by John Harris
‘She’s coming,’ Dodgin shrieked from the bridge. ‘She’s coming! Keep at it!”
Grundy leapt across the wheelhouse and stared at the telegraph, then up at Ash.
‘Astern’ Ash said quietly, his hand on the lever. ‘Astern, that’s what you wanted.’
They could see the trees sliding past still, white and ghostly in the glare of the searchlight, unreal beyond the sharp lines of the rigging and the silhouetted shape of the bow.
‘Astern,’ Grundy muttered half to himself, ‘astern,’ almost as though he were willing the ship to wrench herself out of danger.
While they were still watching the trees, still dazzled by the light, the old Ballaculish drove her bow gently and firmly at an angle into a mudbank, and they stumbled forward as she came to a stop. Abruptly, the firing ceased and momentarily the ship was silent and dead once more. For a second, they stood staring at each other, with the odour of the churned-up mud mingling in their nostrils with the smell of smoke and cinders that blew from the funnel on the stern breeze. Then Grundy spoke, almost apologetically.
‘We’re aground,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ash slapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. ‘You did all right, son.’
Dodgin was peering over the side, staring aghast and speechless at the muddy water that surrounded them, then the searchlight was switched off and in the fraction of the second before it died away to a glow and they were left in darkness, they saw his thin mouth twisted into a bitter oath that seemed to be torn out of him in his rage and frustration.
Five
The hesitant morning mist was lifting and the sun was creeping over the illimitable plains beyond the river before they gave up hope of freeing the Ballaculish.
Curiously, there had been no recriminations, none of the wild accusations of treachery and inefficiency that had marked their first enforced stay farther up the Saolito. For the first time, it seemed that no one had anything with which they could accuse anyone else.
Dainty had appeared on deck as the shooting had died away, thin and strained-looking, the blackened pipe bobbing between his gums.
‘It was a bloody good try,’ he said flatly, staring over the bows to where they could see the first of the mainstream marker buoys beyond the island. ‘Another few hundred yards and we’d have been out. We’ll have to work the rudder a bit with the engine full astern. We oughta wriggle off then.’
But he was wrong, and by the time it was light enough to see, they were still held fast by the bows and a launch was heading out to them from the shore. On the Punta de las Rosas groups of interested excited soldiers stood among the willows pointing towards the ship, and as they watched, a signalling lamp began to flash towards the launch, flickering with a nervous urgency in the sunshine.
‘They’ll have the guns back soon.’ Grundy said, watching the spit of land.
‘They don’t need ’em now,’ Dodgin pointed out bitterly.
‘They sat in a line along the forward hatch cover, all of them weary after their night-long efforts to free the ship, drinking the tea that Grace and Teresa had brought out to them and gnawing at the corned beef sandwiches.
‘Eat, drink and be merry,’ Dodgin said heavily, ‘for tomorrow Fatbum’ll be ’ere.’
Grace silently took the mug from Ash’s hand, trying to force a smile. Throughout the whole of the manoeuvring of the ship up to the time of going aground, she and Teresa had tried to go on reading, listening all the time to the clang of the telegraphs above them, trying to establish by their sound what was happing until the final stillness and silence that told them something unforeseen had happened, and they had emerged cautiously to find out what. She was still downcast by their failure and suffering from a reactionary depression after the excitement.
‘What will they do to us?’ she asked, wondering who would be the one to throw the first accusation of interference at Ash. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘God knows’ Ash said wearily. ‘Carroll holds all the trump cards in this game, damn his contemptible little soul.’
‘We nearly got out,’ Teresa said encouragingly.
‘Nearly,’ Ash agreed with a wry smile. ‘But not quite. Uncle Harry’s not quite the clever clot he cracks himself up to be. Still’ – he put a hand on her shoulder and stood up abruptly – ‘don’t worry, little ’un, we’re not beaten yet. A tug, that’s what we want.’ Suddenly, he was interested and excited again, his mind foraging ahead to the next bright idea. ‘A couple of good yanks with a tug and we’ll be off. I’ll fix something. Anything’s better than loafing about here.’
‘Harry’ – Grace moved forward quickly – ‘you’re not going ashore again?’
He indicated the launch drawing alongside with its crew of soldiers, and jumped down from the hatch cover, undefeated, tireless and still incredibly optimistic.
‘You get nothing without trying,’ he said. ‘Get me my coat and tie, Tess. Got to look smart.’
As Teresa clattered off, Dodgin put his mug down deliberately. ‘I’m coming too,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything going, I’ll share it.’
Ash smiled at him. ‘Thanks, Dodgin, old chum,’ he said. ‘But I’ll do it on my own. It was my idea. If there are any cans to be carried, I’ll carry ’em.’
‘They’ll take it out on you,’ Dodgin pointed out.
‘I’ll chance it.’
Dodgin stared at him with a puzzled loyal expression on his face, then Ash turned to the rail, watched by the curious glances of the rest of the crew. Grace moved to his side.
‘Haven’t you done enough?’ she begged. ‘Haven’t you done too much already for this damned ship?’
‘Ship?’ he said softly. ‘I’m not doing this for the ship and that shower of deadbeats, Grace. There’s only Dodgin worth pulling your finger out for. Not on your nelly. I’m not. I’m doing it for me – for us. For us and Tess. Make no mistake about it, it’s a purely selfish motive and nothing else.’
Grace watched him climb down the ladder and speak to the crew of the launch, then one of the soldiers pushed him heavily on to a seat in the stern, and she turned with a choked cry and ran below. For a second, Teresa stared after her, torn between the important business of waving to Ash and the need to be with Grace, then she clattered after her and vanished into the saloon alleyway.
Carroll stood up as Ash was pushed into the room overlooking the square. There was a triumphant expression on his face as he moved forward and stood in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Ah, Señor Ash,’ he said. ‘I feel I ought to thank you for making the ship more secure. More secure than ever I could with all my guns.’
He seemed almost gay and bursting with confidence.
‘It was good try,’ Ash said, frowning.
He lit a cigarette and moved to the window, wondering what Carroll had in store for him and prepared to lie and cheat and bluff to the limit of his powers for Grace and the child.
The battery of guns was still in the square, still pointing towards the convent, and he noticed a corner had been knocked off the pink of one wing and lay in a tumbled heap of masonry in the garden.
‘Win your little scuffle?’ he asked shortly.
‘It was a complete victory,’ Carroll said.
Ash sneered. ‘Victory? You couldn’t lose.’
Carroll frowned, as easily annoyed as he always was by the other’s tormenting, and he tried to turn the derision back on Ash. ‘There was little resistance after we brought the battery up,’ he said. He smiled suddenly. ‘Thanks to you,’ he went on, ‘I can now keep it here in the town where it can do more good. Perhaps I ought, in fact, to train the guns on you, Señor Ash. It seems I’ll never be able to trust you.’
‘I never trusted my own mother,’ Ash retorted. ‘That’s how I managed to get on in the world.’
Carroll seemed to be almost crowing. ‘Why did you come ashore again?’ he demanded. ‘T
o ask a favour, perhaps?’
‘I came to get a tug.’
Carroll’s smile died away abruptly and his face flushed angrily. ‘A tug? After what you’ve done. You wrecked one of my vehicles and overturned my launch. You’re more likely to get a prison sentence.’
Ash shrugged, then he looked up with a bright gleam in his eye. ‘Your damned briefcase’ll never be found if I do,’ he said quickly. ‘What do you think of that?’
Carroll sat down at the table, drawing slowly on his cigarette. ‘I’m not interested in anything beyond my duty,’ he said.
Ash sneered. ‘Duty? You’ll get no medals for that ignominious little scuffle round the convent,’ he pointed out. ‘On the contrary, they’ll probably be only too pleased to remove you at the first opportunity – as they’ll remove everyone eventually who’s been involved with bloodshed. Never do the dirty work of revolution, Major. It upsets the voters. Your wretched little brawl round the convent’ll be forgotten in a fortnight, but the Ballaculish could easily find its way into an international court.’
Carroll’s face went taut and Ash smiled.
‘Your new government’s going to need all the goodwill it can get,’ he pointed out, ‘and shooting at foreign ships and killing foreign nationals isn’t the way to get it.’
Carroll bit his lip.
Ash gestured with his cigarette. ‘You once talked to me of resigning,’ he went on blandly. ‘It might not be a bad idea, at that. You know as well as I do that finding that money they lost, or Alvarado’s child or even Alvarado for that matter isn’t going to weigh much in the balance when they hold an inquiry into the shelling. The only thing that could save you is that signed statement you so badly wanted. But you’ll never get that. You know you’ll never get it.’
Carroll remained silent and Ash leaned across the table, his voice harsh and tormenting. ‘They’ll probably break you,’ he said. ‘Chuck you out of the army. That’ll be wonderful. I’ve tried it. They retired me when the war ended. It’s like having a leg cut off.’
‘I can’t afford to retire.’ Carroll’s face was expressionless.
‘Well, maybe there’s another way of looking at it.’
There was a contemplative expression on Ash’s face and Carroll’s eyebrows rose slowly.
‘Did you know there were more than those seventeen thousand-odd dollars that you talked about yesterday,’ Ash said, leaning forward. ‘Did you know there were nearer thirty thousand?’
The fear of ignominy and disgrace and their attendant poverty and humiliation seemed to rattle their bones behind the door and Carroll looked up sharply, trying to keep the interest from his eyes. ‘Thirty thousand?’ he said. ‘I heard there were more.’
‘I thought it might have passed your way,’ Ash said. He was leaning across the table now, his palms flat among the papers, his eyes glowing, talking, talking, talking. ‘Even that pathetic lot on the Ballaculish had heard of it,’ he said. ‘Thirty thousand almighty American dollars,’ he went on after a pause. ‘The finest currency in the world. In neat little packages of seven hundred and fifty in small notes. I don’t know who was hoping to get it, but whoever it was he won’t be able to raise a hue and cry about it, will he, because it was never meant to be there. It makes it very valuable money under the circumstances, doesn’t it? More than a soldier earns in a lifetime.’
Carroll’s heavy-lidded eyes opened slightly and he started to gnaw at his nails. ‘Are you trying to bargain with me, Señor Ash?’ he asked.
‘I’ve no alternative. Yesterday when you moved the guns. I could tell you to go to hell. Today I’ve only one ace left. I’m laying it down now. I’m waiting for you to trump it.’
Carroll nibbled at his finger ends a moment longer. ‘It had crossed my mind that perhaps you might,’ he said. ‘You and I seem to think the same way.’
‘Perhaps that’s because neither of us is very honest.’
Carroll let the insult go by without appearing to notice it. All he could expect, he knew, whatever he achieved in the way of miracles, was an unwilling forgiveness for his part in the Ballaculish incident, but he was sufficiently a soldier to know that even so it would never be forgotten. As long as he lived, to his colleagues and contemporaries he would always be the man who had fired by mistake on a foreign vessel on its lawful occasions. At the very best, he could only imagine remaining at his present rank to the end of his career, with a increasing pack of debts to look forward to, and a perpetual reminder of his error in his record file. He could see a whole lifetime of dull posts devoid of interest or responsibility stretching away ahead of him into the future. And that, he knew in his heart of hearts, was only the best he could hope for.
Ash was still talking, but half of what he had said had passed over Carroll’s head. He looked up as he caught the last few words.
‘Even half the money in that briefcase,’ Ash was saying, ‘would be enough to resign on, Major, wouldn’t it? It would be possible on that much to get across the delta and set up in safety in Montevideo.’
Making up his mind swiftly, Carroll straightened up abruptly and hitched his tunic into position. ‘I think I shall have to ask you for that briefcase, Señor Ash,’ he said.
Ash smiled. ‘You wouldn’t be so naïve as to expect it for nothing, would you?’ he asked.
Carroll stared back at him, his eyes cold.
‘Not from you,’ he snapped. ‘What do you want?’
‘A tug first. I told you I came for a tug.’
‘A tug?’ Carroll’s lips tightened and he clasped his hands behind his back.
‘Exactly,’ Ash said. ‘Then a few other things such as a pilot and a guaranteed safe passage for the Ballaculish and the people on her as far as the coast.’ He leaned back, his expression confident, and gave Carroll a beaming untroubled smile.
Carroll’s face went red, then he controlled himself with difficulty. For a moment, he clasped and unclasped his hands behind his back while Ash, his eyes sharp and shrewd behind the smile, watched him closely.
‘I must say it’s not unexpected,’ Carroll said at last, his voice harsh. ‘You drive a hard bargain.’
‘A good bargain’s one that profits both sides. I’d also like a copy of a signal which you’ll send at once to the coast, addressed to the shipping agents and the ambassador warning them to expect the ship. Then, in case you change your mind, they’ll come and look for her.’
Carroll thought for a moment, slapping his leg with his riding crop. ‘I’m sure I ought to trust you again, Señor Ash,’ he said.
‘You’ve got me here,’ Ash pointed out. ‘Your soldiers are outside. What more do you want than a hostage?’
Carroll nodded and, throwing the riding crop on to the table, he reached for the telephone. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange it immediately.’
The room was silent as they waited and the shaft of light from the door shifted from the table to a pile of stacked equipment in the centre of the floor. Carroll walked up and down, smoking, unable to be still, and Ash leaned on the wall by the window, staring across the square. The men round the guns were busy polishing their weapons, smoking as they worked. From the church, the bell boomed with the anger of a prophet, as though condemning the destruction of the previous day. Below the sculptured figure of Christ by the door, whose wounds gaped realistically in the stone, there were trodden vegetables where market stalls had been overturned, and an old woman, indifferent of the soldiers and the guns, was trying to salvage the battered remains of a few of them. There was a heavy silence of defeat over the town that seemed as significant as the sagging splintered shutters and the chips along the walls where the bullets had struck.
Then, in the stillness, the telephone jarred abruptly and Carroll threw away his cigarette and reached across the desk. Ash turned slowly from the window and waited, leaning on the wall.
Carroll put the instrument down and raised his eyes.
‘The ship’s afloat,’ he said. ‘She’s at anchor off the
island. Shall we go?’
Ash moved towards the door, not saying anything, and Carroll watched him cautiously, for the first time with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. ‘You realize, of course, that you’ll be returning here with me, Señor Ash?’ he said. ‘You will not be going with the ship. I must have some guarantee.’
Ash nodded. ‘I’ll be coming back with you. I understood that.’
‘You’ll have the briefcase, of course?’
‘Of course.’
‘Complete?’
‘Would you like the sordid business of counting it all out on the deck in front of everyone?’
Carroll shook his head and waved his hand in a gesture of negation.
‘I wouldn’t be fool enough to throw myself on your mercy without it complete,’ Ash pointed out. ‘I’m no fool. I’ll hand it to you as soon as the ship’s out of sight and downriver.’
Carroll held open the door for him to pass through. ‘You’re behaving very gallantly,’ he said.
‘No, I’m not.’ Ash flipped his cigarette end out into the sunshine, wondering vaguely if he were not flipping a whole lot more out with it, too. ‘I’ve got no alternative. That’s all there is to it.’
Six
In spite of the bullet-chipped paint and the shattered glass of the wheelhouse, the old Ballaculish had an odd look of readiness about her. Perhaps it was the way the afternoon sun fell across her, touching her drab paint with warmth, or merely the wisp of smoke that hung flatly over the tip of her funnel in the windless air.
‘Gracie’ – while they were still yards away, Ash saw Teresa swing away from the rail and go racing for the saloon alleyway – ‘it’s Mr Ash back again. It’s Mr Ash. He’s come back.’
There were grins and thumps on the back to welcome him as he climbed aboard, followed by Carroll, then Grace burst through them all and stopped in front of him.
‘Thank God you’re back,’ she said.
He grinned and kissed her, indifferent to the stares. ‘Sure I’m back,’ he said. ‘And don’t I know it. Same old stink. Same sour smell of spuds. Why don’t you give the old tub a scour out, Dodgin? You can smell her a mile away.’