So the mining people had been able to get a message out, or had the news come from Hans Holland and the Buka Co-operative? Whichever it was, the news was out, a fact that had encouraged Inspector Mbalu to make up his mind. They would go for the airfield in the early hours of the morning, and would I kindly arrange to put them ashore shortly after midnight as near to the target as possible? The time was then just after noon. Ten hours to wait and nothing left to eat. We still had fresh water for another day, perhaps two days if everybody was careful. I had already had the supply to all taps cut off, the men on board divided into groups of twenty and each group rationed to one bucket every eight hours.
It was a depressing, wretched day, the rain never letting up and nothing to do but sit around in the steaming heat, thinking about what was going to happen. I tried looking at that Solomons Seal sheet. I was more and more convinced that having somehow survived the loss of the Holland Trader, they were in some way connected with what had happened. And the letter. I tried reading that, too. I must have read it through half a dozen times, visualising the scene out there in the waterless wastes of Central Australia, where Merlyn Lewis and his partner had struck gold and been so tired they had called the place Dog Weary. Had they had a row? Had they fought over it? Or had Red Holland murderously and cold-bloodedly walked out on his partner in the middle of the night? And Lewis, waking up to find him gone, alone there in the desert, nothing left to drink and only death for company.
But did that justify the violence of Colonel Holland’s reaction? Dear Red … as Mac said, it didn’t add up, for if it had been Carlos, then Colonel Holland’s reaction at finding a letter reminding him of his young brother would have been one of sadness, not anger against the man who had inherited after the Holland Trader had gone down. And the stamps … lying naked on my bunk except for a towel round my loins, I stared at that sheet of sixty damp-blotched Solomons Seal labels. If they could only tell their story, explain how they had survived, how one of them had been acquired by Lewis and used on the letter he’d sent to his wife in Cooktown. The Port Moresby postmark had been just decipherable, the date ‘17th July 1911’ indicating he had posted it just before the Holland Trader sailed out into the Coral Sea and oblivion.
Mac had offered to take the first Dog watch, and when I relieved him at 18.00,1 asked him whether he had ever heard of a part-white, part-indigene called Black Holland.
‘Black Holland. What do you know about Black Holland?’ he asked.
‘He was killed in a bar brawl up near Cooktown, and I’m pretty certain it was Merlyn Lewis’s son who killed him.’
‘When did it happen?’
I told him what little I knew, and he nodded. ‘Killed him in 1952, eh? Black Holland would have been about fifty then … no, older – nearer sixty. He was Red Holland’s son by the daughter of a chieftain down near Kieta. He and his father were very close, birds of a feather, you might say, and when the Japs occupied the islands, he became one of the leaders of the Black Dogs. But that wasn’t how he got his name. He was called Black Holland down at Kieta to differentiate him from his father up here in Buka.’ And he added, ‘The war must have seemed pretty good to those two bastards, for a year or two anyway.’ He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Merlyn Lewis’s son, you say – and he killed him because of that Dog Weary mine.’ He spread his lips as though smiling and sucked in air through his teeth. ‘He’s your man then, isn’t he? He’d know what happened to his father.’ And with his lips spreading and contracting, and that peculiar hissing intake of breath, he pushed his way down the crowded alleyway to his cabin.
Apart from the functional parts of the ship and the officers’ cabins, every nook and corner that gave prospect of shelter was crammed with bodies. And when the rain finally stopped, most of the men stayed where they were as though, huddled together like that, they were protected against the dark uncertain world outside. Mbalu came to see me shortly after the clouds had rolled back and the night sky had cleared. He and his three sergeants had decided to make their attempt on the airfield at 02.00; with that timing in mind, when and where would it be best for them to be put ashore? I got hold of Luke, and the three of us pored over the chart. I couldn’t see anywhere I could run the ship in without grounding, and in any case, I wasn’t at all certain I wanted to be involved. A lot of people could die as a result of the airfield’s being opened up, and if the police didn’t succeed, or took it and failed to hold it …
I think Mbalu must have sensed that I was hesitating, for he suddenly went aft and routed Mac out. He came into the wheelhouse smelling of whisky again and with a belligerent look in his eyes. He was in no doubt at all, either about the need for the operation to go ahead or the way it should be launched. We should put back into the Passage itself and land the police force at the usual LCT landing place. There would then be no danger of anything going wrong in the landing, and they would have the airport road for their approach march with no chance of anybody getting lost in the darkness or in the thick growth of the plantations.
And that was what we finally did, fetching our anchors shortly after midnight and steaming slowly north-east out of the cove. Navigating by echo-sounder, we back-tracked past the marker posts, which were just visible in the starlight, until we had the Buka Passage open on radar. After that it was quite straightforward. But though Luke knew exactly how to run the ship in to the landing place, it was almost 01.15 before we finally squared off to the shore with a kedge out to hold us against the current, the bow doors open and the ramp down. Of the twenty-seven-strong police force waiting to go ashore Mbalu had only been able to arm eight with the weapons he had seized from the Buka guards.
The ship seemed suddenly very empty as they moved down the ramp, vanishing one by one up the road into the darkness of the palms. In case things went wrong, I had the ramp winched up and the bow doors closed, with the Chief and one of his officers on stand-by in the engine-room and the bos’n waiting by the stern anchor winch. Luke and I moved to the upper bridge, where it was cooler and we had a clear view in every direction, and I invited Mr Treloa and some of his more senior Administration officers to join us.
There was nothing to do but wait after that, the hot night air very oppressive, the stillness exaggerating the sound of the current running past our stern. It was running fast, a gurgling sound which seemed to grow as the whisper of hidden voices died away and the bodies strewn about the ship lay sleepless, wondering what the dawn would bring. We had only just enough fuel to get back to Anewa and if the police failed … The tension in the ship was very strong, the uncertainty and the strain of waiting communicating itself to all on board.
I tried to lessen my own reaction to it by doing the rounds with a Mortlock helmsman I had come to trust. Below decks the ship seemed deserted, the day’s heat trapped and hardly a soul to be seen. Topside there were bodies everywhere, but none of them asleep, the white glint of eyes following me, sometimes the white of teeth as well as mouths opened in a nervous grin. Back on the upper bridge, I paced to and fro, glancing surreptitiously at my watch, trying to conceal the nervous tension inside me, wondering about Perenna and Jona Holland, all the other whites, picturing in my mind those men moving on to the airfield in the darkness and only eight of them armed. And all the time the gurgling menace of the tide running past our stern and the dark straight line of the Buka Passage like a smooth black tarmac road under the stars. Not a light anywhere, just the shape of the land black in outline, the feeling of something hanging over the place, a brooding, overpowering, tropical presence.
At last the luminous hands of my watch pointed to 02.00 hours. No sound – nothing. Only the tide to break the stillness. A minute, two minutes – and still no sound of any shots. An anticlimax tinged with fear, the minutes ticking by and nothing happening; only voices murmuring through the ship as men gave utterance to thoughts that we on the upper bridge kept strictly to ourselves, fearing now that the police had either lost their way or been taken in ambush without a shot being fire
d.
I went down to the signals office, where Simon Saroa, a native of one of the fishing villages near Port Moresby, was sitting with earphones on and an expectant look on his face. He had briefed one of the police on the equipment at the airfield and was listening out for him. He shook his head. Nothing had come through so far. I went back to the bridge, very conscious now of the six Buka men imprisoned behind the locked door of the old sergeants’ mess. I rang down for the engines to be started up and then began to haul off on the stern anchor while at the same time transferring the kedge hawser from stern to bow. I was taking no chances, intending to lie off, bows-on to the current, until I knew definitely what had happened.
We were halfway through this operation when, above the throb of the engines and the sound of the big drum winch aft, I heard a man shouting. Then more shouts, the shouting relayed along the length of the ship until all the blacks on board seemed to have gone out of their minds. Even the senior administrators, gathered in a huddle at the rear of the upper bridge, were leaning over the rail, yelling themselves hoarse. A hand touched my arm. ‘Kepten.’ It was Luke. ‘They have taken the airfield.’
I stared at him. ‘Without a shot?’
‘Yes, without a shot. There is only a small guard, and they take them by surprise. It has just been reported by radio.’
I should have realised that in the islands of the Solomon Sea, and all through the South West Pacific, radio was the equivalent of the telephone in more densely populated areas. It was the main means of communication, and Simon Saroa had instructed the police officer to tune to the channel commonly used for communication throughout the Bougainville District. The result was that within minutes of the announcement that the airfield had been taken I was called to the signals office, where Simon Saroa thrust the mike into my hands without a word, as though glad to get rid of it. The voice that answered me from the loudspeaker wasn’t the soft voice of Inspector Mbalu; it was a harsh, abrasive voice with a strong Australian accent. ‘What’s happened, you bastard? What’s happened up there? You tell me. Over.’
‘Who’s that?’ My voice sounded taut in the hot little cabin.
‘Hans Holland, you fool. Who else? Now just you tell me what’s happened. The airfield is in the hands of the police, right? … How did they get free? Where did they get the arms? And where’s Teopas? I asked to speak to Teopas, where is he? Over.’
I told him briefly what had happened. I didn’t tell him who had killed Teopas, but he guessed. ‘It was Mac, was it? He’s the only man … that drink-sodden bastard! I should have got him off the ship. Where did he get hold of the gun?’ I started to tell him, but when he realised that Mac had been armed with nothing more than a knife, he shouted at me, ‘And what were you doing? Looking on and applauding? An old drunk with nothing but a knife—’
‘He was sober,’ I said. ‘And he knew what he was doing. He had the guard mesmerised, and nothing I or anyone else could do. It all happened too quickly. And once the man was dead and he had his gun …’ I didn’t enjoy making excuses, knowing I’d been of two minds what to do and had let events take control. And when he told me I’d have to move a lot faster if I wanted to skipper one of his ships, my temper suddenly flared. ‘If you think you can handle the situation here any better, why don’t you come up and do it?’
‘I will,’ he snapped back at me. ‘I’ll do just that. Meanwhile, you pull out into the stream and stay anchored there. Don’t let anybody ashore.’
I told him we should have to go ashore for food, but he ignored that. ‘Haul out into the Passage and stay there. Tell your operator to remain tuned to this channel. I’ll see if I can raise Queen Carola, get them to send a truckful of boys down to Chinaman’s Quay. The airfield isn’t all that important. PNG won’t dare fly in troops, not after the warning we’ve given them. But still … ’ He was thinking aloud. ‘Open like that, it’s a temptation. Some silly sod of a politician might be tempted … You still there? … Good. Keep your operator tuned on this channel, and it’s VHF only. No communication with the outside world. Understand? We keep this to ourselves till the airfield’s retaken. Okay? Over.’
‘I’m not exactly my own master,’ I said.
But all he replied was: ‘Tell whoever is on that radio of yours I’ll string him up in the Buka Passage if it’s reported to me that he’s been operating key. One word in Morse about that airfield being open, and he’s a dead man. You tell him. And don’t you fool around with me. Just think of Perenna, your own future, where you stand in all this. Over and out.’
That was the end of it, and I looked down at Simon Saroa, his face pale in the glare of the overhead light bulb, his hand not quite steady as he put the mike back on its bracket. ‘Three trucks were blocking the runway.’ His deep voice shook slightly. ‘They are clearing them now.’ His eyes lifted to mine, a frightened stare as he asked, ‘What do I do about Port Moresby? Inspector Mbalu asks me to try and contact somebody right away.’
I didn’t know what to say, and before I could reach any decision, Hans Holland’s voice came out of the loudspeaker again, wanting to know the strength of the force now holding the airfield. ‘Here we reckon there were some twenty-five to thirty police captive on your ship. With six guards, plus Teopas, only seven of them can be armed. That correct? Over.’ I hesitated, wondering whether to say there were more, but it didn’t seem to matter very much. I told him his information was about right, but of course, the effectiveness of the force now in control of the airfield would depend on the weapons they had captured. He didn’t like that, but since I had nothing more to add, he signed off. I was back with Simon Saroa then and his question, which I couldn’t answer. In the end I told him it was nothing to do with me. It was between him and his superiors to decide whether he should risk his neck or not, and to the inevitable question, Did I think Mr Holland would carry out his threat, I told him, ‘Yes.’
What else could I tell him? I left him and went to my cabin. Let the government officials sort this one out. I lay down on my bunk and tried to think, but apart from organising enough food to keep us going, there didn’t seem much I could do but stay here and wait upon events. If the operator decided to send and troops were flown into Buka, then it could be a messy business. And where did that leave me? I couldn’t help smiling to myself, remembering how I’d let my imagination build a future on the strength of Hans Holland’s offer. Captain of an ore carrier … Bloody hell! I’d be lucky to come out of this alive the way things were at the moment.
I fell asleep shortly after that. At least, I suppose I was asleep. My eyes were closed, I know that because I remember opening them as the light flashed on my face. And I was dreaming, my mind chaotic, with a picture of Tim Holland as I had seen him in that photograph, but sitting in the sea with the circular huts all belching smoke through their thatch and one of them in flames with pigs like little balls of fire running out of it. He was sitting propped against a pillow in the water, whittling away at a piece of wood. Suddenly he looked up at me, his eyes empty sockets, his hands proffering me the piece of wood, and at that moment a booming voice – ‘Kill them now …’ A gun stammering, and it wasn’t Teopas who was slammed off balance, falling backwards; it was Hans. Hans Holland with his red hair, dancing on the balls of his feet, and Perenna holding the gun, a chattering stream of staccato bullets building to a cry I could not understand, the gun swinging, the barrel pointing, pointing at me and blasting light, and I woke suddenly, in a sweat, my eyes blinded, my mouth open.
The torch shifted, and I heard a voice say, ‘On your feet now.’ A hard voice, and the face in the torchlight bending over me, hard with red hair flaring. His hand shook me roughly, ‘Come on now. I want the engines started and the anchor up.’
I lay there, staring up at him, wondering how the hell he’d got here. ‘What time is it?’
‘Coming up to six. Soon be dawn.’
I swung my feet out of the bunk and sat up. ‘How did you get here?’
But all he said wa
s: ‘Malulu here will be watching you. Get some clothes on. You’re going up to Queen Carola.’ He turned abruptly and left the cabin.
‘Mi lukaut long yupela.’ Malulu jabbed the hard steel muzzle of his machine pistol into my ribs. I pulled on my shorts and a shirt, slipped into my canvas deck shoes and went on to the bridge. The ship seemed full of men being herded at gunpoint down into the tank deck, and lying alongside was the tug I had last seen in Anewa.
‘Yu get engines started,’ Malulu said, waving his gun at me.
I put the engine-room telegraph to Stand-by and to my surprise got an instant response, a gentle vibration under my feet. I wished I could have had a cold shower. I was sticky with sweat and my brain still sluggish. Even a tug couldn’t have got him up here in under four hours. I cursed myself then for not remembering that VHF has a range of only 30 to 40 miles. When the news that the airport had been taken was broadcast, he must have been more than halfway up the coast already. Which meant, of course, that he’d had some sort of radio contact set up between Anewa and Queen Carola so that by midday, at the latest, he would have known I hadn’t arrived and that something had gone wrong. I ought to have anticipated that. Instead, I had turned in, and now, under cover of darkness, he had boarded the ship and regained control of her so quietly that it was only his torch on my face that had woken me.
Solomons Seal Page 26
