However, it was all real enough on landing. So was the obstructionism of Argentinian officialdom once they learned that Brockton and I were bound for the Falklands. Brockton had been as good as his promise in securing a seat — next to me — on the full aircraft. I think it owed much to his command of Spanish. His fluency was certainly the key factor in smoothing the way for me to obtain a travel permit called a 'white card' which all British subjects entering the Falklands by air via the southern Argentinian town of Comodoro Rivadavia are required to carry. Despite the fact that the Falklands are British, the Argentinian authorities insist that they are rightfully Argentinian territory, and the 'white cards' are a way of asserting this claim by bureaucratic harassment of British travellers.
At the mention of the Falklands, officials started the 'work to rule' routine on Brockton and me which left us well behind the other passengers. Further, the name Jetwind and the fact that I was her skipper turned obstructionism into thinly concealed hostility. I was still suffering from sleep dosage withdrawal symptoms — either I needed more, or none at all. It was only Brockton's patience and his Spanish which saved me from exploding. After innumerable questions and much note-taking, our 'white cards' were finally issued. We made our connecting plane by a whisker. Late that afternoon, after a wearisome flight southwards, when I finally came out of my heart-of-darkness sleeping jag we arrived at the oil-field town of Comodoro Rivadavia, jumping-off point for the final leg, next day, to Port Stanley.
Later Brockton and I were drinking a glass of wine in the creeper-covered patio of the Spanish colonial Austral Hotel, which contrasted nostalgically with the upstart modernism of the town itself, centre of one of Argentina's most important oil-fields. The town's streets had a superfluity of raw concrete walls, most of which seemed to be graffitied with the same slogan in big red letters — 'Las Malvinas son nuestras'.
I was relaxed, warm and comfortable in the secluded twilight. The vino rosado was good, if a trifle sweet for my palate. I liked having Brockton around; our acquaintance was turning to friendship, especially after the 'white card' unpleasantness. I was gratified that my first impressions of the man had proved correct.
Robbie Lund, proprietor of the Austral, came to our table. He was an amiable, big-boned Scot whose grandfather, in common with hundreds of others of Hebridean descent, had settled southern Patagonia towards the turn of the last century. Originally they had been 'kelpers' in the Falklands and later were responsible for the famous Patagonian wool boom. 'So you're the new skipper of Jetwind? he asked.
'Yes. It surprises me how many people in Argentina seem to know about the ship.' 'You wouldn't know why, would you?'
'No. A record attempt of that nature doesn't seem to be the sort of thing to create much popular feeling.'
Two kids appeared suddenly, and Lund said something to them in Spanish, indicating the entrance bell. They shot off excitedly.
Lund excused himself for the interruption, and continued the conversation.
'And you wouldn't know either, Mr Brockton, in spite of the fact that you speak Spanish so well?'
'I guess not, except that everyone's hackles seemed to rise when Jetwind was mentioned.'
Lund chose his words. 'Jetwind has kind of split public opinion down the middle in Argentina.' He dropped his voice. 'A hotelier has to be careful. Split, left and right.'
Something of the bien aise went out of the evening. 'You mean, politically left and right?' 'Aye, I do.'
'Who dragged politics into a neutral subject like a record-breaking attempt?'
'You may well ask. Captain Rainier. You see, Jetwind is tied up in the Falklands.' 'Don't I know it!'
'The ship has become a kind of symbol, if I may put it that way.' 'A symbol of what?'
Lund glanced about uneasily, tfien replied. 'Hasn't your friend translated the slogans on the walls of the town? They've shot up like mushrooms ever since Jetwind was known to be in Port Stanley.'
Brockton repeated the Spanish. '"Las Malvinas son nuestras" — the Malvinas are ours. As good nationalists, they don't tolerate the name Falklands. The question of ownership of the Falklands has been a point of friction for generations. Now the whole controversy has flared up again — because Jetwind was forced to make for Port Stanley.'
'Forced? Who says forced?' I asked. 'The ship was en route from Montevideo to the Cape when her captain was killed in an accident. Her first mate, Anton Grohman, turned and like a frightened rabbit made for Port Stanley.'
Lund sat down and stared. 'That isn't the story that has been circulated in Argentina.'
'Now I see,' I replied. 'Grohman is an Argentinian. The Falklands are a delicate political issue, and Grohman thought it would make good political capital.'
Brockton blew in the mouth of the wine bottle as if underscoring my remark. It emitted an odd, menacing, horn-like sound. 'Whose side is he really on, Mr Lund?' he asked.
Lund replied thoughtfully. 'Captain Grohman stopped over here a few days back on his way from the Falklands…'
'Grohman isn't Jetwind's captain any longer,' I corrected him. 'He was temporarily in charge after Mortensen's death.'
Lund contemplated me shrewdly. 'It was a clever thing to call himself captain in the papers — politically, I mean. A storm is being stirred up round Jetwind.’
'A political captain makes a half-assed sailing captain,' said Brockton.
'If Grohman is not aboard Jetwind when I arrive tomorrow,I sail without him,' I said. 'The more I hear of him, his intrigues and his political involvements, the less I like him.'
'I wouldn't say Grohman isn't a good sailor,' answered Lund. 'But he's a true-blue Argentinian — half-Spanish, half-Scots. In addition, there's wild, dangerous blood in him, probably Indian. The mixture could produce strange characteristics.'
'Thanks for the tip,' I replied. 'But I think I know how to handle him.' Lund flashed a grin at Brockton. 'I reckon you would.'
The two youngsters suddenly appeared carrying a bell. Lund gave them some coins and handed the bell to me.
'This ship's bell comes from the wreck of an old barque which has lain beached in the Straits of Magellan for donkey's years. Her name was the Ambassador; the man who built her also happened to be named Lund. No relation that I know of. I salvaged her bell a long time ago, just for the hell of it. Now I'd like you to have it for Jetwind. I said Jetwind has divided public opinion. Down here in the south we're mostly of Scots and British descent — we're on your side, Captain Rainier. The bell's sort of to wish you good luck. You manage to get that ship out of Port Stanley and you'll have every mother's son in these parts doing a Highland Fling for you.' 'I'll manage all right,' I said. 'Who's going to stop me?'
Lund was looking over my shoulder. He made a quick silencing gesture and stood up. I pivoted round. A man was striding on to the patio. He was carrying a silver-handled riding crop, a rebenque the Argentinians call it, as I learned later. The whiteness of his officer's cap accentuated his swarthiness and dark, over-large, penetrating eyes. Deep lines from nostril to chin might have been tooled into his lean cheeks by riding the pampas or standing sea watch. He was young — about my age. But his ancient Indian blood had made the handsome Spaniard in him prematurely mature.
'Senor Grohman,' said Lund. 'May I introduce Captain Peter Rainier, who, I believe, is taking over command of Jetwind?’
Brockton and I were sitting next to one another — Lun,d's half-turned introductory gesture included us both.
Grohman stopped short and slapped his leg with the whip. 'Which of you is Rainier?'
I remained still and regarded the angry face. I said emphatically, 'Mister Grohman, let's get this straight. I am Captain Rainier — understand?'
I heard Brockton gasp; Robbie Lund moved out of the line of possible cross-fire. 'On whose authority are you taking over?'
I kept my cool despite his provocative air and tapping whip.
'Just pick up the nearest phone and call Axel Thomsen in Cape Town. I have his number
right here. I was with him only last night. He'll be more than delighted to establish contact with the man who blew Jetwind's chances. He's been trying to get hold of you ever since you inexplicably put into Port Stanley.' That stopped his tap-tapping and his hectoring air.
I added, 'If you want on-the-spot proof, I have a letter of appointment signed by Axel Thomsen. However, I don't have to parade my credentials to you or anyone else. I am captain of Jetwind, and I stay that way.'
Grohman shifted his ground at my tone. He indicated Brockton. 'Who's this man?'
'I could be anyone.' There was a strange note in Brockton's voice which I was to recall later. For the moment, though, I was fully preoccupied with Grohman. 'But I happen to be an American newspaper-man.'
'Sit down, Grohman,' I continued. 'We have a lot to talk about.'
Lund seemed quite anxious to leave the battle-field, and moved away.
Grohman threw the ornate whip on the table like a gauntlet of defiance and sat down.
'First,' I said to him, 'get this absolutely clear. Mr Thomsen didn't specifically ask me to fire you but he gave me blanket authority to do what I wished in the best interests of Jetwind. I'll beach you here and now if you don't behave more like a ship's officer than a Mafia strongarm boy. I don't like that whip. Get rid of it before anything else.'
Our eyes locked. They seemed to stay that way for minutes. Watch out for that Indian blood, a bell rang at the back of my brain, or he'll come at you with a knife.
But he didn't, although I was ready to hit him — hard. Instead, he pulled in his breath like a deep sigh as if he'd reached some inner decision which hurt him but which was expedient. He thrust the whip out of sight under the table.
His truculence had not wholly disappeared, however, He said, 'If this man's a reporters I don't want him listening to a private conversation.'
Brockton half-rose. 'Hold it, Paul.' I told Grohman, 'He stays.' I indicated the bottle, 'Paul,' I added. 'See if you can find us some Scotch. I can't stand more of that sweet stuff’
Grohman seemed willing to take me up on any issues even Argentinian wine. 'It is the best wine we have,'
'That may be, but it still doesn't make me like it. It's sweet and jammy. Ask Robbie Lund for Scotch.' 'It'll be a pleasure,' grinned Brockton.
'Now then, Grohman,' I said when he had gone. Tor the moment we'll skip the motivation — or lack of it — which landed you in Port Stanley. Once there, however, your duty was to stick with the ship, not to flip-flap round South America where no one could contact you. What in hell's name made you leave?'
His lean body started to surge forward in anger; it cost him an effort to hold himself in check. There was a kind of suppressed fire about the man. I thought he could be dangerous with a little provocation. Nevertheless, I had no intention of soft-soaping him.
He chose his words. 'I had an obligation to inform the Argentinian authorities.'
'Are you crazy? An obligation to inform foreign authorities about Jetwind's activities in a British port! What the devil has Jetwind got to do with Argentina? Your authorities were difficult enough about granting my "white card" when they heard I was Jetwind's new skipper.' 'That police officer will lose his job for granting it.'
That jolted me. 'How would you know? It only happened this morning.'
The slightest sneer tugged at the left-hand corner of his mouth. 'I have friends.'
'It seems so, Grohman. They seem more important than sticking to your job. What is behind all this coming and going?'
My tone needled him into replying just as Paul arrived with the Scotch. Grohman stuck to the wine. He banged down his glass angrily.
'I was doing what was right. You do not understand — or you do not even want to understand — how delicate the political situation is over the question of the Falklands.'
'There's enough about it written over every wall in town,' I observed.
'Las Malvinas son nuestras!' he echoed heatedly. 'Who first sighted the Falklands a century before the British ever came near — a Spaniard, Americo Vespucci, in 1502…'
Brockton said over his glass, 'Vespucci wasn't a Spaniard. He was a Florentine.'
The derision in my snort was like throwing petrol on a fire to Grohman. Now and then he stumbled to find an English word as his speech free-wheeled angrily.
'Maybe, maybe, but he sailed for Spain, Vespucci did. It was also he who discovered the Tierra San Martin long before the British or Americans, nearly three centuries later…'
'Tierra San Martin?' I asked. 'Where now would that be?'
'He means what the rest of the world calls the Antarctic Peninsula,' Brockton filled in ironically. 'All nations agreed to standardize the name in the sixties. Except Argentina.'
I was glad to have Paul to support me in this verbal duel. He seemed to be particularly well informed for a newspaper-man.
'For a hundred and fifty years we have been wronged,' Grohman went on, knocking over the wine bottle with a vehement gesture of his left hand. 'The Malvinas originally belonged to Spain. They were stolen by the British! After the Spanish colonies in the New World had revolted against Spain, the Malvinas passed legally to the new United Provinces of La Plata and we tried to occupy them — legally…'
Brockton again came to my assistance. 'You are over-simplifying, friend. The whole story is much more complicated than that and although I don't hold with British colonial methods, in this case they were right.'
Brockton's cool assessment seemed merely to provoke Grohman further. 'It is not only the Falklands that the British stole! All the groups of islands on the southern flank of what you call the Drake Passage were stolen from Argentina by Britain. Who rightly owns what you Americans call Graham Land, or the South Shetlands, or the South Orkneys? We registered our claims in the properly recognized international way during World War II when we left a formal document buried in a metal cylinder asserting our rights to the whole sector between twenty-five and sixty-eight degrees west and southwards of latitude sixty south…'
Brockton said roughly, 'Argentina waited until they thought they could catch Britain with her pants down because of the war. If I remember right, however, the British had sense enough to send a warship and remove all signs of Argentinian occupancy and the emblems they planted.' 'It was typical of British aggression…' Grohman began.
'Listen,' I interrupted. 'I didn't come here to hear a lot of historical crap about who owns what. All I know is that the Falklands are British, that my ship is held up there, and that I mean to get her out. Falklands, Malvinas — whatever.'
'You must understand, that is why Jetwind is detained!’ Grohman retorted. 'In 1966 a group of Argentinian patriots staged a token invasion by air of the Falklands to reaffirm our claims to the islands. Argentina does not recognize British sovereignty — the Malvinas are ours! That is why I went to the mainland! I reported to the proper authorities the death of Captain Mortensen. Jetwind must remain in Port Stanley pending clarification of the circumstances of Captain Mortensen's death. That is why, when he was killed, I made for Port Stanley. It is an Argentinian matter.' 'Go and tell that to the Royal Navy,' I retorted.
My attitude towards Jetwind's first officer was clear: he had committed a severe dereliction of duty towards his ship's owner, and I had yet to discover what lay behind his smoke-screen of politico-historical claptrap. I was not prepared to accept his explanation at face value. Yet Brockton surprised me. He was deadly serious towards Grohman and seemed to weigh judicially every word he said, despite the fact that he himself seemed better armed with fact than the Argentinian.
Grohman turned contemptuous. 'The Royal Navy! Do you remember 1976? Do you remember your so-called research ship, the Shackleton, snooping about in our waters with depth-charges and electronic gear aboard? The Argentinian destroyer Almirante Storni opened fire on it for illegal activities. The Shackleton turned and ran for Port Stanley…'
'That appears to be a common occurrence in these parts’ I remarked.
&nbs
p; 'The British warship was probing our naval secrets!' rapped out Grohman. 'We opened fire legitimately when it refused to surrender..
Once again Brockton came to my rescue. 'The Shackleton was simply an oceanographic research ship measuring the extent of continental drift off the Horn,' he said briskly. 'Your so-called depth-charges were seismic charges for use in sonic underwater observations. The Almirante Storni demanded that she submit to arrest — on the high seas. The British captain quite rightly sought shelter in the nearest British port — Port Stanley. His ship holed up there until the storm blew over. It was all part of Argentina's continuing campaign of harassment over the Falklands.'
Grohman looked as if he could have knifed Brockton. 'We have proclaimed a two-hundred-mile territorial limit round the Malvinas,' he said. 'Therefore the British warship was inside Argentinian territorial waters.'
I drained my drink and got up. 'I am not prepared to listen to any more of this nonsense,' I said. 'Tomorrow I fly to Port Stanley. Are you accompanying me, Grohman, or are you staying here?' 'I am coming.'
'Good. We'll be on the same plane. I intend taking Jetwind to sea as soon as possible.'
Grohman gave an unamused smile. 'You call my reasons nonsense. You will see tomorrow they are not.' 'Say what you mean, man!'
Brockton had also risen to his feet, apparently more concerned than I was at Grohman's air of truculent triumph.
'An Argentinian warship — the same Almirante Storni — is at this moment on her way to Port Stanley to detain Jetwind.’
Chapter 8
I disbelieved him — until next day.
Our plane was over the ocean, about an hour out from Comodoro Rivadavia, heading for the Falklands. The scheduled flight time was about two and a half hours. The obsolescent F-27 Argentina Air Force plane was grinding its way southeastwards; the mainland was out of sight behind. The day was clear and bright but the far horizon was a purplish line — the menace of Southern Ocean weather, the unsleeping threat of Cape Horn. It looked a good day down on the surface. Only occasionally did I spot a white crest. It was a rare in-between day when the wind was making up its mind from which quarter to rip in next — northwest or west.
A Ravel of Waters Page 5