“Sorry, Miss Plenderleith, sorry.” The bo’sun stood up, absently rubbing shreds of beef off his trousers, and turned to Nicolson. “‘Plane approaching, sir. Green ninety, near enough.”
Nicolson glanced at him out of suddenly narrowed eyes, stopped and stared out to the west under the awning. He saw the plane almost at once, not more than two miles away, at about two thousand feet. Walters, the lookout in the bows, had missed it, but not surprisingly: it was coming at them straight out of the eye of the sun. McKinnon’s sensitive ears must have picked up the faraway drone of the engine. How he had managed to detect it above the constant flow of Miss Plenderleith’s talk and the steady putt-putt of their own engine Nicolson couldn’t imagine. Even now he himself could hear nothing.
Nicolson drew back, glanced over at the captain. Findhorn was lying on his side, either asleep or in a coma. There was no time to waste finding out which.
“Get the sail down, Bo’sun,” he said quickly. “Gordon, give him a hand. Quickly, now. Fourth?”
“Sir?” Vannier was pale, but looked eager and steady enough.
“The guns. One each for yourself, the brigadier, the bo’sun, Van Effen, Walters and myself.” He looked at Farnholme. “There’s some sort of automatic carbine there, sir. You know how to handle it?”
“I certainly do!” Pale blue eyes positively gleaming, Farnholme stretched out a hand for the carbine, cocked the bolt with one expert flick of his fingers and cradled the gun in his arms, glaring hopefully at the approaching plane: the old warhorse sniffing the scent of battle and loving it. Even in that moment of haste Nicolson found time to marvel at the complete transformation from the early afternoon: the man who had scuttled thankfully into the safe refuge of the pantry might never have existed. It was incredible, but there it was: far back in his mind Nicolson had a vague suspicion that the brigadier was just too consistent in his inconsistencies, that a purposeful but well-concealed pattern lay at the root of all his odd behaviour. But it was only a suspicion, he couldn’t make sense of it and maybe he was reading into Farnholme’s strange, see-saw conduct something that didn’t exist. Whatever the explanation, now was not the time to seek it.
“Get your gun down,” Nicolson said urgently. “All of you. Keep them hidden. The rest of you flat on the boards, as low down as you can get.” He heard the boy’s outraged wail of protest as he was pulled down beside the nurse and deliberately forced all thought of him out of his mind. The aircraft—a curious looking seaplane of a type he had never seen before—was still heading straight for them, perhaps half a mile distant now. Losing height all the time, it was coming in very slowly: that type of plane was not built for speed.
It was banking now, beginning to circle the lifeboats, and Nicolson watched it through his binoculars. On the fuselage the emblem of the rising sun glinted as the plane swung first to the south and then to the east. A lumbering, clumsy plane, Nicolson thought, good enough for low-speed reconnaissance, but that was about all. And then Nicolson remembered the three Zeros that had circled indifferently overhead as they had abandoned the burning Viroma and all at once he had a conviction that amounted to complete certainty.
“You can put your guns away,” he said quietly. “And you can all sit up. This character isn’t after our lives. The Japs have plenty of bombers and fighters to make a neat, quick job of us. If they wanted to finish us off, they wouldn’t have sent an old carthorse of a seaplane that has more than an even chance of being shot down itself. They’d have sent the fighters and bombers.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Farnholme’s blood was roused, and he was reluctant to abandon the idea of lining the Japanese ‘plane up over the sights of his carbine. “I wouldn’t trust the beggars an inch!”
“Who would?” Nicolson agreed. “But I doubt whether this fellow has more than a machine-gun.” The seaplane was still circling, still at the same circumspect distance. “My guess is they want us, but they want us alive, lord only knows why. This bloke here, as the Americans would say, is just keeping us on ice.” Nicolson had spent too many years in the Far East not to have heard, in grisly detail, of Japanese atrocities and barbaric cruelties during the Chinese war and knew that, for an enemy civilian, death was a pleasant, a desirable end compared to being taken prisoner by them. “Why we should be all that important to them I can’t even begin to guess. Just let’s count our blessings and stay alive a little longer.”
“I agree with the chief officer.” Van Effen had already stowed away his gun. “This plane is just—how do you say—keeping tabs on us. He’ll leave us alone, Brigadier, don’t you worry about that.”
“Maybe he will and maybe he won’t.” Farnholme brought his carbine into plain view. “No reason then why I shouldn’t have a pot at him. Dammit all, he’s an enemy, isn’t he?” Farnholme was breathing hard. “A bullet in his engine—”
“You’ll do no such thing, Foster Farnholme.” Miss Plenderleith’s voice was cold, incisive and imperious. “You’re behaving like an idiot, an irresponsible child. Put that gun down at once.” Farnholme was already wilting under her glare and the lash of her tongue. “Why kick a wasp’s nest? You fire at him and the next thing you know he loses his temper and fires at us and half of us are dead. Unfortunately there’s no way of guaranteeing that you’ll be among that half.”
Nicolson struggled to keep his face straight. Where their journey would end he had no idea, but as long as it lasted the violent antipathy between Farnholme and Miss Plenderleith promised to provide plenty of light entertainment: no one had yet heard them speak a civil word to each other.
“Now, then, Constance.” The brigadier’s voice was half truculent, half placating. “You’ve no right—”
“Don’t you ‘Constance’ me,” she said icily. “Just put that gun away. None of us wishes to be sacrificed on the altar of your belated valour and misplaced martial ardour.” She gave him the benefit of a cold, level stare, then turned ostentatiously away. The subject was closed and Farnholme suitably crushed. “You and the brigadier—you’ve known each other for some time?” Nicolson ventured.
For a moment she transferred her glacial stare to Nicolson, and he thought he had gone too far. Then she pressed her lips together and nodded. “A long time. For me, far too long. He had his own regiment in Singapore, years before the war, but I doubt whether they ever saw him. He practically lived in the Bengal Club. Drunk, of course. All the time.”
“By heaven, madam!” Farnholme shouted. His bristly white eyebrows were twitching furiously. “If you were a man—”
“Oh, do be quiet,” she interrupted wearily. “When you repeat yourself so often, Foster, it becomes downright nauseating.”
Farnholme muttered angrily to himself, but everybody’s attention was suddenly transferred to the plane. The engine note had deepened, and for one brief moment Nicolson thought it was coming in to attack, but realised almost at once that its circle round the boats was widening, if anything. The seaplane had cut its engine booster, but only for extra power for climb. It was still circling, but rising steadily all the time, making a laborious job of it, but nonetheless climbing. At about five thousand feet it levelled off and began to cruise round in great circles four or five miles in diameter.
“Now what do you think he’s done that for?” It was Findhorn talking, his voice stronger and clearer than it had been at any time since he had been wounded. “Very curious, don’t you think, Mr. Nicolson?”
Nicolson smiled at him. “Thought you were still asleep, sir. How do you feel now?”
“Hungry and thirsty. Ah, thank you, Miss Plenderleith.” He stretched out his hand for a cup, winced at the sudden pain the movement caused him, then looked again at Nicolson. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Sorry, sir. Difficult to say. I suspect he’s bringing some of his pals along to see us and he’s giving himself a spot of elevation, probably to act as a marker. Only a guess, of course.”
“Your guesses have an unfortunate habit
of being too damned accurate for my liking.” Findhorn lapsed into silence and sank his teeth into a corned beef sandwich.
Half an hour passed, and still the scout seaplane stayed in the same relative position. It was all rather nerve-racking and necks began to ache from staring up so fixedly into the sky. But at least it was obvious now that the ‘plane had no directly hostile intentions towards them.
Another half-hour passed and the blood-red sun was slipping swiftly, vertically down towards the rim of the sea, a mirror-smooth sea that faded darkly towards the blurred horizon to the east, but a great motionless plain of vermilion to the west, stretching far away into the eye of the setting sun. Not quite mirror-smooth on this side—one or two tiny islets dimpled the red sheen of the water, standing out black against the level rays of the sun, and away to the left, just off the starboard bow and maybe four miles to the south-southwest a larger, low-lying island was beginning to climb imperceptibly above the tranquil surface of the sea.
It was soon after sighting this last island that they saw the seaplane begin to lose height and move off to the east in a long shallow dive. Vannier looked hopefully at Nicolson.
“Knocking-off time for the watch-dog, sir? Off home to bed, likely enough.”
“Afraid not, Fourth.” Nicolson nodded in the direction of the retreating plane. “Nothing but hundreds of miles of sea in that direction, and then Borneo—and that’s not where our friend’s home is. He’s spotted a pal, a hundred to one.” He looked at the captain. “What do you think, sir?”
“You’re probably right again, damn you.” Findhorn’s smile robbed the words of any offence, and then the smile slowly vanished and the eyes became bleak as the seaplane levelled off about a thousand feet and began to circle. “You are right, Mr. Nicolson,” he added softly. He twisted painfully in his seat and stared ahead. “How far off would you say that island there is?”
“Two and a half miles, sir. Maybe three.”
“Near enough three.” Findhorn turned to look at Willoughby, then nodded at the engine. “Can you get any more revs out of that sewing machine of yours, Second?”
“Another knot, sir, if I’m lucky.” Willoughby laid a hand on the tow-rope that stretched back to Siran’s boat. “Two, if I cut this.”
“Don’t tempt me, Second. Give her all you can, will you?”
He jerked his head at Nicolson, who handed over the tiller to Vannier and moved over beside the captain. “What’s your guess, Johnny?” Findhorn murmured.
“What do you mean, sir? Kind of ship it is, or what’s going to happen?”
“Both.”
“No idea about the first—destroyer, M.T.B., fishing boat, anything. As to the other—well, it’s clear now that they want us, and not our blood.” Nicolson grimaced. “The blood will come later. Meantime, they take us prisoner—then the old green bamboo torture, the toenails and teeth, the water treatment, the silos and all the usual refinements.” Nicolson’s mouth was only a white gash in his face and his eyes were gazing at the sternsheets where Peter and Miss Drachmann were playing together, laughing at each other, the girl as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Findhorn followed his gaze and nodded slowly.
“Yes, me too, Johnny. It hurts—just to look at them hurts. They go well together.” He rubbed his grey-grizzled chin thoughtfully. “‘Translucent amber’—that was the phrase some writing johnny used once about his heroine’s complexion. Blasted fool—or that was what I thought then. I’d like to apologise to him some day. Really incredible, isn’t it.” He grinned. “Imagine the traffic jam if you brought her back to Piccadilly.”
Nicolson smiled in turn. “It’s just the sunset, sir, and your bloodshot eyes.” He was grateful to the older man for deliberately diverting his train of thought and, remembering, he quickly became serious again. “That bloody awful gash. Our yellow brethren. I think there should be some payment on account.”
Findhorn nodded slowly. “We should—ah—postpone our capture, perhaps? Let the thumbscrews rust a while longer? The idea is not without its attractions, Johnny.” He paused, then went on quietly: “I think I can see something.”
Nicolson had his glasses to his eyes at once. He stared through them for a moment, caught a glimpse of a craft hull-down on the horizon with the golden gleams of the setting sun striking high- lights off its superstructure, lowered the glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Seconds passed, then he lowered the binoculars, his face expressionless, and handed them in silence to the captain. Findhorn took them, held them steady to his eyes, then handed them back to Nicolson. “No signs of our luck turning, is there? Tell them, will you? Trying to raise my voice above that damned engine is like having a set of fish-hooks dragged up my throat.”
Nicolson nodded and turned round.
“Sorry, everybody, but—well, I’m afraid there’s some more trouble coming along. It’s a Jap submarine, and it’s overtaking us as if we were standing still. If he’d appeared fifteen minutes later we might have made that island there.” He nodded forward over the starboard bow. “As it is, he’ll be up on us before we’re much more than half-way there.”
“And what do you think will happen then, Mr. Nicolson?” Miss Plenderleith’s voice was composed almost to the level of indifference.
“Captain Findhorn thinks—and I agree with him—that they will probably try to take us prisoner.” Nicolson smiled wryly. “All I can say just now, Miss Plenderleith, is that we’ll try not to be taken prisoner. It will be difficult.”
“It will be impossible.” Van Effen spoke from his seat in the bows, and his voice was cold. “It’s a submarine, man. What can our little pop-guns do against a pressure hull. Our bullets will just bounce off.”
“You propose that we give ourselves up?” Nicolson could see the logic of Van Effen’s words and knew that the man was without fear: nevertheless he felt vaguely disappointed.
“Why commit outright suicide—which is what you suggest we do.” Van Effen was pounding the heel of his fist gently on the gunwale, emphasising his point. “We can always find a better chance to escape later.”
“You obviously don’t know the Japs,” Nicolson said wearily. “This is not only the best chance we’ll ever have—it’s also the last.”
“And I say you’re talking nonsense!” There was hostility now in every line in Van Effen’s face. “Let us put it to the vote, Mr. Nicolson.” He looked round the boat. “How many of you are in favour of—”
“Shut up and don’t talk like a fool!” Nicolson said roughly. “You’re not attending a political meeting, Van Effen. You’re aboard a vessel of the British Mercantile Marine, and such vessels are not run by committees but by the authority of one man only—the captain. Captain Findhorn says we offer resistance—and that’s that.”
“The captain is absolutely determined on that?”
“He is.”
“My apologies.” Van Effen bowed. “I bow to the authority of the captain.”
“Thank you.” Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Nicolson transferred his gaze to the submarine. It was clearly visible now, in all its major details, less than a mile distant. The seaplane was still circling overhead. Nicolson looked at it and scowled.
“I wish that damn snoop would go on home,” he muttered.
“He does complicate things rather,” Findhorn agreed. “Time is running out, Johnny. He’ll be up with us in five minutes.”
Nicolson nodded absently. “We’ve seen that type of sub before, sir?”
“I rather think we have,” Findhorn said slowly.
“We have.” Nicolson was certain now. “Light A.A. gun aft, machine-gun on the bridge and a heavy gun for'ard—3.7 or 4-inch, something like that, I’m not sure. If they want to take us aboard we’ll have to go right alongside the hull—beneath the conningtower, probably. Neither of the two guns can depress that far.” He bit his lip and stared ahead. “It’ll be dark in twenty minutes—and that island won’t be much more than half a mile away by the time he stops us. It�
�s a chance, a damn poor chance at that, but still …” He raised the glasses again and stared at the submarine, then shook his head slowly. “Yes, I thought I remembered that. That 3.7 or whatever it is has a big armoured shield for its gun-crew. Some sort of hinged, collapsible thing, probably.” His voice trailed off and his fingers beat an urgent tattoo on the rim of the gunwale. He looked absently at the captain. “Complicates things rather, doesn’t it, sir?”
“I’m not with you, Johnny.” Findhorn was beginning to sound tired again. “Afraid my head’s not at its best for this sort of thing. If you’ve got any idea at all—”
“I have. Crazy, but it might work.” Nicolson explained rapidly, then beckoned to Vannier, who handed the tiller to the bo’sun and moved across. “Don’t smoke, do you, Fourth?”
“No, sir.” Vannier looked at Nicolson as if he had gone off his head.
“You’re starting tonight.” Nicolson dug into his pocket, fished out a flat tin of Benson and Hedges and a box of matches. He gave them to him, along with a few quick instructions. “Right up in the bows, past Van Effen. Don’t forget, everything depends on you. Brigadier? A moment, if you please.”
Farnholme looked up in surprise, lumbered over a couple of thwarts and sat down beside them. Nicolson looked at him for a second or two in silence and then said seriously: “You really know how to use that automatic carbine, Brigadier?”
“Good God, man, yes!” the Brigadier snorted. “I practically invented the bloody thing.”
“How accurate are you?” Nicolson persisted quietly.
“Bisley,” Farnholme answered briefly. “Champion. As good as that, Mr. Nicolson.”
“Bisley?” Nicolson’s eyebrows reflected his astonishment.
“King’s marksman.” Farnholme’s voice was completely out of character now, as quiet as Nicolson’s own. “Chuck a tin over the side, let it go a hundred feet and I’ll give you a demonstration. Riddle it with this carbine in two seconds.” The tone was matter-offact; more, it was convincing.
South by Java Head Page 16
