'Shut up and stop gloating for Christ's sake,' said Conway angrily. 'I'm in trouble.'
Davies said: 'Yes I can see that.'
'You are too, Taffy, because you're in it as well.'
'Thanks for bringing it up. Anyway, the Governor wants us both.'
Conway looked upset. 'The Governor? Wants us? What for?'
Davies said patiently: 'Well, it's like this, see. He's a bit worried about having a full scale tribal massacre on his hands when Her Majesty is sailing in tomorrow.'
'I bet he is,' agreed Conway. 'But he doesn't know anything about us, does he? He can't do, unless Abe has been opening his mouth.'
'He wants us because he knows that you've been spending a lot of time over there on St Paul's with Joseph and his mob. And he's got to hear the story about me being over there that day with the harmonium and playing hymns for them. Everybody's heard that now. So he wants us to help him.'
'Help him what?'
'Stop the bleeding war I suppose,' said Davies miserably. 'Listen, mate, since you got me into this perhaps you'd be so damned kind as to get me out. You're full of plans and schemes sometimes. You were last night, weren't you. Well you better think up something now, boy, because we are in the shit.'
Conway got up and began to pull on his trousers. 'What savages,' he said bitterly. 'What idiots. Fancy starting a war.'
'Without you too,' said Davies without humour. 'I can't understand it.'
'How does he propose to stop it?' Conway asked him. 'The Governor I mean.'
He pulled on a khaki shirt and pushed his hair back from his forehead. Changing his mind he went to the enamel wash basin and poured a measure of water from the jug into his hand, transferring it with tenderness to his sore face.
'I don't know how he's going to stop it. Perhaps you ought to wear your Dodson‑Smith get‑up.'
Conway came across the room to him fiercely, angrily. 'Listen to me,' he said holding Davies's shirt in a bunch in his left hand and closing his large right fist. 'I don't mind you taking the piss out of me. but you say one word, one breath, about last night to anybody and you'll never see Newport again. You won't see anywhere again. All right.'
'All right,' agreed Davies prudently. 'You can put me down now.'
Conway released him. He dried his face on the corner of his bedsheet. 'Never have any towels in here,' he said excusing himself. 'You'd think as they put a basin and water in the room they'd think to put a towel as well, wouldn't you. Have you got a towel in your room?'
'No, answered Davies.
'We ought to complain to Seamus. After all we pay enough. Right let's go and see how we can assist His Excellency. Have you still the gun I gave you last night?'
Davies nodded. 'Under my pillow,' he said. 'Do you want it?'
'Better take it,' said Conway. He had recovered his shell now. He was very composed, easy, good‑humoured. His eyes were a bit sharp, thought Davies, that was all. Davies went and recovered the pistol. He gave it to Conway who tucked it inside his shirt.
'Where have we got to go?' he asked as they went down the cool stairs.
'By the quay,' said Davies. 'He's got a sort of collection of people down there he thinks might help. I think we're going out in that pretty little pinnace of his.'
'With his Nelson sailor boys,' said Conway. 'That will be picturesque I must say. Right let's see what he's got to propose.'
'I'm not looking forward to this,' said Davies as they
walked quickly in the hard sun down the street.
Conway said: 'I'm not exactly in rhapsodies about it myself.'
It was three o'clock in the brilliant afternoon when the first of the St Paul's war canoes began to move from the lagoon. Inside the reef they had assembled, surrounding the single charred rib of the copra hulk that remained above water. It stood like a stricken tree, rooted in the sea, deprived of leaves and branches. The islanders did not look at it.
Their canoes numbered a hundred and ten including the big supply dug‑outs with their store of arrows, shields, and spears, and the four ambulance canoes which would be used to transport the wounded back to their own island. They were painted like peacocks, but each with a large wooden cross at its prow. All the warriors wore special battle crucifixes which Abe had supplied at the time of their last emergency.
Joseph of Arimathea, regal in his Bermuda shorts, held a wide shield and led a session of community hymn singing before the tribe went to battle. They were glad to go, eager to meet the traditional pagan foe. Now that Dodson‑Smith had appeared, even though he had disappeared again so briskly, they felt they were going on a blessed crusade. The ringing summons of his bell was still sounding in their faithful ears.
The Warriors were armed with the traditional island weapons, the simple poisoned spear, the bow and the arrow dipped in the same potent pot. There remained on their island some wartime dumps of firearms but these had not been used by the St Paul's natives since a series of accidents had reduced their numbers some years before.
On the beach, beneath the curving trees and with the
roofs of the village thrusting through the green behind
them, the women and children assembled bravely and stood
with their men as the canoes slid full of purpose through
the water. Joseph began each hymn, selecting them at random from his memory of the Church Mission Hymnal'.
No one sang with anyone else, although in their uncanny way, everyone finished together. The mutilated words and terrible tunes ' babbled across the lagoon filling the bursting afternoon with an impressive cantata. The warriors, as they sang, rested their hands on their paddles and on the weapons they carried to the sea for the battle.
Their expressions were peaceful for they believed their cause was holy. The people left on the beach saw them go without qualm because they believed also. By evening, they were assured within themselves, the victory would be claimed and the warriors would return, possibly towing the St Mark's copra hulk as a bonus.
'God is on our side,' Joseph called out to them in their own language before they made for the gap in the reef. 'He will fight with us against the heathen.' He gave the signal for the advanced boats to go forward towards the wide battlefield of the ocean.
It took an hour before all the boats had cleared the reef. They formed up in three main squadrons, one slightly in advance of the others, with a small fourth section composed of the supply canoes and the ambulance vessels, together with the young boys and older men of the village as auxiliaries and crammed uncomfortably together in three obsolete canoes. ID the high sun they made a strong array, gathered like black beetles on the moving blue of the sea.
As the ladies of Sexagesima touched their afternoon teacups a few miles north, the war fleet moved across half a mile of ocean and advanced on the green lump of St Mark's. The paddles moved with eager rhythm, chopping the ocean, sending the slim craft urgently through the Pacific swell. There was no singing now, just a great panting and breathing from the warriors, sweat lying across their flesh, their eyes closed with the effort of their en. deavour in the sun.
After three miles Joseph, standing in the foremost canoe
like a prophet in the pulpit, raised his large right arm and 222
brought his armada to a rolling halt in the sea. The warriors knew what to expect. They looked up and saw, formed and ready on the sea, half a mile ahead, all the black canoes of the St Mark's tribe, quiet, unexcited. Waiting for them.
Fifteen
An anxious flotilla of cream boats left the tight harbour at Sexagesima at mid‑afternoon, the Governor's official launch at its head, its Nelsonian sailors trembling at having to sail on an unfamiliar voyage. The routine journeys across the harbour were accomplished with fine precision thanks to the navigational landmarks such as Mrs Flagg's red roof and the Kai Tek Fish Shop, but to sail for the world's most monster ocean, and to have to go through the midget gap in the reef to reach it was full of terrible possibilities. The bosun had to
ld Cooper that he knew his men well, and one thing he knew was that they were not capable of this refined and unaccustomed seamanship. So Abe had been chartered as pilot and he stood at the wheel, smiling fatly at the luxury of his situation, and took the launch out towards the Pacific.
Sir William and his aide stood on one side of the cabin stiff with their inherent sense of the emergency. The thoughtful Conway and Davies stood on the other side. A turgid boat owned by Mr English followed, loaded with the owner, Mrs Flagg, muttering with anger, Pollet and leading citizens of Sexagesima including Mr Kendrick and Mr Livesley.
Behind them came the Sexagesima police boat, the crew marble‑faced at the prospect of becomng involved in bloodshed on such a fine day. The French officer glowered at his British counterpart, pointedly blaming him for spoiling the afternoon rest period.
M. Etienne Martin, the French Governor, crisp in white shirt and shorts, a ceremonial revolver with a fancy lanyard at his waist, stood easily astride the scrubbed boards of his official launch, with his crew from New Caledonia, sharp in white ducks and red pom‑poms. His craft was clipping along at half speed only since the British launch was unable to move faster than she was already proceeding.
M. Martin kept patience. His moustache was straight as a pencil line and he kept his handsome eyes on the horizon for signs of the native war fleets. He wondered why the British always had such bad luck. He laughed.
In the forward launch Sir William and Cooper also watched the skyline. Phillip holding heavy black binoculars in his thin grip, Sir William through worn field glasses which he used in Scotland during remote and happy grouse seasons. Conway and Davies stood impotently, feet apart on the deck, hands uncomfortably behind their backs, saying nothing. Although no accusations had been made they felt like suspects being taken back to the scene of their er;me. Abe was singing low and soberly as he persuaded the wheel. They went through the reef with the familiar water‑chute sensation and two members of the regular crew were surprised by the jolt and fell over backwards. Davies, glad of something to do, considerately helped one of them to his feet. Sir William ‑glanced around, winced, and turned his eyes to his field glasses again.
They sighted the rival battle fleets low against the sun at almost the moment that they closed for the first contact of their action. The small black splinters moved threateningly towards each other across the open ocean. A chorus, the combined war chants of both tribes, howled through the sky reaching the men in the motor boats even before they could plainly see what was taking place. It was a haunting howl like a thousand begging winds. It shrieked over the ocean sending sea birds screaming away in horror, making the Melanesians in the three boats, the Govemor's, the police boat. and Monsieur Martin's pull long faces of fright. Pollet picked his teeth. The other white men swallowed and stood straight. Abe said: 'Looks like we've missed the kickoff.'
The first encounter was bitter, carried through with fierce hatred and raw bravery by the men of both islands. The dug‑outs of one squadron on each side ran towards each other rolling over the bulges of the sea, their warriors crying the gigantic cry, the bows ready for the first fusilade. At one hundred yards the arrows flew, hissing through the clear afternoon air, striking, killing, wounding the black bodies on both sides. Some of the canoes skidded as the arrows hit their men, one of the St Paul's boats fell sideways as half its men were thrown into the ocean by the arrows. The St Mark's natives were just as ravaged by that first assault. Two of their fast‑moving canoes collided and the second flight of arrows from the St Paul's men sizzled among the crews as they grappled to get the buried nose of one vessel from the flank of the other.
Like slim birds the second flight of St Mark's arrows flew towards the other tribe. The war‑cries were increased with the screams of the warriors who were struck. Some were in the sea, a sea already tinted with the native blood, swimming feebly among the prancing canoes.
There was only time for two flights of arrows. Then the chanting and the shouts ceased and the spears and clubs came into the fight as the canoes touched nose to nose and rammed into violent kisses. All the ancient savagery of the Pacific islands was in the encounter, the natives closing and locking, squirming together, falling, provoking a storm from a calm sea. The clubs and the spears struck and thrust in intimate violence. The cries, the blatant war boasts across the water, were smothered in the bodily battle, reduced to grunts and sweated breathing, to gasps as men died sharply or to cries strangely like the calls of small children.
The two squadrons on each side, which had stood back to let the battle form, still rode the water, keeping their formation, watching with all the fascination of spectators at a crucial football match. No sounds came from them either. They floated in their canoes, witnessing with almost academic calm the struggling butchery of their fellows.
Abruptly the battle broke. No one retreated, but as though at a telepathic signal the combatants disengaged, and the canoes were briskly turned like horses being reined about. The blows stopped at once and there was no interference from either side with the manoeuvring of the boats. There was even a touch of traffic courtesy as the dug‑outs 226
were guided around and away from the battle area before going back to rejoin the rest of the tribal army. A St Paul's canoe locked with an adversary was politely disentangled by the St Mark's native at the bow, and both proceeded back to the waiting echelons of their people.
The space of water where the engagement had been fought was clear of the boats within a few minutes. The tribes contemplated each other at a distance across the blue avenue of the sea. Between them floated sluggish bodies of those who had been killed in the fight, black lumps bobbing on the sunny water and with them the sharply finned backs of four upturned canoes. One of the floating men raised an arm and splashed forward in a weak and woeful swimming stroke. Then his head went forward and his body was covered over with the sea.
From the north the advancing fleet of white men's craft was now well up on the horizon. The natives from both sides saw them but made no reaction. They waited, pausing like prime boxers between rounds, for the next encounter.
There was a quaint regatta air about the boats and their passengers approaching from Sexagesima. The white and cream clothes, the caps, the binoculars, the anxious expressions could have fitted partisans at the Cowes finishing line. Everyone stood up straight and interested in the approaching spectacle apart from the knowing Melanesian sailors and police who had sunk to lower positions behind the bulwarks of each vessel. Conway and Davies remained standing, blinking with unease under the pouring sunlight.
'They've stopped, sir,' said Cooper, lowering his monster glasses. 'They've packed up whacking each other.'
'I can see, Cooper, I can see,' said Sir William a little coldly, not enjoying his aide's enthusiasm nor his colloquialisms. 'They seem to have disengaged.'
'Waiting,' called Pollet from the boat just astern. 'They fight like that, your Excellency. In relays. They'll be engaging again in a moment.'
The Governor slyly turned to see how M. Martin was reacting. He turned away again, annoyed, because the elegant French Governor had immediately spotted his concealed movement and had graciously waved at him in a comradely manner as though congratulating him on some performance or achievement.
'Damn the man,' said Sir William under his breath. 'Damn him,' he looked at the other flank to Pollet's companions, Mr English, Mrs Flagg, and the other dignitaries positioned pale as statues in their labouring launch. Only the British would stand so stiff on such a bouncing platform to watch a disaster, thought Conway, who followed the Governor's glance and saw his approving nod. They were stood necessarily grouped close together like white skittles, their heads elevated, their eyes looking out towards the gathered canoes. Mrs Flagg seemed as though she intended herself to join the battle on the side of her beloved St Mark's islanders. Her red hands clenched, unhinged, and clenched again as she squinted to see into the sun flying from the mirror of the ocean. Pollet picked his te
eth and wiped his glasses.
'Are you sure they're merely resting?' Sir William asked Abe.
'Having a breather, your Excellency,' agreed the helmsman knowledgeably. 'When they have a fight it's in three bits. First one lot, then another, and then the third. Then after that, whoever is left piles in for the last punch, and that more or less picks the winner. They've never had a war that wasn't finished by supper time.'
'This one must finish before that,' grunted Sir William determinedly. 'Won't this vessel go any faster?'
'Giving her all she's got now,' said Abe, rolling his head. 'She'll go off with a bang if we push her any more.'
'Don't do that, for God's sake,' sniffied Cooper without removing his face from his binoculars. Sir William looked at Cooper with distaste but added nothing. The war canoes were now clear, lined up in their individual patterns. There was no movement from either tribe. T'hey sat and watched each other across the coloured swell while the motor boats came from the north. Then, like the starting of a dynamo, a low hum came from the St Paul's men, taken up, but out of time, by the rival islanders. The hums moaned through the clear ocean air, rising and falling, getting louder with evernew chorus.
'Haven't you got any bright ideas?' Sir William suddenly asked Conway. He lowered his field glasses and glared at the Australian. 'You seem to have a lot of influence with them.'
Conway shrugged. 'No ideas,' he said evenly. 'It would need more than a bit of influence to do anything about them now.'
Davies said, hesitating over the words: 'We ... we ought to try and do something or other, didn't we?'
Conway turned on him. 'Why don't you sing a couple of hymns to them?' he suggested bitterly. 'Try a few choruses of Build on the Rock, mate. See if that will help.'
'Shut up,' Davies said. He stared truculently at Conway. Conway stared back, challenging him to say something more. He didn't.
They were approaching the tribes now. They could see the distant outlines of the men crouching in the boats like soldiers in trenches. In the hot air of the afternoon there was the heavy smell of death and battle. The squadron of motor boats fanned out to line abreast. M. Martin loosened the many‑coloured lanyard of his revolver, but only with the dignified air of a man adjusting his clothing. His face was unworried. They dropped speed, cautiously going towards the native fleet, going on a wide line for the separating channel between the two. Abe, who was reluctant to take risks, looked towards Conway and Davies and then questioningly at the Governor. 'Carry on, Mr Abe,' said Sir William quietly. 'We'll cruise through the middle. I will speak to them.'
The Love Beach Page 23
