The salvors decided to deliver us to Lae, New Guinea, as the nearest safe port. Once there, we would be checked by the Lloyds’ surveyors to see whether temporary repairs would be necessary before we should be allowed to proceed to Singapore.
The voyage to Lae took a long three days as we ran along at a reduced speed of ten knots instead of the normal sixteen. The tug steamed with us in case we ran into any problems.
The wool had been re-stowed in the main hold before we had left, all hands working with a vigour previously unseen.
We were an orderly ship once again; maybe not as trim, and perhaps higher out of the water than we had been. We had ditched a lot of cargo, although the water sloshing about in the forward hold made up for some of it.
We steamed along through the Solomon Sea, around the tip of New Guinea, and up through the waters of which the captain had spoken weeks before.
New Guinea. The marijuana, or the greater part of it, had now gone in a full circle. I didn’t know from what part of New Guinea Nick had obtained those tonnes, and I didn’t want to know. But it was a queer twist of fate just the same.
There was no further trouble with the navigation equipment. I knew there wouldn’t be, but I couldn’t tell that to Flint. He had three men on the bridge at all times: a helmsman and two officers.
Lae: hot and steamy, like the rest of New Guinea; luxuriant, surrounded by mountains covered in thick, damp jungle. It’s difficult to believe that not so many years ago it was the scene of bloody battles between the Australians and the Japanese. The mountainside scars have long since been covered by the ever-encroaching trees and vines. All that remains of those violent days are a few rusting wrecks lying in the shallower parts of the harbour.
No sooner had we tied up to the wharf than we were boarded by a cluster of officials: marine surveyors, customs officers, shipping agents, and representatives from various government departments.
The authorities wouldn’t allow us off the ship, claiming that if we started to leak oil again, we would have to put out to sea without delay. The prohibition didn’t apply to me. As far as they were concerned I wasn’t a member of the crew. But Flint made the position quite clear, stating that if I went ashore enjoying myself whilst the rest of the crew stayed behind and seethed, I could pack my gear and find my own way to Singapore.
He couldn’t have done it, of course. Singapore would have seen to that. But I had no desire to visit Lae, even though I had never been there before. I had been to Port Moresby. You can’t walk the streets at night in Moresby, and it can be pretty rough even during the day; and if Lae was anything like Moresby then I preferred to stay on the ship.
I would have liked to have gone ashore for maybe half an hour, just long enough to put a call through to Nick, but I couldn’t think of an excuse that would allow me to make a quick visit. A telephone line had been linked up to the ship, but all calls were monitored through the radio room and I didn’t like taking the risk.
A few quiet beers ashore and some western faces to look at and talk to would have been a welcome respite, but I had got this far and a couple more weeks of the same morbid company wouldn’t be too much of a sacrifice; and Mee Ling would be waiting.
The two marine surveyors provided a welcome diversion. They spent a few hours on the ship; checking everything that the salvors had gone over, and finding nothing that hadn’t already been found. One of them, a short, rotund Englishman, answered most of my questions.
“Who pays for the salvage?” I asked.
“Ah, that’s an easy one,” he replied, tripping over a broken deck-plate as he turned around. “It’s either the insurance company if the vessel is insured; or the owners if it isn’t. In this instance it was the insurers who signed the Lloyds Open Form.”
He moved on through the engine room, flashing his torch beneath machinery, looking for damage that the salvors might have missed.
“What’s a Lloyds Open Form?” I asked.
He straightened up and switched off the torch. “It’s the standard form of salvage contract.”
He turned the torch back on and began to poke around underneath one of the bilge pumps. “The salvors undertake to do their best to save the vessel and cargo,” he continued. “If they succeed, they get paid. If not, they get nothing.”
“What about expenses?” I queried, knowing that it must have cost an arm and a leg to bring the tug all the way from the Solomons and to keep it working for so long.
“Not a single shilling,” he replied. “If they hadn’t got you off, they wouldn’t have been paid anything; not for fuel, wages, lost or broken gear; nothing.”
It was obvious now why they had been so persistent; why they had strained the gear to such an extent; why they had taken such risks.
“What sort of fee have they agreed for the job?” I asked.
“There hasn’t been a fee set. That’ll be left up to an arbitrator in London to decide.”
“Okay, then,” I said, trying to think how best I could put the question. “What can they expect to be paid for saving Syrius?”
He thought for a few seconds before answering. “Depends on two things. It depends on the value of the ship and cargo which has been saved; not the value it had before the grounding, but the value it has when it reaches a safe port. And it depends on the value of their services in salvaging the vessel and cargo; the degree of danger their ships, equipment and personnel were put into during the operation. How difficult was the salvage? Was the ship high and dry, or was she nearly floating? Was the weather fine, or was it blowing a gale for most of the time? It’s all taken into consideration.” He paused. “If the salvors and owners can’t agree on a figure, then it’s up to the arbitrator in London. In the meantime, the owners of the ship and the cargo put up a series of bonds and the ship and cargo are released to go on their way; provided the vessel is still seaworthy, that is.”
“What sort of an award do you think will be made in this case?”
“It’s not for me to say. Some awards have gone as high as fifty percent of the salved value. Others have been down around ten per cent.”
“You mentioned a bond,” I persisted. “Does that mean we won’t be leaving until a bond has been put up by the ship-owners?”
“That’s right, and the cargo owners as well, don’t forget. It wasn’t just the ship that was saved. The insurers or owners of each single consignment of cargo will have to lodge bonds. If they don’t lodge a bond they run the risk of having their consignment unloaded here in Lae and impounded until the salvage award has been made.”
My heart stopped as I thought of all that wool being dumped and rolled about on the wharf.
I decided to leave him to his inspection and retire to the lounge to lower the level in a bottle.
A pair of divers went down early next morning armed with cameras and torches. The water in the harbour was filthy. It must have been raining up in the mountains, but then it’s always raining in the mountains of New Guinea, with the run-off washing tonnes of mud and silt down to the sea.
They were under for just on an hour, coming up once to change tanks. I followed their bubbles around the ship.
The crew sat around doing nothing in particular. A few of them tried their hands at fishing, but there wasn’t much to catch. Nothing was cleaned, nothing painted, nothing repaired. They didn’t know whether the ship would be released, or tied up for the next six months. Morale was slipping back to the days on the reef.
The surveyors came back on board shortly before noon and spent about an hour with the captain in his cabin. When they emerged it was obvious that they had been into the bottle: three red faces – but at least they were three smiling red faces.
I waited for Flint to come down for lunch.
“Captain,” I said. “When do you think we’ll get the green light?”
He finished chewing and looked up from his plate. “What green light? They’ve finished their report, if that’s what you want to know. Everything’s checked
out okay. It’s exactly as the salvors described it. I don’t know why we bother with surveyors at all. You should have seen the photos their divers took. Christ, you could hardly see a bloody thing!”
“Does that mean we can leave?” I queried.
Conversation around us stopped.
“I’m afraid not.” You could feel the hopes of the room deflate. “Oh, the ship’s in sound condition as far as steaming to Singapore is concerned, but we can’t get a damn release. The owners and the insurance companies and the bloody salvors are still arguing about the size of the security bonds.”
He went back to his steak and kidney pie; stirring it around his plate, losing interest in the food. He looked up again and added: “They’d better get a move on. The New Guinea government is starting to ask questions about pollution. Some bright spark suggested that maybe we should be paying compensation for the oil we spilled.”
It didn’t sound promising. Island governments can be difficult at the best of times, and the argument could go on for years.
We remained tied up at the main wharf for yet another week, and still nobody was allowed off the ship. The surveyors had given us a certificate of fitness, but it wasn’t enough to convince the authorities to lift their requirement of our being able to leave at a moment’s notice.
Pete’s body was still on board. As soon as his father had learned that the ship was in Lae, he flew over to claim the body, wanting to take it back to Australia for burial. The Singapore Authorities wouldn’t agree. Pete had died on one of their ships and his death would have to be the subject of an enquiry in Singapore before the body could be released. Telexes passed rapidly between the Australian High Commissions in Moresby and Singapore, but to no avail.
Mr. Cameron came down to the ship a few times; the crumpled suit-coat hanging off narrow shoulders, his stooping body a mirror of his son’s, the thin grey hair long and combed across his balding head. Only once did he ask to see the body, and that was on his last visit, when he knew that Pete would not be going home. I spent a couple of hours with him afterwards, listening to him and trying to give him comfort. He was full of self-recrimination; blaming himself for letting Pete take on this business, for letting him out of his sight, and for letting him mix with fast company. I wasn’t certain whether I was included in that category.
I did the best to persuade him that Pete had been happy with his venture, and that it had been the right thing to do. I tried to convince him that it had been just plain bad luck.
I felt like a hypocrite during the whole of those two hours, knowing that it should have been me in that freezer, and knowing that but for Tek insisting I should travel on the ship, Pete would be alive and probably back in Adelaide by now, boasting of his success.
There was only one good piece of news. The insurance company had agreed on a complete settlement for the spoiled meat after reading the surveyors’ report. His uncle would be repaid the loan, and nobody would be out of pocket; but it was a hollow victory.
The family couldn’t afford a second trip out to claim the body; and the thought of an autopsy, of doctors delving into Pete’s body, had confirmed their decision to have him buried in Singapore. I promised I would do everything I could to see that he got a decent burial; knowing that Tek would look after that for me. I would be getting out of Singapore the minute we had been paid.
I was with him as he said a final farewell to his son, and offered to go out to the airport to see him off. I didn’t think the crew would get upset at this visit ashore.
We travelled back to the hotel by taxi, collected his luggage and headed out to the airport – a short ride of just over a kilometre. The town centre rests on a headland overlooking the airstrip.
He didn’t say a word during the ride, sitting slouched back against the seat, his gaunt eyes staring ahead.
“Mr. Cameron,” I said as we entered the terminal. “Don’t think of Peter as you have just left him. Remember him as the excited young man who set out from your house on a great adventure. Picture him with a smile on his lips and happiness in his heart. That’s not Peter back there on the ship. That’s just the shell he occupied. He’s left it behind now. He’s still the same cheerful spirit. He’s still with us.” I meant it, too. I didn’t at first, but by the time I had finished, I knew it was true.
I don’t think he heard a single word.
He looked at me as he walked towards the aircraft, tears streaming down his face, but with a calmness smoothing the lines of that face. Maybe he had been listening after all. He gave one slight nod, turned, and was gone. I watched the plane taxi to the end of the strip, watched as it turned around and then roared upwards and away.
I had filled my pockets with coins before leaving the ship, hoping to find a telephone that worked. There were several in the terminal, and only one of them out of order.
It took fifteen minutes to get through to Nick. The line was bad. I told him that the ship and cargo were safe and secure; and that we were only waiting for bonds to be posted. I didn’t tell him about the pollution investigation.
I couldn’t tell him about the trouble at Tek’s end, but I let him know that Pete had died and told him about the crew member who had mysteriously disappeared. He was smart enough to be able to read between the lines. I couldn’t reveal much more; for fear that our conversation might be overheard. I didn’t know whether anyone might be bugging his phone as well. He wished me luck and I hurried back to the ship.
I had been away too long, but nobody seemed put out. Mr. Cameron’s grief had affected more than a few of them.
Seeing Pete’s father on to the aircraft had left a sour taste. I sat down to lunch, but somehow I had lost my appetite, and I wasn’t prepared when Flint came into the dining saloon, grinning from ear to ear.
He stopped in the middle of the room and called for attention. “Gentlemen!” he boomed. “You’ll be pleased to hear that all bonds have now been posted and accepted. The local authorities have given us clearance to leave, and I want to get out of here before they change their bloody minds.” He turned to me. “You can keep on with your lunch, Mr. Rider, if you wish.”
I dropped my knife and fork with the rest of them, too excited to continue.
“Right,” he ordered. “We leave as soon as the Chief can get the mains turning over. I’ve arranged for a tug to be standing by within the next half-hour. Let’s move it!”
This was the captain as I had first met him, doing what he knew best: running his ship in the way it was meant to be run. He turned on his heel and headed for the bridge with several of the officers close behind. The crew moved even faster than the officers, if that were possible. They were all out on deck, clearing ropes and making ready to cast off.
The engines began their slow rumble and once more the decks trembled, but this time gently, without anger. The harbour tug strapped up alongside; our mooring lines were cast off from the wharf and we moved out into the main stream and turned towards the open sea. Fifteen minutes later we left the harbour tug – tiny compared to the Ranger – and moved off under our own power.
The faces lining the deck were wreathed in smiles; maybe not quite as wide as those when we had slid off the reef, but not far less. Next port – Singapore. Not quite full speed ahead, but near enough.
Singapore!
Seventeen
It was a great feeling to steam away from Lae and to break our contact with New Guinea. We had been stuck there, in more ways than one, for far too long. The threat of arrest over the pollution allegation had been a real one; but once we had cleared port, that was the end of it, unless they sent a gun-boat after us, which wasn’t likely.
The voyage ahead was nearly five thousand kilometres: up around the north coast of New Guinea, through the Pacific Ocean and, after that, into the Celebes Sea and around North Borneo into the China Sea. The mere mention of the China Sea was enough to conjure up romantic images in my mind, images from boyhood dreams of pirates and galleys; but it was like any of the other
stretches of ocean through which we had passed: open water extending as far as one could see, a few flying fish and nothing more.
From the China Sea it was a straight line to the island of Singapore. It would be the last country at which I would ever arrive by boat. I’d had enough of the sea to last a lifetime.
Flint estimated that the voyage would take another fifteen days, depending on the weather, strandings, murders and any other contingencies that might come to mind.
We made good time. There were three men on the bridge at all times; and I felt a lot safer knowing they were there.
I couldn’t break the habit of barring the cabin door at night, even though I was certain there were no more problems on board. It was the only way I could sleep.
We arrived off Singapore Harbour sixteen days later; dropped anchor in the harbour and waited for the quarantine officer to come on board.
It wasn’t only the quarantine officer who came on board, but the police as well. We still had Pete’s body in the freezer. If they had received a tip-off about the marijuana there would have been customs officers swarming all over the ship.
The police were shut away with Flint in his cabin for over an hour and a half, leaving the quarantine officer free to carry out his inspections. He spent very little time with the cargo, checked out a couple of the crew who had complained about sore throats and the like, issued the necessary clearance and spent the next hour sitting in the officers lounge with the first officer.
The police were a different matter. They stayed on board as we headed for the wharf, letting the quarantine officer take the launch back by himself.
As soon as we berthed, more police came on board and an interrogation centre was set up in the dining saloon. Word soon spread around the vessel that nobody would be leaving until statements had been taken from every member of the ship’s complement who might know anything of relevance to Pete’s death.
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