Send a Gunboat (1960)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Ling smiled gently, revealing small, child-like teeth. “Mr. Laker has done much for the prosperity of Santu. The General is most pleased! I hope you will enjoy your stay with us here. The General has instructed me to bid you welcome and to convey his invitation to you and your officers to his humble home.”

  “You mean the fortress?” asked Rolfe.

  “Home,” corrected Ling quietly.

  Laker had been waiting impatiently for Ling to finish, and now he plunged again into his favourite theme. The achievements of John Laker.

  As his thick, penetrating voice dominated the conversation, Rolfe was able to glean a great deal of useful information. Laker had retired from the army at the beginning of the war and settled in Singapore where he had various business interests. When the Japanese had struck, he had somehow managed to evacuate himself and his wife, together with a great proportion of his wealth, to India, where tea planting had taken up his full attention.

  “Then, of course, our blasted Government chucked India down the drain, like they do with everything nowadays, and I heard of this place. It was a gamble, I can tell you. But as you see, it paid off.” He frowned suddenly, his eyes disappearing in the folds of his cheeks. “Now we’re off again!” he growled savagely. “I expect the Communists think they’re on to a good thing in Santu. That’s why I’m so damn glad to see you chaps here at last! Thank God our Government is goin’ to make a stand at last!”

  Rolfe swallowed and gripped his glass tightly. So that was it. Laker was sure of support for the British community, and when he heard the real reason for the ship’s visit, it would be easy to guess his reaction.

  “Will there be other ships, Captain?” Ling was watching him over the rim of a glass, his eyes dark. “Your ship is no doubt excellent but, if you do not mind my saying so, it is rather small?”

  “Course there’ll be others, Ling!” barked Laker, his small chin jutting fiercely. “Just wait and see, what!”

  “So long as we do not have to wait too long, my dear Laker,” persisted Ling softly. “The General is not happy about the many spies and agents who have been landed recently on these shores.”

  Rolfe pricked up his ears. “How do they get here?”

  Ling shrugged. “By boat mostly, and some are already here, of course, recruited among the rabble of the town!”

  “D’you ever catch any?” Vincent was leaning forward, his face flushed.

  Ling turned towards him, a gentle smile on his thin mouth. “A few. You will see their heads on the prison wall!” He added, “As a reminder to others, you understand?”

  “Oh, er, quite!” Vincent looked helplessly at Rolfe.

  “Christ!” breathed Fallow and downed his drink in a single swallow.

  Laker lurched to his feet. “Well, I must be off. Lot to do. I’ve enjoyed my visit immensely, I can tell you.”

  Rolfe kept his voice casual. “I should like to discuss certain matters with you, if I may, sir. In your other position as Acting Consul.”

  Laker laughed. “Oh, that! Certainly, I’ll be delighted. My wife and daughter are just itching to see you, anyway. They’ll bore you to death with nonsensical questions about England and so forth! You know women! You married, Captain?”

  “Er, no.” Rolfe saw Fallow’s brown eyes dart towards him worriedly.

  “Good, good! Too much trouble!” Laker laughed again.

  “When shall I call on you?”

  “Dammit, didn’t I tell you? Must be gettin’ old! You’re all to come to my place tonight, if you can manage it?”

  “Delighted,” Rolfe murmured, trying to clear the whisky from his mind so that he could plan more easily. “We shall be there.”

  “Good. Six o’clock. And there’ll be most of the other chaps there, all being well. They’ll be tickled pink to see you, too, no doubt!”

  No doubt, thought Rolfe grimly. Especially when they know what I’m here for.

  “By the way,” Laker added, “if any of your chaps are goin’ ashore, don’t let ’em wander about after dark too much. Outside the town that is. Liable to be shot at, y’know!”

  “The Communist agents, you mean?” Rolfe frowned.

  Ling stood up, putting on his long-peaked ski-cap. “No, Captain, my men have orders to shoot at any strangers!” He spread his hands apologetically. “The emergency, you know!”

  Rolfe saw them over the side and returned to the wardroom, still frowning.

  Vincent’s face was working excitedly. “Dash it, sir!” he exploded, “you’ll never get these people to leave here! They’ve done too much for the island!”

  Rolfe eyed him narrowly. “They’ll leave all right. Did you notice the people on the harbour?” he asked suddenly. “Half-starved, downtrodden, and for Chinese, pretty miserable. It’s as our people thought,” he added. “Old Laker and this General seem to have got the island sewn up between them. Where does the money go? The money Laker and his friends make? And what about the General? How do you think he has survived so long?” He shook his head thoughtfully, a deep frown between his eyes. “I’m afraid it stinks!”

  “But sir!” Vincent protested, “surely that’s not for us to decide, we’re the navy, not the Government!”

  “You’re right. It’s not for us to decide. It’s already been decided for us. You know our orders? Well then, we shall obey them!” He glanced at Fallow, who was staring out of the open door. “Get the fresh water aboard as soon as you can, Number One. No shore leave for our Chinese seamen. It might not be advisable. In the meantime, send the Telegraphist to my quarters in ten minutes. I’m going to code up a signal for the Admiral and put him in the picture.” He walked slowly to the door. “By the way, no excessive drinking this evening! I don’t want any loose tongues!”

  Fallow nodded dumbly, and watched the Captain hurry up the ladder to the battery deck.

  “Phew, what an unholy, ruddy mess,” he said slowly. “It’s not right that we should be given such an impossible job!”

  Vincent laughed shortly. “Not to worry unduly. Did you hear what that Chink major said about those heads? I ask you, it’s like the Middle Ages!”

  Fallow bit his lip. He had seen Rolfe’s face when the drinks had been forced on him. Suppose something happened to him again. He remembered the Captain’s inert form on the cabin floor. I’ll be left to finish the job. He turned to the stewards. “Lock that damned hooch away, blast you!” He waved his hands in stabbing gestures. “I’m sick to death of the way this navy runs on bleedin’ drink!”

  Vincent waited until the stewards had gone, then he jumped up, his face full of questions. “Look here, Number One, what is all this harping on drink? Every blessed person I’ve met so far raves about drink! What do you know that’s worrying you so much? Is it something the Captain’s done? Because if it is, I’ve a right to know!”

  His clear, sharp voice cut into Fallow’s aching mind like a hot saw. He shrugged unhappily. “Don’t you start, Vince, jus’ drop it, will you?”

  Vincent followed Fallow’s broad back out of the door, his lips pursed. All this damned mystery. He brightened slightly at the prospect of the party at Laker’s house. Might still be all right, he pondered. It was queer about old Fallow, though. He had never acted so strangely before, so it had to be something to do with the Captain. Drink. Was that it? And the way he had looked when Laker had asked him if he was married. As if he’d seen a ghost. He smiled thinly and pressed the bell. The steward appeared in a flash.

  Vincent smiled again. “Large whisky,” he drawled.

  * * * * *

  Once clear of the town the narrow dirt road climbed rapidly through a boulder-strewn pass, and up on to the wide plateau which covered most of the island. Here, the thick green vegetation closed protectively into the sides of the road, blotting out the sea and the shabby buildings around the harbour. Laker’s cream American convertible, a Union Jack fluttering incongruously from the bonnet, rocked easily over the uneven surface, its luxury springs making short work of
the pot-holes and wheel-ruts.

  Vincent sat in front beside the driver, a sturdy little man called Grant, who was employed by Laker as his estate manager, while Rolfe and Fallow shared the vast expanse of the rear seat. Rolfe reflected that there was ample room for the four of them in front, but was thankful for his freedom of movement and conversation. Vincent, on the other hand, chatted happily to his companion, who handled the big car with ease and a total disregard for the occasional passer-by, who had to jump from the road to avoid the gleaming chrome bumper.

  “Dashed decent of Mr. Laker to send his car for us,” remarked Vincent, as a drove of chickens scattered into the bushes. “I’m really looking forward to this party!”

  Grant chuckled. “Reckon you wouldn’t have fancied the walk!” The blackened pipe clamped between his teeth bobbed as he spoke. “It’s a bit off the beaten track, y’see, but it’s worth the journey,” he added proudly.

  Rolfe’s eyes hardened behind the protective lenses of his sun-glasses. Another one, he thought angrily. Why did these people have to choose such an outlandish place to set up their little empire? The car lurched sideways on to an even narrower road and slowed to pass through a pair of high barbed-wire gates. He caught a brief glimpse of two waving figures, and the glint of their rifles, before the car turned yet again on to a long, ruler-straight roadway which seemed to run on forever between legions of neat little trees and wide, orderly fields. There was an air of well-planned regimentation about the whole estate which made Rolfe think of Laker. As if in answer to his thoughts, Grant waved a stubby hand towards the fields. “There it is, or part of it, gentlemen. Fourteen years’ hard work and a lot of capital, too!”

  He pointed to the gleam of red brickwork beyond the trees. “Yon’s the reservoir that the guv’nor built. No shortage of fresh water all the year round!”

  “What do the inhabitants think about that?” asked Vincent.

  Grant laughed in amazement. “The natives, d’you mean? Oh, it’s not for them! It’s for our own uses!” He chuckled as if it was a huge joke.

  Vincent joined in his laughter. “I’m glad you’ve got the right idea out here!”

  Rolfe gritted his teeth, conscious of the throbbing in his temples. Without thinking, he touched his pocket, feeling the folded signal pad containing the Admiral’s acknowledgement to his message. He had decoded it himself, and his heart had quickened as he had read the news in the privacy of his cabin.

  “Reliable reports indicate strong Communist forces massing on mainland due west of your position. Several large landing craft also in vicinity. Suggest you commence operation immediately. Use your own discretion.”

  Use your own discretion. The words had meant the death or dishonour of many naval captains in the past, whose situations had been comparatively easy when compared with his own present dilemma. It seemed fantastic that they were bowling along in this luxury automobile, when less than fifty miles away troops were probably, even at this very moment, being marched into the waiting craft for an invasion of the island. He twisted uncomfortably in his seat, and turned to face Fallow, who was showing a half-hearted attempt to listen to the conversation in front of him.

  He had told neither of his officers about this new development, and he wondered if he had acted wisely. It was an unpleasant fact to face, but he knew that had his officers’ roles been reversed, he would not have hesitated to take Vincent into his confidence, for he, at least, would take the news calmly. But Fallow. He watched him from behind the safety of the dark lenses, noting the twitching fingers and anxious eyes. No, he decided, Fallow would be all right when he had something to do, but now he might as well try to enjoy himself.

  A long, white bungalow-type house loomed into view, and from its shaded veranda several figures watched the car’s approach. Laker was the first down the steps, accompanied by several khaki-clad servants, who with military precision removed the car, the officers’ caps, and then hovered respectfully in the rear.

  “Like the car, eh?” Laker boomed. “This year’s model. Had it shipped in from Formosa, y’know. Would have preferred a British one, of couse, but these Yankee jobs stand up to the appalling roads better.”

  He guided them into a wide, cool lounge which ran the whole width of the house, and Rolfe blinked to accustom his eyes to the seemingly dark interior.

  With the casual grandness of royalty, Laker introduced his other guests, who crowded round the newcomers with real enthusiasm. Mrs. Laker was surprisingly small and had, Rolfe thought, once been very beautiful. Now, her thin features bore the sheen of yellow parchment, part of the price she had paid for a lifetime overseas. She welcomed Rolfe warmly, but with several nervous glances at her beaming husband, who patted her with the affection of a master to his pet dog. Rolfe sympathized with her inwardly and turned to the others. There was Edgar Lane and his wife, Rolfe mentally ticked them off his list. He already knew that Lane was the other of Laker’s managers who handled the timber side of the estate. He was a slight, studious man with sad, watery eyes, and his wife, Melanie, looked to Rolfe like a faded chorus girl. He answered their friendly enquiries but was thankful when Laker tugged him on to the others. “Don’t listen to Lane,” he confided noisily. “Sticks with his damned trees so much he’s forgotten how to talk to real people!” He nudged Rolfe gleefully, and a strong aroma of whisky floated around them.

  “An’ this is Mrs. Grant, you’ve already met her old man.” Rolfe muttered something suitable to the cheerful, bronzed woman, and was thankful when he was introduced to the last bobbing faces. Charles and Anthea Masters were rather younger than the rest and had the appearance of nervousness. Laker announced that they were his “newest imports” to Santu, Masters being an engineer newly out from England. Anthea Masters had a shy, suburban smile which had already wilted under the glare of her new surroundings.

  “Well, that’s the lot, Captain! We’re not exactly a Crown Colony, but we’re pretty useful in our way, eh?” He laughed noisily.

  Rolfe frowned, mentally checking his list. “But isn’t there an English doctor here, too?”

  As he asked, he felt a slight tension in the air, but Laker seemed indifferent to atmosphere of any kind.

  “Oh, the Feltons? Well, they’re English by birth, I suppose. But that’s about as far as it goes, if you follow me, eh?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.” Rolfe’s tone was deceptively mild and for a second a flicker of annoyance crossed the older man’s face.

  He rubbed his hands together irritably. “Not quite the right type, y’know. Live down in the town with the wogs!” He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Fact is, old boy, the feller’s a bloody red, no doubt about it!”

  Rolfe digested this information. “How come the General hasn’t asked them to leave, then?”

  Grant, who had quietly approached from the side, laughed shortly. “He needs a doctor for the natives, that’s the reason. Otherwise he’d have him shipped out a bit sharpish!”

  Laker glared at his assistant. “Forget ’em! They don’t exist! If I had my way I’d—”

  “Horsewhip them?”

  They turned at the sudden interruption and then Laker’s face dissolved into an affectionate beam.

  “Oh, Captain, I almost forgot me own daughter! Ursula, this is Commander Rolfe.”

  Rolfe took her hand and felt a growing uneasiness. Ursula Laker was tall for a girl, and at thirty-three had reached the fullness of her perfections. Her steady green eyes and short blonde hair, bleached almost white by the sun, clashed dazzlingly with her smooth tanned skin. If her mouth was a trifle wide, it was generous. And if her body, tantalizing beneath her light frock, was inclined to fullness, Rolfe had a feeling that it might be generous, too.

  “I hope you like what you see, Captain?” Her voice was a soft drawl, with a throatiness that was vaguely exciting.

  Rolfe grinned uncomfortably, and Laker, his eyes glinting watchfully, patted his arm. “Eyeful, eh? Just like her mother used to be!”


  Rolfe found it hard to picture Mrs. Laker as the voluptuous creature confronting him.

  A gong chimed discreetly in the background and as the servants quietly folded away some giant screens, Rolfe saw a vast, laden table glittering with food and drink.

  “In yer honour!” announced Laker solemnly.

  This must surely be the climax of my varied career, thought Rolfe, as with Laker at one side and Ursula on the other, he seated himself at the table. Perhaps it would be better to approach all of them on the matter of evacuation now; the idea seemed to blind him with its dreadful possibilities, Laker on his own might be too crafty an opponent. He ran his eye carefully along the happy, flushed faces. It would be worth a try.

  He felt the heat rise in his body as the girl’s knee pressed against his own under the table. The pain of his old memories came flooding back, and almost without noticing, he downed the tall glass of pale liquid by his plate.

  “By jove!” Grant exploded admiringly. “Our very special home brew, and he takes it like water!”

  Laker grunted at his side. “Damn strong stuff that, Captain! Should have warned you. Still, you navy chaps know a thing or two, what!”

  The pressure on his knee increased, and he turned to the green eyes, which were regarding him with lazy interest.

  “Silly old fool, isn’t he?” she whispered, and the corners of her mouth twitched. She was so close to him that he could feel the hard pressure of her breast against the sleeve of his tunic. The wine flowed in his veins like fire, and for the first time in many months he felt a glimmer of his old self. He smiled back at her, immune to the babble of conversation and the stares of his officers.

  It would be so very easy, he pondered, just to let everything else drop, let the others go to hell. What did anything matter any more, what did these people mean to him, anyway?

  “You’re pretty fed up, aren’t you?” she kept her voice low, and Rolfe’s eyes widened slightly.