Redcap

by Philip McCutchan

  “No. I cannot face it.” Karstad’s face was dead white, his pupils contracting with sheer fright. Shaw jabbed the gun at him, ordered:

  “Open the door and get out. It’s the only chance.”

  The man moved backwards, flung the door open. It ripped back on its hinges, swinging and banging. The sound of the wind and sea was redoubled, a tearing, deafening shriek hit them and whips of spray stung their faces. Water drove into the cabin.

  “Get out, Karstad!"

  Trembling, Karstad obeyed. Shaw went out close behind, still holding the gun though he scarcely needed it any more. There was no fight, no gut's, left in Karstad now. As they came out into the open cockpit the full force of the gale struck them, nearly knocked them off their feet. Shaw, grabbing for the edge of the cabin deckhead, noticed the cringing terror in Karstad’s face as the man looked up at the towering seas which hung, and dropped, and swept away beneath the boat, lifting it high and then flinging it down again, moving it nearer and nearer the shore. They were coming up into the Franklin Channel now, could be thrown ashore on Snake Island. Shaw put his mouth close to Karstad’s ear, yelled into it above the gale:

  “Stand by now. And if there’s any trouble when we get ashore, it’ll be the end for you. I’m not risking anything from now on. Right?”

  There was no reaction from the Norwegian. That big man seemed to have gone right to pieces and Shaw doubted if in fact he would ever make it to the land. Meanwhile they waited—waited for Shaw to give the word. The wind slammed into their bodies, howling high and weird, taking the breath from their mouths, battering at them mercilessly as Shaw hung on for the boat to carry them as far into Corner Inlet as she could, or as far as was safe, so as to reduce the stretch they would have to swim.

  Grim and unspeaking, he kept that last vigil.

  A little after that the moment of action came.

  The boat gave a deeper lurch, went over, over . . . something like sixty degrees of roll, Shaw estimated. Then she hesitated, hovered. She didn’t come back. Instead, she went over a little more, until the cabin’s side was almost beneath the water and rising and falling like a lunatic lift.

  Shaw jabbed Karstad with the gun. He yelled, “Hurry— jump for it. Now!” Expecting the man to obey, he had scrambled on to the gunwale and was about to go over himself when he felt Karstad’s arms wrapping round his legs and he staggered. Lashing out with his feet, he clung there to the gunwale. He heard Karstad’s yell: “You do not go— you do not go without me. Save me. . . .”

  Savagely Shaw struck out with the gun, caught Karstad a hard blow on an arm, shouted at him: “You bastard . . . if you don’t let go . . . I’ll shoot you.”

  He struck out again.

  Karstad fell away, a fleck of foam on his lips, cowering, trying to squeeze his body into the relative lee of the superstructure and its false safety. Shaw reached down, grabbed for his throat and hauled. Whimpering, legs and arms flying, Karstad made the gunwale, clung like a leech to that last frail straw of what even now he seemed to regard as the safe solidity of the boat. Shaw said through his teeth:

  “It’s your last chance. Jump when I tell you—and at once. Understand?”

  Karstad nodded dumbly.

  A moment later Shaw yelled out: “Now!”

  Karstad stared into his face, then began sobbing. But, steeling himself for what was now inevitable, he pulled his body upright. He jumped. He disappeared immediately into a big sea which had swept under the foundering boat, came up farther on, a speck in the rushing water striking out, quite strongly but in desperation, towards the shore-line of Snake Island, wasting his energy in fighting the sea instead of letting it carry him on.

  Shaw chucked the revolver away, stood poised for an instant on the lifted side, and then jumped clear. As his feet thrust against the wood he felt the boat’s side lift farther and then fall away sharply from him. He knew then that he’d jumped only just in time, that the boat was turning over now and would be gone inside thirty seconds.

  He jumped well clear, half carried along the wind, went deep, came up on the crest of a huge roller which shot him forward at breakneck speed, headlong, and then roared away above his head. Time and again that same process was repeated, and it was only sheer determination and the strong will to battle through that kept Shaw going. It was an almost instinctive, automaton-like progress towards safety; he was buoyed up, borne along almost, by that vital necessity of getting the word through to Sydney, of having the liner stopped outside the Heads to prevent an even greater tragedy which would involve a close-packed city, of having the ship’s double bottoms searched for the charge so that it could be removed in time. He was bruised and battered, torn face stung with the salt water, shaken to his very being, at times unable to do more than just keep his head clear for long enough to suck in air; but he had no thought of failure.

  At one moment he saw Karstad ahead of him, still battling quite strongly against the seas, and then a big wave threw them close together. Shaw was just dimly conscious of Karstad’s white, terrified face and then the man’s mouth opened in what appeared to be a hopeless cry. After that, Karstad’s hands went up in the air with a gesture of desperation, as though he was reaching up to heaven for reprieve.

  And then he was gone; he simply disappeared, went under and sank like a stone.

  The fast boat with James aboard, coming out through the Franklin Channel, found Shaw only just about in time, when he was at last feeling he couldn’t keep afloat much longer.

  It was different as soon as he saw the boat.

  Strength came back into his aching legs and arms, his battered body. Every now and again, as the waves rose and fell, he glimpsed the man battling towards him on the end of a life-line. Desperately he swam for safety, rushing down the side of a wave. The man grabbed him just before he went under a roller, and the two hung together, gasping; then the men aboard James’s boat heaved in on the life-line and, after what seemed hours of agonizingly slow progress through the water, pulled them both aboard.

  Shaw was carried gently into the cabin and laid on a settee, white and shivering. As the boat turned and headed back into Corner Inlet, James put a flask to Shaw’s lips and tilted it. Shaw sucked greedily, felt the fast, surging warmth as the rum went down. Men took off his shirt and trousers, wrapped him in a greatcoat, stripped off some of their own dry clothing for him to wear. They did their best to patch up his face, where the blood was starting out again. As he moved, he could feel the bruises and the stiffness, and the dull ache that came from exhaustion. He noticed Tien’s Chinese driver, sitting under a gun held by one of James’s men. After that he just lay there and nobody bothered him. By the time the boat had made comparatively smooth water he was, with considerable effort, able to sit up. He felt giddy and sick, bent his head between his knees until the feeling passed. Then he asked hazily, “How did you find me?”

  James said, “Well, first of all I hauled Ling in and we questioned him the best part of the night. He didn’t say a word and we couldn’t get anything on him, but I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. Likewise your bloke Markham from the ship—he’s been arrested, but he doesn’t know anything, or says he doesn’t. Then word came through that a car with a Chinese driver had been breaking speed records down this way, so I guessed I’d been right about Wilson’s Prom. Well, we flew out then, but we had to force-land not far north of here. We came on by road, fast, and when we got near the Prom area we saw a car pulled into some scrub. This bloke was in it.” He nodded towards the Chinese driver. “We did a little persuading, you know what I mean, and then we found the boathouse and just put two and two together, and when we looked around, well, we found another boat. This one.”

  “What about the men you were going to send down here?”

  James said, “I sent ’em all right, earlier on, but I’d put ’em farther south—down by South-West Point. They won’t have seen a thing.”

  Shaw rubbed at his aching eyes. “Did Ling say anything about the Ne
w South Wales?"

  “I told you, he didn’t say anything, but it didn’t take much brain to work that out. Have you—-”

  Shaw broke in, “The transmission failed and I’ve smashed the set. That’s all finished now.” James let out a long, deep sigh, grasped Shaw’s shoulder hard. Shaw went on, “But there’s something else. If Ling didn’t say anything, then we’re the only ones left who know—apart from a man called Siggings aboard the ship, if he’s still there. . . ."

  Shaw’s giddiness caught him again and he stopped. James bent forward anxiously, asked: “Know what?”

  “That ... the liner’s due to blow up in the harbour— somewhere inward of the Heads, at one o’clock to-morrow afternoon.” Shaw had broken out in a light sweat now. “There’s more than three thousand people aboard her, women and children included . . . and if her reactor goes, well, so does a whole lot of Sydney.”

  James stared at him, went very pale. He said softly, “Well, for God’s sake.”

  “How soon can we get in touch with Sydney, or the ship?”

  James swore. “That’s just the flaming trouble. Far as I know, we can’t.”

  “Can’t?”

  “Not yet, anyway. All the telephones are down for miles around. There’s trees blocking most of the roads—had a job getting here ourselves, had to use a lot of cross-country tracks, and since we got through it’s worsened. Floods, for one thing. We’re kind of cut right off from the nearest town with any radio communication.”

  Shaw’s face went hard. He said, “Don’t you understand, sir? There’s a nuclear explosion heading up for Sydney at twenty-six knots. We’ve just got to get through, that’s all!”

  “But in God’s name—howl”

  Shaw raised his hands, let them drop. “I’m damned if I know and that’s the truth. We’ll just have to get back to the car and drive until we find a telephone or a telegraph office that works. And we haven’t a lot of time.”

  They were ashore soon after that and making up for James’s car, Shaw being helped along by two of the naval ratings. Getting in, they headed for the road into Fish Creek, with Tien’s car and driver behind them under guard of one of James’s party. They could hear the thunder of the sea, and the whistle of the wind past the car. They started to come into the beginnings of flooded country, and that took off some of their speed, soon reduced them to little more than a crawl through deepening water, a crawl which Shaw found one of the most painfully frustrating experiences of his life.

  Looking out at the water, James said: “We shan’t be able to come back this way again, even if we want to.”

  They drove into the small township of Nurralee and made for the police station.

  They found the constable in his shirt sleeves drinking a quick cup of tea in a warm room, snatching a moment between spells of duty in connexion with the mess made by the floods and the gale. James’s first words, to say nothing of Shaw’s appearance, snapped him right out of that brief rest period. After that, James gave him the full story. But when the naval man had finished, Bob Peters, the constable, stuck his thumbs into his braces and shook his head ponderously.

  He said, “You won’t get any messages out of Nurralee, not for a while yet, Captain. All the telegraph wires are down and we’re flooded right up from here inland—all the roads ’cep’ the one down to the Prom, they’re impassable, and you say that’s flooding now.” He frowned. “I hate to say it, but I reckon you’ll have to stay around a while.”

  “We can’t do that.” James paced the room. “How long d’you think it’ll be?”

  Peters shrugged. “Dunno. Could be a good few days, maybe longer.”

  James snapped, “That’s a fat lot of good! Look, we’ve got to get word through—or get there ourselves. Don’t you see the urgency?”

  “Course I do, but I’m only the constable. Urgent or not, makes no difference. It’s just not possible and that’s all about it. Most of this corner of Gippsland, it’s cut right off.”

  Shaw asked, “Isn’t there any wireless station?”

  The constable shook his head. “The position’s just like I said. If I could help, I would, you know that.” He looked up suddenly, smacked a fist into his palm. He said, “There’s just one way. Go by sea.”

  “By sea! . . ." James gave a snort. “You seen what it’s like, out there?”

  “I only made the suggestion, that’s all—” Peters broke off as his wife came in. He nodded towards Shaw, said: “Look, the wife, she’ll fix him up.” Shaw was shivering even though he was standing in front of a fire. Mrs Peters, clicking her tongue in concern as she saw his torn face, took charge of Shaw and said something about a nice hot bath and some food. Shaw was grateful; he was feeling hot and cold by turns now, weak and feverish. He knew he had to keep going for some time yet, and he was determined not to give in. The sensible thing to do would be to let Mrs Peters have her way and meanwhile leave things to James, though he didn’t see what the Australian could achieve. Facts were facts, and the constable must be given the credit for knowing his own territory . . . but there had to be some way. . . .

  His mind was busy while he bathed and got dressed again quickly, but it was no good. They would never be able to get a car through the floods, that was certain. When he’d finished dressing and had had another tot of rum, he came back into the room and found James and Bob Peters still talking about the possibility of making Sydney by sea.

  James looked round as Shaw came in. He said, “Look, constable here’s been telling me, there’s a boat down in Barralong Cove, that’s way to the south of Foster Beach, if we can make it.”

  “That’s right,” Peters said. “Belongs to a man in Bendigo,

  Peters shook his head. “She had, an’ I thought of that before but it went crook on ’er, last time the boat was taken out. Stripped right down now, she is.”

  Shaw groaned. Every damn thing, he thought bitterly, was against them. He asked, “Well, what about fuel?”

  “She’s always kept topped right up, an’ there’s a reserve dump near the boathouse.”

  “Any idea of her range?”

  “No, but I reckon it’s pretty big. This bloke, ’e takes ’er out for week-ends along the coast, went right down to St Mary’s in Tasmania one time on the main tanks alone. An’ there’s any God’s amount of cans you could fill to help out. An’ I’ll be here to pass a message on to Sydney when I can —just in case you don’t make it.”

  “Uh-huh. . . Shaw glanced across at James. “It’s a shaky do, sir, but it’s worth a shot, I think. We couldn’t average anything like forty-five in that sea and we’d need a hell of a lot of luck to get there at all, but it’s all we can do.”

  “Reckon you’re right. We might be able to enter a port up the coast and send a message when we hit a place where the lines aren’t down.”

  Shaw nodded. “We might, but that’d be a risk in itself. If we piled up trying to enter in this weather, the message would never get through. We can try it if we have to, but I’m aiming for Sydney direct. I’ve got to get aboard and dismantle that charge.”

  “But—why you, for Chrissake? That’s a job for an explosives expert!”

  “Which I am—I’ve kept up to date on that. Anyhow, we can’t contact anyone else—and I’m going aboard if we can overtake her in time. If we can make a port and send a message as well, so much the better. But after that I’m heading for the New South Wales. It’s my job to do it if I can.”

  James said quietly, “Well, good on you, Commander. But —she’s due to pick up the pilot at noon to-morrow, remember.” He glanced at his watch. “That’s just . . . eighteen hours from now, and the explosion due in nineteen hours. Well? Think you can close the gap in time, and in weather like this?”

  “I’ll try, sir. If Lubin could take that thing of his to sea and last as long as he did, I’ll take a chance on an M.T.B.”

  James reached out and clapped Shaw hard on the shoulder, his brown wizened face eager but anxious. He said, “I’m
coming with you. I’m pretty handy in an engine-room!”

  Mrs Peters looked in just then to say that there was a hot meal ready, and James insisted that Shaw sat down and ate.

  He said that ten minutes spent in getting something hot under his belt now would pay dividends later on.

  It was about ninety minutes later that Shaw, with every spare corner crammed with cans of engine fuel, took that ex-M.T.B. out through the Franklin Channel. As he came right out into the open and turned before the wind, an enormous sea took the craft fair and square on her beam, dropping aboard with smashing force. The boat lurched, Shaw fought her round, hauling and straining, noticed the drunken angle of the signal lamp before the glass screen of the wheelhouse.

  Cursing, he reached out and flicked a switch. Nothing happened. The lamp was useless. A moment later, as another big sea hit, the lamp went altogether. So that was that. He’d hoped he might be able to signal any ships he met en route. Now, everything depended on whether he could keep the boat afloat for long enough to make a port or overhaul the liner. He knew it was going to be a pretty close thing; he had more speed—if he could use it—than the New South Wales, but she had a very good start on him. He steered north-easterly for Cape Howe, where he would turn on to the rather easier northerly course which would take him direct for Sydney. The conditions were pure hell in the small wheelhouse and Shaw knew that it must be far worse for Captain James in the engine space, where the Australian officer was being assisted by a couple of his security men. The boat rocked and dipped and jumped, lifted and fell bodily, bumping very badly at times with an agonizing, gut-tearing movement; but she weathered it all right.

  It was hopeless trying to run her up to any high speed, but Shaw hoped that once he cleared Cape Howe and brought the wind and sea farther aft, he would be able to smack her up quite a lot.