The orders were followed in an instant, the men staring at one another, their faces drawn, breaths held.
The shuddering grew to an awesome scream, the ship twisting and rending herself upon the reef; in her death throes trying to break free to deep water; the pitch of the engines a nightmare of screeching machinery.
“Full port rudder!”
The officers paled. They knew the ship, knew what she could take. It had gone past that point. The third officer shook his head, whether in answer to the captain’s silent prayer, or in condemnation – it wasn’t clear.
“Full starboard rudder!”
The screaming and twisting had grown even further in intensity, if that were possible. The engines were being wrenched from their mountings, and surely must explode at any moment.
Then, almost a whisper: “Close down engines.”
The sound of defeat.
They had been waiting on his words. The telegraph moved as the captain opened his lips. The scream became a rumble and then a silence as the mighty engines were put to their rest.
The reef had won.
Here we were, and here we would stay.
It was two days since the engines had been pushed to fever pitch, had fought, and been defeated.
We sat on the reef with nothing to do. But we weren’t alone. The natives still came out at dawn and stayed till dusk, squatting in their dugouts, gazing up at us. I wondered if they were waiting for us to break apart so they could help themselves to whatever washed ashore, believing that the long-ago promises made by the cargo cult had finally come true. Or were they there simply to help us, but not knowing how?
The owners had been notified soon after we had gone on the reef, and Flint was in constant contact by radio. Everything on the ship still worked. It was a peculiar feeling of normality, with the bridge still manned; three meals a day; videos in the officers lounge; and the sound of the auxiliaries humming away.
The owner’s instructions were to stay on board and await assistance, and to keep the ship and her cargo safe from the weather and other dangers – which probably referred to the locals waiting patiently in their canoes. It was all very well for them to give orders – sitting comfortably in some office a couple of thousand kilometres away, with their whisky and their cigars. They weren’t stuck here, bored out of their minds, sitting on a semi-submerged reef, hoping like hell the weather didn’t break.
If only I had missed the boat in Cairns. If only Pete and I both had.
It was around noon on the fifth day that we saw the second vessel far out on the horizon. The first one had passed to the east some twenty kilometres away on the second morning. Flint had picked her up on the radar.
But this other vessel, smaller than the first, was heading directly towards us. I went looking for Flint and found him at his favourite spot – the bridge deck; sitting in the shade and smoking a cigarette as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
He turned his head as I came bursting through the door, took the cigarette from his mouth and looked at me with a resigned expression. “Yes, Mr. Rider. I know. It’s the salvage tug. Head office sent a message two days ago to say she was on her way. I expected her late this afternoon. She’s made good time.” He stood and walked to the gunwale, and looked aft at the slowly approaching vessel. “Better get her on the radio, I suppose.”
Nobody bothered to mention that a tug was on its way to drag us off this damn reef. The officers must have known, and probably the crew as well. I followed him as he walked off towards the radio room.
“Captain,” I asked. “Does this mean we might be off this bloody reef soon?”
“Perhaps,” he replied.
“What do you mean, perhaps?”
“Exactly what I said. Perhaps! I’m not the bloody salvage master! You’ll have to ask him after he’s inspected us, after he’s checked the amount of damage to the hull and cargo, and after he’s figured out what the chances are of getting her off, and what he thinks the value might be after he’s got her off. Then his bosses will gather together and decide whether or not we’re a rich enough prize to be hauled off the reef. Two hundred years ago they’d have been bloody buccaneers.” He spat out a few strands of tobacco and continued. “Then, if they decide that we are worth their while, the owners, the salvage company and the insurers will argue among themselves for a couple of days trying to fix the price of the salvage.”
“But,” I asked. “Does that mean they might not even try to get us off? That the cost might be too great?”
“Don’t panic, Mr. Rider. There’s very little chance of them agreeing on a fixed price; but they’ll spend a few days arguing about it in any case. If the salvors reckon they can make money out of the job, then they’ll have a go at it, fixed price or no fixed price. But it’s not going to happen overnight, so don’t go packing your suitcase just yet.”
My hopes of a quick rescue were getting dimmer by the minute.
“Anyway,” he added. “We’re stuck good and proper, and it may take more than that tug to get us off!”
I left him mumbling to himself as he continued along to the radio room. I went down to the lounge and helped myself to a stiff whisky.
I wondered what was happening in Singapore; and back in Adelaide as well. I tried to imagine the conversations that would be flying between Nick and Tek. Nick would be wetting his pants with worry. Tek would be working out the next move to make. He had insisted on a tight schedule, presumably with a vessel or two chartered to take most of the shipment out of Singapore as soon as the random sampling proved itself. He would have to make other arrangements to cope with the delay, and keep his customers swinging while the salvors tried to get us off the reef.
Tek couldn’t tell them about the wreck. He couldn’t even tell them where the grass was coming from, or how it was coming; but I knew that somehow he would produce a convincing story to explain the delay.
Delay! It wasn’t the delay that worried me. It was non-delivery that had me in a panic.
I took my second scotch down to the stern and mingled with the offices and crew – all eagerly awaiting the tug’s arrival.
She came up to us during mid-afternoon and took up a position astern, using her engine to keep on station while a small boat was put over the side.
The size of the tug was a disappointment. From the distance she had appeared to be a fair enough size, but up close it was obvious that she would be far too inadequate for the task. She was so much smaller than Syrius – tiny by comparison.
The small rubber inflatable boat came alongside in the swell and hung out from our stern quarter while the Jacob’s ladder was thrown down to them. The rope ladder twisted and jerked, the lowest wooden rung catching in the sea and being swept along the side of the hull until the slack was hauled up, leaving only the knotted rope ends touching the crests of the waves.
The swell sweeping down the length of Syrius could now be seen for what it was: a rolling wall of water, rising three metres from crest to trough.
The seaman driving the inflatable swung in close to the ship’s side, twenty metres astern of the ladder, setting up a pattern to deliver each of his passengers to Syrius. He waited for the largest of a set of waves and then rode one of them in, throwing the motor into reverse five metres before reaching the ladder. The momentum carried him past, but slowly, and as the rubber boat went by, one of the men on board lunged for the ladder, grabbed the ropes and struggled up the first few rungs before the stern of the inflatable knocked against the ladder, threatening to sweep him away as it roared off to deep water again.
Three times they repeated it, and three times my heart was in my mouth as I visualized the men falling and being smashed on to the reef.
Flint was there to meet each one as he reached the top of the ladder and was helped over the bulwark. I moved forwards. Flint looked at me, his eyes warning me off. I continued, but he blocked my approach, turning his back on me, not letting me in. The last man on board; white-bearded but with top lip clean-sha
ven, pale-blue towelling hat rammed on his head, glasses perched above a practiced smile, introduced himself as the salvage-master.
“Well, gentlemen,” I heard Flint say. “If you would care to come up to the chart room, I’ll give you the details of the general situation.” He turned his head to me, said nothing, and moved away.
All I had been able to gather from listening to the brief introductions was that they were a Dutch company based in the Solomons. The tug was the M T Pacific Ranger. The pale-blue emblem on the port side of the funnel was too far away for me to make out. They were closeted with the captain and the chief engineer for at least an hour.
Once back on the main deck, the inspections started all over again. Two of the salvors, armed with torches they had brought with them, climbed down into the holds. The third went around to every tank, sounding each one with the assistance of the first officer, and recording the readings.
It didn’t seem to matter that all of this had been done before. Perhaps the captain’s word wasn’t good enough, or perhaps they were just making certain there hadn’t been any fresh inflow of water. Whatever else they might have been looking for, they took much longer than the captain; and got just as filthy.
The engine room and the lower decks were next; with notes taken all the time; checked and double-checked.
Whilst all this activity was taking place on Syrius, the tug had steamed down along the western side of the reef and through the passage I had noticed some days previously, and was now at anchor in the lagoon. The outriggers made their way across and were all around her in the calm water, but made no attempt to board.
The rubber boat returned – bouncing out through the swell and around to our starboard side, sheltered from the wind. This time there were two divers and their gear on board. They checked their tanks and then back-flipped into the water and disappeared from sight. The rubber boat went astern, where it idled, running in a slow circle out of range of the curling waves.
Now and then bubbles rose to the surface, but of the divers there was no other sign. Nobody had seen any sharks since we had been there, but you could never tell. It was black down there, and the oily slick could hide any manner of horrible creature. I had been used to diving in the crystal-clear waters of the Great Barrier Reef, full of friendly fish and only the occasional timid small reef shark.
Then, about ten minutes later, they surfaced. The inflatable came racing in, the motor in neutral as it reached them. Notes were taken by one of the men in the inflatable; hands were pointed by the divers. The two black-suited men hung on to the rolling craft as it slowly drifted in towards the reef. Then they went down again and the rubber boat once more skidded out to open water.
Twice more she raced in, once on the starboard side and then on the port. Half an hour beneath the Syrius would be a nightmare of rushing water and grinding coral. Then, their survey completed, the tanks were hauled inboard as the divers rolled up over the stern of the inflatable and it raced back along the surf, heading back to the break in the reef.
The three Dutchmen on board Syrius left us the same way that they had boarded; but with the onset of evening the swell had subsided and there was now little risk to life and limb.
It’s amazing how one’s spirits rise with the calming of the sea. The entire ship had taken on a peaceful air. The crew had stopped their snarling, their spitting on the deck and their lounging against the bulwarks. The officers were cheerful once more. Perhaps it wasn’t just the calm silent sea and the going down of the sun that had brought it about. The assured confidence of the Dutchmen, their presence, their activity, and the company of the tug may have helped as well.
We stood at the bow and watched as the rubber boat slipped through the narrow passage and returned to Pacific Ranger. She may have been small, compared to us, but now she seemed to give forth an aura of power, of hidden strength, of capability.
Flint joined us on the foredeck as we gazed towards the friendly lights of the tug lying snug inside the lagoon. He stood deep in thought, a half smile dimpling his weather-lined face. That look gave me more confidence than ten tugs standing inshore.
“What’s the verdict, Captain?” I asked, knowing that several of the others were bursting to ask him the same question, but not game to risk his sharp tongue. “Are we going to get off?”
“A little too early to say at this stage,” he replied, rocking slowly on the balls of his feet.
“What did they say?” I asked.
“They reckon they stand a fair chance, if they get the job.” The sunset sparkled in his eyes as he turned to face the ship. “The cargo will have to be shifted down to the stern. Some of it may have to be jettisoned. We’re carrying too much weight. And there’ll be a hell of a lot of tackle to be rigged. But yes, they think they can do it, but it will be a close thing.”
At the suggestion of cargo being tossed over the side, my heart sank, the rest of his words a blur.
“What do you mean by jettisoning cargo?” I asked, my voice coming out as a croak.
He gave me a puzzled look. “Why should you be worried? Your small amount of luggage will be safe.”
“I was thinking of Pete Cameron’s containers,” I said after a pause that had lasted too long. “I was hoping we could get the meat to Singapore for him.”
He smiled. “Oh, those. No, they should be okay. Although if we can’t shift the containers around to the stern, they may have to go over the side.” He didn’t appear in the least worried. His concern was the ship. “No, it’s the sugar in the forward hold that will have to be dumped. Probably the whole lot of it.”
“Do you think that’ll be enough to lighten her?” I asked.
They were all crowding around now, listening to every word, even those Malays who claimed they couldn’t speak a word of English.
“Maybe, maybe not. We won’t know until we’ve tried. If that’s not enough, then the meat will go and probably some of the general cargo and maybe even the wool. It all depends on weight and value.”
The wool! If only I could swing it so they tossed the other consignments of wool over the side, and left ours alone. If it came to the crunch I might have to reveal myself and offer some large bribes.
“Of course,” he continued. “If it reaches that stage, the salvors would probably try to off-load the wool on to another vessel. The wool’s fairly easy to manage and could stand a certain amount of salt-spray. But the meat can’t be trans-shipped. Once you turn off the freezers, or leave the doors open for any length of time, the health authorities would condemn the lot.”
The wool was safe, for the time being. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well,” I said. “If I can be of any help in getting rid of the sugar, just ask. When do you think you’ll be starting?”
It was time to start crawling. It was one way of making sure that he might keep me informed of what would be happening.
“It won’t be me in charge,” he replied. “It’ll be out of my hands, if they get the job. The salvors will take complete control of the ship from the moment the contract is signed until they hand us back to owners at a safe port – or they give up. My only responsibility will be to see that my crew follows instructions, but thanks for the offer. I’ll see it gets passed on.”
Without another word he strode off towards the accommodation section, hands deep in his pockets.
The evening meal was almost a festive affair. Even the cook was in good spirits, and from the colour of his cheeks he had probably been into the bottle as well. The steward was beaming. The entire crew were buzzing with excitement. Word had gone around the ship that the tug would pull us off in a couple of days and we would be back on the voyage to Singapore. There was even wine on the table.
The evening seemed to reflect the lightening of our spirits, stars clear in the night sky and hardly a cloud to be seen. Even the sea had lost its inky blackness and was now shimmering silver in the moonlight. It was a night for lovers, and for those in peril on the sea seeking c
omfort.
I was out on the boat deck enjoying a quiet drink by myself. The happy faces in the lounge had been getting me down. I was thinking of Pete, and missing his easy company. He hadn’t been a brilliant conversationalist, but he spoke my language. We were of the same generation, and laughed at the same jokes.
Ah well, I thought to myself, an early night would not go amiss. The arrival of the tug, the growing excitement as we followed the salvors from hold to hold, watching as they pointed and talked, and gaining the hope that we might finally get off the reef had all contributed to my weariness. As I moved to the ladder leading down to the next deck, a cool breeze from the air-conditioning system brushed my neck. But I was deep in thought, and the opening door behind me hadn’t registered.
The blow thudded into my back and the stair-rail bit into my side as I hurtled forward, flying through space, thrust by some unseen hand: flung sideways over the rail towards the steel deck below. My arms flailed out. The stanchion hit my wrist. I twisted my hand and grabbed the rough piping as I went down, the sky spinning.
My glass crashed to the deck, splintering into a thousand pieces. The stanchion wrenched itself loose from my grip as my arm straightened out; but it had broken my fall. I landed on the deck below, on my feet for an instant and then toppled sideways. The broken glass crunched as I rolled over it, the hard steel biting into my shoulder as I smashed against the bulwark; shaken; stunned.
By the time I managed to pick myself up off the deck, all was quiet. He had vanished as silently as he had come.
He must have been watching as I had settled down on the boat deck, then waited on the other side of the door for his opportunity; and when I had turned to leave he had struck with a ruthlessness that was frightening.
I felt small and alone.
Why did he want me dead? I knew why. But how could my death give him the cargo of marijuana? And why wreck the ship? There was no sense in any of it. I moved to my cabin, studying each shadow before passing it by.
Once more my security arrangements were in force, the door blockaded. I had grown lax, but it was certain now that he was more anxious than ever for my death.
THURSDAY'S ORCHID Page 19