James laughed. With his mercurial nature, now that they were temporarily out of danger, he seemed to have forgotten that barely an hour ago he had probably killed a man. ‘Of course. I come of a race of great seafarers. I could take you anywhere in the South Pacific with my eyes shut. As a youth I spent many nights at sea. Even when the stars are hidden I would know my way by the feel of the wind, the look of the water and the smell of the air.’
As the night sky was clear, he had only to look up for a few moments to give Gregory a course. Then he said, ‘The prevailing wind is against us, so it will take us three, perhaps four, days to make it. In these seas there is little traffic, so the danger of our coming into collision with another boat in the dark is negligible. But there are numerous islands and many reefs; so, although we can lash the wheel, one of us must always keep watch. Reefs can be seen at some distance because of the phosphorus in the waves that break over them. We call it “the breath of Daucina”, the great Shark God who is the light-giver and protector of seafarers.’
When the lights of Noumea had become pinpoints behind them, Gregory murmured, ‘So far, so good. Owing to your height, you and I make such a conspicuous couple that the gendarme we passed on the wharf is certain to remember us. I was afraid that soon after we left, a general police alert might reach him, then they would tumble to it that we had pinched this launch and got away by sea, and come after us in a speed boat. But, as they won’t know which direction we have taken, we’ve got far enough now for the odds to be all against their catching us.’
James made up one of the two bunks in the small cabin and split the remainder of the night into two watches. The morning dawned cloudy and by eight o’clock it had begun to rain. On examining their food supply, they found that the things Gregory had whipped up from the trolley had become a glutinous mess, embedded in which were four thick slices of the delicious Terrine Maison, a score of prawns that had been in aspic, and four small birds. With care it would be enough to last them four to five days and if they did run short James said they could always pick up some coconuts and wild bananas from one of the many deserted islands they would pass or, failing that, they could catch fish. The supply of water was also satisfactory, but Gregory had serious misgivings that the petrol would not prove sufficient for so long a voyage.
By midday the sky had cleared and the sun blazed down. Soon the roof of the cabin became so hot that they could not bear to touch it. All through the long afternoon, sweltering and sweating, they alternately dozed and kept watch. Over their evening meal, Gregory asked, ‘Have you decided what to do if and when we reach Tujoa?’
James looked at him a little unhappily. ‘Stay there, I suppose. What else can I do? If I have killed that swine, they will come after me; but my people are loyal and would hide me up in the mountains.’
‘Sooner or later someone would betray you, and the police would run you to earth. Even if you haven’t killed de Carvalho they will institute a search for you and you’ll get a long prison sentence if you are caught. I think the best plan would be for us to go on to Fiji. As that is British territory, they would have to get a warrant to extradite you. They will, of course, if de Carvalho dies; but if he is only injured they may not bother. Once we are in Fiji, too, we could probably get to Manon’s island without being traced and lie up there.’
Putting a long arm round Gregory’s shoulders, James said, ‘Dear Gregory, what a good friend you have been to me. But for you I expect I would already be in prison. Yet you got me away and came with me, when you need not have done. You had no part in my act and Olinda would have sworn to your innocence.’
Gregory laughed. ‘Perhaps, but they would have found out that we were partners; so they might have taken the line that I could have prevented you from throwing him over the balcony, and charged me as an accessory. Anyhow, forget it, dear boy. We are in this thing together.’
On the second day the good weather continued, but Gregory suffered severely from the sun. However careful he was, he had from time to time to expose himself to it: and his face, arms and insteps began to hot up until he knew that he was in for a bad bout of sunburn.
Soon after dawn on the third morning, a wind got up. The sea became choppy and flecked with white horses, then became really rough. They kept the launch head-on to the waves, but it bounded and bucked like a bronco, jarring them badly with each jolt. Spray broke over the boat in sheets and the bilge began to fill with water. Both of them set to baling frantically, but by midday the cabin was awash. In the afternoon the storm eased a little, but about four o’clock the engine sputtered and died. As Gregory had feared might happen, their petrol had given out.
Now the launch veered from her course and was at the mercy of the sea. All that they could do was to keep on baling and pray that the boat might be washed up on an island. James broke out into lamentations about the vulnerability of modern vessels. The Pacific peoples had sailed in safety thousands of miles in their canoes—at one time even carrying out a great migration right through the East Indies and across the Indian Ocean to Madagascar. The Fijians, Tongans and his own people, he said, had long been famous as canoe-builders and their catamarans—big double canoes spanned by a deck with a palm-thatched house on it—were more comfortable to voyage in than anything short of a large, modern pleasure yacht. King Thakobau had once owned such a double canoe, one hundred and two feet long and eighteen feet wide, which he had presented to King George of Tonga.
But James’ unhappy grumblings did nothing to lessen Gregory’s anxiety. It seemed certain now that, unless the sea went down before nightfall, the launch would sink. Then, just as the sun was setting—a great orange ball on the horizon—they sighted and island. Ten minutes later it became certain that they were being carried towards it.
Darkness soon shrouded the scene, but fewer waves were now breaking over the boat and the stars came out. There followed an anxious two hours, then ahead of them they sighted a line of breaking surf. Some way behind it the island loomed up. The lights of the launch were still working, and Gregory switched them on. Had the engine not failed, they might have manœuvred the boat until they found a gap in the reef, but she had no steerage way. As they were swept towards the reef, the waves pounding on it seemed to become higher until they towered overhead. Then came a grinding crash. The boat splintered to pieces on the rocks and they were both thrown into the sea.
As they came spluttering to the surface, they found that they were inside the reef and in calm water. Having called to each other, with infinite relief they swam for the shore. It was about a quarter of a mile away and they had only covered a third of the distance to it when, from the beach, a searchlight flashed out and began to sweep the lagoon until it focused on them. The lights of the launch had evidently been seen. Joyful at the thought that help was at hand, they redoubled their efforts and staggered ashore.
On the beach a soldier with a Sten gun was waiting to receive them. In a language of which Gregory understood a little, but James had never heard spoken, the man called out something and motioned to them to put up their hands. Surprised and breathless, they obeyed. Signing to them to go ahead of him, he marched them along the beach towards the searchlight. About a hundred yards before they reached it they were met by an officer at the head of a group of soldiers. In halting French the officer asked their nationality and where they had come from.
‘We are British,’ Gregory replied; and, in the hope that they would be sent on there, he added, ‘We come from Fiji.’
‘This island is forbidden to all persons,’ said the officer harshly. ‘You are under arrest.’ Then he signed to a Sergeant and two men to escort them away along a path that led inland through the jungle.
As they moved off, James turned to Gregory and asked in a puzzled voice, ‘What do they mean to do with us? Who are these people, anyway?’
‘What they will do with us, God alone knows,’ replied Gregory grimly, ‘or how they come to be here. But these men are Russians.’
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‘Russians!’ echoed James. ‘But they are soldiers, and the Russians own no islands in the South Pacific. What are they doing here?’
‘Ask me another,’ Gregory shrugged, although he had already conceived a possible explanation. He was too wet and weary to wish to talk, and would anyhow not have speculated on the matter in the hearing of their escort, even though it was unlikely that any of the men understood English. But he did take that small chance by adding, ‘If you have anything on you that will give away your identity I’ll distract our escorts’ attention for a moment while you throw it into the bushes.’
‘No, I’ve nothing,’ James murmured. ‘I left everything behind at….’
‘In the launch,’ Gregory cut in loudly. ‘So did I.’
After trudging about a mile the ground sloped up and they came to a mound crowned by tall bushes. In the uncertain light it was not until they were quite near that Gregory realised that it was actually a low building, but so well camouflaged that even in daylight it could not have been detected from the background of jungle at more than a hundred yards. Apertures in the otherwise solid front showed it to be a small fort that commanded the bay. Hidden behind it were some storehouses and an open space in which stood two jeeps. A sentry who was on duty there shouted something and an officer emerged from the fort. The Sergeant reported to him. They held a brief colloquy; then the prisoners, prodded with machine pistols, were herded into one of the jeeps.
After half an hour of bumping along a dirt track they came down into a valley in which there were a number of lighted buildings, evidently forming a base camp. The jeep drew up in front of an office block. The Sergeant went inside, came out again and called to his men. The prisoners were taken up on to a veranda which ran the whole length of the building, marched some way along it, then put into a room furnished only with two tables, a few chairs and some filing cabinets. One of the soldiers went in with them, then the door was locked.
Wearily, Gregory sat down on one of the hard chairs. Looking up at James towering above him, he gave a just perceptible wink and said with apparent severity, ‘Well, Johnny Olourna, what have you to say for yourself? Before we left Suva your father told me that you were to be relied upon. He assured me that you could take me in safety for a fortnight’s cruise among the islands and were much too knowledgeable ever to leave port when there was a threat of bad weather.’
For a moment ‘Johnny’ looked surprised, then he got the message and replied, ‘I am sorry, sir. But such storms do blow up quite unexpectedly.’
The soldier who had been left with them growled something, which Gregory knew to be an order not to talk; but he had no intention of giving away the fact that he knew even a little Russian, so he went on:
‘And where are we now, I would like to know? What island is this?’
‘It must be Yuloga. A solitary island that lies about halfway between the Loyalties and the Nakapoa Group.’
Angrily their guard stamped a heavily-booted foot, put one hand over his mouth and with the other waved his machine pistol; so they accepted his demonstration and fell silent.
After a wait of twenty minutes the door was unlocked, the Sergeant reappeared, and they were led along to a larger and much-better-furnished office. Behind a desk was seated a square-jawed Russian who, by his rank badges, Gregory knew to be a Colonel. Beside him stood a French officer wearing the uniform of a Captain of Artillery. Poker-faced, the Russian threw the questions and the Frenchman interpreted.
Actually, owing to their hurried flight from Noumea, it was there that the two prisoners had left their passports and other papers, so there was little chance of their being identified; but Gregory took the precaution of choosing a false name for himself, the initials of which would tally with the monogram on his silk shirt. Showing great indignation at the treatment they were receiving, he said that he was George Simonds, a British subject who had come on a winter holiday to Fiji. At home he owned a motor launch, and spent several weeks each summer cruising across the Channel or North Sea. Thinking that it would be pleasant to cruise among the islands, he had hired a launch from a Mr. Olourna in Suva, with his son Johnny to pilot her. They had been caught in a storm, etc. He requested a passage back to Fiji as soon as possible.
James substantiated Gregory’s story. But the Russian did not appear interested. He was concerned only with security. At length the French Captain said, ‘No-one is permitted to land on this island unless he carries a special permit. That you should have been wrecked on it is your misfortune. You will have to remain here during the pleasure of the Commandant.’
At that Gregory blew up, declaiming on the Rights of Nations and the Freedom of Individuals. But he was only making a demonstration which he hoped would lead his captors to regard him as a person of some importance. He knew only too well that, even could he have communicated with Whitehall, the days were gone when the British Government could protect her nationals the world over, and, should they be unjustly imprisoned, send a warship to secure their release. The birthright of Britons had been sold for a few sacksful of dollars and a Socialist mess of pottage, based on liberal fantasies that in the sacred name of Independence all peoples were now entitled to kill their political enemies and imprison foreigners whenever they wished.
As the prisoners, still protesting, were led away, Gregory shouted to the Captain, ‘We have not fed for over twelve hours; so at least send us food and something passable to drink.’
They were taken a few hundred yards on foot to an enclosure of one-storey buildings. There the Sergeant handed them over to a Sergeant of Military Police, who led them across a compound, then locked them into two adjacent cells, each of which was furnished with a truckle-bed, a chair, a slop bucket, a rack that held a tin jug of water and a mug. But at least the prison had been built recently, so the cells were clean and hygienic. Above head level the walls on all four sides consisted of iron grilles covered with fine-gauge wire mesh, to provide through-currents of air and protect the prisoners from mosquitoes. There were no lights in the cells, but illumination from a great arc-lamp in the middle of the compound came through the grilles, giving enough light to see by, yet not sufficient to prevent sleep.
The island being forbidden to ordinary citizens, Gregory felt sure that the prison must be a military detention centre, so it was most unlikely that the cells were ‘bugged’. Owing to the solid partition that separated them he could not see James, but they were able to talk to each other through the open-work iron grille above it. As Gregory did not feel like talking, he called out, ‘We’re in a fine mess, Johnny; but we had best sleep on it and discuss what can be done tomorrow.’
The thin clothes he was wearing had already dried out owing to the warm tropical night air, and were only a little stiff from salt. He was about to take off his trousers and get into bed when the door opened and an orderly thrust in a mess tin holding some pieces of meat, a yam, two bananas and what Gregory rightly took to be a mug of strong tea. The meat was tough and the yam unpalatable; but after his long fast he ate the greater part of them and the bananas with pleasure, then drank the dark brew of tea, comforted a little to think that their captors were not altogether inhuman. Partly undressing, he lay down on the bed, pulled the rough blanket over him and, utterly tired out, soon fell asleep.
When he woke the big arc-lamp had been switched off and instead the pale light of early morning filtered into the cell. Recalling the events of the past night, he endeavoured to console himself for having been made a prisoner by the fact that he was lucky to be alive at all. His waterproof watch was still going, and a glance at it showed the time to be a little before six.
Both he and James had been frisked for weapons, but not searched, and none of their few belongings had been taken from them. He put that down to their having been imprisoned not for any criminal act, but simply as detainees. His wallet had fallen out of his pocket when he had been thrown from the wrecked launch, but that did no
t particularly trouble him, as he still had plenty of money on him. During the long spells he had spent on secret missions abroad during the war he had always worn a money belt containing a hundred or more gold coins as well as wads of bank notes of the country in which he was operating. More recently, since he had been travelling further afield, he had resumed his practice of wearing the money-belt as a precaution against pick-pockets and hotel thieves. Now it had in it a considerable sum in dollar bills and Swiss franc bank notes.
Had he been searched, the money might have been taken from him; and he was still congratulating himself on having the wherewithal to bribe his way out of prison, should an opportunity arise, when his cell door was unlocked and a guard beckoned him out. James had already been released and, as they wished each other a rather gloomy ‘Good morning’, the guard led them along to a wash-house.
In it there were already two men who, from their light skins and only slightly crinkly hair, looked to Gregory like Polynesians. Soon afterwards they were joined by two white men and two fuzzy-haired Melanesians. The two white men were both fortyish, lanky, fair-haired and blue-eyed. Surprised and pleased at the sight of Gregory, they introduced themselves as Willy and Frank Robertson, Australians who had long been in the copra trade. Two months earlier their schooner had been driven on to a reef by a hurricane. They and the two Melanesians, who were members of their crew, had succeeded in getting ashore in a boat, only to be promptly arrested and imprisoned. The Polynesians, they said, had been there for considerably longer, but for quite how long was uncertain, as neither of them spoke any English.
The guards, who stood by while the prisoners washed, did not prevent their talking, so ‘George Simonds’ and ‘Johnny Olourna’ duly told their story, then obtained as much information as time allowed from the Robertson brothers about conditions in the prison.
It emerged that it held two types of prisoner: themselves—castaways who were being held illegally on security grounds—and a number of Russian soldiers serving sentences for various derelictions of duty. The two groups were never allowed to mix and were exercised at different hours. There was no common dining hall, probably as a precaution against the detainees being together long enough to plan a mass attempt to break out. Food was brought to them three times daily in their cells. It was not too bad, but very monotonous. The heat was one of the worst afflictions, although they were allowed morning and evening to use the showers adjacent to the washroom. Another disadvantage was that no books or radio music were provided to help while away the intolerable monotony. And, last but not least, there was the terrible uncertainty about when, if ever, they would be restored to liberty.
The White Witch of the South Seas Page 17
