Perhaps five minutes passed before there was indication in movement and expression that he had somewhat more regained his faculties. Sudden din of ship’s whistling close at hand may have helped to rouse him. He looked towards the bay, to see come into view a ferry-steamer so heavy-laden as to look, at that distance of about quarter of a mile, like a piece of wood in a flood carrying a seething mass of meat-ants. It wasn’t coming towards him, but heading straight out of the bay, which lay slantwise to his position, out of sight round a point.
The ferry was Cock-a-doodling so hard the fireman must have been hellbent to give her steam. The khaki ants aboard were waving antennae at black ants on roof-tops of high buildings on the further shore and at others, invisible from here, who would be crowding the sea-wall of the Gardens. He turned from it, now to take note of his dragging arm. With right hand and hip, he got into a position where he could sit on the rocks. He applied his good hand to the injured elbow. Already it was swelling. He felt throat, ribs, scrotum, wincing at each touch. Then a slanting little wave lifted him off his behind, dragged him out a yard or so, causing him to lose more yards to the tide while he floundered back to get a grip again. When he looked again, the ferry was stern-on and heading for the passage between the further shore and Garden Island. That wave was probably the wash of her turning.
More tootling from the bay. There was another ferry steaming out. He was not interested. He set about crawling up the rocks. It could not be done, what with the steepness and the slime and particularly his condition. Besides having but one hand for it, he hadn’t the breath. Advance of a mere foot left him exhausted, gasping for breath with bloody bubbles bursting from his lips, groaning with pain. He got his shoes out of the water only to lose his grip, and because he had made the slime slimier, slid right back again. He let himself drift a little, to what looked a likelier spot with rocks projecting. Again he struggled up, reached the projection, but couldn’t get over it because of the hurt to his ribs, apparently; and whimpering now, he went sliding back again.
He hung there, staring up. No sight or sound of succour. He opened his mouth as if trying to shout. Only a croak came with the bloody bubbles. The only sound was that of the water, its lapping, sucking. Then more tootling from Woolloomooloo Bay. He looked that way. He had drifted a fair distance towards the point. Just a little further on the sea-wall above gave way to the high steel pickets of the wharfage enclosure. There was a peep of wharf-shed roof above the point. Succour must be surer round that point, with its wharves and ships and these ferries and the mob surely congregated to see the ferries off.
He found hip-hold again. Now with a struggle he got out of his jacket, flung it up on the rocks. The wet silk shirt sleeve showed such swelling as could only mean fracture of the elbow bones. Carefully he palpated it. Then he drew up a foot, and one-handed, removed shoe and sock, to let the water take them. Likewise with the other. Again he examined the broken elbow, felt his ribs. He pondered a little while. Then he undid his belt and trouser’s top, and lying back, took the wrist of the useless arm and shoved it down past his loins. Buttoning and belting up again, he had the arm immobilised as effectively in a splint.
The ferry came out of the bay. He shoved himself clear of the rocks into the muck of the tide stream and went with it, swimming awkwardly sidestroke, gasping and grunting with every movement, soon having to give up and roll over and float. The tide drew him well out. It was swinging away from shore now. Just as Woolloomooloo Bay revealed itself, another stream, this heavily laden with the garbage from ships tied up there, joined it, to turn it directly outward. No more ferries. Four big ships, but all well down the wharf on this side, and only a few khaki figures at the point where embarkation must have been made, all busy by the look of them, and too far away, to see a grey head floating amongst rotten cabbages and broken fruit cases, or to notice the momentarily upraised hand. He tried swimming up the bay. No hope against the tide.
Anyway, the tide itself appeared to offer hope of effortless salvation, since the rubbish marking the course of the stream was heading directly for the further shore. There on the point stood those tall blocks of flats, on the roofs of which, and from the windows now it could be seen, the black ants were waving to the khaki ones aboard the ferry. Over there it was easy climbing up the shore. There were even little beaches. Just round that point was where Jeremy had lived when last here and the little park. It could not be more than half a mile across. Sharks? But the Port Jackson Shark was not a man-eater. Could there be others that ate Port Jackson Sharks? Sydney was notorious for its sharks. Or had the waters become too befouled, as by the look of them here, to support any life but that which subsisted on filth?
The ferry was running through the passage now, screaming to the shore. The White Ensign flying from a yard-arm on Garden Island dipped in salute to her, or more truly to her khaki complement — momentarily half-mast, perhaps, for those who never again would look upon Our ’Arbour. The ferry disappeared behind the island. The people disappeared from windows and roofs.
Fast as the tidal movement seemed, those windows were already gilding to the last shafts of sunlight able to reach them through the maze of the city opposite. By the time he got within distance of them from which anyone reasonably might have seen his waving, there were lights behind them and their occupants evidently at the evening meal. The eastern sky was purpling, the northern pinking. Then, within thirty yards of that long promised shore the tide stream swung again, as if shouldered off because of its filthiness, to join the race of waters through the passage across which was Garden Island. On the island the White Ensign was already down for the night, and lights shining.
There was the Queen Mary again, ghost-grey against the violet background of northern shore and pink sky. Pin-pricks of navigation lights, ruby and emerald, above the indigo sea, showed the never-ending erranding of the naval pinnaces. The great ship was dark, but surely buzzing like a gigantic beehive tonight. The tide seemed to be heading for her. What irony if the inspiration for the figment Charles Belamy should be carried to her and seized for trying to sink her with a sticky-bomb! But would a man who gasped for every breath and grunted and groaned with agony at every movement be capable of ironic thought, of any thought at all, indeed, beyond that of succour — succour?
Indigo night rolled in through the Heads like a counter-tide, to be met by the glare of Garden Island, where the sea-tide slacked. Jeremy strove now to reach the glare. Aeons of striving, blindly following blinding pathways of light. A stroke or two — then float with exhaustion, sink a little with forgetfulness, to be roused by the gurgling laughter of Death about to make the coup — then stroke again — float, sink — fight up, and on, and on. A dream of rocks beneath his feet, which he seemed to walk as in a dream, sinking sometimes to walk them on his knees, to try to lie down on them and sleep only to be roused again by that mocking laughter. So on — on until there was no laughter to disturb his sleep.
No laughter for a long while. In unconsciousness he found the strength to roll on his back to take the pressure off his broken chest and battered loins and even while still struggling for every breath by the sound of it, seemed to draw comfort to the limit from his bed of broken rock, the way he sank into it. But there at length was the chuckling again in his swollen ears. He woke with a start. He sat up suddenly — cried out hoarsely with the pain it cost him — fell back. But the tide was spilling in. This time he rose with care, rolling onto knees, rising from that position slowly. Still the blaze of light ahead. Like a wounded insect he blundered towards it.
His shins struck an obstruction. He pitched forward, saved his hurts more hurt with good arm extended. He was on grass. He nuzzled it, like a beloved thing. He lay upon it loving it, till pain drove him over on his back again.
Had he his wits about him, he could have told the time by the glittering heavens. The Ol’Goomun-Ol’Goomun was abeam to northward. Where he knew her best, twenty-five degrees of latitude less, she would have been nearly overhe
ad. Her Dilly-bag of Souls was tangled with what appeared to be tall radio antennae. The northeastern sky blazed with her Cat’s Cradle of Human Destinies. Perhaps he did have the wits. At any rate, he showed awareness of a humming of machinery somewhere beyond where that radio mast would be rooted, turned his head that way, and after a while struggled up, and swaying on his way, headed towards it.
With all the light, it was hard to see anything clearly. Shrubs grew along the grassy verge obscuring much of what lay beyond, and that so crowded, shed and stacks of material, as to be indistinguishable. From the grass he stepped onto asphalt. Beside the asphalt was a high barbed wire fence. He stopped for a moment, to stare and sway, then turned towards the hum again.
‘Halt . . . who goes here!’ A male scream — a leaping figure — fiery flash of polished steel.
Jeremy stopped dead.
A mean Sydney-Cockney voice demanded, ‘Gi’ password!’
The shape against the glare was that of an accoutred sailor. The voice lashed, ‘Up y’ands!’
Jeremy raised one hand, making a gesture towards the other as he did so, and uttering a croak.
‘Both ’em . . . or I let y’ave it!’
Making the croaking sounds, Jeremy essayed to step nearer.
‘Gi’ back . . . and take other ’and out yo’ pocket . . . or’ll blow yo’ liver out!’
Still striving for speech, Jeremy turned sideways, to show the position of his arm and the gross swelling.
Momentarily the sentry was at a loss. Then he said, ‘No tricks.’ With that he raised his rifle high — BANG!
Almost on the instant the smoking cartridge was ejected, the bolt snapped home, the bayonet presented again, while the voice yelled above the echoes of the shot, ‘Next un’s for you . . . yo’ try anythink!’
Rush of footsteps on the asphalt. In a moment a bayonet-menacing squad was there.
The first man addressed his fellows out of the corner of his mouth as they crowded round and he kept at the ready to deal with the swaying enemy, ‘Copped ’im snoopin’ lookin’ through the fence.’
Then one of the other sailors, evidently a superior, took charge, confronted Jeremy, snapping at him, ‘Both ’ands up, snoozer.’
Again Jeremy croaked and showed his condition. But yet another was barging in to take command, this one in the uniform of a petty officer, demanding, ‘Wha’s up ’ere . . . wha’sup?’
The first sailor explained, adding, ‘Don’ seem savvy Henglish . . . ’urt, too, be looks it.’
‘Hatch!’ snapped the PO. Then, raising his voice almost to the pitch of song, he ordered the squad into escort formation, in which the first sentry posted himself with a bayonet at Jeremy’s back, as if it were his privilege to have first poke if need be. The PO then placed himself in front, to set the squad marching: ‘Keeokak, keeokak, keeokak!’
But doing it according to the Blue Book would not work, even with a bayonet pricking the prisoner. The PO had to call halt and have two of his men support the tottering prisoner.
Thus to a gateway in the wire fence, through to a bright-lit office. The PO was there already, seated at a desk, speaking into a telephone. The supporting sailors ranged Jeremy before the desk, stood back to guard him in the proper style. The PO, eyeing him as he stood swaying, remarked, ‘Looks like ’e been on shore-leave a’ter six mon’s at sea.’
Steps outside. The PO sprang to attention and the salute. The guards came to stiff attention. Jeremy only blinked puffed eyes and grasped at his gasping swollen throat. Four officers came in, one, a Commander, who took the place the PO surrendered to him at a bound, the others to stand beside the table staring at the prisoner.
The Commander demanded in an affected drawl, ‘Well, whet’s all this?’
The PO standing stiffly on his left, gabbled the information.
The Commander demanded of Jeremy, ‘Well, may man . . . what’ve you got to say for yourself?’
Jeremy croaked, reeled a little. A bloody bubble burst from his lips.
‘Speak up, man!’
Jeremy indicated his throat.
‘You speak English?’
A nod.
‘Well . . . how come you to be in a strictly prohibited areah?’
Jeremy flung out his right hand, lurched towards the desk.
‘Hold him!’ snapped the officer, and grabbed up the ebony ruler.
The guards grabbed Jeremy, one of them by the swollen elbow. He uttered a hoarse cry, fell against the desk, scrabbled for support for what lay on it, gasping so that blood spotted the papers. He slid back with a groan, to knees, rolled over, sprawling on his back, eyes closed, One of the sailors, bending over him, looked up at the craning Commander. ‘Out to count, Sir. Knocked about pretty bad, I think.’
‘Hmm! Bettah get him to Sick Bay.’ He reached for the telephone.
IV
When next Jeremy opened his eyes, it was evident that awareness came to him much more slowly than last time. He was lying in a white bed in a white room. Seated not far from his bedside was a big man, half-bald, reading a newspaper. The man was in civilian clothes; that is shirt and trousers, his coat hanging on the back of his chair. It was daylight and hot. Through an open door and a window and beyond them a stretch of wire mesh, could be seen clear blue sky. But all that Jeremy saw for a long while was the corniced ceiling. Not so much would be seen of Jeremy himself, bandaged as he was about head and neck, and but for that square of bruised face, only his hands protruding from the strapped cuffs of the device used in hospitals called a Restraining Sheet. Even when his eyes dropped down to window level, by their blankness they marked nothing of the significance of things: the fact that since nothing was to be seen but sky meant they were high up, that the mesh outside meant an enclosed balcony.
It was not till the man with the paper rattled it in turning a page that Jeremy was anything like roused. He glanced to the right, and after a moment tried to turn his head, but failing because of the bandages, rolled that way, causing the bed to creak slightly. The man lowered the paper. Bloodied grey eyes met clear quizzing brown in a long stare. Then the man dropped his paper on the floor, turned to his coat and took a notebook from it, looked at his watch, made a note. Again he looked at Jeremy. Another long stare. Then, as if exhausted by it, Jeremy rolled back to his pillow, shut his eyes. His breathing, which was shallow and with a light rasp to it, had quickened at sight of the man. Now it slowed again. Asleep again.
For some minutes the man in the seat watched, then reached for his paper, opened it. Again the crackling roused Jeremy. Likewise his movement attracted the man. Now while Jeremy stared, he became aware of his restraint, gave attention to his hands, which he flapped, to his hidden straddled and strapped feet, which he waggled. The man rose with his paper, stepped towards him. Jeremy opened swollen cracked lips, struggled for speech, came out with a hoarse whisper, ‘W-w-what?’
The man turned from him, stepped towards the inner door, revealing the shape of a pistol in his back pocket. Jeremy rolled to watch him. The door was shut; a glass door but with glass moulded over mesh. The man did not open it, but reached for a push-button on the wall there. As he came back, headed for his chair again, Jeremy whispered again, stronger of voice now, ‘W-where . . . where’m?’
The man answered with a voice like a growl, ‘Better not talk. Someone coming t’attend to you.’ He sat down.
Jeremy persisted: ‘W-who . . . who . . . you?’
The man shut out conversation with his paper.
The whisper rasped: ‘Police . . . police.’
The paper didn’t move.
‘W-why’m I . . . re-strain’? You . . . listen . . . tell me . . .’
A rattle at the door. The police officer, if such he were, rose, folding his paper. He didn’t go to the door, but watched it open. A youngish fairish nurse entered, shutting the door again with a swing of her hip. She smiled in friendly fashion at the officer, then concentrated on the square of face, giving it the distant sort of smile
of those professionally attendant on the sick. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Wakey-wakies at last, eh? And talking, too! Let’s hear you.’
‘W-where’m I?’
‘Good!’ she exclaimed, and turned to the locker to take out a thermometer. As she was about to thrust the thermometer between lips he repeated the question. She answered, ‘In hospital, of course. Now, that’ll do for talking. Open, please.’
She then gave attention to taking his pulse.
The whisper followed removal of the thermometer, ‘How . . . long?’
Now she addressed the chart above his head: ‘I told you not to talk any more. Doctor’ll be along soon.’
The policeman leapt to open the door for her. Returning, perhaps because he saw in the staring grey eyes that he was in for more questions, he grabbed up paper and chair and went out onto the balcony, settling himself where he had full view of his charge but was out of range of the whisper.
After a while Jeremy fell asleep.
He was wakened by noise. The policeman was coming in. The inner door was being opened. Two men in doctors’ jackets entered, one tall and gaunt with bristly grey hair, the other comparatively short, slight, dark and young. Behind them came two nurses, the young one who had been here earlier, carrying a tray, the other a good deal older. The women bustled past the doctors to pounce on Jeremy and strip him of sheet and dressings. The doctors were talking, evidently still with the last patient, having no eyes for this one yet, staring unseeingly through the outer door, the elder with one hand tucked under an arm, the other hand stroking a lean furrowed jaw with long thin fingers, the younger with hands in pockets. In fact it was the elder who did the talking, murmuring in a preoccupied way, while his junior answered with monosyllables and nods.
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