Acts of Mutiny

by Derek Beaven

  None of the other children seemed surprised or upset by his words. MrTingay was considerably exercised about the world-wide proliferation of Molochs and Baals and used the terms to tell us something about himself and his mission to the heathen. I pictured the Molochs as huge sea creatures, although some were probably wild animals from the desert. The Baals were enormous poisonous lizards.

  This, however, was to be almost our last meeting, he said, and we had come to know each other quite well already. He wanted to describe to us the challenge and importance of his work. For there were still those benighted black heathens aplenty who were doomed to abominations of their own kind, and it was his calling to venture into the interior and rescue them from their falsehoods.

  While we, his little children of the promise again, would be safe eating the milk and honey of our new life in what he referred to now as White Australia. Because the sacrifice of Jesus, as opposed to the failure to sacrifice Isaac, which was all part of it, had made us Christians. It was all very confusing.

  ‘Now which of you children knows what a sacrifice is?’ I watched the others search their heads for an answer. Mitchell Coote knew. ‘It’s when you have to give something up to God, sir.’

  ‘It’s when you have to give something up to God. That’s right, that boy. And God so loved the world He gave up His son. So that everyone, not just the Israelites, could enter the Kingdom. And soon we all are going to make our own kind of entry, aren’t we? We’re all going to make a new life for ourselves; which puts us in the same boat,’ he chuckled, ‘in one sense at least, with those first wandering fathers in the Bible. We too are on an adventure.’

  ‘But we live in Melbourne, sir, me and my sister,’ Mitchell said, ingenuously. ‘We’re just going home. Does that mean we’re Philistines?’

  ‘No. Of course not. Ahem. Very good. Very good. Some of you are not quite English. I was forgetting myself. Well, no matter how you came to be in Australia, that doesn’t make you Philistines, who were the people of the sea and worshipped Dagon, you remember, and not the true Jehovah.’

  I looked at him sharply, muddled. And then Finlay asked whether the Abos were black Philistines who had human sacrifices and were cannibals, and I hated her for the fact that I was excluded now from everything, and I tried to grow self-righteous in Mr Tingay’s defence. I did my best.

  Until, by some stretch of meandering and theological argument even more obscure and above our heads than all before, he told us the story of Samson. From that point, try as I might, I found myself completely bamboozled and frustrated. All I could make out was that in the promised land the father was uncertain whether to stab the child, set him alight, or do it to a ram; but the blind hero would, in the brilliance of rage, find a way to pull the whole of creation down upon himself, killing everyone in the process. Poor Jesus was unfortunately sacrificed in there somewhere. And this was love.

  By the time it came for me to draw my picture I was very angry: I could not tell whether I was doing seagoing Philistines, or leviathanic Israelites, or white-marked Christians and thus-chosen-to-pass-through-the-fire-to-Moloch. I chose to represent the strong man on Brighton pier tearing it down from underneath. His false wife was there. Of course it exploded in a huge column of flame which obliterated much of the drawing.

  If I had a last hope it was to be reinstated in the game of Dragnet afterwards; but Finlay said that were I to be allowed she would not take part, nor would Mitchell. She gave her older brother a compelling look. The Torboys children had no hesitation in sacrificing me instantly. Finlay pushed me and said, ‘Shit to buggery,’ at a moment when the others were just out of earshot. I was as hurt as I was meant to be.

  Thus it was that I rose to the promenade deck to pay attention to what the adults were doing, and sidled into the back of the dance space where it seemed a special meeting had been in progress since the ending of the various church services. Adults were packed in; some of them were standing. There was a raised dais at the far end, where a table had been set up. A panel of very important people, glittering with rank and including the captain, were sitting at it. A hot debate was going on. And as much as the instruction according to Tingay was incomprehensible, and infuriating, so this made sudden, absolute sense. For at last I put two and two together and realised it was on the subject of the Leviathan. Robert had come good and told.

  51

  A man was on his feet speaking. In a little while I recognised him as Mr Barnwell. I had never seen him so. His uniform had tabs and rings and gold. He had his peaked cap on. The voice was disconcerting, tight and clipped.

  ‘I repeat, even if there were any such devices on board, and I do not for a moment admit it – but even if there were, you should all realise that there could be absolutely no danger from any such thing in transit.’

  ‘So there are more than one?’ Someone in the assembly was pressing home an attack.

  ‘This is a strategic matter, and as that is the case I may remind you that I am not required to divulge anything further. These are subjects, as I have already said, of national significance. Since this … er … unfortunate rumour got about, I have, of course, been in touch with my superiors. Her Majesty’s Government have given me certain discretion as to disclosing information,’ he looked down at a note he was holding in his hand, ‘so that the minds of passengers may be set at rest. What I am at liberty to say is that HMG routinely makes use of all normal forms of cargo shipment for various purposes in the same manner as any large concern. No … er … sensitive material, however, would be dispatched by any transport other than military. Of course, for non-sensitive consignments expediency might require at some time or other …’ He coughed. ‘We are all bound by the laws of supply and demand.

  Where there arises an urgent need to supply …’

  Several people tried to speak at once. A woman’s voice came out above them. ‘What I don’t understand is why? This is a passenger ship. There are children aboard.’

  Mr Barnwell sighed visibly and showed his teeth. ‘I have assured you and I can assure you that there is absolutely no danger to personnel from anything aboard this ship.’

  ‘And how do we know that?’ A man at the front stood up angrily. ‘How do we know that? Why should we trust your damned word for it? Do you think any of us would have taken passage on this ship if we’d had the remotest idea?’ He was supported by a host of others. ‘How do you think it’s going to feel … I don’t know, just sitting down to breakfast with our families now that this has come out? Worrying that just underneath us there’s … It’s intolerable! Surely something must be done immediately. To reassure us.’ The man looked round, as if for suggestions.

  ‘Let us meet this thing head on, sir,’ said Mr Barnwell. ‘Let us imagine for a moment that this preposterous rumour were true, and that by some extraordinary chance HMG had found it necessary to include in the routine provisioning of one of our main bases, some consideration of capital … armour. Yes. Let us look this slanderous rumour full in the eye and face it down. Supposing it were true. Would there be the slightest risk? Would anyone have behaved irresponsibly, after all? There can be no danger, sir, if a device is not armed. Why, the same holds for any weapon. And this is not a case, even, where there could be any instability in the materials. We are not talking, ladies and gentlemen, about anything at risk from vibration or percussion. No unexploded bomb in the cellar.

  ‘To be frank, I don’t know exactly what any possible military shipment on this vessel might contain. But I tell you again, if by some ludicrous stretch of the imagination we allow ourselves for a moment to assume the worst, out of the question though it be … why, you could have the latest American ICBM lying in your garden and your children could hold a tea party on it without the least danger. That is the kind of risk for which you seem to wish me to get the whole ship’s company in a pother – what with all this talk about winching people into the hold. And besides all that, haven’t I assured you categorically that this rumour about H-bo
mbs is in itself no more than a fabrication? A complete and malicious pack of lies, dreamed up by someone with nothing better to do.’

  The meeting had grown quiet, sullen. It was the same mood as came over the whole school whenever the headmaster harangued us in the hall about street behaviour, or not wearing caps on buses. We wondered how he could touch us out there beyond his jurisdiction, and how he had the right, and yet he managed to make us all feel guilty.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, our captain has your interests at heart. He would never dream of letting anything come on board which could pose the minutest threat to his passengers. It is unthinkable; trust my word in this. Unless you want me to be over-literal, and talk of all that is absolutely necessary. Think of a can of fuel, if you like – think of all the fuel oil in the Armorica’s tanks, which is slopping about down there in enormous quantities. Does anyone turn a hair at that?

  ‘Do you see? When any of us drives a car, do we imagine for a moment that the highly inflammable liquid without which we could not move an inch is going to explode under us? Of course we don’t. And yet it’s quite capable of doing so. There is a risk. And there is a risk on Armorica. Of course there is. If you don’t accept that we carry our own fuel then you had better get off at once.’ He chuckled. ‘There could be a problem. The kitchens might catch fire. Someone might smoke in bed. But nuclear? Nuclear?’ He elevated the word as if it were the keynote to an enormous joke. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, an accident of the kind some of you seem to be envisaging is simply not possible. Ships like this carry all sorts of things. Always have done. You do not ask to see an entire inventory of the hold. No passenger would.’

  Mr Barnwell’s tone had grown more emollient. He seemed to feel he was winning. There was a moment’s silence when he finished speaking; as if the propositions he had put were indeed reasonable, and it would be impolite to speak further to an officer in such a uniform.

  But then again came the woman’s voice from somewhere in the middle, as if she had not heard him at all: ‘Will you tell us why, though? I don’t understand the need. There are children.’ And a stout man from the back called out, ‘What’s all this about going behind the backs of the Malayans. Are we supposed to be smugglers or something of that kind?’ The body of passengers drew renewed heart. They murmured. I murmured myself, but for a different reason, for I thought the Leviathan might be provoked, hearing all these voices raised, and become angry in its turn.

  More people stood up and indicated a wish to speak. The figures at the table peered intently in the stout man’s direction. One of them made a note. Mr Barnwell sighed again, glanced at the captain, who nodded, and then looked briefly down once more at his piece of paper. ‘Very well. I will exceed my brief. The only condition is that you will each be required to sign a document of confidentiality upon leaving this ship. This is regrettable, and may appear something of an imposition, I grant, but it will ask no more than all ordinary citizens were asked during the war. Careless talk, I’m sure I have no need to remind any of you, costs lives. Disclosure will be treasonable. That is no more than any serving member,’ he eyed certain areas in the audience, ‘of Her Majesty’s Forces is required to undertake; nor, for example, those of you – and I know there are some present – who work in the weapons industry.’

  He looked up. It was oppressively hot. Only the slightest fraction of our breeze was managing to find its way in, despite the open sides. He waited. Nobody moved, or spoke. ‘I take it there are no objectors, conscientious or otherwise?’ He waited again. ‘Very well. There is a strategic imperative to secure our interest in South-East Asia. This much is common knowledge. We need a full capability in the Far East and must make use of our possessions. The ability to supply this full capability is a comparatively recent achievement and there is no time to be lost.

  ‘Unfortunately, there are local misapprehensions as to the need for security. At least in public. Tacitly, a spade is generally acknowledged to be a spade. Tacitly, there is not much of a question about it.’ He allowed himself another faint chuckle. ‘If I were to say it suits the parties involved to move with a certain amount of stealth over this very sensitive issue, you would understand me, no doubt. If I were to say that we fear our local air bases might have become a little leaky, you would understand me too, I think. A sudden flurry of cargo flights in a highly populated location would be difficult to disguise, I’m sure you’d agree. All sorts of people might get all sorts of wrong ideas. Public unrest.

  ‘If I were to say that any quantity of large and small tubes, casings, or other metal objects of industrial nature – I merely quote the actual bill of lading, which is as far as you would expect me to go in all fairness – are better transported by sea; if I were to say that the Navy had no vessels available at the short notice required for this particular shipment, and you were in HMG’s position, you would naturally, ladies and gentlemen, look for other routes. Wouldn’t you? In the national interest. It has always been so. Happens all the time. But there would be no reason to alarm people, would there? Especially as there could be no possible danger. It’s virtually a matter of routine, I assure you. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Happens all the time.’

  52

  A silence followed. There was grudging assent; as if a mischievous storm had somehow been brewed in a teacup. Perhaps they had over-reacted. After all, there was a cold war on. He had involved them. The government and the military had to do what was necessary. And if there actually were no danger, now that the truth had been told …

  It was Robert who rose from where he was sitting next to Penny. ‘There was also talk of something having gone amiss.’

  ‘Amiss?’ said Mr Barnwell. ‘I don’t think so. Amiss? Is anyone else aware …?’ He looked at his uniformed companions behind the table and then around at the assembled company. ‘No. I don’t think so. Nothing I’ve come across. And it’s been my responsibility to get the whole thing through as smoothly as possible. I’m the man at the helm of all this, after all, and nothing has come to my notice. There are always rumours upon rumours …’ He dared to let a full smile out at his audience. ‘That’s why we felt it necessary to convene this little meeting. After all. So that by presenting the truth, fairly and squarely, we can both allay any fears, and scotch into the bargain the more excessive fabrications that tend to accumulate in matters of this kind before they can get a grip, in a manner of speaking, on the minds of decent ordinary people. Two birds with one stone, if you like.’

  There was a hint of amusement from his audience. Whether Mr Barnwell knew that a question hung over Robert; whether he had had time, in his tireless supervision of our harmless cargo, to lend an ear to the only other all-absorbing topic before the nuclear story broke; or whether his reply was just a lucky shot, he succeeded in tapping into something. The audience, deprived of its prey by glozing and inconclusive rhetoric, was ready to channel its anger elsewhere. There were murmurings now against Robert.

  But Robert pressed on: ‘A possibility of contamination. That was the information which came to my ears. I heard that in the storm there was an accident, a slip-up; and as a result, a threat occurred to one of the water supplies.’

  ‘This is plain nonsense.’ Mr Barnwell took a drink from the glass of water in front of him. Whether he intended it, or whether, perhaps, his mouth was dry with the touchiness of his position, it worked as convincing theatre. Hostile eyes continued to be directed at Robert. One or two remarks were passed: ‘Pipe down, can’t you?’

  ‘I can give a categorical assurance that none of you assembled here, not your children, nor anyone else present, can possibly in any way have run the risk of contamination. Categorical.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Barnwell. May we know how it’s possible for you to give such an assurance?’

  ‘You’re doubting my word, sir? Not sure I like the sound of that. The word of a British officer.’

  ‘Which word do you mean, exactly, sir?’ Robert said. ‘The word by which you assured us it was un
thinkable that capital armaments were being carried, or the one where you indicated that those we did indeed carry were harmless? I merely ask for information – for the sake of accuracy. This is, after all, a crucial point of fact. A matter of life and death, even. Who knows? So little is certain about the effects … If perhaps it was the less accurate word of the two which was given over the contamination question, and not the reliable one, then surely that is important.’

  If embarrassment had a sound of its own it would have filled the dance space. As it was, there was nothing to be heard except the background of the bow wave, regular, distant; and the faint stagnant sigh of air against the superstructure. But the atmosphere bristled, and the assembly held its collective breath. Everyone looked at Robert. It had become an act of mutiny.

  Barnwell had struck a chord. It reminded them of the war. By his gesture of military candour he had assumed the mantle, almost of commanding officer. In the first class ballroom of a British liner, a man who was obviously an important military spokesman, possibly governmental, too senior even to bother to disclose his rank, and in the presence of the ship’s officers to boot … suddenly such a man was in his element, and everyone knew where he stood. This swing to Barnwell was a legacy of wartime. And all this time, the very soldiery who had once returned, demobbed, vote-happy, were fenced off astern behind steel doors.

  I listened, hardly comprehending. Mr Barnwell’s face was white, presumably with fury.

  ‘How dare you.’ He enunciated slowly, tightly, while appearing to survey the faces before him. The other officers at the table stared stiffly out in front of them, eyes focused on the rear wall, except for the captain who turned his pencil over and over in his hands. ‘Why, I could have you …’ Mr Barnwell’s gaze came to rest on Robert’s own as his speech failed him.