Road To The Coast

by John Harris

  ‘Perhaps he was honest,’ Ash growled. ‘And never thought of it.’

  Carroll was listening now with his head cocked to the sounds of shouted orders outside, and the clatter of boots.

  ‘There are other possibilities that I’ve considered,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps if I’d won a big victory’ – Ash laughed mockingly and he frowned angrily – ‘perhaps, I repeat, if I’d won a big victory, mere incidents would have been overlooked. But there were no victories. There was not sufficient fighting.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have been on the winning side if there had – not the way you go about it.’

  Carroll glared. ‘Don’t be insulting,’ he snapped.

  Ash stood by the window, apparently indifferent to him. The prisoners were being marched off from the other side of the square now, shuffling away in silence, their hands still clasped on their heads, and a soldier ran past the fountain, bent double, sending the pigeons scattering. Carroll listened to the rifle shots that echoed thinly into the room before he spoke again, then he leaned forward quickly, putting his elbows on the table and making a spire of his fingers.

  ‘Alvarado’s child’s not been found yet,’ he snapped. ‘And neither has Alvarado.’

  ‘Hard luck.’

  ‘It’s my belief the child’s aboard the ship. I’m no fool, Señor Ash, and you didn’t manage to bluff me. Unfortunately, I don’t like making war on children, so I thought up another way.’

  Ash tapped his cigarette. ‘Duffy?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly. The briefcase is aboard the ship.’ Carroll’s voice became hard. ‘You were seen to take it on board. Unfortunately for you, there was some talk with the boatman about it.’

  ‘There’d have been some talk about something else if I’d known,’ Ash growled. ‘The bastard pinched our clothes.’

  Carroll ignored the aside. ‘It must be still there,’ he said. ‘Don’t you agree, Señor Ash?’

  There were more sounds of wheels outside and Ash saw lorries drawing up in the square. Carroll rose, glancing towards the window.

  ‘Come, Señor Ash,’ he rapped, banging the table. ‘I haven’t much more time. Have you got this briefcase or not?’

  Ash had straightened up, suddenly bright-eyed, facing Carroll with a new confidence, as though he had shuffled off the bitterness of his disappointment.

  ‘That’s a funny thing,’ he said. ‘That’s what I came to see you about.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Carroll barked the words, his face full of suspicion, then he began to tap the table with the fingers of one hand.

  Outside, there was the sound of running feet and the shouting of orders. Carroll glanced at the door.

  ‘My superiors in Córdoba might be inclined to overlook a lot for that briefcase,’ he said.

  ‘I thought it seemed important.’

  ‘It is important. There’s a great deal of money in it.’

  Ash stared at Carroll for a minute unwinkingly, and they each knew what thoughts were passing through the other’s mind.

  ‘I see,’ Ash said slowly. ‘There are more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cream, eh?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And there are more ways of satisfying your superiors about what might become an international incident than by producing evidence of your innocence in the form of a statement?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You’re pretty sharp,’ Ash said, fiddling with a cigarette packet. ‘Muy hombre. Quite a boy.’

  ‘In this world of ours, one has to be sharp to live.’

  Ash grinned. ‘But you’re barking up the wrong tree,’ he said, ‘if you think you’re going to bully me into turning that briefcase over now – like this. I know damn well you’ve got your hands full at the moment. There are half a dozen crack-brained kids with rifles in the convent across there and you’ve got to winkle them out before you can get any peace. You haven’t time to stand here and argue and you don’t think I’m going to do business with you when I might be rushed into something.’

  ‘I can claim that briefcase.’ Carroll straightened up and hitched his tunic into position.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘I can detain you here while I go and get it.’

  Ash grinned, listening to the noise outside. ‘Do you think I’m mad,’ he asked cheerfully. Apart from me, nobody could ever find it, except perhaps some lucky man when the ship finally goes to the shipbreakers.’

  ‘You’ve hidden it?’

  ‘What did you expect – with a crew like that? Fortunately there are a thousand and one good places aboard a ship. You put me back aboard and I’ll consider it. But I’m a British subject and I’m damned if I’m going to be detained here. You finish your business across the square first, then I might discuss it. But not here. On my own ground. On the ship.’

  He indicated the window and the shaft of late sunshine that was striping the floor through the grille. ‘You’ll need to get a move on,’ he pointed out, nodding towards the window. ‘It’ll be dark soon and that lot in the convent’ll make a break for it then. I should cover the rear when you start shooting if I were you. And tell those farmers of yours to keep their wits about ’em. Those kids might try to escape dressed as nuns.’

  Carroll glanced at the door, obviously perturbed by the increasing activity which seemed to demand his attention.

  ‘Think you can manage?’ Ash tormented. ‘Or would you like a real soldier to help you. I’ll act in an advisory capacity for a salary if you like. Shouldn’t take me long.’

  Carroll frowned, then he swung round and opened the door. The sergeant was still there and Dodgin was sitting on the step in the yellowing sunshine, smoking.

  ‘Take them back to the ship,’ Carroll snapped. ‘And see that they don’t get away again. Tell that fool in the launch to stay alongside this time.’

  He turned once more to stare at Ash who gave him a cheerful grin, then he swung round and stalked out into the sunshine.

  Dodgin rose slowly to his feet as Ash emerged. ‘What’s on?’ he demanded. ‘What’s he been saying?’

  Ash indicated the car which was drawn up near the gate.

  ‘Transport, I think,’ he said. ‘Back to the ship.’

  As they left the courtyard, a battery of guns was unlimbering in the square. Already one of them, on its tripod, was being aimed by a sweating gunner working over the polished wheels. Beyond it the blue-tiled Church of the Virgin gleamed in the sun and to one side the glowing pinky-grey walls of the convent with its shattered windows and lopsided shutters.

  Dodgin indicated the battery.

  ‘Them guns look like that lot off the point,’ he said.

  Ash nodded. ‘That’s what I thought when I saw ’em through the window,’ he said. ‘You can still see the mud on the lorry wheels, in fact.’

  Dodgin pressed his sharp nose against the glass of the car as they sped across the square.

  ‘There’s that officer, too,’ he said in a choking voice. ‘That bloke who shot us up.’

  Carroll was standing in the shade of a splintered palm, gesturing towards the convent, and with him was the doughy-faced artillery captain and a sergeant.

  ‘They are that lot off the point,’ Dodgin said excitedly. ‘They’re the guns what shot up the ship. They’ve brought ’em into town to finish the job off here. Poor bastards!’

  A Spanish-style hearse went past them, all crosses and crowns, and Ash watched it for a moment, then he turned to Dodgin. ‘The first maxim a soldier should learn,’ he said, ‘is never try to fight on two fronts. Nobody can be in two places at once successfully, can they? If those guns are here, then they can’t be on the point. See what I mean?’

  Dodgin turned and stared at him, then he glanced at the drive of the car and the soldier sitting in front with an automatic rifle across his knees, and a slow smile like a bleak shaft of winter sunlight spread across his sharp unyielding features.

  Three

  A dribble of black smoke lit with
tints of gold from the sun filtering through the trees rose in a slow spiral from the Ballaculish’s smoke stack as the launch drew alongside. The ship’s rails were crowded as the lantern-jawed corporal pushed his heavy gun off his hip and reached for the ladder.

  A buzz of speculation broke out as the launch bumped along the calloused sides of the ship, and curious glances were directed downwards as Ash and Dodgin climbed to the deck. There was a smell of steam about the old vessel as they stepped aboard, Ash noticed, that managed to penetrate through the stink of hides and old potatoes, as though the blood were pulsing in her veins again, and through the engine-room skylight he could hear the bang of firebox doors and the clang of shovels and rakes as the stokers pushed up the steam in the gauges. As he paused with one leg over the rail, they heard a deep-toned thud from the direction of the town, and he looked quickly at Dodgin.

  ‘They’ve started,’ he said.

  As Teresa swung on his arm, hugging him, he saw the grey beaten look on old Dainty’s face. He stood by the rail, wearing his mop cap and a sweat rag round his thin turkey neck.

  ‘Well?’ he said, indicating the soldiers in the launch. ‘You don’t look as though you fixed much.’

  Dodgin gave Ash a sly smile. ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he pointed out.

  The old man’s face glowed. ‘You mean we can go? When?’

  ‘Soon.’ Dodgin cocked a thumb at Ash who was standing behind him with an old elated look in his yellow eyes. ‘He said we would. OK, so we will.’

  Ash saw Grace’s face light up, then Dainty was slapping his back, almost capering with delight. ‘Brother, am I looking forward to seeing the sea.’

  Ash brushed him aside and his head cocked as they heard the thud of the gun again. ‘Not just now,’ he snapped. ‘There’s a boatload of soldiers down there with their eyes hanging out on their cheeks. Get below first before you start celebrating.’

  Dainty backed away, puzzled; and Ash glanced briefly over the side where the grey launch was attached to the rope ladder, already purple in the evening light, then he drove them all before him into the shadowy alleyway to the saloon.

  Grace followed with Teresa, hurt and puzzled that he had ignored her. When they pushed after the others into the saloon, she saw him standing with Dodgin by the porthole, still indifferent to them all, peering across the flat pewter sheet of the water towards the Punta de las Rosas. His face was bright with eagerness and in their excitement he and Dodgin seemed unaware of all the rest of them staring.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ Dodgin was saying. ‘The whole bloody lot of ’em.’

  Dainty moved forward, followed by Grundy. He looked fatigued and the pleasure in his face had given way to suspicion.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘When are we going?’

  ‘Tonight,’ Ash said. ‘Tonight, when it’s dark.’

  Grundy’s jaw dropped. ‘Tonight?’ he said. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Why not? We’ve got steam up, haven’t we?’

  ‘Sure. That’s what you wanted.’

  ‘OK, then, what more do you want?’

  Grundy stared. ‘Well, where’s the pilot?’

  Ash gestured gaily. ‘You’re the pilot, old boy. You’re going to show us what a navigator you are.’

  ‘Me?’

  Standing by the steward’s pantry, Grace watched them in bewilderment. Ash, his head framed in the last of the sunlight coming in through the porthole, looked fiercely alive. He clearly had some new and hare-brained scheme in his head and so far still hadn’t taken the trouble to notice her. He looked so completely absorbed in what he was doing, she suddenly felt chilled and doubtful, wondering how much of what he’d told her the previous night had been true and how much mere opportunism.

  Old Dainty also seemed disturbed. He was slowly pushing tobacco into the blackened twine-bound pipe in his horny fingers. ‘Listen,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s something going on. I don’t like it. What is it?’

  Dodgin grabbed his arm impatiently and swung him round to the porthole. ‘Look,’ he rapped impatiently in his sharp reedy voice. ‘Look at the point. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but the guns have gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Yes, gone, you bloody old duffer! They’re in town trying to blow hell out of a gang of blokes in a convent.’

  As though to emphasize his words, the distant gun in the town fired again and the pots on the table chinked gently together.

  ‘Well, what about it?’ Dainty jammed the pipe between his gums. ‘What’s that to do with us?’

  ‘What’s it to do with us?’ Dodgin shouted. ‘If the guns are in town shooting up some poor bastards there, they can’t shoot at us here, can they?’

  ‘Well, what?’ – Dainty stopped dead and took the pipe from his mouth, staring at Dodgin. Then his head swung towards the porthole and back again and he edged away immediately.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No.’

  Dodgin’s enthusiasm gave way to anger. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘They’ll never stop us with that lousy little launch they’ve got there.’

  Dainty backed farther away, stubborn and tight-faced. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ he said. ‘There might be another gun there somewhere.’

  Ash swung round from the porthole, where he had been silently studying the point. ‘If you want to get out of this damned creek at all,’ he said, ‘now’s the time to do it. Even if they see us go, they can’t do a thing about it. If we go tonight we can be out of here before they get those damn guns into position again. God knows, they’re a sloppy shower but you’ll not get two chances.’

  Grace held her breath as she realized what he was contemplating and her arm went slowly round Teresa’s shoulders.

  Dainty’s head was swinging backwards and forwards between Dodgin and the towering Ash. ‘No,’ he said again, and Grundy pushed forward as it dawned on him also what was in their minds.

  ‘We’d run aground,’ he interrupted shrilly. ‘You can’t do it. The river’s full of islands. You’ve got to have a pilot. There are mudbanks all the way downstream.’

  ‘Who wants to go downstream?’ Ash demanded sharply. ‘Out of here would be enough to go on with.’

  ‘And what’s it matter if we do go aground, so long as we’re out?’ Dodgin took up the argument noisily. ‘Give ’em more to make a fuss about. More to put in the papers. If we hit anything, that’s just too bad. Sink the lot. Send ’em to the bottom.’ He seemed to relish the idea of a collision, as though he would have liked to have made his escape with as much chaos and destruction as possible, as though the thought of disaster soothed his violent mind.

  ‘No,’ old Dainty said again. ‘No. We’re not going.’

  ‘You try and stop us,’ Dodgin said, his eyes wild, ‘and I’ll lock you in the pantry and work your gang meself.’

  ‘You’ll never do it,’ Dainty persisted. ‘Not in the dark.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Dodgin said. ‘At least let’s have a bash.’

  ‘It’s too risky,’ Dainty said, but Grace could see he was already gradually giving ground.

  ‘What’s a bit of risk?’ Dodgin demanded. ‘You might fall off the ladder staging tomorrow and break your neck. You might choke over a cup of tea. You might suffocate yourself with that stinking pipe of yourn. What’s a bit of risk?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Dainty rubbed his nose doubtfully. I don’t like it. There’ll be trouble.’

  ‘Trouble? If we pull it off, there’ll be pictures in the paper and an old geezer in a top hat to give you a testimonial. How’d you like that? – a reception at the Town ’All and you there with a gong on your chest.’

  Ash was already ignoring the argument, pushing the dirty pots across the table and spreading the crackling chart over the tea-spotted surface, confident in his ability to sweep them all along with him and supremely indifferent to the protests, anyway. Dainty watched him for a moment as he leaned across the chart, impervious to their arguments, then he drew sharply on his pip
e and as the sparks drifted down across his grubby vest, his eyes brightened suddenly and his head came up.

  ‘How you going to go about it?’ he asked.

  Grace waited silently in the captain’s cabin, trying hard to concentrate on reading one of Teresa’s comic books. The child sat up in her bunk, also pretending to read but like Grace with her mind on the sounds they could hear above them on the deck.

  Throughout the whole evening, under the harsh glare of the solitary bulb in the saloon, Ash and Dodgin and the unwilling Grundy had pored over the chart, unaware of the growing darkness outside, none of them sparing a glance at Grace and the child as they ate their evening meal alone on the settee. The sleepy buzzing of the flies from the pantry had made a monotonous background to the crackle of paper and low excited voices. The occasional thud of the gun and the faint flurries of rifle fire from the town gave meaning to what they were doing at the table.

  Later Grace had worked with the child in the pantry making sandwiches and tea – for suddenly no one seemed to have time for a meal – and now, hours afterwards, it seemed, they were still alone and ignored while the stealthy movements went on about the ship as Dodgin and the bosun inspected the anchor cable and the stokers raised steam with as few signs of activity as possible.

  The guns in the town were silent now and through the porthole, on the warm air, Grace could hear the thin sound of a guitar from the launch which still lay alongside, made fast to the ladder, and from time to time low sleepy voices from the soldiers aboard her. She found her attention wandering as she listened, and she tried again to concentrate on the gaudy pictures in the comic that seemed to swim in the glow of the grubby bulb on the deckhead.

  ‘Are we really going, Grace?’ Teresa said suddenly, and Grace looked up quickly, glad to talk to someone.