There was a murmur in the darkness. Then we were out on the deck with the warm night above us all studded with stars. Somebody shouted just as we reached the davits. The beam of a torch leapt at us out of the darkness for’ard, holding us in its light. The mate and the second engineer fired almost together and the torch went out. Then pandemonium broke loose. Little stabs of orange flame flickered like fireflies—from the bridge, from the bows, from the main hatch. Bullets flew all round us, pinging as they ricocheted off the iron deck plates. The mate gave a grunt and fell against me. I saw the cook seize the davit rope and go sliding down. The second engineer followed. “Quick, laddie,” the mate said.
I climbed on to the rail and seized hold of the rope. As I did so I heard Maynard say he couldn’t go down on the rope because of his arm. “Then jump,” the mate said with a curse. I didn’t hear what the reply was, for the rope was burning through my hands and the side of the ship flashing past me. I landed in the bottom of the boat almost at the same instant that Maynard hit the water. The boat rocked violently and was almost swamped with water. He came alongside, spluttering and calling for us to pull him out. Somehow we got him aboard, crying with pain for we’d seized him by his wounded arm. As we pulled him over the gunn’l, a great swirl of phosphorescent bubbles went winking under the ship.
Shots were hitting the water round us now. We hung on, waiting for the mate. But he didn’t come. The rope that hung over the boat remained slack. The second called up to him. There was no reply, except that the beam of a torch fastened on us and a shot doubled the second up in the bottom of the boat.
We pushed clear of the ship then. The cook had settled himself on the for’ard thwart with a pair of oars. Maynard and I sat side by side on the afterthwart, each with an oar. The second lay still in the bottom of the boat.
So we pulled away from the “Sally McGrew,” the three of us rowing for dear life. A few strokes, and the ship was no more than a vague shadow against the Southern Cross. But we could see the flicker of torches as men clambered down the ropes to the lifeboat. Old Walrus called softly to the second. But the engineer lay still and did not reply. We headed the boat back toward Breakfast Island. And high over my right shoulder I saw a fire glowing red on the very summit of The Lookout.
“Think that’s the skipper up there?” Maynard asked in a hoarse whisper.
“That’s where we camped last night,” I said.
“Save your breath, both of you,” Old Walrus cut in. “If we can’t outdistance the lifeboat, we’ll be feeding the sharks.”
So began that ghastly race for the island. We had the dinghy and a few minutes’ start. But the crew were an old man, a boy, a wounded seaman, and the senseless body of the second engineer. After us came the lifeboat, fully manned and bent on murder. Beyond the “Sally McGrow” the sky was beginning to show white as the great orange ball of the moon lipped the horizon.
8. THE FIRE ON THE LOOKOUT
I have only an uncertain memory of that long row through the night. At first the dinghy chattered merrily enough as the bows cut through the dark, lifting surface of the swell. But after that first burst of speed, the chatter died away as each sweep of the oars became more and more of a struggle. With four up, we were very low in the water. The humid warmth of the night was exhausting. And even out on the water the insects tormented our swollen skin. Soon my back was aching and the oar became very heavy. The palms of my hands were raw from the rope. Each tug on the heavy oar became agony.
For a long time we rowed in silence, heading for the gap between Point Colnett and Breakfast Island. I think we were all hoping that they would lose us in the night. But the rowlocks creaked at each long pull and soon, as we bent forward for the next stroke, we could hear The Rigger’s voice giving the time to the lifeboat’s crew. Shortly afterwards the beam of a torch probed the darkness, searching for us. They were little more than two cables’ lengths astern.
Then the moon came up and after that there was no question of shaking them off. I began to shiver with exhaustion. The sweat poured off me, so that the slight breeze, which was from the west, seemed almost cold. The “Sally McGrew” stood out lumpish and black against the moonpath on the water, and behind her I could see the outline of an occasional palm breaking the line of Goodman Point on the further side of Chatham Bay.
At last the yellow rock slopes of Breakfast Island towered above us and slowly we entered the channel that separated it from the mainland. All the time the lifeboat was gaining on us steadily. We could see the dip and tug of the oars, the dark bodies of the rowers swinging rhythmically, lying right back at each stroke. And as their oar blades lifted clear of the sea, they left a trail of silver drops. In the stem sat The Rigger, urging them on.
Maynard suddenly slackened. “I’m about done,” he said to the cook over his shoulder.
“You will be if you don’t pull,” was the reply.
“Where are you making for?”
“Wafer Bay.”
“We’ll never do it. They’ll be up with us before we’re clear of Colnett Point. Better pull in among the rocks here.” He gazed up at the towering headland that formed one of the bastions of The Lookout.
“If you’re hoping to climb up there, you ain’t got a chance,” the cook said.
“No, but we could hide up.”
“They’d see the dinghy.”
“We could sink it.”
“And leave ourselves marooned. You wouldn’t think that so funny about noon tomorrow.”
“Maybe you’re right. But I can’t row much further.”
“If the kid can row, so can you,” Old Walrus said sharply.
“Damn the kid,” Maynard growled. “He’s the cause of all the trouble. But for him none of this would have happened. I was a fool to join up with you and the mate.”
“Save your breath,” said the cook. r
“I tell you, I was a fool,” the man raved on, his voice rising on a note of hysteria. “Where’s the mate now? Shark meat, same as the chief. And old Baldy there.” He kicked the second engineer with his toe. “Like as not he’s dead, same as we’ll be. And all on account of this blasted kid. If we tipped him over the side, him and Danner, we’d get clear away. All they want is the kid.”
“Row,” said the cook quietly. “I got a gun on my knees. If you don’t row, I’ll put a bullet through you, see. You made your bed. Learn to lie on it. You can’t change sides every five minutes. And if you don’t put your back into it, I’ll lighten the boat, starting with you. Now row!”
“All right,”. Maynard grumbled. “But you take care, Old Walrus. I got a good memory. If I delivered the kid to The Rigger—”
“He’d take the boy and give you what you deserve, a bullet in the guts. Now save your breath and row.”
So we drove through the cut between Point Colnett and Breakfast Island. Behind us trailed the lifeboat, oars silvered in the moonlight as they swept regularly back and forth. Ahead we began to hear the faint whisper of the surf running into Wafer Bay. The fire on The Lookout was hidden now behind the mass of rock and jungle that towered above us. A sea bird flapped curiously round us. And in the shadows at the bottom of the boat, the second’s bald head caught the moonlight and shone like the clean-picked bone of a skull.
The Lookout is a triangle with the summit as the apex and the base dropping sheer to the sea and running from Breakfast Island to Cascara Island which is the northern tip of Wafer Bay. The base of that triangle is over a mile in length and it was on this long pull that we now embarked. Some freak of the current seemed to help us here and for a little while we drew away from the lifeboat. But soon it, too, was in the current and began to creep up on us again. I don’t remember much about this part of the journey. I was dazed with exhaustion, my muscles working automatically, my mind a blank. It was a nightmare of weariness and pain. My hands were bleeding now. The heavy oar became slippery with blood and the rough wood lacerated my torn skin.
My back ached. Each stroke was an a
gony. Twice Maynard stopped rowing and only the cook’s gun in his ribs forced him to go on. Blood was dripping from his shoulder and his face was a white mask of sweat in the moonlight.
But somehow we reached Cascara Island and rounded the headland where Benito Bonito is supposed to have cached the loot of the “Ralampago.” And there, right ahead of us, lay the white sweep of Wafer Bay. It was very quiet and beautiful, the palms standing like pale flags against the deep shadows of the jungle and the surf creaming in to join the white line of the beach. And the lifeboat was barely fifty yards away, The Rigger’s voice coming clear as a bell across the water as he urged his crew to a final effort.
But I suppose they were as tired as we were. The boat was a heavy one and there were only four of them at the oars. I could see every detail of The Rigger’s face in the blaze of the full moon. He was leaning forward, his mutilated hand swinging back and forth as he gave the time to the rowers.
“Come on now,” panted the cook. “One last spurt. Soon as we reach the surf, it’ll take us right in with a good start. Come on! In. Out. In. Out.” I hardly had the strength to lift my oar. The water seemed to drift past the blade as I dipped it in. And I could tell by his voice that he was just about finished. The sweat ran down into my eyes as I gritted my teeth against the agony of my palms and pulled and pulled, into infinity.
I don’t remember anything of that slow drag into Wafer Bay—only the ache of my shoulders, the dull, raw pain of my hands, and the weight of the oar. And through my sweat-spangled eyelashes there was always the lifeboat with The Rigger bobbing crazily astern. Then suddenly the dinghy lifted. There was a surge of water under our keel. Then we fell back into the slack of the undertow. “Now,” croaked Old Walrus. “Pull, blast you!” We pulled. The boat rose. There was a seething roar of water all round us. Two little stabs of orange flame came from the lifeboat. The crack of the pistol shots was drowned by the roar of the surf. Then we were racing shoreward.
“Maynard. Is the second alive?” the cook asked.
“Dunno,” Maynard answered. “He ain’t stirred.”
“Then we’ll have to leave him. Get his gun, sonny.”
I leaned down and turned the second engineer over on his back. He was very heavy. As I got him over, his head rolled back against the ribs of the boat with a thud. His face was quite white and his eyes stared straight up at me without any sight in them. His gun was still clenched in his hand. I forced the fingers away from the butt and passed the gun back to the cook. Then I was sick. It was as much exhaustion as the unpleasantness of touching the second’s lifeless body.
“Where now?” growled Maynard as the beach came racing toward us, very white and quiet.
“The Lookout,” the cook answered hoarsely. “Got to join up with the captain.”
Maynard grunted. “You bin ashore, mate?”
“Not yet,” replied Old Walrus.
“Then you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said sourly. He glanced up at The Lookout. It was visible now, a conical peak etched black against the moon. The glow of the fire picked out the single palm. “It don’t look far. But you wait. We’d do better to lay up in the jungle.”
“You do what you like,” the cook answered. “Me and the boy are making for The Lookout.”
“Okay. But you won’t make it.”
“Do you know the way, sonny?” Old Walrus asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
At that moment the dinghy grounded. We jumped out and splashed through the water to the beach. Land crabs scuttled out of our way as we stumbled up the slope of white sand. Those land crabs—they always enter into my dreams. They are part of the nightmare of Cocos Island, like shaven human heads clattering along on their spindly legs. We found the watercourse. The jungle closed around us, alive with the hum of insect life, dark and impenetrable save for the gap torn by the stream where the moonlight shone ghostly white on the big, moss-grown boulders and the trailing lines of liana and creeper.
We found a little water in a pool between the boulders and drank thirstily. Then we went on, stumbling blindly through the white glaze of moonlight and the deep, sickening shadows. My feet no longer seemed part of me. They found their footing without direction. They stumbled and threw me. They struggled and slithered up moist banks of leaf mold. And always the trailers of liana wrapped themselves round me as though to drag me into the undergrowth. Feet, calves, back and hands—they hurt and ached. The insects settled on us and maddened us with their stinging. Soon my hurts merged into one single throb of torment. And all the time Old Walrus kept by me, encouraging me, helping me. And I felt that if he could do it, then so could I.
We reached a clearing and after scrabbling up the side of a waterfall, we got a sudden glimpse of Wafer Bay, already just a little crescent of silvered beach far below. And as we paused, I heard the clink of stones as our pursuers came up the steep stream bed behind us. Then we were going on and the sound of my own feet and the exhausted pounding of my heart drowned the sound of the pursuit.
The Lookout is not quite seven hundred feet high. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen the height given in one of the official surveys of the island. It doesn’t sound much—seven hundred feet. Not even a mountain. No higher than the peaks of the South Downs. But on Cocos Island a hundred feet can be infinity. It is true we didn’t have to cut our way through the jungle. It had been done for us. But we were exhausted before we started. And as we staggered on, our footing became less sure. Boulders moved under our weight, tricks of moonlight and shadow sent us crashing to the ground. We fell more and more often.
At last Maynard stopped. “I ain’t going no further,” he said in his peculiar, high-pitched whine. “Why not strike off into the jungle here and lie low? They wouldn’t find us.”
Old Walrus had stopped, too. He was covered in sweat and his chest was heaving like a barrel about to burst under the pressure. His face had a mottled, unhealthy look and his nose was quite blue. “No,” he gasped. “Must get to the captain.”
At that moment there was a shout. Below us, where the watercourse twisted and disappeared into the jungle, a man stood, shouting to others behind him. He had a red sweat rag round his neck and a white shirt. The moonlight glinted on steel tucked into his waistband. If I hadn’t known it was The Rigger, I’d have said that it was the ghost of some dead pirate standing there. The cook caught hold of my arm. “Come on, sonny,” he croaked. “We got to get on.”
“I’m staying here,” Maynard growled.
“Do what you like,” Old Walrus answered.
The man’s eyes shifted from the cook to me. I could see what he was thinking. The cook must have seen it, too, for his grip tightened on his gun and he said, “Better get moving, Maynard. The boy won’t save your bacon if they get you.”
The man hesitated. “I can’t go no further,” he whined. “I’m bleeding like a pig.” His eyes had a wild look. A shaft of moonlight showed the smooth skin of his face stretched tight over the cheekbones and glistening with sweat. His hairless temples looked quite white.
“Then hide up in the jungle. Do what you like. Only don’t hinder us.” The cook had hold of my arm and was dragging me forward.
“But I mustn’t lose you,” Maynard whispered. “No. I mustn’t do that, must I. Who’s to know then what I did? How’s the captain to know that I didn’t join the mutiny? The mate dead. Danner dead. You and the boy. No. I must hang on to you, mustn’t I?” All this in a babbling whine that I realized was the man’s thoughts pouring out on his tongue. “No, I mustn’t do that, must I?” he repeated, and tittered softly to himself. The sound sent a shiver down my back. It wasn’t normal.
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked the cook.
“Bad conscience and a nasty wound. He’ll be delirious soon, or else he’ll go mad. You’ll see. It’s these ruddy-insects. ’Nough to drive anyone crazy. Come on, sonny. Can’t be far now.”
But I knew how far it was. And that thought stayed in
my head like a heavy weight holding me down as my feet went stumbling on up the treacherous watercourse. At the foot of the next waterfall I stopped. A ledge of rock rose fifteen or twenty feet, almost perpendicularly, through a mass of undergrowth. A way had been cut up through the jungle at the side. The earth was damp and slippery. All handholds had been broken off by others who had come up the path. To me it might as well have been the side of a house. “I can’t do it,” I said.
Old Walrus was already halfway up. “Course you can,” he grunted, and fought his way up, clawing at the loose earth with hands and feet. At the top he turned. “Give him a hand up, Maynard,” he said.
“Give him a hand up!” I looked round to find Maynard’s face close above me, white and sweaty, the lips twitching violently. “If it hadn’t been for him there wouldn’t have been no trouble. Him and his blasted map, that’s what’s bin at the bottom of it all.” He seized hold of me, his fingers clawing at my neck. “Well, there ain’t goin’ to be no more of that nonsense.”
I fought to free myself, but I had no strength and his big hand groped at my neck. I screamed and clawed at him. I heard him gasp with pain as I caught at his injured arm. But it only seemed to madden him.
“Let the boy go,” the cook ordered.
But he had me by the throat now, his face bent over me, all twisted with the fury that was working at his muscles.
“Let him go!” Old Walrus called again.
Then there was a deafening roar. I felt the impact of the bullet right through the man’s body. He jerked against me. His jaw fell open. There was a look of surprise on his face. Then his knees pressed against my legs as he slowly crumpled up and fell clattering among the boulders, fetching up against a big rock with a jolt. I turned then and raced up the side of the waterfall as though it were no more than a hillock.
That terrible moment seemed to give wings to my feet and for a time I found myself ahead of the cook. But then the reserve of energy on which my fear had called dried up and I was suddenly weaker and more exhausted than ever. But by then we’d reached the point where we left the watercourse and a little later we were in the moonlight, stumbling up the path Sir Brian’s party had cut through the jungle grass.
Cocos Gold Page 17