"No home, Chief," replied the Italian. "My home in Livorna. Here, in Sydney, only boarding house sometimes. Here, in Australia, this ship my home. I stay." His big hand closed on Barrett's arm. "But you go, Chief. Molto rapido. You got wife, home. Karl and me watch ship for you."
The two best seamen—and the two best men?—in the ship, thought Barrett. One brought up in little ships plying the waters of the not-always-calm Mediterranean, the other trained in Baltic schooners. There would be no shore gangway watchman available; that was glaringly obvious. (The fires seemed to be spreading and the city was screaming like a wounded animal.) But the ship would not be left untended.
He said, with feeling, "Good man," and then ran down from the fo'c's'le head to make his way amidships. Before he reached the saloon house he almost collided with the second and third mates. The Second began to talk, urgently and rapidly.
"Mr. Barrett, I know it's not right for us to rush off like this. I know it's not. Somebody should ship-keep. There's only a single line out at each end and we don't know what's happening ashore, and we don't know what's going to happen next. But the Old Man rushed off before we could ask him anything. And I don't know what's happening to my wife in Kingsford, and Tony's worried about his fiancée in Kensington, and we can't help feeling that our duty is with them rather than here—"
Barrett cut him short. "Go for your lives!" he snapped, adding softly, "And I shan't be far behind you."
But in spite of his growing anxiety, he was reluctant to leave the vessel. It was not altogether that he was conscientious, although it did go very badly against the grain to rush ashore when the ship was so insecurely moored and when disaster, however caused and in whatever form, was as liable to strike here as anywhere in Sydney. Too, there was self-interest. If things ashore should get too badly out of control the ship would be both a shelter and a means of escape, both for her own people and for their families.
He climbed the companionways to the officers' flat. Bill Maloney was there, standing in the alleyway and talking with Ferris, the little, bald, wizened third engineer.
The radio officer said, "Don't be a fool, Tim. Get going. Try to bring Jane down here. We'll keep ship."
"Aye," agreed Ferris. "An' just bear in mind, Mister Mate, that I'm keepin' her warmed through an' in a state o' readiness for instant departure."
"If you don't mind," said Barrett, "you might rig fire hoses. Old Joe and Karl are staying aboard. They'll lend a hand." He muttered, "I don't like shooting through like this—"
"Shoot through, you stupid clot!" growled Maloney. "You've a wife, and your place is with her, not hanging around this rust bucket like a bad smell. Just remember that we shall keep the ship here waiting for you, and the others, as long as we can."
Barrett was still reluctant to go. "What have you heard?" he asked Maloney.
"Too much," replied the radio officer gloomily. "And too little. But enough to make it plain that what's happening here is happening all over Australia. And there was the beginning of a news flash from New Zealand that was cut off almost before it got started." His fat face puckered until he looked like a baby getting ready to cry. "And now practically every station, practically every station everywhere, is dead. This could be the end of the world, Tim. Or the end of our world."
"Try to maintain a listening watch, Bill," said Barrett.
"Yes, I'll listen. And you get the hell off this ship and try to find Jane." His plump, heavy hand fell onto the chief officer's shoulder. "And good luck."
"You'll need it," added Ferris.
When Barrett hurried through the wharf gate there were still two of the crew there—two motormen—and they were still trying to get some kind of sense from a dead telephone, still waiting for a taxi that would never come. One of them called in a hurt voice to Barrett as he passed, "This phone's on the blink—"
"You surprise me," grunted Barrett shortly.
As he made what speed he could up the steep slope of Druitt Street he could hear them talking in loud voices. "E's the mate. 'E should do somethin' about it!"
"Not 'im. 'E wouldn't know enuff ter get outer 'is own way. An' neither do you, you stupid bastard. Let me dial the bleedin' number."
From the top of Druitt Street, where George Street crossed it at right angles, drifted a confusion of noise that drowned the sound of the voices behind him. There was the roaring of engines, a raucous cacophony of horns, a continuous shouting and screaming. It was frightening— more frightening than the spreading glare to the east and the south, more frightening because it was still so much closer. Surprisingly there was no traffic in Druitt Street itself, but, thought Barrett, word must have spread that the Pyrmont Bridge was out of commission.
He could see the crowded roadway now, the artery from the city's heart along which the corpuscles were being swept out of control—beyond all control. He could see the mechanical torrent and knew that the yellow diagonal lines of the zebra crossing would be useless as a ford. But he had to cross George Street somehow if he was ever to get home, if there was still a home to justify the journey.
The flames were bright to the east—very bright.
But he had to know. He had to be sure. He had to find out, to see for himself.
Abruptly he was conscious of the painful stitch in his side. He slowed his pace. He was almost at the top end of Druitt Street now, staring at the spate of vehicles, willing it to stop so that he could cross. A small, beetle-like car broke away from the main stream. There was a tinny crash as it was struck—then another, heavier crash. But it kept on, roaring down the hill out of control, mounting the footpath. Barrett jumped back barely in time to avoid being knocked down. The most terrifying impression was that of the two broken headlamps, like two ruined, sightless eyes.
But apart from this one vehicle—gone now, piled up, no doubt, at the foot of the hill—Druitt Street itself was clear. And on the right-hand side was the Town Hall, and the entrance to the Town Hall underground railway station which, also, was a subway by means of which George Street could be crossed. Barrett crossed the road hurriedly, ran for the subway entrance, started to run down the steps.
Started to run, and then tried to fight and wedge his way through the cramped, seething mob of humanity. It was stifling down there, and the air was foul with the smell of fear, and hot with an ovenlike heat.
"No good shovin', mate," said the man past whom Barrett was trying to elbow his way. He was affable enough, and the reek of cheap wine on his breath explained why. "No good shovin'. We're trapped, an' we may as well admit it. Even if the trains is still runnin'—an' I very much doubt it, 'specially since they'd 'ave ter plough through the bodies on the tracks—they'd never get this crowd out in time. No, mate. May as well resign yerself."
"You may be resigned, you drunken sot," cried a shrill female voice. "But I'm not. My family's waiting for me at Killahra, and I have to get there!"
"Wouldn't be seen dead on the North Shore myself, mate," confided the drunk to Barrett. "Not that it matters —though not so long ago I coulda thought o' better places ter be seen dead than the bleedin' Town Hall station. All goes ter show, don't it? But our Commie friends have made sure that all our worries'll soon be over."
"What do you mean?" asked Barrett, still trying to struggle through.
"Bleedin' obvious. Saboteurs in every big city, settin' fires. An' the Comrades launch their dirty great rockets, all of 'em with nuclear warheads, an' all of 'em designed to home on infrared radiation. Heat to you, missus," he added for the benefit of the frantic housewife from Killahra.
Barrett realized he was being driven backwards. People must have been pouring into the subway through all its entrances, building up the pressure inside. Something had to give, and for some reason the entrance in which Barrett was jammed was the weakest point. And what were they all after? he wondered. Transport, or shelter from the rumored homing missiles? Or did they, like himself, merely want to cross the road?
Although it was neither one nor
the other, the open air outside seemed deliciously cool and fresh after the heat and the stench below ground. But it was not cool for long. All along George Street the fires were springing up—in the big stores, and the cinemas, and in the Town Hall itself. There was the roaring of flames and the crashing of glass and the screaming of people; and from the roadway the clamor of machinery unabated, the rasp and din of the horns, the shrill and wail of sirens, and the screeching of tortured metal as firemen and police battled for the right of way against the refugees in their brainless panic.
And above it all, by some minor miracle, Barrett heard, faintly, the whistle of his ship, the bleating of compressed air expelled around the reed in a sequence of dots and dashes, in readable Morse.
T-I-M, he read. Then, J-A-N-E.
Then, J-A-N-E H-E-R-E.
He ran down the hill back to the wharf, and it seemed to hit him that he was trying to race the spreading flames.
On either side of Druitt Street the buildings were exploding into flame, and at the bottom, where the wharves and the warehouses were, an evil, pulsing red glare was rising and spreading, topped by a billowing cloud of heavy black smoke. The ship's whistle was still sounding, but no longer in the orderly dots and dashes of the Morse code but frantically, erratically.
The wharf gate was partially blocked by a wrecked car. Dimly, Barrett realized it was the one that had almost run him down—and then, by the light of the fire, he read the number plate. It was his own. One door was open and he wasted precious time looking inside, then remembered that whoever it was who had first sounded Katana's whistle— it must have been Bill Maloney—had sent Jane's name as well as his own. He clambered over and around the vehicle and then ran past the blazing warehouse, sparks and drifting embers biting through the thin material of his shirt.
The ship was still alongside, although already the wharf was starting to burn, to sag dangerously. From burst drums somewhere a sluggish torrent of fire was spreading over the timbers, cascading slowly, hissing but unextinguished, into the water.
The tide had fallen a little since the ship had berthed, and the lines had slackened so that she had fallen away from the stringer. She was clear of the fire, for the time being, clear of the burning oil. But she was too far off for Barrett to reach the bulwarks. He shouted, but the group of people whom he could see on the bridge—dimly, through the smoke—neither saw nor heard him.
It was a fresh torrent of burning oil that made Barrett's mind up for him. It rolled toward him over the uneven planking—slowly, perhaps, viewed objectively, but Barrett was in no mood to be objective. Desperately he jumped, and with the tips of his fingers secured a precarious hold on the top of the bulwarks. His body slammed hard and painfully against the hot metal of the shell plating. His feet scrabbled, vainly seeking a purchase. And below him the blazing oil hissed and sputtered on the surface of the harbor, sending up waves of heat and steam that scalded and scorched his legs.
Then the toe of his right shoe found the washport and he heaved himself up and over with an effort of which in less dangerous circumstances he would not have been capable. He fell clumsily onto the steel deck, into the blessed coolness of a stream of water from one of the fire hoses that had been turned on and left running. The cold water revived him and he got unsteadily to his feet. Painfully, limping badly, he climbed the ladders to the bridge and the wheelhouse.
Ferris was there, and Bill Maloney, and Joe Mollucca and Karl Brandt.
"We must stay and wait," Ferris was saying. "But we can't stay alongside any longer. We must pull out into the harbor."
"But we can't handle the ship," Maloney was objecting.
"You've got two seamen here," said the engineer. "What do you say, Karl?"
"Mister," growled the old German, "der Kapitan say, 'Karl, a liddle to starboard.' I put der wheel a liddle to starboard. Der Kapitan say, 'Karl, a liddle to port.' I put der wheel a liddle to port. Ja, I can der ship handle when der Kapitan der orders gives."
"Is true," agreed Joe.
"Bill, you'll have to try," urged Ferris.
"All right," said Barrett, breaking into the conference, "I'll give it a go."
"Thank God someone's back!" said Ferris.
"But first of all, where's Jane?" asked Barrett.
"In your bunk, Tim. Passed out. But she's all right."
"Good." Barrett started to give orders. "Better get below, Third, I shall be needing the engines any moment now. Bill, will you start up the radar and then stand by the telegraphs?" He grinned wryly. "I don't think we'll bother testing gear or keeping up the movement book. Karl, take the wheel. And you, Joe, you always carry a good knife, I know. Take it aft with you and cut through the quarter line. The for'ard line's just about burned through," he added to himself.
He limped to the starboard wing of the bridge, looked out and down through the cab window. The narrow ditch of water between ship's side and piling was already alive with flames from the burning oil. A gust of flame from the warehouse scorched his face, singed his hair. And beyond the burning shed there was fire, and more fire, and the billowing smoke in vast clouds, black and glowing ruddily in the reflected light of the conflagration.
Joe came panting up to the bridge, found the chief officer. "The rope. She is cut."
And there'll be a nice long end dangling in the water, from the bollard, to foul my starboard screw, thought Barrett. He gave the order, "Stand by both!" Then, when it was answered, he added, "Slow astern port!"
The maneuver was successful. The weight of the ship, as she gathered stern way, came on the starboard head line, pulling the bow in to starboard, throwing the stern out to port in spite of the effect of the reversed screw. When the headline finally parted in an insignificant shower of sparks the stern was well away from the wharf, the vulnerable starboard screw well clear of both the severed Manila and the wharf piling.
But the ship herself was not yet out and clear. She had to be turned, and there was the projecting wreckage of the pivoting span of the Pyrmont Bridge to guard against, and the crumpled stem of the collier that had wrecked it and herself. And the flame-shot smoke was over everything, acridly blinding, and the dangers were no more than dimly glimpsed, looming shapes in the inferno.
Barrett sweated and cursed, issuing a continuous stream of orders to Bill Maloney at the telegraphs and to old Karl at the wheel. And the ship blundered around, somehow, without touching anything until she was headed to seaward, and it wasn't so bad then. Barrett could use his radar, and could creep at dead slow speed down the harbor, increasing only when passing through one of the increasingly prevalent patches of burning oil.
Barrett did not hold a pilotage exemption certificate for the port of Sydney—but pilotage, after all, is no more than common sense and, furthermore, Barrett had been in and out of Sydney often enough to relieve him of the need constantly to consult the chart But it was not easy, with lights either extinguished or blotted out by smoke, with glaring fires to dim the vision, to dazzle the already smarting and weeping eyes. But there was the radar, and in spite of the raging conflagrations the coastal outlines were unchanged and the buoys and beacons presented their fluorescent blip as and where expected.
There was the smoke, and there was the fire, and there was the traffic. There was the ferry, blazing from stem to stern, that overtook them and surged past them, and there were the dark, dreadful figures that still fumbled and stumbled among the flames on the glassed-in upper deck. There was the launch they ran down in the middle of a great, spreading pool of burning petrol, and Barrett stopped the ship in the blistering heat and ordered Joe to go down on deck to put lines or a ladder over the side, and Bill Maloney jerked the telegraph handles to Full Ahead again and cried, "For the love of God, Tim, it's too late to save them! They'll thank us for mashing them in the screws!"
There was the big ship that came blundering out of Woolloomooloo, almost out of control, her crew fighting the fire on the afterdeck. She missed the Katana by the thickness of a coat of pai
nt, and the wash of her great, powerful screws set the smaller vessel rocking. And then she was gone, vanishing into the murk, and Barrett, the narrowness of the escape already fading from his mind, was listening to the ominous sound of machine-gun fire from the naval base at Garden Island and wondering who was fighting whom.
And then, off Bushcutters Bay, there was the big cabin cruiser that tried to cut across Katana's bows, but didn't quite make it. Again Barrett stopped, and this time there was no blazing petrol to make the act of rescue one of cruelty instead of mercy.
CHAPTER 6
Barrett watched the launch drifting astern along the starboard side, slowly and more slowly until, in the turbulence created by Katana's reversed screws, all relative motion ceased. "Stop her," he ordered. "Stop both." The smaller craft was badly crippled, its stern smashed in. It was settling in the water and, obviously, could not stay afloat much longer. Barrett was about to give Katana a touch ahead, just enough to provide steerage way for coming alongside the wrecked cabin cruiser, when, on his second attempt, Joe, on the foredeck, managed to throw a heaving line aboard it. A big man standing on the cabin top caught the end and then, with seamanlike dexterity, pulled it in hand over hand, bringing the launch to Katana's side. "You, there," he called in an authoritative voice, "send down a pilot ladder, will you?"
Joe scampered forward, dragged the Jacob's ladder out from under the fo'c's'le head. Barrett sent Karl down to help him. Then he watched the passengers from the cabin cruiser coming aboard and wondered where they had all been stowed. The women were first—twelve of them. They were followed by ten men. Finally there was the big man who had handled the heaving line, and it seemed that it was the backward and downward thrust of his foot as he mounted the ladder that sent the launch under. He clambered aboard rapidly and with an economy of motion. He stood on Katana's foredeck, looking up to the bridge. "Captain," he called, "I shall be vastly obliged if you'll tell your men to find my people some sort of accommodation."
The Hamelin Plague Page 5
