Ship to Shore

by Peter Tonkin

  Richard nodded soberly. ‘I think you’re right, Bill. We’ve put a good, reliable senior management structure in place more quickly than I’d have thought possible in the time. It’s going to take a load off all of us.’

  ‘Excellent! Helen and I will be going to Grimaud. What about you four?’

  ‘We’ve been thinking about it. Haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be teaching the twins to ski, but it’s the wrong time of the year unless we go to Australia,’ said Richard.

  ‘Spare me,’ shuddered Robin. ‘No more ice. Please!’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to get used to it anyway,’ said Richard defensively.

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ asked Sir William.

  Richard zipped up the case and hefted it as though it weighed nothing at all. He remained quite pointedly silent.

  ‘Well?’ asked Sir William.

  Robin answered. ‘Oh, he’s got himself mixed up in this scheme to deliver a bit of ice, that’s all.’

  Sir William looked across at his son-in-law with total incomprehension.

  Richard burst into laughter. ‘Deliver a bit of ice,’ he echoed. Then his eyes met Sir William’s, and he explained, ‘It’s Colin Ross and me. We’re going to try and tow an iceberg from the Arctic to the Congo.’

  Acknowledgements

  Two weeks before the Long Vacation, when I had planned to start writing The Bomb Ship, I went blind in my right eye. My thanks must therefore start with the ophthalmic department of the Kent and Sussex Hospital in Tunbridge Wells who diagnosed the precise nature of the problem. More especially, I must express my deepest gratitude to the Eye Department at St Thomas’s Hospital in London, particularly to Mr Chignell and his team who performed the emergency surgery to save my sight; and to the matron, sisters and nurses in the Royal Eye Ward who nursed me for a week afterwards.

  At this point I must therefore say thank you to my brother Simon and his flatmate, Clive, who took me in until a bed at St Thomas’s could be found for me.

  It was at St Thomas’s that I met Errol, Sam and Joe and I thank them for allowing me to include them in the story — my only regret being that I lost some of the notes made of conversations with these extraordinary characters and therefore have changed names and missed out one beloved motorcycle.

  I am pleased and grateful to thank my colleagues at The Wildernesse School who, at the busiest time of the academic year, shouldered my responsibilities along with their own. I thank all those colleagues who took lessons for me. I owe my deepest thanks to Hilary Burdett who ran the English department, to Beverly Butler who ran the Sixth Form (or the Post-16 Provision, as we must now call it) and to the Senior Management team who shared the rest of my responsibilities — to Steve Guest, David Flint, Stuart McTavish and headmaster Ron Herbert.

  The research for The Bomb Ship is based on a wide range of material. The situation and some of the characters are drawn from my earlier novel Killer. I revisited much of the original research material, including the diaries of Captain Scott and South by Ernest Shackleton. The more recent material fundamental to the work includes the writings of Tristan Jones, Robert Swann and Ranulph Fiennes. Pictures as well as words were particularly important in Bryan and Cherry Alexander’s The Eskimos and, for the berg itself, Reinhold Messner’s Die Alpen. Even as I write this, Sir Ranulph has just completed his epic journey across Antarctica for charity. I hope it is not too presumptuous to offer him my most sincere congratulations on a truly historic feat.

  As ever, I must thank Stanfords the map makers of 12-14 Long Acre, London, for their help. This time I promised to mention Paul Hart. Especially, I must thank Kelvin Hughes, ships suppliers of 145 Minories, London, who supplied hard-to-get charts of the Davis Strait and the Arctic Pilot for the region.

  Finally and most warmly of all, I must thank Richard Atchley. Not only did he advise me in great detail about the legal aspects of the story, guiding me round the chambers and courts in question, but he also added a crucial amount of maritime experience and, perhaps most importantly from my point of view, a portion of that cheerfully boundless enthusiasm with which he approaches everything he does.

  Tiger Island

  Peter Tonkin

  © Peter Tonkin 1997

  Peter Tonkin has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1997 by Headline Book Publishing

  This edition published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.

  Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

  Men were deceivers ever;

  One foot in sea and one on shore,

  To one thing constant never.

  Then sigh not so,

  But let them go,

  And be you blithe and bonny,

  Converting all your sounds of woe

  Into hey nonny, nonny.

  — William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

  1

  It was the captain from Sohar who found the island first. He found it but he did not name it, though he talked about it often so that both he and it passed through history and into legend. It happened in a year near the turn of the eighth Christian century when Haroun al Rashid was the Caliph in Baghdad and Charlemagne was King in France, and the one sent the other greetings and an elephant.

  The captain was shy about his name. His father and his father’s father had made their names as desert traders — caravanserais. It had been the camels of the captain’s father that had brought so much that was rare and wonderful to the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers where the great Caliph al-Mansur had decreed that a great city should be built. The city called Baghdad.

  The early death of all-too-indulgent parents had combined with a prodigal youth to dispose of the riches to which the captain had found himself heir, and to destroy the family business upon which they had been founded. So that now, in maturer years, he avoided the desert caravans and sought to rebuild his fortunes upon the sea. And he allowed himself to be known merely as a man who came from a town up in the Zagros mountains — the last place he had been thrown out of before he arrived in Sohar itself.

  Thus, because of this modesty, all along the southern coast from Sur to Basra, where he had served his weary, late-come apprenticeship on more ships than he could readily recall, he was known merely as Saleh ibn Sa’idabad. And in time, as the stories he brought back with him from this very voyage were told and re-told, that name would become shortened to Sindbad.

  Sindbad stood at the very forepeak of his ship with his left foot up on the low board there, and his right hand lying loosely on the jib outhaul. The jib was the only sail left to him. On the deck behind him, invisible in the darkness but all too vivid in his mind, lay his exhausted crew like corpses piled atop the tangle of rags and rope ends which was all that was left of his sails and his rigging.

  It was a miracle the ship had held together at all through the fearsome storms but she was well-found and had been lovingly crafted by the master builders in Sur. Her sides and solid keel were made of aini wood which had been imported all the way from Calicut to the treeless desert port. Here the teak-hard wood had been cut, chiselled and moulded into shape before being sewn together with solid ropes made, like the rigging, of coconut coir rope, brought in from Minicoy Island in the Laccadives. The sides had been sealed with chundruz gum and fish oil; the bottom limed with burned seashell. The spars and two stubby masts were of poon wood and it was fortunate indeed that the sails had given way to the storm winds of the last few days before masts or spars had gone.

  Sindbad had set out from Sohar in late November, following the north-east monsoon across to Calicut. He had cruised down to Serendeeb on the lookout for a decent cargo to bring home with him, but he had found a half-dead drifter yellow of skin and barbarous of diction, sole survivor of a shipwreck in far Sabang. This man was known as Wang and he talked of great wealth across a strange, enchanted sea beyond the Malacca Strait. Now Sind
bad knew the Malacca Strait and the Spice Islands of old. He had heard tell of yellow-skinned djinn and he was willing to listen to this one. He provisioned at Sabang and began to explore through the reaches increasingly few of his fellow captains had ever dared to explore, until he found himself beyond what would one day be called Singapore, heading along the south-west monsoon winds for the mouth of the Pearl River and China itself. And it had led him to six days of contrary storms, with winds and water more terrible than anything anyone had ever experienced.

  The hand lying so listlessly on the straining outhaul rose to pluck at the salt-sprayed mess of hair which was Sindbad’s beard. The captain’s weary eyes fought to make out any detail in the roiling blackness before him. He needed to see below the clouds in case of any unexpected reef lying in wait for his unwary vessel; but most of all he needed to see above them, for his only guides now were the stars.

  Sindbad required only the most fleeting glance at the wheeling constellations to have a clear idea of his heading and a rough notion of his position. From time immemorial, the desert traders such as his father had guided themselves across the great sand sea by watching the stars, and it had been a matter of ritual and family honour that Sindbad also should learn to guide the caravan by astral navigation at his father’s knee. The secret of astral navigation was one of the most closely guarded mysteries of the caravanserais, and Sindbad was unique in having left the sand sea for the real sea with the priceless, secret knowledge locked in his memory. The knowledge was ancient. After all, had not the stars guided the sages from the furthest East to the very cradle of the infant prophet Jesus? But it was passed only from father to son, and that in deadly secret, for the knowledge was the lifeblood of the great trading companies. And, for all that dhows, bedans and booms such as this one had plied up and down the coasts and out along the trade routes dictated by the monsoon winds, their captains were careful men who did not like to go where their forebears had never explored before. They were, after all, sensible, conservative traders. They knew to steer by the sun at dawn or sunset, to follow the morning star and the Polar star; some of them could even see Venus in the western sky and follow her during the day. But only Sindbad knew the full story of the heavens, for this was desert knowledge, not sealore yet. And so it was his ability as an astral navigator that had made him the excellent captain and confident explorer he had become.

  No stars came on this black night, however; no glimpse of Venus, no hint of the moon. Instead, as the south-west monsoon drove him onwards at a brisk pace through the sharp chop which was all that remained of the tai-fun, the grey overcast on Sindbad’s right quarter began to lighten with a weary dawn. And against it, providentially, there hunched a black hump of land, thatched with shaggy vegetation.

  There was something slightly unsettling, almost sinister, about the place, and had he not been so desperate, Sindbad would never have called to the giant Ali, who held the tiller immovably in his massive armpit, to steer across the wind. Sindbad remained silent beyond that one weary order to his most trusted crewman and his friend. There was no need to disturb the rest of the crew, for there was no ship work to be done. The jib would pull them down to the miraculous landfall; the two masts were bare, their booms sad and skeletal.

  Abruptly, Sindbad turned and walked stiffly across to Wang. A brusque shake of his shoulder stirred the yellowskinned seafarer. A grunt and a gesture directed his narrow gaze.

  The Oriental heaved himself forward and, at his movement, some of the others began to stir. Sindbad left them to their own devices and went forward with Wang. ‘Do you know this place?’ he asked, his voice rough.

  ‘No,’ answered Wang, in his almost impenetrable lisp. But the tone of the simple negative would have told Sindbad enough, even had he not understood the word.

  ‘Are there any dangers we should look for especially?’

  Wang shrugged. He had seen dragons in the tai-fun and had pointed them out to Sindbad. Both of them had believed that what they had seen was just what the Oriental described, though later, wiser, more scientific eyes might have seen only waterspouts running along the squall line. As far as the Chinese was concerned, there were vampires in the darkness, and spirits, good and evil, all around. Everyone aboard knew that there might be giants, djinn, houris and monstrous beasts on any strange island and in any fathomless deep. Nothing was certain, except the love of Allah whose name be praised, and anything at all was possible.

  The island they were approaching through the thick, hot, stormy air was an ancient outcrop half of coral and half of volcanic rock. It was a strange geological mixture of caverns and fissures, almost like a calcified sponge of unimaginable proportions. It stood at the heart of a long reef which in a thousand years or so would be christened the Rifleman and was normally far beyond the reach of shipping, but the storms had pushed the water level up that morning and, indeed, the tide would continue to rise for some time yet; the reefs were in consequence safely below Sindbad’s long, solid, aini-wood keel.

  In early days, the island had been home to millions of sea birds and their guano had coated the rough stone and coral with fertility. The first plants sprang up from seeds secreted in those droppings, and others, like the coconut palms, joined them when the nuts floated in their rotting husks on to the otherwise sparsely wooded shore. Time had passed and generations of trees had grown, breaking up the rough mixture of rock and guano into proper soil. The forest had become dense jungle, stretching from mangrove swamps on one side to palm-fringed white sand lagoons on the other. From the south-west, the island looked like the hump of a resting whale — a hump several kilometres long and more than a couple across. And where birds and plants came in such abundance, other forms of life came too, in time; lemurs from far Madagascar, monkeys and indri — and, from the nearer islands, massive, majestic tigers.

  But Sindbad was the first man ever to come here. The giant Ali drove the ship right into shore on his captain’s orders, beating her smooth sides along the rough outreaching mangroves until the jungle grudgingly fell back into a little bay backed with a shallow beach. Here Ali allowed the ship to come ashore, wedging her forefoot into the sand and letting her swing to while the oiled ropes that held her together groaned. Once she was safely beached, Sindbad leaped down and began to walk up the slight incline towards the gloomy jungle. As he did so a huge bird took off and flapped away down the still brisk wind.

  ‘What manner of bird was that?’ asked one of the crew.

  ‘A roc,’ answered another, knowledgeably. None of the others showed any desire to join their captain on the shore of this forbidding place.

  Sindbad stood on the sand looking up at the jungle wall as it towered over him, and then above the vivid canopy to the thin strip of grey sky down which the roc had disappeared. The echoing boom of the wind was answered by howls from deep within the forest. The atmosphere of the place was enough to daunt the stoutest hearts. Most of Sindbad’s landfalls since he had left Sohar had been on the coasts of lands clothed in rainforest, but he had never been face to face with untamed jungle at such close quarters before. The howls of the indri and the lemurs as they greeted the dawn sounded like the screaming of demons to him, and just as it was natural to assume that a monkey-eating eagle with a three-metre wingspan was the monstrous roc of legend, so it was all too easy to people the unknown with creatures from nightmare and fairytale.

  But full of djinn and monsters or not, the jungle must be explored and some hunting must be done. His men had killed the last of the goats more than a month ago and there had been no meat since — except for those unfortunates who had confused their burgeoning cargo of cockroaches with their dwindling supply of dates. They were well supplied with swords, knives and the short, reticulated bows favoured by Mongol horsemen. Ali, the massive steersman, was further armed with a huge knife, almost as big as Sindbad’s own scimitar and even more ornately bejewelled, which the giant had won in a test of strength in Serendeeb.

  ‘Ali! Wang! Hassan! Co
me with me,’ ordered Sindbad. ‘Bring the bows. The rest of you, build a fire up the beach. We will be back with meat. Then we will pray. Then we will cook.’

  Sindbad marked the trees they passed with slashing blows of his scimitar, and it was well he did for almost as soon as they entered it, the jungle closed in around them; apart from the fact that it tended sharply uphill, there was no way of telling whether they were moving inland or back towards the shore.

  ‘I do not like this place,’ Wang lisped. ‘It is full of bad spirits. No luck can come to us here.’

  Sindbad was inclined to agree. The atmosphere of riotous overgrowth and dangerous wildness was overpowering. It filled him with fear of he knew not what. But just as he was preparing to give up and return empty-handed, the undergrowth fell back into a pig run. They followed it along what seemed to be a green-walled, green-roofed tunnel, and as they went, life seemed to withdraw from them. It was as though the creatures of the forest, innocent of any knowledge of these interlopers, nevertheless understood too well what they were about. Even the pigs who had made this path kept well clear.

  After some hours, they came to a clearing high on the watershed of the island which afforded them a glance away to the north-east across a rolling downward slope of canopy and a distant reach of grey-green gleaming desert for beyond. Here the four of them stopped for a moment, too tired even to speak to each other. Had they been men wise in the ways of the ocean, living more than a thousand years in the future, they might have seen something sinister in that flat expanse of wet reef where the grey-backed waves should have tumbled. But they were men of their time and no more than that.

  Sindbad looked around, feeling defeat overwhelm him. Only the giant Ali seemed to have any strength left. ‘Ali,’ said Sindbad, ‘follow this track upward for a count of a thousand paces. Seek the pigs that made it. If you find any, call. If you find none, return. We will wait here.’