The propeller shaft spun in its greased bed, and the bilge water shimmered and jumped to the tune of the vibration. Tarrou remained crouched as if in prayer, conscious only of his task, and the vengeance which he would wreak on anybody who tried to hold him from it.
5
THE steady beat of the diesel engine faltered and died, as Fraser allowed the Queensland Pearl to glide effortlessly through the clear, subdued water of the bay. Overhead, the afternoon sun was at its peak, and so great was the heat that even thought became a real effort. The sun had lost its shape, and the blue of the clear sky had faded beneath its searing power to leave only a pale, shimmering haze, which transformed the sea into a glaring mirror of distorted light, and seemed to suck the very air from the vessel’s deck. As the schooner had moved cautiously across the bay the beach had drawn nearer, and the invisible reef, too, had become closer, as the bay had narrowed, and the thrashing propeller had driven them towards their destination. Fraser lifted his hand and dropped it heavily to his side in a signal to the small group on the fo’c’sle. With a rumble the cable ran jerkily over the bow, and allowed the heavy anchor to plummet down once more to disturb the quiet water. Fraser stepped back from the wheel and wiped his hands slowly across the seat of his trousers. He nodded to Blair, who had been standing beneath the small canopy across the poop, and pointed to the haze-distorted shape of the volcano.
`Right in line. I reckon that we are as near to the wreck as we can get in safety.’ He waited for an answer, but Blair was staring at the glittering water, as if he expected to see the wreck rise up to greet him. `I see that your bloke is gettin’ ready to go down already.’
Myers had appeared on deck, his thick arms filled with equipment and his long rubber frogman’s suit.
Fraser grinned wearily, and dashed the sweat from his eyes. `He insists on wearin’ that suit. He reckons it’s safer than goin’ down in the raw!’
Blair tore his eyes from the sea and watched Myers as he laid his equipment down in a neat array on the deck. The boys crowded around him to watch, but a scowl from Myers deterred even Old Buka from touching any of the gear.
Blair smiled. `He’s very particular about how he works. A very good diver, all the same.’
Fraser grunted, and walked out into the glare. `Come on, you jabberin’ shower! Swing out the boat!’
Blair beckoned Myers across to him, his face set. `Are you going down now?’
Myers shrugged and licked his lips. `Might as well, sir. I might find the wreck first go, an’ then I can get it marked, an’ perhaps get a bit of a look before the night comes on.’ He flexed his fingers. `I ‘ope you won’t be disappointed, sir.’
`Disappointed?’ Blair eyed the other man’s sweating face, and considered the remark. What did he expect Myers to find, anyway? He patted his fat shoulder and jerked his thumb towards the two native divers who were swinging down into the dinghy. Their dark, muscular bodies gleamed like oiled mahogany, and they moved with the eager grace of wild animals. `They’ll be nearby while you’re working, in case you need a hand.’
Myers’ lip curled with contempt. `Them? I only ‘ope they don’t get in me bleedin’ way!’ He glared towards the shore and its long sweep of vivid green jungle. ‘Ah well, I think I’ll get started. It’s too ‘ot up ‘ere.’
Myers stripped to his shorts, and allowed Blair to help him into his tight-fitting suit. As his fat body slowly disappeared into the shiny black skin some of his nervous irritation faded, and the familiar feel of his working dress made him lapse into silence, as he checked the air bottles and adjusted his wide belt. It was always the same for him before going down. In the Persian Gulf, or the River Thames, there was always the moment of doubt, and then the feeling of exultation once he had got started on the job.
Myers was an unimaginative man, who had become a good diver quite by accident. He had been given the chance during the war, whilst serving with the Navy, and after the armistice he had spent many months helping to salve the wrecks which littered the harbours of Germany, and had to be swept up with the other debris of human folly. A civilian firm had taken over the task from the service divers, and he had stopped on to help get them accustomed to the placing of the wrecks. Quite suddenly he had found that he was unwilling to give up the work, and the prospect of leaving the Navy to return to his former job-he had been a bus conductor in Battersea before joining up-filled him with disgust. He had gone straight to the dockside office and asked to see the salvage master.
Since then he had never looked back. He had dived in practically every sea and important river in the world, and had helped to guide the foundations of Blair’s bridges, or to remove underwater obstacles of every description, and had slowly become one of the company’s most reliable divers.
With his ability, and corresponding rise in salary, his social and domestic life, too, had changed. He now lived in a neat suburban house well outside London, and was looked on if not with respect by his middle-class neighbours, then certainly with envy. George Myers was seldom without cash in his wallet, and his new car was often outside the mock Tudor doors of the Royal George Hotel, where his loud Cockney, voice could be heard calling for drinks for his friends, who secretly despised him. He had married a plump little widow with two children, and had felt that all was at last well for George Myers.
He had expanded with pride when his stepson, Henry, had done well at school, and had gone on to university. It just didn’t seem possible that all this was happening to him. His wife had insisted on having the best of everything, because, as she put it, `it doesn’t do to let the neighbours get on their high horses!’ Although she was careful not to annoy George, she soon let him know that she had rather married beneath her, and he should work all the harder because of it. She had, in fact, been the daughter of a coal merchant, who had made his money on the black market during the war, but she did not advertise that point.
George, however, was almost content. He liked his work, and was able to move about the country from job to job as it arose. But just lately he had been rather worried about the way his savings were dwindling. In his mind he could, and did quite often, list the more recent of his wife’s status symbols. New car, an enormous television, as well as the constant stream of money for Henry at the university.
He shrugged his shoulders more comfortably into his suit and frowned inwardly. Suppose I find I’m too old for diving, what then? He could not somehow visualize his wife taking kindly to a severe cut in salary and all that it would mean. If only she would save a bit.
Blair eyed him gravely. `Ready?’
He nodded, and walked heavily to the bulwark, and lowered himself carefully into the bobbing dinghy alongside.
The boys gasped with awe as he pulled the webbed flippers on to his feet and dangled them over the side of the boat.
Fraser followed him, and shouted up at Tarrou, who stood silently by the foremast. `Lower the other boat, mate! This may take quite a while!’
The boat shoved off, and Blair had to shade his eyes to watch, as the oars dipped and rose slowly on the flat water.
Wabu and Yalla sat together in the bows, while Kari tugged at the oars, his scarred old back glistening with the effort.
Fraser sat high in the stern, trying to gauge the exact position to put down the red-flagged marker-buoy which nodded over the gunwale beside him.
Myers shut his mind to all else but preparing himself, and again checked his heavy knife, the waterproof packet of sharkrepellent and, finally, his air bottles. What a bloody waste of time, he reflected, but the money will be handy. He scowled, and shifted from that train of thought immediately.
Once he looked back at the schooner, its white shape making a twin with its reflection on the smooth sea, and the tan sails limp against the heavy booms. He could see the other dinghy being lowered like a toy alongside, and idly noted that a figure was climbing to the foretopmast head with slow, unhurried movements.
Fraser followed his eyes, and nodded approvin
gly. `That’s Michel. He’s goin’ up on look-out.’
They both looked automatically to the rifle which was propped against a thwart, its magazine loaded with soft-nosed bullets.
`Could ‘e spot a shark from up there?’ Myers touched the hot metal of the gun as if to reassure himself.
`If it’s a big one on the surface. But don’t worry, mate, you’ll be all right.’
Myers smiled without humour. ‘Yeh, I bleedin’ ‘ope so!’
Fraser jerked his head. `Right! Drop the hook!’
A small anchor splashed down, and after what seemed like an endless amount of line had been paid out the small boat was held steady. Occasionally, a long unruffled roller would cruise easily down from the reef and lift the boat like a cork, and they would watch it carry on towards the shore, where its spent power would end as a mere caress for the white sand.
Myers adjusted his nose-clip, and fixed his goggles into place. I’m glad we’re not working on the other side of the reef, he reflected, as he felt rather than heard the sullen thunder of the surf beyond the coral barrier.
He patted Fraser’s knee and, without a further glance, rolled over the gunwale and hung momentarily by one hand from the mooring rope. His face glistened with spray as lie checked his mouthpiece and steadied his breathing, the welltried movements almost automatic, while his webbed feet trod the warm water to the delight of the watching boys.
Then, with a quick thumbs-up, he was gone, and Fraser settled himself in the sternsheets to wait, his watchful eyes never still beneath the peak of his cap.
They had all already been forgotten by Myers, as he planed smoothly downwards, his hands moving like pale animals against his rubber suit. Above his broad back the surface shone like a golden mirror edged with blue, and as he
moved leisurely forward, and deeper, he was fascinated by the dashing and quivering armies of tiny, multi-coloured fish, which surged towards him, only to stop motionless, before tearing away in another direction, as if to be free of this weird black creature which invaded their private world.
He was pleasantly surprised by the temperature of the water, although as he neared the reef his body was moved lazily by warm and then cool currents alike. A forest of waving weed reached up at his slow-moving body, and he strained his eyes ahead, where the threatening darkness of the deep water mocked him, yet at the same time filled him with curiosity.
People often said of George Myers that he was too ungainly and heavy to be any use as a diver. If all his doubters could have seen his easy, rhythmic movements, as he moved with quiet grace amongst the sea-bed jungle, they would have been amazed, and ashamed.
He touched a sleeping fish, as he skimmed between two smooth-sided boulders, and smiled as it dashed away in a panic, and then, after squinting at his big wrist-compass, he moved more slowly towards the pale, shimmering slope of the reef.
It was like nothing he had ever experienced.
As he stared upwards at the rugged, knife-edged embrasures, he could see the countless ledges and gullies, their weed-screened shapes distorted and magnified by the filtered sunlight, and constantly changing as the green and yellow growths waved and beckoned in the powerful cross-currents. He was reminded of a sunken castle, or the wall of a forgotten city. He shuddered, and watched warily as the pressure of the water lifted him carelessly towards the menace of the coral. He took a quick glance at his depth gauge. Sixty feet. He turned his body with an effort and began to swim along the edge of the reef, keeping one eye on its outline and the other on what lay ahead.
A long grey shape moved slowly away from the -reef, and began to swim parallel with him, its streamlined body shining slightly as a shaft of distant sunlight played along the rough skin and lined the edge of the dorsal fin with fire. As Myers stared at the shark it vanished, and for several moments he peered anxiously in every direction, his mind suddenly icecold and alert. The shark did not come back, and he decided to go forward again.
He .shivered, as a current of cold water swept over him, and for a few moments he felt a twinge of panic. You’re getting old, chum. Scared of your own shadow! He forced himself to think more calmly, and swam a little faster, his feet moving up and down in a steady, powerful rhythm.
His movements began to get heavier, and he noticed that his breathing was more jerky. Have to go up in a moment, he decided. Been allowing myself to get soft. Must have a rest.
A white-and-black fish halted in front of his face, and stared at him with pop-eyed amazement. Myers moved aside, but the fish darted nearer, its small puckered mouth moving in time to its gills.
Myers groaned inwardly. Get away, you stupid thing! He shook his arm wearily at it, and then chilled, the fish forgotten. He had to hit out with his hands, using them like paddles, as he stared wide-eyed at the rusting wall of weed-dappled metal which soared to meet him. The ship was pointing straight at him, the battered stem buried amongst the waving green jungle, and the rest, half hidden by the thousands of seagrowths which explored every available piece of the twisted superstructure, was gripped by the bottommost teeth of the reef, which had torn open the hull and littered the sea-bed with the vessel’s entrails. Even as he stared he saw the broken guard-rails, and the shattered mast, which pointed drunkenly across the slanting deck, its tangled rigging a mass of weed, the movement of which gave him a passing impression that the ship was alive and breathing. With great caution, his weariness forgotten, he slowly moved up and over the edge of the deck, his stomach knotted tight, as if to receive a blow. It was a small ship, by any standards, and what had remained through the years was picked clean by the sea, leaving only the twisted steel plates and the mocking skeleton of a wheelhouse, the front of which had fallen out, to reveal the splintered deckhead and the abandoned wheel.
Myers steadied himself against the bridge ladder, and allowed his practised eye to work for him. He never failed to be impressed by a wreck, no matter how old or how recent. It had been different in Germany, where the sunken ships had often been crammed with hideous human remains. One diver had gone mad after forcing a jammed bulkhead door in a sunken refugee ship. The wretched, faceless occupants had risen on the current and swam to greet their rescuer. But here, on the deck of this small, deserted ship, it was different. He moved on up the sloping metal, his fingers catching on the encrusted barrel of a discarded rifle, a twin to the one which Fraser had in the dinghy above. He moved it with an effort, and wondered what had happened to the wounded soldier who had owned it.
As he turned. round the rear of the wheelhouse, he sensed a movement behind him. His heart seemed to stop, and with a grunt he tore the knife from its scabbard and swung to face the other way. A great hand squeezed his lungs as a figure seemed to move up through the torn guard-rails, its teeth white in the half-light. Wabu, the diver, his greased hair waving like sea-fern over his grinning face, gestured happily to Myers with his own knife, and then shot towards the surface, his naked body changing colour as it rushed to meet the sun.
Myers had to wait several long seconds for his breathing to return to normal, then he, too, relinquished his grip and glided upwards. As his head broke the surface he immediately felt the sun on his face, and was glad of it. He was still shaking, as the dinghy pulled over to him, and the sinker of the marker buoy went plummeting down. His plump hands rested on the warm wood of the dinghy’s gunwale, and as Fraser removed his facepiece Myers worked his stiff mouth vigorously before turning to the dripping native in the bows.
`How was it, sport?’ Fraser squinted down at the red face. `I hear you found it first go?’
Myers tore his eyes from Wabu’s smooth face. `Stupid sod!’ he said hoarsely. `I might ‘ave gutted ‘im like a fish!’
Fraser grinned, and began to pull him into the boat.
`What was the flamin’ wreck like? I guess most of the poor devils what was in her must have been killed instantly, eh?’
Myers’ face was creased in a deep frown. `It wasn’t like that at all, Vic,’ he answered slowly. `Th
e davits was empty, an’ the falls ‘ad bin run out.’ He allowed the words to sink in, and they both looked towards the distant shore, which gleamed so invitingly beyond the schooner.
Fraser licked his lips. `Took to the boats, did they? I wonder what Major Blair will say to that?’
The markey buoy bobbed above the hidden Sigh, as in silence they pulled back to the schooner.
There was no moon, and the stars appeared very small and far away, their glittering shapes shaded by motionless streaks of fine, vaporous cloud, which hung like steam above the little schooner, and seemed to hold the air still and lifeless. The bows lifted slightly to each roller from the reef, and the shining anchor cable would rise momentarily in protest, only to fall back into the black water, as if it, too, was exhausted by the heat of the day.
A blaze of harsh light glared from the poop, where a Tilley storm lantern hissed on a small cane table, protected from the blinded insects by the long rolls of mosquito netting which surrounded the small space of the poop like a transparent tent.
Apart from the distant sigh of surf against the beach, and the occasional scream of a hunted animal, there was nothing outside the great circle of light cast by the lamp, and because of it the figures around the table seemed drawn even closer together.
Only Blair remained standing, and as he moved restlessly from one side of the deck to the other he was conscious of their eyes watching him, following him, and yet telling him nothing.
Fraser, in his battered deck-chair, sat hunched forward, a glass of beer untouched in his big hands, his face empty of expression.
Myers sat on the deck, his plump shoulders resting against the companion hatch, his finger tracing an invisible design on his crumpled slacks. He looked resentful, almost hostile, as Blair halted, one hand smashing into the other with exasperation.
The Hostile Shore Page 8