Oh yes, I learned a lot about myself in the small hours of that calm, quiet night.
But then Teopas had the three bodies thrown over the side, an action that altered my perspective, so that as the night wore on, sleepily steaming along the coast of that high-backed Pacific island, my mind dwelt more and more on the heroics of action, weaving fantasies that had no basis of reality. I knew damn well I wasn’t going to do anything heroic. I was going to drift along with events, deliver those poor devils to Hetau and steam back again, hoping there’d be something in it for myself, and without too much risk.
I tried to pretend that it was because I didn’t care who ruled Bougainville, that I was just a visitor caught up in something that didn’t concern me. Why should I stick my neck out when for all I knew the Buka people, and those Bougainvilleans who supported them, had right on their side? But deep in my guts I knew it wasn’t that. There was a side of my nature that said, Make the most of it, seize the opportunity. I could just see myself captain of a big ore carrier making the run up to Japan or across the Pacific to California with a shipload of concentrates. That side of me admired what Hans Holland was doing, admired his determination, his ruthlessness, his efficiency. And in a few years I could be Marine Superintendent, in charge of a whole fleet of ships. Why not?
Dreams, all dreams, fantasies woven by a tired brain. I was just a pawn, useful to replace a man who had drunk himself into a stupor rather than do what I was doing. I could use a landing craft man. He hadn’t said anything about ore carriers, only that it was a chance to become part of something big. So why build castles? My eyes were closed, and I was rocking on my feet, thinking suddenly of Perenna, the flash of anger and despair as I had asked the price of cooperation. If I did what I was told and stayed with Hans Holland, would she stay, too? Would she accept it? For the sake of the Holland Line, her brother – me? And there was Hans. Hans with his boundless vitality, his essential male dominance. I thought of that wretched little house and shuddered. The first masterful man she had met in ages and she had fallen flat on her back with her brother lying desperately ill in the next room. I pictured that scene, that bed, the mask hanging over them.
A hand was tugging at my arm, and I opened my eyes. It was Luke. ‘Cape L’Averdy,’ he said.
I went to the porthole, my eyes wide, peering into the night ahead. The stars were paling over the mountains. Dawn was approaching. ‘There!’ A flash low down on the horizon. I counted six, and it came again, almost dead ahead and the ship’s bows swinging across it. I checked the course and then handed over to him, telling him to wake me when we were abreast of the Cape, which would be about 08.00. There would just be time for both of us to get a couple of hours’ sleep before we started the run through the Buka Passage.
In the alleyway a guard sat with his machine pistol resting on his knees, his back propped against my cabin door. He was a young man, his eyes closed, sleeping peacefully, and I hesitated, suddenly alert as I considered whether I could get the pistol from him. But his hand was on the butt, and as I moved softly towards him, some animal instinct seemed to trigger off the mechanism of his body, his dark eyelids flicking open. In one quick, flowing movement he was on his feet, wild-eyed and the gun pointing, his finger on the trigger.
I smiled at him, holding my hands wide, and went through into my cabin. It was hot and I was tired, but sleep didn’t come easily, my mind active. I was thinking of the Buka Passage, all that had happened there during the war, and the Hollands, that house of theirs on the island of Madehas, wishing Perenna were with me, that this was a different sort of voyage and we could stop for her to show it to me. But then, of course, the memories of her grandfather, and of the yearly visits made when she was a child, were now overlaid by the tragedy of her mother’s death. The Passage, Madehas, Kuamegu in Papua New Guinea – all the past of the Hollands. And that house in Aldeburgh, The Passage – was that nostalgia, or had the name some deeper significance? Four hours and I would be in the Passage. There, somewhere, I felt, must lie the key to the chequered past of this strange family.
An hour later the cook woke me. What was he supposed to do about feeding the men on the tank deck? He hadn’t enough bread, and to give them all something would just about clean him out. Could we purchase food for the voyage back at Chinaman’s Quay? I told him to check with Shelvankar, then remembered Hans Holland had taken the little Indian off the ship. ‘Do the best you can,’ I said, adding, ‘Use the lot if you have to. The crew can go short.’ He was from the Mortlocks, and he nodded, smiling. Though as black as the Buka men, he was not in sympathy with them.
There was a different guard on duty in the alleyway outside, an older man who watched me suspiciously as I went to the heads. Sun streamed in through the porthole. I had a leisurely shower, shaved and relieved Luke. We were about 2 miles off Cape L’Averdy. To port was the little harbour of Teop, and for a moment I toyed with the idea of turning in to it and running the ship aground. But a glance for’ard at the tank deck, with its huddle of humanity sprawled listlessly on the steel plating and the four guards lounging on the catwalks above them, showed the impracticability of such a move. Even the slight alteration of course for the entrance to the Passage brought Teopas swaggering into the wheelhouse, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, a machine pistol slung over his bare shoulder, demanding to know why we had changed direction. And when I told him to send men to the galley to give the cook a hand, he tried to argue that it would do ‘them dam’ polis’ good to be without food for a day.
He stood there, grinning, confident that it was he who was in command of the ship. I was short of sleep, my eyes tired, but the shower had freshened me. I was in no mood to be challenged on the bridge. ‘Very well,’ I said, picking up the chart I had been studying and walking with it to the open door of the bridge wing. ‘You see this?’ I held it fluttering in the breeze of our passage. ‘You either feed those men or it goes overboard.’ The chart was Aus. 683 with large-scale plans of the Solomon Island ports. ‘Without it we can’t navigate the Buka Passage.’
The grin faded, his confidence ebbing. ‘Then we go round the north of Buka.’
‘It also gives the plan for the passage through the islands into Queen Carola Harbour.’
‘Luke been there many times.’
‘Does he remember all the bearings, all the shoal patches? Do you know them? You must have been there as often as Luke.’
The entrance was easy, but he wasn’t to know that. He couldn’t read a chart, had never navigated. His eyes dropped. ‘Okay. I give them some food.’
‘And water,’ I said as he turned sullenly away. ‘It will be hot as hell on that tank deck when the sun gets into it.’
He nodded and went out. I put the chart back on the table, feeling pleased. A small victory perhaps, but an important one. I now knew I could bluff him on navigation. I watched as the tank deck came to life, buckets full of chunks of bread, cheese and cold meat being lowered to them from the catwalk. Time passed, the heat increasing and my mood changing. I had got them fed and watered, but that was all. Samson brought me my breakfast on a tray. It was a rough meal, and I wasn’t hungry, but the coffee was good. And then Holtz came up to say he was having trouble with one of the generators and we would be without electricity for two or three hours. ‘You going to do anything?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘I could arrange an engine breakdown.’
I had already thought of that. ‘Teopas would open the sea cocks and drown the lot of us, and they’d get away in the boat.’
He pushed his cap back, rubbing at his hair with oily fingers. ‘So, there is nothing to be done.’ He nodded slowly. ‘I’ve been thinking about this. I don’t believe it is intended anyone should be killed. Why else should Mr Holland go to such trouble to have them transported to Hetau? It has palm trees for shade, and they will be as secure there as if they are in prison. No, they will simply be held there until the future of Bougainville is decided.’ He stared at me, waiting for me to say something. ‘So, y
ou agree with me?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
He seemed relieved. ‘Three hours at most; then you have electricity again.’ He straightened his cap, nodded and went out.
We were closing the coast all the time now, low cliffs and the tip of Bougainville merging with Buka, no indication of a passage through. If Luke hadn’t joined me, I would have stood further off until we had opened up the gap. Through the glasses I could see the first of the Buka villages on the clifftops, thatched wooden huts, some of them quite large, half hidden in the shade of dense plantations of palms. We were barely a mile off, the shoreline beginning to separate; suddenly, there it was, a narrow gut about three cables wide running south-westerly, straight as a die, with open water at the far end of it.
‘You turn now,’ Luke said. He was at the chart table, and as our bows swung towards the opening, he added, ‘The tide is with us, and it is near maximum, so we must have plenty steerage way till we are through.’
A flat-bottomed vessel and the south-west-going stream building up to six knots. I hadn’t been in anything like that since my early days on the west coast of Scotland. But there was no wind here, and as the coast of first Bougainville, then Buka closed around us, the surface of the water took on a flat, oily look disturbed here and there by the swirl and ripples of the tide. I could feel the grip of the current under the ship now, the shoreline slipping past faster and faster, the tension in me mounting. Palm trees lined the Passage. Ahead, on the Buka side, there was a quay with a small coaster lying alongside, beyond it a row of wooden buildings with signs over them. ‘Chinaman’s Quay,’ a voice said behind me, but I barely took it in, my glasses fixed on an old-fashioned high-sided vessel coming out from the shore, its tall funnel packed round with fuzzy-haired blacks all dressed in the brightest colours. It was in the narrowest part, crabbing across the current to the Buka shore and right in our path. ‘Just hold your course.’
I turned to find Mac standing right behind me, cold sober and looking ghastly, his eyes staring. ‘Johnny Ferryboat will gi’ way.’ His voice was slow, a little slurred, but not by drink. This, and the staring eyes, made me wonder if he was ill.
‘You all right?’ I asked him.
He eyed me as though I had no right to ask him such a question. ‘Stole my gun,’ he hissed. ‘Right from under my nose.’ He turned his head, glancing obliquely towards the guard standing impassively with one of those Japanese machine pistols cradled across his chest. ‘Bastards! I was asleep.’ He leaned forward. ‘Don’t do anything,’ he hissed in my ear. ‘Whatever happens, don’t move.’ He pushed me aside, lurching forward past the helmsman to grab the ledge below the porthole. He hung there, his yellow-skinned, liver-blotched hands clinging to the ledge like a prisoner peering out. ‘Mechanics, the Old Man called them. Mechanics, not skippers. Coming through the Passage under engine, that’s easy. But under sail … I tell you, if there wasn’t enough wind, then we’d wait for the tide and drift through like the East Coasters with their barges. Aye, and I’ve beat through against the tide with my little schooner so loaded with copra, and such a mass of humanity clinging to her deck, that there wasn’t one of them didn’t look as though they was swimming.’
The ferryboat hooted, a puff of steam at her funnel as she swung bows-on to the current to let us pass. To starboard was a jetty bright with the colour of waiting passengers, and behind the jetty a row of shops along a stretch of pot-holed tarmac, names like Yu Wong and one of them split down the middle, Mac said, because the two members of the family that owned it couldn’t agree. Another, narrower passage, a rocky gut, opening up to port. It ran due south between Buka and the little island of Sohano, on top of which stood a big veranda-ed house. ‘One time DC live up there,’ Luke said.
And Mac muttered, ‘One time Japanese Officer Commanding. We got him two nights after we raided Madehas.’ His mind seemed rooted in the past.
The ferryboat hooted again as we swept past her, the people on her all waving. I wondered whether their excitement had anything to do with the night’s events. Did they know their Co-operative had taken over Bougainville? The guards on the catwalks, I noticed, made no attempt to conceal their guns.
Past Sohano, with its shallow reef topped by wooden toilet huts built out on stilts over the water, the tide slackened. Here the water became muddy, the channel marked by iron beacon posts set on the edge of reed-covered shallows, Minon Island so low that the thicket of bushes covering it seemed to be growing out of the water. Mangrove swamps fringed the Buka shore. ‘I seen crocodile here.’ Luke grinned.
It was no place for a stranger to navigate, and I left it to him, following the course he took with the chart folded in my hand. Any moment now we should sight the island of Madehas. ‘Shall we be able to see the house?’ I asked Mac. But he didn’t answer, his eyes blank, seeing only what was in his mind.
‘You want to see Colonel Holland’s house?’ Luke was leaning with his bare elbows on the back of the captain’s chair, quite relaxed and only occasionally checking our course. ‘You see that beacon?’ He pointed ahead to a lopsided post topped by a triangle with its point upwards that marked the limit of the shoal area on the Buka side of the channel. ‘When we are there, we are clear of Minon, and I show you Holland house.’
‘That’s Number Seven beacon.’ Mac suddenly turned, his eyes wide, a fleck of froth at the corner of his mouth. ‘That night we raided Madehas, we were waiting in our canoes right here on Minon. The Jap guard boat was late, and the mosquitoes – the bloody bastard mozzies … there were six of them, and we got every one, over there by Number Seven.’ His words came slowly, his voice strange as though it were somebody else speaking through his mouth, and he wasn’t looking at me or Luke, or even at the helmsman. He was looking straight at the guard, who was standing at the back of the wheelhouse between the Decca and the echo-sounder. ‘Yu,’ he said suddenly, his hand outstretched, pointing. ‘Yu savvy olpela armi kiap? Yu savvy Colonel Lawrence?’
The man nodded, his eyes widening, his face going pale as Mac moved slowly towards him, talking, talking, his voice getting wilder, the froth gathering on his lips. He was speaking in a voice that was quite strange to me and in a language I didn’t understand, and yet I got the drift of it. And the man’s eyes grew wide with fear. This was the older man who had been on guard outside my cabin after dawn. He would have been a teenage youth when the Japs ruled in Buka and Colonel Holland and his men raided from the mountains. He would have grown up in fear of him, a legendary figure, and now this madman frothing at the mouth was claiming he spoke with the tongue of Colonel Holland, moving steadily closer, imposing his will and impressing his words by angry stabs of his left hand, the fingers spread. I watched, mesmerised. So did Luke. So did the guard, a growing horror in his eyes. And then, with a quick, powerful thrust of his right hand, Mac lunged forward.
The guard’s mouth opened, a scream – but it never came. Mac’s left hand clamped over the lips, blocking the sound in, thrusting at the man’s body so that it was forced back against the bulkhead, and all the time the nerves jerking it in the violence of death, the heavy galley meat knife buried the full length of its blade inside his stomach. The jerks subsided, the eyes glazing. Mac held the body there a moment, then put his knee against it, tugging at the knife. It pulled out suddenly, thick with gore, and some guts and a thin trickle of liquid spilled out with it. He let the dead man drop then, taking the pistol carefully from the limp hands, the body hitting the deck with a thud. He was smiling. ‘Oldest trick in the world. Pretend to be a man back from the dead … ’ He gave a cackling laugh. He knew I hadn’t the stomach for it and was sickened by his callousness. ‘What did you expect?’ he growled. ‘Mutiny and bloodshed go together, don’t they?’
I stared down at the body lying on the steel deck, a man of about forty, with a wife no doubt and a thatched hut full of kids. And now the black face gone grey, the eyes staring, no life there, and Mac standing over him with his gun in one hand and the other red with half
-congealed blood, holding a butcher’s knife. The Passage had suddenly become an evil, haunted place. ‘You’ll get used to it.’ He pushed past me, spitting a piece of soap out of his frothing mouth and dropping the knife as he reached for the mike of the ship’s broadcast system, his eyes all the time on the helmsman, who stared back at him like a petrified rabbit. ‘Call Teopas to the bridge.’ He thrust the mike into my hands.
I did as he said, unable to keep my voice steady and wondering what he was going to do now. Holding the mike to my lips, I could feel the stickiness of half-congealed blood on the handgrip. ‘Coxs’n to the wheelhouse, please. Coxs’n Teopas. To the wheel-house, please.’ I put the mike back in its cradle, and we waited. Nobody spoke. Mac had withdrawn to the chart table, putting Luke between himself and the sliding door to the bridge wing. I saw him checking the safety catch, to see that it was on, I thought. A minute, maybe a little more, passed before Teopas’s bare feet sounded on the ladder to the starboard bridge wing.
A moment later he came in, swinging his rifle loosely by the breach, relaxed, smiling, confident. ‘What yu want, Kept—’
The short burst of fire caught him in the stomach first, then the chest. It flung him backwards, yet his feet were still making forward-pacing movements so that his big torso, the jet-black skin stitched with small holes, was forced over, to lie on its back twitching with death-throe reflexes. That burst of fire had sounded shattering in the confines of the wheelhouse. ‘Why did you do that?’ The words burst from my lips. It was killing for the sake of killing.
Solomons Seal Page 23
