Nothing moved, the figure motionless now, merging into the darkness. Had I been mistaken? Crouched there, I felt completely trapped. He had only to shine his torch …
‘Who’s there?’
The voice was barely audible, lost in the wind. The dhow thumped the side of the ship. A seabird flew screaming across the deck. Silence now, only the noise of the wind howling through pipes and derricks, making weird groans and whines against the background rushing of waves in the khawr, and the dhow going thump – thump.
Surely I must have imagined it?
I lifted my head above the big steel drum, staring towards the central line of pipes, seeing nothing but the vague shadow of the bridge-like outline of the firefighting platform, the foam gun like a giant’s pistol. Above my head the derrick pointed a long thick finger at the clouds.
‘Is there anybody there now?’
That voice again, in a lull and much clearer this time. So clear I thought I recognized it. But why would he be out here on the deck? And if it were Choffel, then he’d have a torch with him. He wouldn’t go standing stock still on the deck asking plaintively if anyone was there.
I thought I saw him, not coming towards me, but moving away to the right, towards the rail. He must have been standing exactly between me and the fire monitor platform, otherwise I must have seen him for he wasn’t more than ten paces away.
Then why hadn’t he shone a torch? If he were armed … But perhaps I’d been mistaken. Perhaps he wasn’t armed. Perhaps he thought I was one of the guards and then, when he’d got no reply and had seen no further sign of movement, he’d put it down to his own imagination. And the fact that he hadn’t used his torch, that could be explained by a standing order not to show a light at night except in extreme emergency.
What was he doing here anyway?
Without thinking I moved forward, certain now that it must be Choffel. Curiosity, hate, determination to see what he was up to – God knows what it was that drew me after him, but I moved as though drawn by a magnet. The outline of the rail showed clear, and suddenly beyond it the dhow’s mast. The figure had drifted away, lost from sight. I blinked my eyes, quickening my step, half cursed as my foot caught against another of the tank inspection hatches. A gap in the rail, and a few yards further aft the outline of a davit. I had reached the head of the gangway.
No sign of Choffel. I stepped on to the grating at the top. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel the movement of somebody descending. The dark shape of the dhow was for’ard of the gangway so that it was obvious there must be a boat for communication between dhow and tanker.
What a moment to take him! A push, a quick push – nothing else. I could dimly see the water rushing past, small whitecaps hissing and breaking as the wind hit the sheer side of the tanker, flurries gusting down into the sea. Quickly, my hand on the rail, I began to descend. The gangway swayed, clinking against the side. I heard his voice hailing the dhow. An Arab answered and a figure appeared on the dhow’s high poop, a hurricane lamp lighting his face as he held it high, and below, in the water, I saw a small wooden boat bobbing on a rope at the dhow’s stern. ‘O-ai, O-ai!’ The sound of a human voice hurled on the wind, the words unidentifiable. More voices, the cries louder, then the light of another lamp swaying up from below.
I squatted down, sure he must see me now, crouching low and pressing my body against one of the gangway stanchions, desperately willing myself to be unseen, my guts involuntarily contracting. When he had shone that torch, screening it beneath his jacket, I had seen the thin jutting pencil line of what I was certain had been the barrel of a gun.
There was a lot of activity on the dhow now, men gathered in the waist and the boat being slowly hauled along the ship’s side in the teeth of the wind and the breaking waves. Crouched there I had a crane’s-eye view as one of the Arabs tucked his robes up round his waist and jumped into the boat. Then they floated it down, paying out rope steadily, till it reached the staging where Choffel stood at the bottom of the gangway.
Spray flew over him as he reached down to steady the boat. Now! Now, I thought, while his mind was on the boat, and I rose to my feet, and in that instant a beam stabbed the darkness from above, groping along the side of the ship till its light fell on the boat with the Arab kneeling in it, gripping tight to the last stanchion, and Choffel just about to step into it. They remained like that for an instant, frozen into immobility, as though caught by the flash of a camera, while from aft, from the wing of the bridge came a distant cry lost in the wind.
The men on the dhow began shouting – something, I don’t know what. It was unintelligible. But they were beckoning and heaving on the rope. The man in the boat let go of the stanchion. Suddenly there was a gap opening up between the boat and the gangway and I saw Choffel’s face in the light of the torch, very pale and twisted in the expression of some strong emotion, his mouth open.
Then he had turned and was pounding up the gangway towards me.
I had no time to get out of his way. He came straight at me, and when he saw me he didn’t stop, merely flashed his torch on my face. ‘You!’ He clawed past me, and a moment later I saw him standing precariously balanced on the rail capping, watching for the sway of the dhow as it thumped the side. And then he jumped, a shadowy outline flying in the darkness, to finish up clasping his arms round the swaying mast and sliding down into the folds of the great furled sail.
No shouts from the bridge now, and everything dark again, the only light a hurricane lamp in the waist of the dhow. I felt rooted to the spot, standing there on the gangway peering down at the figures gathered on the dhow’s deck, their big-nosed, Semitic faces staring upwards. Then suddenly he was among them, standing with his gun in his hand, his cap cocked rakishly on the side of his head – I remember that distinctly, the fact that he was wearing a cap, and at an angle – and his torch stabbing here and there as he issued orders to the dim-seen, long-robed figures gathered around him.
One of them disappeared below. The engineer, I guessed, and Choffel followed him. I started down the gangway, my mind in a whirl, descending it quickly, wondering whether he would make it out to sea, what he would do with the crew, where he would head for?
I was halfway down when the dhow’s engine coughed behind me, then spluttered into life. And at that instant a torch flashed out from the deck above. Somebody shouted. I waved acknowledgment, pretending I understood and was trying to prevent the dhow’s escape. I was at the bottom of the gangway now, standing helpless, wondering whether I could swim for it, knowing I’d be swept away, and remembering the look of panic on the man’s face, the way his mouth had opened – ‘You!’ he had exclaimed, hurling himself past me. Only a man driven by fear and desperation would have made that incredible jump for the mast.
And now – now there was no way I could stop him. I should have reacted quicker. I should have taken him on the gangway, the moment he recognized me, when he was off-balance, held there for a second by the shock of seeing me.
A shot sounded, but not from above. It came from the dhow, the stern of it growing bigger. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Instead of swinging out from the side of the tanker, it was falling back towards me. It cleared the gangway by inches, then the big hull closed in, grinding along the grating, slowly crushing it. Arab faces, pallid and jabbering with anger, peered down at me. Somewhere for’ard along the dhow’s deck a voice screamed – ‘Go! Go now!’ There was the sound of a shot, very loud, the crack of a bullet and the beam of a torch stabbing the gloom.
The waist was abreast of me, and without thinking I seized hold of a rope, pulled myself up and over the bulwarks, and as I dropped to the deck, the Arab crew were clawing their way over the side, tumbling down on to the gangway grating to lie there in a heap, bin Suleiman among them, his eyes rolling in the light of a powerful spotlight directed from high up on the bridge wing as bullets sang through the rigging, ploughing into the woodwork, sending splinters flying.
‘Insh’Allah!’ I think it w
as the naukkada’s voice, but whether it was his ship or his own life he was committing into the hands of God I don’t know, for Choffel was coming aft, running through the spatter of bullets. He had let go the for’ard mooring line and the dhow was sliding back, its hull grating against the gangway and along the ship’s side. Then it was brought up short, still held on the stern mooring line so that it hung there for a moment, illumined by the spotlight, while the Arabs went scrambling up the gangway on to the tanker’s deck. There was no sign of Choffel. Crouched there by the bulwarks, I had a vague impression of his having leapt for the steps leading up to the poop.
Slowly we began to swing away from the ship’s side. The dhow was turning in the wind, swinging on the stern warp, and then in a rush we closed the tanker again, the wooden timbers on the far side crashing against the steel plates with a jar that went right through me. The deck lights were switched on, everything suddenly sharp-etched, the shattered remains of the dhow’s boat drifting past and faces peering down from the rail high above. Sadeq was there. He had brushed the Arabs aside and was standing at the head of the gangway, his bearded face clear in the lights as he seized hold of a guard’s machine pistol, rammed in another clip, and then, holding the gun close at his waist, swung it towards me, his movements deliberate, his expression coldly professional. There was nothing I could do, nowhere I could go, the muzzle pointing straight down at me, his hand on the trigger. Then he seemed to freeze into immobility, his eyes narrowing as he saw who it was he was about to kill. It must have been that, for after a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the barrel of the gun, lifted it deliberately away from me, aiming at the dhow’s poop, his finger contracting, the muzzle jerking to the spit of bullets, and the staccato chatter of it echoed by the sound of them slamming into wood, splinters flying and a man screaming.
I thought Choffel fired back, but it was just a single shot followed by a sharp twanging sound as the stern line parted. Then we were bumping along the tanker’s side, the hull moving past us faster and faster, and the high wooden bulk of the poop between me and the shots being fired. I heard the engine note change, suddenly deepening, felt the throb of the screw as it gripped the water and I got to my feet.
We were clear of the tanker’s stern now and turning into the wind, no longer falling back towards the cliffs, but slowly turning into the seas, and the whole vast bulk of the brightly lit tanker stretched out high above us on the starb’d quarter. We turned till the superstructure was astern of us, and it was only then that I heard a voice calling my name. It came like a gull crying in the night, a voice of pain and fear and exasperation – ‘Ro-o-d-in! Ro-o-d-in!’ Then – ‘Quick – hu-rry!’
I felt my way in the blackness over piles of rope to the outline of the high poop deck, found the wooden steps leading up to it and came out on to the top of the dhow’s great after castle to see the dim outline of a figure sprawled across the helm. ‘Take her, man! The entrance. There’s a launch, you see – inflatable – take time to launch it though.’ His voice came slowly, full of coughs and gurgles, so that I knew there was blood in his throat.
‘You’re hit,’ I said. It was a bloody stupid remark.
‘Take the helm,’ he gurgled, slipping away from me in the dark and sliding to the deck.
The dhow yawed, the swept-up curve of the bow swinging away to port, the wind lifting the furled sail so that it flapped with a loud cracking noise. I looked up from the dark shape sprawled at my feet to see the lit tanker with the frowning cliffs behind it swinging across our stern. The movement quickened, the wind catching the bows, and I dived for the helm, throwing my weight against the long timber arm of it, forcing it over to port. I felt the pressure of the water on the rudder and slowly the bows steadied and began to swing back into the wind.
I waited until the tanker was directly astern of us, then I centred the helm, holding the dhow into the wind, hoping I was steering for the entrance. There was no chance of doing anything for Choffel or even finding out how badly he was injured. The dhow wasn’t easy to steer. Like most straight-keeled vessels I had to anticipate her movements, countering each attempt of the head to pay off with a slight correction to the helm. She waddled and yawed like an old woman and once the wind got hold of her she was hard to control, very slow to respond and the engine labouring.
Ahead, I couldn’t seem to see anything beyond the ship’s stem, the lights of the tanker producing just enough of a glow to illumine the waist with its muddle of ropes, pulleys, sleeping mats and cooking gear and the mast with the great roll of sail strapped to the curved wing of the spar. These were all very clearly picked out, the upswing of the prow, too. But beyond that there was nothing, just a stygian blackness.
I could hear Choffel groaning. Once I thought he cried out. But the dhow required all my concentration and when I did glance down at him I couldn’t see him. That was when I remembered he was armed, but the dhow was paying off, the wind catching hold of the rolled-up sail and the bows falling off. Part of the sail had come loose, a fold of it billowing out in a dark bubble of canvas so that I thought I’d never get the bows back into the wind.
Away to port I could hear the sound of breaking waves, could just make out a line of white. Dark cliffs loomed, the line of white nearer, the sound of the waves louder. We were being set down on to the south shore of the khawr – or was it the land closing in as we neared the entrance? With the helm hard over, the bows slowly swung through the wind. I could feel it on my left side now, my eyes searching the darkness to starb’d, ears strained for the sound of breakers. I should have looked at that chart more closely, up there on the tanker’s bridge when I had the chance. There was a box fixed to the poop deck just for’ard of the helm, a big wooden box with an old-fashioned brass-knobbed binnacle in it. But I didn’t want to use my torch, and anyway I’d no idea where exactly the tanker had been moored in relation to the entrance, what the bearing would be. All I could remember was that the entrance was narrow and dog-legged, the bend being leftward going out.
The line of white was very close now, the cliffs visible as a darker darkness in the night. I put the helm over and the bows swung easily to starb’d. I glanced astern at the lights of the tanker. They were swinging across our starb’d quarter and already she looked quite small, the reddish glow of the cliffs behind her fading. I was being forced off course, but the line of broken water to port was still closing in and nothing visible to starb’d. I heard a cry and saw a figure standing clutching at the ornamental rail near the thunderbox on the port side, his arm pointing for’ard. I checked the helm, peering beyond the vague flapping bundle of the sail. A dark line showed high above the bows, the shape of low hills, and in that instant I heard waves breaking and dragged the helm across to starb’d.
There was no response.
The wind had strengthened. It was blowing half a gale and I knew we were nearing the entrance. But there was nothing I could do, the long arm of the helm right over and the dhow not responding, her head held in the grip of the wind and the engine labouring. I watched appalled as the looming outline of the land ahead grew darker and higher, the sound of the surf louder.
And then the engine note changed, a sudden surge of power and the bows were coming round. I caught a glimpse of a figure crouched, or more likely collapsed, over some sort of a control rod set into the deck. But it was only a glimpse, for we were turning to port and in the entrance now, the blackness of land on either side, the wind howling and waves breaking all round us.
It was like that for five, perhaps ten minutes. It seemed an age. Then suddenly the wind died away, the sea took on a regular pattern with only the occasional break of a wave. We were out of the khawr. We were out into the Persian Gulf and the dhow was bashing her way through the waves, rolling wildly, the engine racing and everything rattling and shaking as we steamed into the night with no land visible any more, just an empty void of darkness all around us.
PART V
Virgins Unlimited
1
> Dawn broke with ragged clouds streaming low overhead and a lumpy sea. It was a grey world, visibility growing reluctantly but, as the light increased, gaps appeared in the overcast, glimpses of clear sky showing a greenish tinge. The dhow wallowed sedately, rolling as her bows ploughed into the waves, and the beat of the engine was unhurried and regular. We were at least ten miles from the shore. I could see it on the starb’d quarter, low down to the south and west of the familiar Group Flash Two of the Didamar light, the dark line of it turning an arid brown as the sun rose.
We were out into the Hormuz Straits, into the main shipping lanes. There was a tanker quite close with its steaming lights still showing white, another hull-down, and a third coming up astern. I had the binnacle box open and was steering a full point east of north. Choffel, when I had hauled him off the engine speed control linkage, had muttered about the tanker’s launch being very fast, powered by a single big outboard. But I thought it more likely they would be searching the inshore traffic zone, between the Didamar and Tawakkul lights, not right out here between the west and eastbound tanker lanes.
There was blood on the deck where Choffel had lain after collapsing at the helm, blood on the carved end of the helm itself. But he hadn’t bled where he had lain clutching the speed control lever, or in the vicinity of the thunderbox where he had hauled himself up by the rail to warn me we were driving on to the north side of the entrance. And when I had got him down to bin Suleiman’s hovel of a cabin and laid him out on a sleeping mat with a stinking salt-stiffened blanket to cover him, I didn’t think he had been bleeding then.
A pity Sadeq hadn’t killed him. Now it was up to me. I yawned, my eyes heavy-lidded, my body sagging with tiredness. I had had no sleep and I always found the first 24 hours at sea a little trying.
The Black Tide Page 21