Quick as a flash, Shiner broke in. “As I mentioned to you, they’re in Gibraltar . . .”
Tony’s face reddened very slightly.
“Ah, yes, Gibraltar, the famous Rock,” commented Reynaud. “A nice, safe place . . .”
“Yes,” I lied, “We’ve been there for a couple of weeks now, but Tony’s sailing up to Lisbon . . . to winter there.”
Tony nodded as he pursed his lips and reddened even more, peering down at the Turkish carpet.
Shiner said, “Good, then it’s settled. What would you like, gentlemen—tea, or a stiffener?”
Tony and Reynaud both said “Tea.” I asked for a stiffener.
“Scotch and soda, right?”
“Black Label, but before we do that I’d like to sort out the details of the delivery.” I looked Reynaud straight in the eye. “First of all, when do we leave for Algiers?”
“Tomorrow at ten in the morning. There’s a flight to Oran—only an hour or so. Then we catch a train from there to Algiers. That’s a few hours, but we should be in Algiers by nine in the evening. We can stay at a hotel overnight and go on board Aries in the morning, to get ready to sail . . .”
“So you’re coming with us?”
“Naturally.”
I looked at Shiner. He grinned at me and lifted his scotch and soda, which had been swiftly served by a silent steward. “Here’s to Aries and a safe passage,” he toasted.
“I’ll drink to that as soon as we’ve got the fee worked out,” I said, quietly.
“Join me for dinner tonight, Pierre?” Shiner asked.
“I must meet with some business colleagues,” said Reynaud.
“Tristan?”
“Never turn down a good scoff,” said I.
“Good. Tony?”
“Pleasure,” said Tony, staring at the banknotes on the floor.
Reynaud was still watching me, studying me.
“What about payment?” I asked him.
“Ah, yes. Let’s see . . .” He gestured with the three-fingered hand. “Fifty pesetas to the dollar, right?”
“About that.”
Reynaud thought for a moment, then said, “Fifty thousand pesetas. Is that all right?”
I kept a straight face. “Yes, I think that’ll be pretty fair. OK with you, Tony?”
“Certainly,” replied my stooped, bespectacled mate.
I thought to myself, ‘Fifty thousand pesetas—Jesus Christ, I’d sail bloody Franco himself around the Isle of Wight for half that right now! A thousand dollars—that will keep us going right through the winter.’
“Good then, that’s settled,” said Reynaud. His clothes moved on his body as if they were dancing partners. “I’ll see you . . .” (there was a tiny hesitation) “ . . . gentlemen at nine in the morning.” Then he took his leave, trod over the banknotes scattered on the carpet, and slid through the double doors of the Royal Suite.
There was a moment’s silence after the Frenchman left, until Shiner clapped me on the shoulder. “Well, mates, what d’ye think of this pad,” he said. He strode over to the wide windows, the length of the room, and swept his arm out over the view of the whole city of Málaga, laid out below like a map.
“Must have cost a bloody packet, Shiner,” I observed.
“Two hundred bucks a day,” he replied, “but it’s worth it. If you’re doing business with the Frogs or locals, then it pays to have your nest . . . well-feathered, my old son.”
He took Tony and me by the arms, led us over the pile of banknotes on the floor, and escorted us through the doorway into the hall.
I turned to Shiner. “What about all that akkers . . . all that money on the floor?”
“Oh, these blokes in this hotel—and the sheilas, too—are as honest as the day is long. They won’t touch it.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit . . . ostentatious?” asked Tony in a querulous tone as we strode to the elevator.
“Well, I could have put it in the desk, but if they see it there they’d think I don’t trust ’em . . . and you know how the Spanish are.” Shiner spoke as if to a pair of schoolboys.
Tony and I took that in silently as the elevator dropped from the Olympian of the Royal Suite down to levels of ordinary mortality.
Shiner did us proud that night. First he showed us our rooms so we could drop our seabags. Both rooms had twin beds. “If you trip over any sheilas . . .” commented Shiner, winking at us. “Only natural, anyway.” Then he treated us to a slap-up nosh—tiny eels, steak, baked potatoes, and fresh whiting, all washed down with the best Amontillado. Afterward, as we sipped Napoleon brandy on the restaurant terrace overlooking the million lights of Málaga and under a hundred thousand stars, I grinned at Shiner. “That French bloke . . . what’s his name . . . Pierre . . . seems to be a pretty all-right feller?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Shiner. “I’m glad you followed my lead about your boats being in Gibraltar.” He looked at me craftily over his brandy glass. “The less these blokes know about your assets and their whereabouts, the better, eh?”
“Yeah,” I replied as Tony peered at the pair of us.
“Anyway,” continued Shiner, “how do you feel about the money side, Tris?”
“Great. It looks like Tony and I, and our crews, will be set up for the whole winter.”
“Well, as soon as Pierre mentioned his problem to me . . . he’s an acquaintance of a friend . . . I thought about you and the way you’ve been scrounging around to stay afloat and make a living. So I put in a good word for you.”
“Thanks, mate. I’ll remember that when I see some good beach-front property for sale cheap, somewhere that’s ripe for development,” I offered.
Shiner grinned. “Hope to Christ it’s not in Greenland!”
Tony the Specs laughed out loud at this. Then the three of us adjourned to the bar and spent an hour or two cracking yarns.
As I fell asleep that night I reminded myself to ask Reynaud for a fifty-percent advance on the delivery fee the next day, so I could send some of it to Cresswell and Nelson and Sissie, to cheer them up.
When Tony and I met Reynaud at the hotel in the morning he was dressed much less formally, but still all in black. He wore a black leather jacket over a black shirt and pants, and calf-length black leather boots. As we approached him he sailed up so brightly that I was afraid he might grab us and kiss us on both cheeks in the habitual French way. Instead he shook our hands and hurried us out of the hotel, onto the street, and into a taxi. In rapid, fluent Spanish he ordered the driver to head for the airport “A toda velocidad”—with all speed—a phrase I have never been able to forget. Ever since, whenever I have been consciously heading or foolishly following others into risk and hazard, those Spanish words always pop up in my head. A toda velocidad. Fools rush in . . .
At Algiers airport we quickly passed through customs, aided by a friendly police officer who greeted Reynaud as an old friend. Once out of the airport and headed for the railway station Reynaud could hardly contain an anti-Arab bigotry so virulent that it seemed to bounce off the walls and pavement around him. In fluent English, under his breath, all the way to the station and through it, to the ticket booths, along the platform, in a low monotone directed mainly toward me, he ranted and raved about “heathens” and “dirty Algerians” and “stinking whores.”
As in crowded railway stations in all big cities there were beggars and seedy-looking people. Of course there were those who no one in his right mind would trust in any circumstances, but as far as I could tell, the people in the Algiers station were little different from people anywhere—a mixture of rogues and would-be angels. To hear Reynaud you would have thought you were in the Ninth Circle of Hell. But I needed his money, and so I grinned at him and took no notice.
In the train Reynaud bribed the guard to allow us into a locked, evidently ex-first-class compartment. I thoug
ht of all the good Arabs I had known—all the decent ones, many affectionate ones, even a few very loving ones, among the lights of my life, as well as all the ordinary, every-day uncitified Arabs I had encountered throughout the Middle East, but I said nothing about them and Reynaud eventually tired of ranting and railing against them in a low voice (always in English). Besides, I was too fascinated, watching the other passengers as they left the train, wondering about their lives. Then, too, I was helping Tony solve the crossword puzzle in a copy of the overseas Times of London, which he had eagerly swooped on in the Málaga airport.
I was surprised to see that there was still the usual complement of beggars and little ragamuffins at practically every halt. But the little ones, despite their rags, seemed to be having a high old time, laughing and shouting and waving at the passengers. The boys avoided our compartment, though, which made me a bit sad, because even with my rusty version of Arabic it was usually great fun to exchange badinage with them, no matter where. A couple of years later, when I traveled to London mostly by train, I watched the disinterested faces of young people in England as the train passed them, thinking they probably wished they were back in front of the goggle-box; and I remembered, as I do now, the faces of these children of the Riff. They were enjoying life. They were living life, and they weren’t yet jaded by familiarity with frenetic mediocrity.
It was about eight o’clock when, at last, the train pulled slowly into Algiers. We made our way through the bustling crowds in the mezzanine, which was crawling with armed soldiers in pairs, to the station entrance. There Reynaud anxiously gaped around, then sighed slightly with relief as a gray van pulled up right in front of us. It was driven by a chubby, middle-aged Algerian, who said absolutely nothing the whole time he was with us. The only noise he made was a grunt when Reynaud gave him some money at the end of the ride.
In complete silence we drove through the city streets, directly to the port gates, where we were stopped by a sergeant. Reynaud handed the sergeant an envelope and spoke rapidly in Maghreb Arab—far too fast for me to understand. Then the sergeant waved us through.
The van passed through the dockyard, under the brilliant pools of light under the cranes, which were all silent and still. “I thought we were going to a hotel,” I said to Reynaud.
“It’s better if we go straight onboard,” he said quietly. “The weather’s very good for leaving tonight.”
Tony spoke up. “What about fuel and stores?”
Reynaud grunted. “Everything is taken care of.”
“Are you sure that this is on the level?” I asked.
Reynaud grinned. “It is for me, my friend. We all might just as well get on with it. You can’t leave the . . . job now. If the authorities find out you’ve come over here to work, without a work permit . . . pouf!”
Just then the van stopped and we all piled out of the back doors. I turned to Reynaud. “Well, thanks a lot. You could have told us about this in Málaga.”
Reynaud took my arm. “Look, Mr. Jones,” he whispered, “I’ve told you, everything is all right. The boat is all ready for sea. I have good friends over here. All we have to do is leave.”
“And what about when we get to France, with no exit permit from Algiers?” enquired Tony anxiously. “You know how bloody sticky the French customs are.”
“Pas de problème, Mr. Rankin,” said Reynaud. “I’ve got plenty of friends in high places there. They’ll probably give you a medal!”
“Jesus,” I exclaimed in a low voice. Then I saw, out in the middle of the eastern end of the great harbor basin, under the sliver of a moon in the calm, windless night, the low profile of a whole flotilla of craft, all rafted together.
For a moment I hesitated. Then I looked at Tony. “What do you think, mate? What he says is true. If we go to the authorities for a permit to sail . . .”
Tony’s face, in the wan light, was serious. By now the van had left. Below where we stood, at the edge of the jetty, a small motor launch bobbed against the pier ladder. “I just don’t know, Tris . . . I’ll do whatever you think best.”
“Oh, shit. Well, in for a penny . . .” I picked up my seabag; “ . . . in for a bloody pound!” I dropped my bag into the launch.
Soon we were alongside Aries, which was rafted up on the outside of a collection of about thirty pleasure boats of all shapes, sizes, and conditions. There were little eighteen-foot sloops, forty-foot yawls, ninety-foot ex-motor-gunboats . . . It looked a bit like the Dunkirk rescue fleet.
Aries seemed huge to me. Casting my eye over her upperworks I saw that she was splendidly accoutered with radar scanner, shortwave aerials, and searchlights. All her fittings were first-class. She was moored to small buoys fore and aft, and also tied up to the next vessel, which was almost as large.
Reynaud climbed onboard first. As I waited for Tony to clamber up the boarding ladder I looked up and saw a young Algerian soldier, with a machine pistol slung over his shoulder, talking in low tones with Reynaud. Just as I reached the top of the ladder myself I saw Reynaud pass yet another envelope. The soldier grinned and saluted; then, after I had plonked down my seabag on the deck, he descended into the launch and disappeared in the direction of the main quay.
“Vite, vite . . . Quick! There is not a lot of time. Put your gear in the wheelhouse. Tony, you come with me . . .”
“Where’re you off to?” I asked. I knew that Reynaud realized that I had seen that the soldier had not taken his machine pistol with him, even though it wasn’t anywhere around. My brain was by now working away ten to the dozen, trying to figure out a way of getting Tony and me out of this pickle all in two pieces. By now it was quite obvious, from the look of Reynaud’s face, that he was a very determined man indeed. A man who would stop at nothing—probably not even murder—to achieve his own ends. The only thin thread of hope for us was to go along with him, at least until we were on our own ground—way out at sea. Then we would see.
“We’re going to check the engine—lube oil and fuel levels,” replied Reynaud. “There’s no point in your trying to get ashore. If you do, the sentries will know what to do . . .”
“I’ve no intention of doing that,” I replied. “All I want to do is check the wheelhouse and the charts and then get the hell out of here.”
“Good. Naturally.” Reynaud, with Tony in tow, passed aft from the wheelhouse.
I quickly scanned through the navigation desk, noting that the charts for the western Mediterranean and the Gulf of Lions were lying atop a pile of other charts, and drew off a course from Algiers to Marseilles direct. The course passed very close to the island of Menorca. Then I studied a chart of Algiers harbor, which was lying on the desk, and noted that the position of Aries’ berth had been marked. Also drawn in was the line of a barrier chain which was strung across the small-craft harbor every night to prevent entry and exit. All this was done by the dim light of a tiny torch which had been lying on the navigation table.
Soon Reynaud was back in the wheelhouse, with Tony behind him looking nonplused. “How is it?” he asked in a low voice.
“OK. The best thing we can do is unshackle the mooring cables fore and aft, push her right off from that next bloody scow, and let her go. Hopefully the engines run . . .”
Reynaud smiled. “No problem,” he said.
“ . . . and there’s enough fuel to get us at least to Menorca.”
“There’s enough to take us to Paris, if need be,” he replied.
“Right, let’s go then. I’ve got the line of the barrier chain. Slip the mooring lines.”
Soon we were clear of the other boats, floating free in the dead calm harbor under the pale moonlight. Reynaud came into the wheelhouse. I watched both him and the heading of the boat as he pushed the engine starter buttons. From below there was the low rumble of power restrained.
“Brace yourselves,” I said. “Here goes bugger-all!”
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p; I slipped the engine gear lever into “Ahead.” As the boat started to move I rammed the speed lever to “Full.” The roar from the engines was deafening. The stern dropped suddenly, the bow lifted, and we were speeding at twenty knots, straight for the barrier cable. We were about thirty yards off the barrier, which I could now dimly see, when the machine guns opened up.
There were two lofty ships from old England came,
Chorus: Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we!
One was Prince of Luther and the other Prince of Wales,
Chorus: All a cruising down the coasts of the High Barbaree!
Aloft there, aloft, our bully bosun cried,
Look ahead, look astern, look to weather and a-lee!
There’s naught upon the stern, sir, and naught upon our lee,
But there’s a lofty ship to windward and she’s sailing fast and free.
O hail her, O hail her! our gallant captain cried,
Are you a man o’ war or privateer? cried he.
O, no I’m not a man o’ war, nor privateer, cried he,
But I’m a salt-sea pirate, all a-looking for my fee!
For broadside, for broadside, a long time we lay,
Till at last the Prince of Luther shot the pirates’ mast away.
O quarter, O quarter! those pirates they did cry,
But the quarter that we gave ’em was to sink ’em in the sea.
“High Barbaree” is a capstan or halyard chantey. It is very old, probably dating from the early seventeenth century. High Barbaree was the old name for the Riff Coast—specifically the coast of what is now Algeria.
4. High Barbaree!
I never knew whether Aries went through the barrier cable or over it. In the several minutes of chaos that followed the first splattering zing of bullets on her steel hull, everything seemed to happen all at once. One round shattered the starboard windscreen, splintering it into a thousand opaque slivers of plexiglass. By that time we were, all three of us, heads-down—Tony and Reynaud flat on the wheelhouse deck and me squatting low, holding the steering wheel steady on course. I remember that I shut my eyes, until the thought flashed to me that it would not prevent my being shot. I opened them again and stared like a madman at the wheelspokes in front of me as, with a terrifying rumbling noise, the hull slowed down. There was a seeming eternity of straining and wrenching, with the engines now screaming in protest and the propellers grinding and whizzing in a high pitch. It was as if the boat were suspended on a high-wire. Suddenly she lurched forward so violently that my head was banged against the steering wheel. This knocked into me the presence of mind to raise myself high enough to just peep over the lower edge of the windscreen. The only light on the inside of the wheelhouse was the dim pink glow of the compass.
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