I hadn’t asked for that helicopter flight, but as the machine lifted me up over the hangars, crabbing sideways towards the reefs, my interest quickened with the thought that somewhere along the fringes of that huge lagoon there must exist some indication of the purpose of Peter Strode’s visit.
“Anything you particularly want to see?” Beardmoor’s voice crackled in my helmet.
“The vedis,” I said.
“Vedis? Oh, you mean the old trading vessels. Can’t show you much of them—all battened down, you know. The dhonis now …” I lost the rest and realized he had switched channels and was talking to the tower. We had already crossed the Gan Channel and were over Wilingili. “That’s where the bad boys go.” It was used as a sort of penal settlement and all along the shore the undergrowth was beaten flat, discoloured by salt. Apparently the southern shores of Addu Atoll had been swept by a tidal wave some six months before. “They say the runway was a foot deep in water. It just about ruined the golf course.” We were swinging back now towards the bare flat bull-dozed expanse of Gan and as we crossed the runway end I saw some wag of a matelot had painted in enormous white letters—YOU ARE NOW UNDER THE PROTECTION OF THE ROYAL NAVY.
He took me low along the lagoon shore and hung poised in the bright air to show me dhonis laid up in palm-thatched boat-houses just back of the beach the way the vedis had been on Midu. “Now that most of the men work on Gan about half the dhonis are surplus to requirements,” he said. “They’ve dealt with the vedis the same way. Only the battelis—the fishing boats—are in constant use.”
“Are all the vedis laid up?”
“Yes. Or at least they were. If they haven’t hauled it out again I’ll be able to show you one in the water.” I asked him when they had launched it and he said, “Yesterday morning, I imagine. When I came over about this time Monday they were stripping the palm thatch off her and had started work on recaulking the seams.”
And Monday was the day the Strode Venturer had arrived. “Are they preparing for a voyage, d’you think?”
We had passed now from the jungle green of Fedu to the jungle green of Maradu. “No. I should imagine it’s just a question of maintenance.” He held the machine stationary to show me a mosque built of coral with white flags hung out for the dead so that it looked like washing day. There were children flying a kite and white teeth flashed in their dark little upturned faces as they laughed and waved. “But that vedi was quite a sight. There must have been at least fifty men working on her.”
We slashed our way over the treetops to look down on a broad street of coral chips that ran ruler-straight almost the length of Maradu. The houses, each with their well for washing and another for drinking, were neat and ordered, the street immaculate. The whole impression was of a highly civilized, highly organized community, and I wondered that they had been content with a life so near to subsistence. Maybe it was the climate. The islands were as near to paradise as you could get on earth. And yet they were obviously not an enervated people for the evidence of their energy and vitality lay below me.
Maradu, Abuhera, the flat bare area of the transmitting station on the southern tip of Hittadu, and then we were hovering over a long thatched roof. “There you are, sir, that’s one of them.” Alone or in groups there were nearly a dozen vedis cocooned on the beach at Hittadu and the water of the lagoon was a livid green, slashed with the white of the deep-water channel they had cleared through the reefs. “Where’s the one that’s in the water?” I asked him.
“On Midu.”
Inevitably, I thought, and fretted whilst he showed me the Government building, the house of the man who had styled himself President of the Adduan People’s Republic, the neat ordered streets of the capital; and then we were whirring low over the reefs, heading east. There was a batteli fishing in the Kudu Kanda Channel, the curve of its white sail like the wing of a bird, and shoals of big fish—bonito—just beyond Bushy Island; and on the far side of the Man Kanda Channel he came down low to follow four big rays winging their way with slow beats across reef shallows that were shot with all the hues of coral growth.
“There she is, sir. And by God they’ve got the masts in. That’s quick work.”
The vedi lay in the little coral harbour at the end of Midu’s main street, her two masts and her topsides mirrored in the pool’s still surface. There were dhonis alongside and men working on her deck. “Looks as though she is preparing to put to sea.” Beardmoor sounded excited. “I wonder if she’s going to try and run the blockade.”
It was absolute confirmation—the ships and that Adduan navigator, Don Mansoor, were what had brought Peter Strode back to the islands. But why? What reason had he given them to get one of their ships ready? “Take me as close as you can,” I told the pilot.
“Okay.” His mind, his whole body, was concentrated on the vibrating control column as the helicopter descended to hover just clear of the masts, the wind of the rotors beating at the flat surface of the water, shattering the ship’s reflection. She wasn’t particularly beautiful—a trading vessel, broad-beamed like a barge with a short bowsprit and a high square stern. Yet she had a certain grace and the unpainted hull and decks had the dull, silver-grey sheen of wood that has been aged and bleached in the sun. The men working on her had all stopped to stare up at us. I counted twenty of them. Some were caulking the decks, others working on the topsides, and stores were being got aboard from one of the dhonis.
Beardmoor angled the machine round the stern so that we could see the dhoni on the far side. There were another dozen men there getting the sails on board and I could have sworn that one of them was Peter Strode. He looked up for a moment and then turned away, bending over the great fabric mass of the mainsail.
“They’re going to sea all right,” Beardmoor said. And he added, “I’ll have to report this to the C.O.” The helicopter lifted and slipped sideways towards the beach. The whole village seemed to be gathered there, a gaily-coloured mass of women and children who laughed and waved to us as they crowded the coral sand or stood in the shadows by the palm-thatched houses of vedis still laid up. “Seen all you want, sir?” And without waiting for my reply he lifted the machine vertically and headed back towards Gan, ten miles across the lagoon. “You were expecting that, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Something like that—yes.” I heard the click as he switched to the transmitting channel and then he was talking to Control, reporting what he’d seen, and I wondered what Canning would do when he heard.
I hadn’t long to wait. As we approached the rusting hulk of the Wave Victor I saw the big high-speed launch ploughing towards us. It was doing about forty knots and headed out towards Midu, the R.A.F. ensign streaming taut and a great arrow of churned-up water spreading out astern. “They were quick off the mark,” I said.
“A little too quick,” Beardmoor answered. “They must have had their orders before I got through to Control.” And he added, “Our local President’s no fool. He has his own intelligence network and he’s not looking for trouble. A head-on clash with the Malé Government is the last thing he wants.”
A few minutes later we passed right over the Strode Venturer. The barges were gone, the booms stowed, the hatch covers on. She was all ready for sea, yet the anchor was still down and no sign of life on board. She hadn’t even got steam up as far as I could see.
Back at Gan I went straight to Station H.Q. But Canning wasn’t there. “He’s down at the trading post discussing the situation with the President,” Easton said. “And you’re not very popular at the moment. He feels you should have warned him.”
“About the vedi? I didn’t know.”
“But you knew this man Strode was going to jump ship.”
“So did Canning,” I said. “Or at least he’d a pretty shrewd idea after our talk this morning.”
“Did you know there were two Adduans on the Venturer?”
“No.”
I don’t think he believed me, but when I asked for the details he
went to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. “Don Mansoor and Ali Raza. They’re both from Midu. Goodwin went on board this morning to have a word with Strode. When he couldn’t find him he had the whole crew lined up. That was how he found two more were missing. We’re holding the ship until we find out what it’s all about.”
“What are you going to do with Strode?”
“Ship him out. The Adduans are another matter. They signed on for the voyage and in theory they should be returned to the ship to complete it. But that’s for the President to decide, presuming that the captain is willing to release them.”
I went down to the jetty then, but though I waited there for an hour the high-speed launch did not return. There was no breeze, the lagoon flat calm and the Strode Venturer quivering in the sultry heat. Canning didn’t come into the bar that morning. He arrived late for lunch, had a quick meal and left immediately afterwards. In theory nobody worked in the afternoon, but the demands of the station made few concessions to climate. Shortly before three he sent for me. He was alone in his office.
“Where’s Strode?” I asked him.
“Still on Midu, and I’ve spent half the day arguing with our local President about him. As soon as Goodwin reported he was missing and two Adduans with him I sent the launch out there, but the people wouldn’t let Wilcox land. My jurisdiction doesn’t extend to the islands and the queer thing is I got the impression the President not only knew about Strode but approved whatever it is he’s trying to do.” He was smoking a cigarette and he seemed ill-at-ease. “However, that isn’t the reason I sent for you. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.” He reached for a message form that lay on the desk. “Com. Cen. have just sent this over.” He glanced at it and then handed it to me. “I’m sorry, Bailey.”
The message read: Please inform Cdr. Bailey that his wife Barbara was found unconscious in their bungalow this morning. She died in hospital about an hour later. Cause of death is believed to have been an overdose of sleeping pills. Also convey our sympathy. It was signed Alec.
“If there’s anything I can do?” Canning said. “Anything you want?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
I stumbled out of his office and the brilliance of the sun outside seemed to mock. Its tropical warmth held the promise of life and what I held in my hand was the death of all the years we’d had together. I couldn’t believe she was gone. All that vitality, that desperate energy—wasted. To sorrow was added guilt, the feeling that somehow I ought to have done something to prevent it. I hadn’t loved her—not for several years. It hadn’t been possible, yet now I felt the loss of the love that had once been between us, and it hurt. It hurt like hell to think she’d found it necessary to go like this.
I don’t remember walking through the camp. I don’t remember much of what I thought, even. I heard the sound of the sea and have a vague impression of coral sand. In the end I went back to H.Q., to the adjutant’s office. There were messages I had to send—to Barbara’s parents, to various relatives and friends in different parts of the world. Hers was a Service family and very scattered. “There’ll be a flight through from the U.K. to-morrow morning,” Easton said. “The C.O. has told Movements to make a seat available for you on it to Singapore. Take-off will be around nine o’clock.”
I thanked him and walked back to my billet. It was the end of the day now and the dhonis were taking the Adduans back to their islands, the palms turning black against the setting sun and the sky to the west taking on that violent synthetic hue. Four men in white shorts were playing tennis in the fading light and the first of the fruit bats, the flying foxes, was coming in from Fedu, the beat of its wings slow as a raven. I went into my room and shut the door. The soft hiss of the fan revolving, the liquid murmur of the two house-boys talking on the verandah outside, the sound of tennis balls—how often had Barbara and I shared such sounds. I wrote some letters, then stretched myself out on the bed, my mind numb, my body drained. It was over now, finished, done with. She had been my first love and it would never be quite the same for me again. My tired mind groped for some consolation and finding none produced its own remedy. I slept, and when I woke the light was on and Hassan was standing over me. He was holding out a piece of paper.
It was from Strode: All my plans have been upset by the authorities here and it’s urgent I discuss the position with you. Can you come at once? There will be a dhoni waiting for you off the jetty. Hassan will take you to it. He had signed it Peter S.
I looked up at the dark figure standing over me. “Have you come from Midu?”
“Midu.” He nodded.
I hesitated. But what the hell—anything was better than just lying here with all the night before me. “Okay,” I said. And he waited whilst I put on my shoes. I took a sweater with me, but outside the night was still warm. Ten minutes later we were on the end of the jetty. There was no moon, but it didn’t matter; the sky was all stars, only the water was black. “You give me cigarette please.” I handed him one and he lit it, letting the match flare against his face. A white glimmer showed suddenly against the black darkness of the water and in an instant it became identifiable as a sail filled by the light breeze coming in from the north. I heard the gurgle of the water at the dhoni’s bow, but no human sound as the square of white was abruptly snuffed out. Then the dark shape of the boat itself glided alongside. Hands reached out to grasp the concrete and fend her off, a mast against the stars and dark faces, almost invisible, eyes glinting in the starlight. A thin hand reached out to draw me on board, and as Hassan jumped to the thwart beside me the bows were pushed clear, the oars dipped and the long black lines of the jetty slid away.
They sailed out as far as the Wave Victor and then they began to row, keeping up a steady tireless rhythm and heading straight into the wind. It took them over two hours to reach Midu and closing the shore we passed the high-speed launch lying like a watch-dog chained to its anchor. Peter Strode was waiting for me at Don Mansoor’s house.
“Sorry to drag you out here, but it’s important. You saw that launch as you came in?” I nodded and he hitched his chair forward, his face urgent in the harsh light of the pressure lamp. “What the hell are they so worried about—that I’ll try and run a cargo to Ceylon?”
“Canning doesn’t want any trouble,” I said.
“There isn’t going to be any trouble. I’m going south, not north.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
“Exactly. That’s why I asked you to come out here. If I give you my word that I’m not going north …” He wanted me to persuade Canning to call off his watchdogs.
But I knew it wasn’t as simple as that. “Suppose you tell me where you are going?”
“No.” His refusal was immediate and final. And he added quickly, “You must know by now that I have the local President’s agreement—his support, in fact.”
“It’s no use,” I said. “Canning’s worried about the political implications.”
“Then he’s a bloody old woman. What the hell’s it got to do with him?”
“Only that he’s answerable to Whitehall. You can’t blame him.”
“You won’t help me, then?”
“I can’t unless I know what you’re up to.”
He was silent then and I waited, listening to the liquid sound of the Adduans talking amongst themselves. In the end it was Don Mansoor who answered. “You must understand that we are very poor peoples here on Addu. Very poor indeed before the R.A.F. are coming to the island.” His voice was soft and gentle, his English nearly fluent. Later I discovered he had been educated at Bombay University. “We are always very distant from Malé and the government of the Sultan. Now we have our own government. But we have nothing but fish and cowrie shells to sell to the world outside. We wish to be less dependent upon the R.A.F. They are our friends. They have been very welcome to us. They raise our conditions of living so that we have lamps and oil to put in them, flour and cigarettes, even radios. But what happens next year or the year a
fter? We do not know. We want independence for all times, but we are not being certain of our independence if we are not having—if we do not have …”
“Resources,” Peter Strode said. “What he is saying is that they will never be truly independent until they have resources of their own quite apart from what they get out of the R.A.F.’s presence on Gan. In other words, they don’t trust the British to support their separatist movement.”
“This is political, then?” I was thinking of the launch anchored out in the lagoon and how right Canning was from his point of view to station it there.
A silence had descended on the room. “You want me to join the board of Strode & Company—so that you can get your foot in the door of what’s left of your father’s shipping line. Correct?” Peter Strode’s voice was urgent, so tense that it trembled slightly. “Well, I can tell you this, Bailey, unless I can get out of here, free to sail where I want, I won’t do it. I’ll sell my shares in the company and you can go to hell. Understand?” I could almost hear his teeth grate, the frustration he felt was so violent.
“Yes, I understand,” I said. “But trying to blackmail me won’t help you, and what you do with your shares is your own affair. I can only help if I know what your intentions are.”
His fist came down on the table. “You stupid bastard—why don’t you stay in the Navy if you’re not prepared to take a chance and back your own judgment?” He was leaning towards me across the table, in silhouette against the lamp, the pointed ears standing out on either side of the black shape of his head. “Can’t you understand what it means to these people? Can’t you trust me?”
The Strode Venturer Page 10
