun had come up on the second full day of their voyage, 22 February, they guessed that they had successfully circumnavigated the town and travelled safely beyond it. They had paddled non-stop for thirty-six hours before Johnny decided on rest, more secure in the knowledge that the population along the north coast of the island was relatively sparse and believing the enemy was likely as not concentrated elsewhere. Dragging the prahu ashore once more, they breakfasted on biscuits that were damp from the conditions but improved when drizzled with condensed milk. Yearning for rest, they settled down to sleep but continued to maintain their vigilance nevertheless, each man taking watch an hour and a half at a time.
Late in the afternoon Johnny roused his crew and, after another snack of sardines and coconut, they pressed on. This time they paddled far out to sea before turning east and rounding the northern-most point of the island, Grasak. Now they were able to adjust their course south-east and set a course closer to the shore. While it remained light they could watch the coastline pass them by, and feel buoyed by their progress. The rhythm of rowing came easily. While at first their muscles had ached with soreness, that had begun to disappear. The two natives chatted idly, and Jock raised a smile from Johnny when he began to sing ‘Loch Lomond’, emphasising each word that coincided with his stroke:
You’ll take the high road,
And I’ll take the low road,
And I’ll get to Scotland a’fore ye …
Nicolaas and Dawi stopped talking and listened with amusement, and then began to mimic the words themselves. Johnny and Len joined in with the familiar refrain, and Len thought rather wistfully about his time in Scotland. An air of happy optimism prevailed as they worked their way steadily down the coast of the island. Johnny began to reassess his opinion of Nicolaas. And so the night progressed.
★ ★ ★
At the beginning of the 23rd, their third day at sea, Johnny suggested that Nicolaas and Dawi take turns at the oars, too. The agent thought about this for a moment before relaying Johnny’s request to Dawi. The Javanese didn’t seem too perturbed.
‘What did he say?’ Johnny asked.
‘Nothing,’ replied a smiling Nicolaas. ‘Only that he would be praying for wind.’
And so they rearranged things, all five working in rotation and taking turns to rest at quarter-hour intervals. Again, they rested during the heat of the day and recommenced their journey in the late afternoon.
The north coast of Bangka Island was a place of breathtaking beauty. Pristine white sand stretched the length of the beaches they saw in passing. The landscape itself was dense, lush jungle, huge trees cascading down from the interior almost to the water’s edge. The soft curves of the skyline and cloudscape were counterpointed regularly by vertical granite sentinels of one and two thousand feet standing proud of the canopy, stark in places for want of cladding. Some of these formations stood in the sea, where erosion by water and the inexorable passage of time had created strange convoluted shapes and extraordinary sea caves.
Apart from the many species of sea birds, they saw flocks of land birds; particularly parrots, which rushed madly through the air in wild mobs squawking raucously before disappearing back into the trees. The birds that attracted Len’s attention most were the sea eagles and the occasional frigatebird, soaring on thermals high in the sky. Strong, independent and solitary.
When the coral rose up from the seabed, sometimes to just beneath their boat, the sea transformed through various shades, from dark purple to turquoise and aquamarine, and back again. Sometimes they could see the coral beneath, and the water became opalescent. They could see fish swimming in sometimes brilliant array, individually and in schools, and occasionally more sinister shapes passed darkly beneath them.
‘Jesus. Will you look at that,’ said Jock at one point, stopping rowing and staring at the water below the boat.
Len looked down. A shadow, easily the length of the prahu, passed beneath them. Shark! He thought instantly of Haami Parata, and of Ururoa. A new sensation enveloped him: not the wehi at all, but something more like confidence, warm and secure. Wana, Haami had called it. Excitement. He smiled, thinking of his friend. He smiled at the paradox: that the menace below seemed more like a talisman to him.
Johnny reached beneath his feet and felt the reassuring shape of his revolver among his stuff. The sea was flat calm, and the visibility beneath the water was substantial. Watching the shark as it followed them left them all mute for quite a while.
High cumulonimbus towered overhead, while, inland, the sky was blackening in the rising humidity of the day. They could see various monsoonal showers raining on other parts of the sea, but none came near to them. Instead it was the sun that added weight to their conditions.
★ ★ ★
Rowing into nightfall, they talked happily among themselves about home, family, women and what they would do when the war ended. When Len’s turn for rest arrived, he drifted off into another reverie. He was in front of the huge banyan in Newton Circus, adorned with coloured lights and swathed in a blue cloud of charcoal smoke and incense. While the band played ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’, he contemplated the array of taxi dancers sitting along the edge of the dance floor – Chinese, Malay, Eurasian – beautiful creatures, unblemished, raven-haired. He drifted back through the streets to the Mayfair, where the radio provided a similar background to the laughter and clinking of glasses. It was unreal, the war entirely absent. Until he began to think of Ava and Tim – and he struggled to break off his dreaming.
He woke up. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, squinting into some sort of focus. He had slept through sunset, and it was now dark. He looked out across the water. The only ripple to be seen or heard was that of the prahu itself, as it surged with each stroke – one, two, three, four and … quiet, as Jock this time rested the oars briefly. They glided on. In the sky, a dozen great columns, backlit by a hidden moon, loomed colossally overhead, the Milky Way glittering in the heavens between. When the moment came to change oarsmen, they stopped for a while, mesmerised. Len wondered if he really was awake. This was an extraordinary world in silver-toned negative, made more extraordinary by the irregular illuminations of lightning flashing within the clouds, underscored by the occasional dull rumble of distant thunder. There was an excruciating tension.
Len felt a tap on his shoulder, and it was his turn to relieve Jock of the oars. At the rear, Johnny and Dawi were changing seats, a delicate process involving careful balance and timing. Jock already lay on his back between two cross-beams, his head on the floorboards and his legs dangling over each of the gunwales, wedged against the strut in front. Nicolaas began to arrange himself accordingly. The long-legged Dutch agent had to sit upright, even when sleeping.
‘Fucking sardines,’ muttered Jock, from the bottom of the boat.
‘And good night to you too, mate,’ Len replied.
‘Perhaps we should think about some shore leave.’ Johnny laughed at his own joke. Len had only just saved himself from thinking about shore leave.
‘Weather seems to be avoiding us,’ Len commented.
‘Don’t speak too soon, old son,’ replied Johnny. ‘It’ll get us sooner or later. It’s the law of averages.’
With the other three resting, for a while it was just the two of them: Len rowing and Dawi on the steering oar. When the wind got up they were able to sail again, enjoying the coolness of the night air, before their turn to rest arrived.
★ ★ ★
By sunrise they had rounded the eastern-most tip of Bangka and settled their course due south towards Lepar Island. Rowing into the morning, and helped by the tide and a little breeze, they navigated the shoaling waters west of the Gaspar Straits. Johnny spent a lot of time quizzing the Commandant about the extent of the facility at Laboe. Laboe was a settlement on Lepar with a lighthouse with a radio, so Johnny assumed there would be some possibility of contact with a higher authority.
Guided eventually by the sight of the lighthouse, they finally made landfall on Lepar Island in the mid-morning. Still alert to the risk of discovery, they concealed their prahu under palm branches, crawled into the shade and immediately collapsed into sleep.
When they woke a couple of hours later, the mosquitoes had found them, and the land crabs were busily exploring their prostrate bodies. On realising this, Jock exploded into a violent fit, leaping to his feet. ‘Fuck off, you fucking horrible wee fucking shites,’ he shouted, striking out wildly with his foot, and kicking a crab out into the water.
The three sailors suddenly noticed that there were other people present. Nicolaas stood with a small group of curious locals.
‘I found the local agent,’ he called back to them.
‘Well, spit it out, man. What did you find?’ demanded Johnny, somewhat taken aback by the circumstances.
‘He destroyed his radio. The Japanese have been here already.’
‘Bastard.’ It was the first time Len or anybody else had heard Johnny curse with genuine vehemence. ‘No damned radio. Are you sure, man? Did you look around?’
‘No, I didn’t, but he was very scared. I don’t think he was lying.’
‘Damn it.’ Johnny carried on, addressing Nicolaas. ‘Take Jock with you and go back and see what he can do for us. Food, water, anything. And hurry. The sooner we get out of here, the better. Dawi had better stay here, in case we need him.’
As the two men turned to go, Johnny discreetly thrust a revolver into Jock’s hand and steered both hand and revolver into his pocket. With a nod, Jock and Nicolaas made off to the lighthouse in search of its keeper.
More curious onlookers approached. Johnny reached down for the other revolver and surreptitiously checked its chambers. He handed it to Len.
‘Keep it out of sight. They don’t look too threatening, but we need to keep an eye on the gear. Don’t leave it unattended.’
They stayed under the palms, waiting for Jock and the Commandant to return, while more curious villagers continued to gather. Word was spreading. Old women came offering coconut bowls full of rice, and an old man produced a small leaf parcel filled with dried fish. Hot dried fish. Some of the old hospitality prevailed. Johnny, Len and Dawi ate enthusiastically, making sure to save a decent portion for Jock and Nicolaas. They offered to purchase coconuts, for, while Johnny had no money, Len was somehow able to fish Singapore Straits dollars out of his pocket. Galvanised by the sight of the money, the locals were quick to provide a couple of dozen fresh green nuts, replenish their water supply and bring more dried fish and boiled eggs. When Jock and Nicolaas arrived back, they ate an egg each while their water containers were filled, after which they decided to push off immediately. The crowd had swollen to a curious bunch of perhaps a hundred individuals, some clearly agitated, and none of the sailors felt comfortable. A group of younger men were whispering conspiratorially to each other behind their hands. There were bound to be Japanese sympathisers within the community and, to be fair, the local inhabitants had every reason to feel uneasy themselves, with three Allied sailors in their midst and the Japanese, filled with aggressive intent, breathing down their necks. The sailors were outnumbered in an environment that at its best was insecure, and at its worst was hostile. They were better off at sea.
Len and Johnny steadied the slender prahu at each end, while the other three eased themselves backwards over the gunwales and into it. Then Len followed, leaving Johnny about to propel them out into the channel and leap aboard. Suddenly, a tall man from the village, who was standing in the water, lunged forward and seized Dawi by the arm. A fierce exchange took place between them, full of anger and blazing looks. The man tugged at Dawi’s forearm, threatening to overturn the prahu, before Dawi shook off his assailant and they succeeded in rowing out of reach of the throng. A lump of coral came arcing overhead and splashed into the water beside them.
‘Hurry, come on – hurry,’ Johnny said. ‘Before they get any other ideas.’ His anxiety was shared by the others, who rowed with extra vigour. Johnny had stopped concentrating on his steering, and had his hand on his revolver. While the little boat pulled away, he scanned the beach, and relaxed a little at the sight of the people beginning to disperse. There were no apparent signs of pursuit.
The men paddled swiftly out and away. Behind them, the lighthouse towered over a sprawling collection of attap huts, and they were soon around the point on which it was built.
‘What was that about, Nicolaas?’ Johnny asked.
‘They told Dawi to stay or he would die. Then they called him a traitor.’
‘Good God, man. Tell him he’s no traitor. Not to us.’
‘Yes, maybe not to you, but to others … well, it’s not so easy, especially for those who serve the Dutch. There is a new mood. The Japanese promise freedom and prosperity. Some people find that prospect attractive. Not me. We are simply changing masters. It would be nice to control our own destiny.’
Len remembered Haami saying the same thing.
Nicolaas went on.
‘For people like me it is much harder.’
‘You? What do you mean?’ asked Johnny.
‘My father was Dutch; my mother is Javanese. I live in two worlds, without being truly welcome in either.’
Len had some idea what that meant too.
Johnny took out the compass from under his shirt. They were entering the Macclesfield Channel, on the western side of the Gaspar Straits between Bangka and Billiton Islands, where Johnny set a course due south for Batavia. The biggest challenge was now in front of them.
From the west, the setting sun burst from behind a huge barricade of ominous black clouds, sending great horizontal beams like searchlights lancing across the sea and illuminating the lighthouse.
‘Will you look at that,’ exhorted Jock. ‘It’s the second coming.’
The moment was short-lived, the sun disappearing just as quickly as it had arrived. The gleaming whiteness of the lighthouse was engulfed by the lengthening shadow of an approaching sumatra, the wind that had given the island of Sumatra its name, now blackening the horizon. Lightning flashed indiscriminately along its front. Soon the winds began to agitate the sea, lick up small waves and toss spray into the prahu. By the time the last glimmer of daylight was vanishing, the five could only look forward, into the unfathomable black maw of a
storm at night and 200 miles of open sea.
10
Desperate Voyage
Now the five men were out of sight of land it was the elements that occupied them, and Len found ample time to contemplate some of the things that his friend Haami had shared with him. Tāwhirimātea – the wind – Haami had told him, is a capricious god, invisible in form and shape, uncontrolled, mocking of lesser gods and ordinary men. He confronts you when you don’t need him and abandons you when you do. He imposes himself wherever he wishes, without consideration. Len knew of winds that shaped people’s lives: winds with such mana they had names given capital letters, like Mistral or Sirocco, and winds that have given names to places, like Sumatra. Indeed, the sumatra is a wind that should be treated with the utmost respect, a monsoonal wind that occurs when clouds swollen with moisture tumble down off the Sumatran highlands. It creates a monstrous squall effect on the water, a front of wind-whipped waves and a treacherous, agitated seascape. Out over the warmer sea the clouds rise, releasing rain in huge volumes. The men had no sooner fled the menace of Laboe than they had to set their teeth and sail into such a storm.
Haami’s advice about the sea was equally present in Len’s thinking. He had said that the sea – Tangaroa – is capricious in its own way, with its own form of expression. This night the waves were almost playful in the beginning, of a height and vigour that, by way of introduction, was just enough to splash the men a little or land inside the prahu. It seemed that Tāwhirimātea and Tangaroa were joined together in playful harmony. For a while the prahu surfed along the front of the swells that overhauled them, the boat neatly cleaving the following sea, which parted and dragged them along in its wake until another faster swell came along. Then the wind pressure increased, and they could see the big waves coming. When they came, driven by real wind this time, they arrived like an express train passing through a station: waves that seemed as big as carriages, one after the other. Johnny steered the prahu around now, into the wind, and the roar of Tāwhiri increased. Len and Jock took an oar each, working together to keep the boat stable. As conditions worsened, it was no longer possible to manage the oars; they shipped them both and laid them on the floorboards. Johnny, on the steering oar, struggled to maintain the prahu’s bow into the wind. Instinctively, Len took up a paddle and, elbowing his way forward, reached out to dig it deep into the water, helping to hold the bow into the wind.
