by John Harris
Beyond, the river opened out as far as the eye could see over the mud and the reeds until it reached the mud and the reeds on the far bank, its flat surface empty of any moving vessel.
‘The pilot’s aboard now,’ the officer was saying, his eyes flickering over them unhappily. ‘As a matter of fact, it would please me to see her out of the way. I don’t want her involved in any fighting and I don’t wish to interfere with a foreign ship’s passage downstream. There’s a battery on the Punta de las Rosas’ – he indicated the willow-covered strip of land reaching out into the river beyond the town, where they could see lorries and moving men, and the black barrels of guns – ‘who have orders to fire on any moving vessel but I’ll personally warn them of the ships’ departure. They’ve been placed there as a precaution. No one can approach Santa Rosa from the water while we can control all river traffic.’
He saluted, bending his head to direct the gesture towards Grace and she caught a whiff of perfume through the broken window of the car. ‘If there’s anything you want, señora,’ he concluded, ‘ask for me personally. Major Ignacio Carroll. My headquarters are by the Church of the Virgen de la Valle in the Plaza san Martín.’
As he turned and re-entered the building, Ash pushed his hands into his pockets and stared after him, his eyes narrowed against the sun. ‘Funny little gadget,’ he remarked almost to himself, his tones full of condescension. ‘He looks as though he’d sell his grandmother if it would get him out of a hole. Still’ – he shrugged – ‘poor little bastard, it’s not my idea of a good time either, sitting on a keg of dynamite, waiting for your own pals to light the fuse and blow you up.’
They reached Mareo Fuerte without incident and drove slowly down the unpaved street between the mud-coloured shacks of crude brick and corrugated iron that squatted beneath the eucalptuses and chinaberries like a huddle of frightened people, deserted as though everyone had fled at the possibility of fighting.
The sun was drying the mud into a kaleidoscope of cracks along the water’s edge all the way from the village to the point and the Isla des Flores in the entrance of the Saolito, and was prying into the corners behind the shabby houses with a harsh remorselessness. Mercilessly, it searched out the tin cans and the fruit rinds in the backyards where thin abandoned chickens scratched for non-existent seed, and hung lazily like spun gold on spiders’ webs on the fishing nets draped on poles below the village.
Then, beyond the reeds and the flat mile of muddy water, they saw a small ship whose graceless mongrel shape just for the moment with the sun on it, seemed to typify all the comfort and security of a land where there were no soldiers with tommy guns standing on street corners. Even the tattered speck of the Red Ensign at her stern seemed a symbol of safety.
‘She’s there! We’ve found her!’ Grace pulled Teresa to her and hugged her in a flood of delight. ‘Doesn’t she look beautiful? Tell me I’m not dreaming.’
For a moment, they all smiled with pleasure, then, as the first flush of joy at finding the Ballaculish wore off they began to see her for what she was, a sad old tramp of the seven seas, a dreary vagrant voyaging wherever there was a chance of a cargo – whether it were cardboard boxes for Venezuela, hides for Manchester, or steel for Bangkok and Siam. Even if she offered security, she seemed to offer little in the way of comfort.
With her high bow, she’d never been pretty, not even in her prime, and her tall stalk of a smoke stack, her old-fashioned ventilators and goal-post derricks made her look top-heavy and frail. And even at that distance, they could see the patches of rust on her, the drying washing, the distressing air of sorrow that only an unloved ship could have.
‘Looks a bit fly-blown doesn’t she?’ Grace said ruefully. ‘More like the slow boat to China than the ocean greyhound I was expecting.’
A red glow of anger in his eyes, Ash was staring at the ship over the mud and the bare tortured trees that had been brought down by the last season’s floods and left like bleached bones among the fringes of feathery pampas grass and willows. The contact in Santa Fé who had told him about the Ballaculish hadn’t mentioned her age and her condition and for a moment he was aware of a savage feeling of having been cheated. Slowly he wiped the palms of his hands against the seams of his trousers, still staring towards the ship.
‘Burgoo and biscuits and bread made out of sour flour,’ he said slowly, gesturing towards her. ‘Probably owned by a couple of maiden ladies and a retired major in Leamington who’d swoon if he had to live aboard her. If I’d got that bloody so-and-so here who took my dough, I’d give him a belt up the backside that’d make his ears drop off.’
He glanced at Grace and saw to his surprise that in spite of her comment she was still smiling, that in her relief at reaching the river, she was quite prepared to accept the Ballaculish, and thankfully too, whatever her appearance.
He cheered up at the happiness on her face.
‘There’s one thing,’ he said. ‘At least she’s free to do a bunk, which is something, isn’t it? And, after all, it’s only for a couple of days at the most and you’ve got to chance your arm once in a while. Come on. Let’s look for a boat to take us out. It might not be easy.’
His fears were well-placed. By the time they managed to find someone who was willing to risk his neck to get them to the ship, the sun had started to drop behind the trees and the river had become a pewter sheet etched in with sparkles of evening silver.
Most of the men had disappeared from the village when it had been first occupied by troops and to most of the remainder there was no question of venturing far from the shore. Apart from a ban which had been placed on river traffic by the nervous Major Carroll, there was considerable uncertainty about where the enemy was. Everyone seemed to believe that the revolutionary troops would arrive in the area at any moment and no one wanted to be far from home when they appeared. Eventually, however, they found an old fisherman who spoke English who was willing to risk his archaic boat on their behalf, and he disappeared muttering to fetch his son.
They hung about the trees, aware of the growing gloom of evening and the deepening shadows that seemed to hide an increasing hostility about them. The old man was gone a long time and they waited almost without speaking, trying to avoid the feeling of being watched as they endeavoured to keep out of the way of the soldiers. It was long after dark when they finally found themselves groping across the mud to where the boat lay, redolent of rotten fruit and half-full of water.
‘Take care, señora,’ the old man was telling Grace as he helped her over a rope festooned with slimy weeds. ‘No noise. The soldiers have itchy fingers and they are on both sides of the river.’
In the darkness, through drifting clouds that had been marching up from the horizon all day, they could see the gaudy stars above them and the faint outline of trees like black lace against the purple sky. Overside, the lap of water as they left the bank merged whispering with the heavy breathing of the old man and the low thump of the oars that came like the heartbeats of some dark sluggish animal moving through the current. Around their feet, the dirty bilge swill slopped, rolling about their shoes the rotten oranges with which the boat had recently been loaded.
They were showing no lights and as they left the shore, with the flashing red of the buoy that marked the Punta de las Rosas swinging behind, they could almost feel the blanked-out hostility about them.
The unexpected ringing squawk of a disturbed water hen and the shuffle of its small body among reeds that rattled together like old bones made them jump as it came sharply over the clockwork dickering of the crickets and the hoarse croaking of the frogs; then there was a silence again that was broken only by the whisper of the ripples under the bow and the distant grind of gears as an army lorry moved somewhere inland.
A buoy slid by, a black looming unlit shape marking the channel, and they heard the slop of water licking at its sides. The suddenness of its appearance startled Grace and she instinctively leaned nearer to Ash. Then Teresa grabbed his h
and and pointed.
‘Mr Ash! Mr Ash!’ – her voice was low and excited – ‘I think I can see the ship now.’
Ash peered through the dark metallic night, straining his eyes in the inkiness that came from the reflected shadow of the reeds. Then, as they swung out into the stream, the clouds drifted away and he saw the ship too. She carried no lights and there was no sign of life aboard her.
‘Looks a bit one-eyed,’ he commented. ‘She’s deserted.’
‘It’s dangerous to show lights at the moment, señor,’ the boatman pointed out. ‘Much more sensible to stay indoors and pretend to be asleep.’
‘Can we go straight on board, Mr Ash?’ Teresa asked.
‘Can’t be too soon for me.’
A small bony hand slipped into Ash’s as he peered across the water.
‘Mr Ash, I’m scared.’
‘That makes two of us,’ he said with a breezy confidence that belied his words. ‘I feel low enough to eat worms, Tess. Honest.’
She gave him a shy grateful smile in the darkness, feeling she wasn’t alone in her fear, then she became aware again of the silence that lay about them like a threat.
‘It’s quiet,’ she whispered. ‘Suppose it’s a trick, Mr Ash. Suppose they’re waiting to get us on board, so they can kill us.’
Ash snorted. ‘What, that lot? Perish the thought, Tess. By the look of their ship, they couldn’t even kill a rumour.’
‘You never know.’
The words, shuddering with doubt, were followed by a tiny whimper of fear and Grace saw Ash slip an arm round the child and pull her close to him.
‘Just hold your hosses for a while,’ he said to her gently. ‘The more you think about it, the more scared you get, I always find.’
They swept past the stern of the ship, looking for a ladder, seeing the dim outline of the rudder and one blade of the great propeller. The smell of stale oil and engines came down to them, then Ash fished out a torch and shone it upwards at the sloping, old-fashioned counter that hung above them like a veranda.
‘It’s her all right!’ Tereasa’s suppressed fear burst out of her in an explosion of excitement. ‘Look. Ballaculish. London.’
‘Be quiet!’ Ash jammed the torch away quickly and pushed her down on to a seat. ‘They’ll have the dogs on us, Tess, if you make all that racket. This is still Tom Tiddler’s ground out here.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ash. Mr Ash’ – Teresa’s voice became almost a wail – ‘suppose there isn’t a ladder?’
‘Bound to be a ladder. If there isn’t they’ll lower one.’
‘Suppose they don’t.’
‘Then we’ll get out my penknife and cut a hole in her.’
Ash was still staring upwards as the steel flank of the ship loomed above them, big as a cliff from their position at water-level, and with one arm round Teresa he reached out and put his hand over Grace’s where it rested on her lap.
‘Shan’t be long now,’ he said and she felt his confidence flowing into her through his strong fingers. ‘I’m getting burning spots on the mind at the thought of it.’
Then he jumped as a sharp rattle of rifle fire came from the town, followed by the deep coughs of a heavier weapon from the south side of the river. They all turned to stare at the darkness of the shore and the boat swayed dangerously enough to slop a bucketful of water over Grace’s feet.
She removed Ash’s hand from hers. ‘You’d better keep that for hanging on,’ she said tartly. ‘You might need it.’
He accepted the rebuke without comment, then a light flashed on board the ship and he saw a head silhouetted against one of the windows of the bridge for a moment, apparently staring towards the shore at the firing.
He lifted his head and called out quickly.
‘Ballaculish,’ he said. ‘Ballaculish!’
The cloud banks broke into thin wisps and the frayed edges drifted away so that the starlight broke through again, touching the dark water with sparkles of light which reflected their dim glow even on the curve of the ship’s paint-flaked side, showing the scars and the callouses of her long and vagrant life.
For a moment, there was no sound above them and they sat in the boat, holding their breath, then they heard the chink of a door handle and a shaft of light broke across the water, reflecting on the ripples of the oil-black surface.
A man appeared on deck, silhouetted by an open door, then the flank riders of fresh clouds dimmed the scene abruptly and the heavier reinforcements blotted it out and threw them into pitch darkness again. No one spoke and the man on deck seemed to be searching in the blackness for them. They could hear the old boatman’s heavy breathing and the murmur of water pawing at the ship as though with tiny hands of flesh and blood and sinew. Then a voice called out in English that sounded like music in Grace’s ears.
‘Skipper. Boat coming alongside. This must be him.’
Immediately, doors opened on the bridge and they could see more dark figures silhouetted against the light.
‘Who’s there? What ye want?’
‘Ash’s the name. You’ve been expecting me.’
There was silence for a moment, before the voice called again.
‘OK. Come aboard. Shove the ladder over.’
The relief burst out of Grace in a long sigh. She hugged Teresa to her, then instinctively she clutched Ash’s hand with both of hers and squeezed it.
Slowly, the darkness of the bank and the feeling that a thousand hostile eyes were watching her slipped away like a discarded cloak.
Part Two
One
The Ballaculish seemed to spring to life as they moved slowly along her side in the darkness. From being a dead, deserted ship, she suddenly became populated by dim figures that showed up to them only as silhouettes.
Two or three men appeared on the foredeck and another went hurrying aft. They could hear the chatter now of high-pitched Lascar voices, and a light was switched on, yellow in the darkness as it reflected off the ochre colour of the deck works.
‘We made it, Gracie,’ Ash said, putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘I never thought we’d be reduced to such shifts as this bloody load of scrap-iron but beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose, and anything’s better than the chopper.’
As they bumped softly towards the torch that was being waved to them from the deck, he reached out and grabbed the wooden-runged rope ladder that had clattered noisily down from the ship’s rail.
His breath came out in a grateful sigh. ‘Did ever home look so beautiful?’ he said. ‘Let’s get aboard, for God’s sake, before something goes wrong.’
Fumbling in the darkness, they pulled the boat to the ladder in silence, aware of the strong smell of hides and rotten potatoes that lay on the water across the faint odour of tar, hot oil and steam, heavy and sickening and unctuously fat. They worked without speaking, with only the slop of the water and the soft bump of wood on iron to break the stillness.
Ash helped Grace to her feet so that she stood up alongside him in the centre of the boat. His hands were round her waist to keep her from stumbling as the old vessel wallowed, and for a moment he was very conscious of her warmth and the strong scent of the perfume she wore. At the bottom of the ladder she turned, her voice near his ear.
‘Bless you, Buster,’ she said firmly. ‘And thank you for everything.’
His hand on the slimy rope of the ladder, with the cold iron of the ship against his knuckles, he found himself staring upwards after her as she climbed, strangely elated and pleased with the praise, then he pushed Teresa after her and turned briskly to the boatman.
‘OK, old lad,’ he said in English. ‘When I get up there, I’ll drop a rope or something down to you. Sling this suitcase an the parcels on to the end and shunt ’em up. I’ll carry this myself.’ He flourished the briefcase. ‘Then, when we’re aboard, just you whistle yourself back to base and say nothing to anybody. Nobody need know we’re aboard. Understand? Me entiende usted?’
‘Si, señor.’
‘Right.’
‘Vaya con Dios.’
‘Have a banana.’
Ash swung up the ladder, climbing with difficulty in the darkness with the briefcase. As he cocked a leg over the rail, he found the others being shepherded by a thin young man with a torch, whose pale spotty face, shinning with sweat, gleamed in the dim light of the dirty bulb on the deckhead.
‘Grundy’s the name,’ he said. ‘Second Mate.’
Ash was too occupied with climbing the rail to worry about the niceties of introduction. He dropped to the deck, ignoring the mate, and started looking for a heaving line, then Teresa’s timid voice interrupted him. ‘Mr Ash,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Mr Ash!’
‘In a minute. In a minute.’ Ash straightened up with a length of rope in his hand. ‘This’ll soon have our gear on board.’
‘Mr Ash–!’
‘Not now. Later.’
‘But, Mr Ash, the rope’ll be no good. The boat’s gone.’
‘What!’ Ash leapt to the rail and shone the torch downwards, but there was nothing beyond the end of the ladder but black swirling water.
He was still letting off steam in that energetic exuberant way of his, as though he enjoyed swearing as much as everything else he did, when a shadowy figure moved along the deck towards them.
‘Keep that light down,’ it was shouting. ‘They’re a bit too bloody quick on the trigger here.’
The newcomer came into the pool of light filtering down from the deckhead and they were able to make out a fat man in flannel trousers and a greasy felt hat. On his jacket were the four grubby rings of his rank. ‘Phizacklea’s the name,’ he said. ‘I’m master.’
