I pushed the throttles right back, slamming the trawler into reverse, bringing us to a stop.
Nobody came racing in to abuse me; nobody was jumping up and down with anger. We had missed and that was what was important. Another five feet to starboard and we might have smashed a hole in the hull, cracking open one of the water-tight tanks; fuel or fresh water, or maybe the hold. Another five feet further than that and we would have ripped the echo sounder transducer from the faring-pod, sending sea-water pouring into the opened tube, flooding the engine room.
My hands shook as I pushed the throttles forward again and headed us back over the same track we had covered that morning.
Rick had no more luck with the stone dog than had Henry; and told me to shut up and stop bugging him every five minutes.
“If I find something!” he yelled from the back deck. “You’ll be the first bastard to know!”
I concentrated on keeping the trawler on an even course, and held my breath. The bommie had scared a year’s growth off me.
We motored back up to within a mile of the channel leading in through the reef to the eastern side, back to our starting point of that morning. I dropped the speed to idle and then into reverse to stop any forward drift.
“Well, Blackbeard?” Rick asked. “Been in any good shipwrecks lately?”
“Don’t blame me, mate,” I said sheepishly. “You were the bugger on lookout.”
“Not me, mate. I was changing places with Henry.”
They had both been down on the deck on the starboard side swapping sunglasses and binoculars when Rick had spotted the coral outcrop up ahead. If they had been on the other side, the blind side? It didn’t bear thinking about.
“Scared the hell out of me,” I said.
“Didn’t do much for my nerves either,” Rick replied.
“I think,” I said, “that the time has come to do what we decided on last night.”
“Right,” Henry said, as though implying that using the dinghy had been his idea and we shouldn’t have been wasting time with the trawler.
“Where’s the blasted chart?” Rick asked.
“Down there.”
“Where?”
“Under the bloody dining table,” I replied. “Where else?”
“Okay,” he said, coming back up the steps half a minute later with the chart opened out in front of him. “Take her back down around the corner a bit. It doesn’t seem to be so deep there; about nine fathoms ... fifty-four feet.”
Ten minutes later we had the anchor down in seventy feet of water, four hundred yards from the shore.
“Right, Henry,” I said. “How about a cup of coffee while Rick and I get the tinny in the water.”
He began filling the kettle as I followed Rick out to the back deck.
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a couple of flares,” he suggested as we lowered the dinghy into the water. “Just in case we break down and can’t get back.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Good thinking; and you’d better throw in that spare propeller and a couple of extra shear pins.”
These were the cotter-pins that fixed the propeller on to the shaft. They were supposed to snap off if the blade hit anything solid, allowing the shaft to spin inside the then stationary propeller. A pair of pliers and a new pin and you could be out of trouble in five minutes.
“Okay,” I said, dropping down into the dinghy. “Let’s check the area around the trawler and see that she’s got room to swing without hitting anything.”
We did two circles, one larger than the other, and motored back to the boat. There were no bommies.
“Give us an hour or so, Henry,” I called up from the dinghy. “And if we’re not back in three, you had better come looking for us; but head out from the island first. We’ll only use the flares if we’re in real trouble.”
“Looks like we might have trouble now,” he replied.
“What?” I called back.
“Over there! Just coming around the corner.”
“Shit!” Rick said behind me.
“Quick!” I yelled to Henry. “Grab the binoculars and see if you can tell who or what they are.”
He ducked up into the wheelhouse.
“It’s a punt,” he called down. “One of those local things. Can’t see who’s in it yet, but there seems to be three of them.”
A punt, or what the Fijians call a punt. To me a punt has always been a squarish, flat-nosed, shallow-draft box that you use to cross slow-moving streams; but these local so-called punts were between twelve and fifteen feet in length and no more than two and a half feet across at the widest part, tapering to a sharp point at the bow and blunt at the stern where the outboard engine sat. The only similarity with a traditional punt was the flat bottom; and whereas the conventional punt moved along at a ponderous speed, these things could motor along at a good twenty knots, knifing through the water with their ten or more passengers. We had seen a few shooting across Suva harbour laden with well-proportioned Fijian women on their way to market, surrounded by piled-up baskets of local produce, the women with umbrellas held out in front to ward off the spray.
“They’re heading our way!” Henry yelled.
“Bugger,” Rick muttered. “What the hell do you think they want?”
“Are they Fijians or Indians, Henry?” I called out.
“I think they’re Fijians, and they seem to be in one hell of a hurry.”
We tied the dinghy off and jumped back on board.
“Henry!” I yelled again. “You stay up in the wheelhouse. Poke your head out when they arrive but stay up there, ready for anything.”
“You think they may have something to do with those Indians we left back at Nasilai?” he asked in a soft quiet voice that I had to strain to catch, whispering as though the punt was almost on us and the people on board might overhear.
“I’m not thinking anything,” I replied. “Except that I’m not going to be caught napping again.”
I turned to Rick.
“Get your shotgun out and have it ready in the saloon; and make certain you’ve got a box of shells to hand, just in case.”
“Right,” he said, and raced forward.
I waited on deck as they approached, still moving at speed. They got to within fifty yards before the one at the stern dropped the motor into neutral and the punt drifted in towards us, the wake overtaking the low craft, curling high up along both sides and then rolling away. With the motor turning at low speed they circled us once, the front two men standing up, their feet spread apart for balance, trying to peer over our high deck, but the bulwarks preventing them from seeing whatever it was they were looking for. They dropped back down onto their haunches again as the punt came to rest about fifteen feet away from our port side.
By this time I had climbed up on to the trawler’s bow and was able see down into the punt, and could see the three cane knives lying on the floorboards; one for each of the occupants. I didn’t like those knives. The locals honed them to a razor sharpness by slowly dragging a small file along the edge. I had watched a gardener at the Tradewinds trimming branches off hibiscus bushes. A single seemingly effortless swipe would easily sever through a one-inch-thick branch. They reminded me of the Samurai swords the Japanese wielded in battle.
Nothing was said as the punt’s rocking gradually subsided. I looked in through the front window of the saloon at Rick standing by the doorway, watching the arrivals, the gun down by his side where they couldn’t see it, unless they jumped on to the trawler and raced at him. They would get more than they bargained for if they did. The first two would be blasted out of existence before they reached the door. I was praying that it wasn’t going to happen.
Henry tapped on the inside of the wheelhouse window. I looked up as he shrugged his shoulders, asking the unsaid question. What did they want?
They ran their eyes over the trawler, chattering amongst themselves in Fijian, the young one down at the stern still with his hand on top of the idling m
otor, and the other two spread out towards the middle. There was tension – no smiles.
“Can I help you guys?” I asked, polite, proper, without being rude.
“Bula, turaga!” the one at the stern called out, white teeth contrasting against shiny brown skin.
“Hi,” I said, and heard Rick mumble something from the saloon doorway.
I stepped down on to the deck and leaned against the bulwark. I felt Rick move up on one side.
“The Greener’s just inside the doorway,” he whispered in my ear.
Henry stayed where he was.
“Your boat is a big one, turaga,” the Fijian kneeling in front of the driver said. I noticed that his hands weren’t too far from the cane-knife by his side; and that there were still no smiles.
“Not a bad size,” I acknowledged.
“Have you been doing any fishing, turanga?” the one in the stern asked. I knew by now that the word was the Fijian equivalent of sir.
“Not really,” I replied. “We thought we might do some diving and take a few photographs. We’ve been looking for some good spots. Why?”
“Are you diving with tanks, turaga?”
“That’s right.”
“Ah.”
“Are you looking for vasua, turanga?” the one amidships asked.
“What’s that?” Rick asked, looking worried.
I hoped to hell it wasn’t the Fijian word for treasure.
“Vasua, turaga, ahm, ah, how you say ... clams.”
“Clams?” Rick replied. “Clams? No. Wouldn’t know what to do with one of the buggers if we found one. We’re prawn fishermen, mate. This is a prawn trawler, but we’re on holiday at the moment. We fish out of Cairns, up on the Queensland coast.”
“Do you want some clams?” Henry called down, half out of the wheelhouse and seemingly ready to accept them as harmless.
“Sega, turaga, no; but the Korean fishermen have been stealing them.”
“Well,” I said. “We’re not Koreans and we’re not after your vas ... vas ... clams; but you don’t mind if we spear a few fish for ourselves, do you?”
“Yes, turaga, we don’t mind,” he answered in that simple negative which always sounded wrong to me until I thought it through. “But be careful what you eat. Some of the fish are poisonous this time of the year.”
Rick turned his back on the punt. “Do we invite them on board?” he whispered. “Or tell them to bugger off?”
He hadn’t really been listening to what they had been saying, and neither had I. It was their attitude I was interested in. There had been no sideways glances, no whispers. Everything seemed to be open; even if they did happen to be speaking in their own language. If they had any connection with the two Indians we had dropped over the side at Nasilai they would have come up on us in the middle of the night, back at the anchorage inside the reef, where it was far enough out from the harbour for our yells not to be heard. They could have paddled up silently without using the motor.
“Let’s play it by ear,” I whispered back. “And hope that they simply bugger off. If they’re friendly, which they seem to be, I don’t want to upset them.”
What had they been talking about before Rick had spoken? Poisonous fish?
“Sorry, mate,” I said, turning back to the Fijian. “What was that about fish again?”
“Some of the fish you catch might be poisonous, turaga.”
“Oh yeah,” Rick replied. “Which ones?”
“Sometimes the kawakawa, sometimes the damu, and sometimes some others.”
“Oh, terrific,” Henry muttered, joining us on the deck. “How the hell do you tell which ones are poisonous and which aren’t?” he called down to the punt.
The three Fijians looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
“Great!” was all Henry could add.
“Henry,” I said. “It might be a good idea to show him those fish you’ve got down in the freezer, the ones you caught over at Leleuvia.”
I turned to Rick.
“Quick,” I whispered. “Get the Greener down into the fo’c’sle and out of sight, but stay by it. Pretend to be doing something constructive. If these guys bring their knives on board, I’ll give you a yell.”
I would give him yell all right, a split second before I dived overboard. If the Fijians were genuine they would leave their knives behind; but if they had anything to do with the two Indians, those knives would be clasped firmly in three strong brown hands as they climbed over the gunwale.
Rick moved off as the driver kicked the motor forward to bring the punt alongside. I tossed a rope across and they tied the weather-worn craft to the rail. Henry retreated along the alleyway towards the saloon. I stayed where I was, the open deck behind me and a clear run to the water on the starboard side.
The knives stayed where they were. Sulus were wrapped around legs as they climbed on board, chattering to each other, pointing left and right at our equipment, eyes seemingly alight with pleasure at being invited on board.
My heart stopped beating like a pile-driver and my legs unlocked their stiffness.
“Lead the way, Henry,” I said. “Let’s see what you were going to poison us with.”
“Where did you catch them, turaga?” the older of the three asked.
I guessed him to be maybe twenty-two or three, showing no sign of surplus fat anywhere; clean-shaven and smelling faintly of copra: the dried kernel of the coconut. The other two were a year or so younger, but no less well-proportioned: bare feet and chests and no shoes, their only clothing the lengths of faded cotton material; similar in pattern to those the girls had purchased; wrapped around flat waists.
“Leleuvia,” Henry replied. “I already told you.”
“Yes, turanga; but which side of the island? Out towards the sea or inside the reef towards Viti Levu?”
Henry looked at them as though they were mad.
“I don’t know!” he exclaimed. “Somewhere around the island. All around it. Does it matter?”
“Io, turaga.” Which I took to mean yes. “It depends what the fish have been eating.”
The young Fijian lifted one fish out of the freezer; about eight pounds of good firm flesh that would fillet nicely.
“If you caught this one here at Wakaya, turaga, it would be all right to eat, but not if you caught it inside the reef at Leleuvia. Even if you caught it outside the reef, it still might be poisonous. It might have been feeding inside for some time and then come outside.”
“Well?” I asked. “How would you tell in that case?”
“Give some of the cooked fish to one koli, turaga; to one dog.”
Poor bloody dog.
“This one might be poisonous,” he concluded. “But you can try some if you like.”
“You must be joking!” Rick burst out. “Throw the whole bloody lot overboard. I don’t like fish anyway!”
“Sega, turaga,” he replied. “No, the rest of them are good. It is only this one which I think might be poisonous.”
He turned to the other two Fijians. They raised their eyebrows in a sign of agreement.
I looked at Rick. He shook his head, curling his lips. I felt the same.
“Over the side, Henry,” Rick said.
“Right,” he agreed. “The sooner the better.”
The three Fijians suddenly looked hopeful.
“You’re welcome to the other five fish if you want them,” I said. “But that one goes over the side.”
I was thinking of the poor village dog they might have tried it on.
“Sa vinaka, turaga!”
Again the smiles beamed wide. If I still had any doubts as to whether this trio might be checking us out for a night attack, those grins dispelled them entirely.
Henry grabbed a couple of plastic bags from the cupboard, dropped in the frozen gutted bodies and handed them over.
“No more fresh fish for us,” I said. “From now on it’s tinned fish or nothing.”
I remembered the cor
al trout Henry had cooked two nights ago, and shuddered. Still, the chances of picking one out of seven weren’t bad odds. We were fortunate that the Fijians had come along, for Henry had been planning more fishing to supplement the small amount of meat left in the freezer. We hadn’t been looking forward to living on nothing but canned food; but tinned corned beef suddenly seemed to be not so bad after all.
They dropped the plastic bags down into the punt, not caring about the inch or so of water sloshing about in the bottom. One of them climbed in as the others thanked us again for the fish. The young fellow in the boat moved one of the knives aside and started to bail out the water with a rusty tin can. The others stepped down.
Rick sidled up to me as they settled themselves in the punt.
“Do you think we should ask them about the stone dog?” he whispered.
It was exactly what I had been turning over in my mind for the last five minutes.
“Probably wouldn’t be a good idea,” Henry interrupted. “It might have some tribal symbolism or something. Besides, we’re not supposed to know anything about the place. We’re only here to enjoy the scenery and take pictures of the coral.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “You’re probably right.”
“Moce!” the fish expert yelled, and waved.
“Io, moce,” the other two said, smiling, holding up the two bags of fish.
It was probably Fijian for goodbye. If it was, I hoped they were as good as their word and it would be the last we would see of them.
“Christ almighty!” Henry breathed, as the outboard roared into life and they sped off. “Who’d have even thought of it? Poisonous!”
“Yes, Henry,” I laughed. “And we’d have blamed it on your cooking.”
“Okay, you two comedians,” Rick cut in. “Are we going to go out and look for rocks shaped like bloody hounds or what?” He held up his watch. “Look at the bloody time. It’s already gone twelve-thirty!”
“Good God!” Henry said. “Lunch time.”
“No lunch, thanks, Henry,” I replied. “What about you, Rick?”
“Count me out too, mate. I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”
The Stone Dog Page 16