She walked to the door. `I’m going.’ She could feel the freshening wind sighing under the floor of the bungalow. `But something about this whole deal is crazy, and I’m not being personal!’
She walked quickly down the path between two lines of silent natives. No doubt they had heard the shouting. He’ll have more than that to shout about when I’ve finished, she thought grimly.
Watute grinned with relief as she appeared on the beach, and pointed at the sky. She noticed that it was more hazy, and the horizon shimmered in a sickly green which made the sea look like polished steel. But not in the bay, where the water surged angrily in a mass of steep white rollers.
`Hell! Can we sail in that?’ She felt a little uneasy.
Watute grinned again. `Sure thing! We keep close to shore.’
She waded to the boat. No one came to help her this time, so she kicked her dusty feet in the hissing surf and heaved on the gunwale. The boy helped her, and soon the boat was sliding into the deep water. He frowned and pointed behind her. A tiny black child, her eyes wide with terror, was standing uncertainly on the edge of the sea. She wanted to run away, and yet some other force compelled her to wait until the American girl waded through the surf to reach her.
`What is it, honey?’
The child shrank back. Then, with a sob, she flung a necklace in the sand and ran.
Watute steadied the dinghy. `Present, missy. She make a gift for you.’
The dinghy veered away from the beach, and Watute squinted through the spray, watching for the hidden rocks. The small boat rode the swell with gay abandon, the red sail skimming with ease across the surging, noisy water.
The necklace was wet and sandy in her palm, and she smiled as she remembered the small black face. It was merely a crude string of worn coral, with a brass trinket on the end.
Her smile felt frozen on her face.
The trinket was stamped in the shape of a prancing stag, like the one on Rupert Blair’s cigarette-case.
George Myers groaned and rolled over on to his side, his naked stomach gleaming with sweat. He blinked vaguely around the cabin and licked his lips, tasting the stale, humid air which covered his limbs like a cloak. Muffled by the teak planking overhead, he could hear Tarrou’s voice crying angrily, and the answering calls of the seamen. He swallowed hard, the taste of the beer still in his throat. It seemed darker in the small cabin, and he peered at the waterproof watch on his plump wrist. He sat up in slow, unsteady movements, his smooth ‘face creasing into a tight frown. It was then that he noticed the schooner was more lively than it had been at lunch-time. And as his sleep-deadened brain began to clear, the protesting shipboard noises crowded in on him. He paused with his buttocks perched on the sharp side of the bunk, his body sagging like that of a pig, his mouth hanging open.
The cabin floor tilted and he felt his body beginning to slide off the deep mattress, but as he put out his hands to steady himself the whole ship seemed to pull itself up short, in one violent shudder. He opened the cabin door and listened, his toes gripping the worn carpet as if to give him additional leverage against the schooner’s uneasy motion. A gust of warm air swept over his sweating shoulders so that he shivered, and he heard the squeak and groan of timbers, mingled with the persistent thrumming of the taut rigging.
The weather was getting worse, he decided. He began to swear with steady concentration as he tugged on his trousers and groped on the untidy bunk for his shirt. As he swayed and lurched about the cabin he thought of Tarrou’s face when he had burst in on him earlier in the day. It must have been shortly after Gillian Bligh had left in the dinghy, although he had dropped off in a quiet snooze, only to be rudely awakened by Tarrou shaking his arm and shouting incoherently, his dark face distorted with anxiety.
`She’s gone! Left ship!’ he had shouted, all the time jerking at Myers’ arm. `She had no right to go without permission!’ There were tears of rage in his wild eyes. ‘Vic tell me to see that she stays here, with me!’ He had banged at his chest, as if astounded that anyone could defy his authority.
Myers smiled bleakly as he remembered his own reply. `She told me she was goin’,’ he had said irritably. ‘Wot else d’you expect, eh?’
Tarrou had dashed back on deck without another word, but his face had been a picture. Gone was his aloof calm and unbearable assurance. He had seemed to Myers like a man possessed.
In order to avoid him at mealtimes, Myers had retreated to the cabin, with some tinned fruit and several cans of Australian beer. It was late in the afternoon according to his watch, but it was much darker than he had expected, and as he tugged open the door and stumbled into the narrow, lurching passageway he felt the growing pangs of uneasiness.
The scene which greeted him on the poop did nothing to reassure him. For a moment he stood clinging to the companion hatch, fighting for breath. The flat, unbroken surface of the bay had vanished and in its place the sea surged towards the beach in line upon line of angry, white-crested rollers. He could hear their sullen rumble on the steep sandy slopes, and realized that was what had awakened him. The wind, which ploughed across from the open sea, was steady, and hit the moored ship with savage force. It was hot, and stung his face like desert sand, so that his eyes began to stream, and he held up his hands to peer anxiously at the sky, which was the greatest shock of all.
He had come to believe that it would always be blue and clear, it had seemed as permanent as the smooth sea and relentless heat, but as he gaped at the fast-moving ridges of dark clouds he saw that the whole sky was painted in lurid shades of copper, as if an artist had gone mad, or the sun had burst across the horizon.
Even as he peered round like a trapped animal the rain began to fall, slowly at first, the heavy drops cast on the dry decks with the noise of pellets, then in a steady, scalding downpour. He saw its growing strength moving across the tossing water in a grey curtain, blotting out the end of the bay, and then even the beach.
The native seamen ran hither and thither across the decks, seemingly unaware of his presence, their faces tight and preoccupied, while Tarrou, his drill jacket streaming with rain and spray, ran the length of the ship, his shrill voice plucked from his mouth and cast to the wind.
He skidded to a halt in front of Myers, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. Myers cupped his hand to shout: `What the ‘ell’s ‘appenin’? Is this a ‘urricane or somethin’?’ He gasped as the ship shuddered again and rolled heavily in the waves.
Tarrou gripped the wheel for support. `I thought this would happen! It’s a Willy-Willy, a tropical storm!’ He peered along the slanting deck, his face torn with emotion. `I think it is, anyway! We are in a bad place here. Tide’s coming in, and the wind’s getting up all the time!’ He jumped with alarm as the small canopy over the poop cracked like a gunshot and split into a dozen pieces. Fraser’s deck-chair staggered as if alive and then lifted off the deck and vanished over the rail.
`My Gawd!’ Myers stared round the ship with a new uneasiness. Here at least he had felt safe. He had almost taken the schooner’s invulnerability for granted, but as she groaned and the rigging danced and whipped in the wind, he felt cheated and afraid.
`Well, what are you doin’ about it, mate? You’re supposed
to be in charge of this bloody scow, aren’t you? For Christ’s sake do somethin’ about it, ‘stead of standin’ there like a ruptured duck!’
Tarrou had not even heard his voice. He was staring around him as if he had never seen the ship before in his life. So many things were happening at once, and yet he seemed unable to move. How could he explain to Myers what he felt, even if he had the time? Before, when he had been in storms, it had been frightening enough, but with Fraser at the helm it had been quite different.
He shaded his streaming eyes to peer at the distant reef, but it was blotted out by the rain. It thundered down on the decks and surged and gurgled along the scuppers, until with a final hiss it poured from the wash ports in a steadily mounting stream. He tried to think. She
was out there in all this, he thought. Unless she had stayed at the mission, of course. That fool Watute. It was all his fault. And that fat hog Myers! He bit his thick lip until he could not bear the pain. He had let her go without telling him! The deck shuddered again beneath his straddled legs. I must do something about the cable, he thought frantically. It’ll pull the anchor right out of the bottom in a minute. In his mind he pictured the helpless ship being carried by those breakers and tossed on to the shore. Perhaps she was already dragging! With a gasp he ran forward, his gait like that of a drunken man as the deck canted beneath him.
Old Buka cowered by the bowsprit, his gnarled skin black under the rain. His single eye gleamed at Tarrou as if with loathing. `What you do? You make let ship finish on sand?’ The hoarse voice hammered at Tarrou’s tortured mind, and he realized with horror that the respect had gone from the old man’s face, he had reverted to a savage again. Tarrou groped frantically for an answer, and all the time the awful eye watched him unwinkingly, like a black button floating in blood.
The bows dipped yet again, and he gripped the forestay with both hands. He was near to panic, but the contempt in Old Buka’s eye filled him with something else as well. All the past tension and frustration swept through him in an uncontrollable flood, until he felt consumed by its power.
For a second he stared down at the other man, heedless of the wind which plucked the cherished cap from his head and flung it into the greedy water. `Call the hands! Stand by to let go the other anchor!’
He watched the man slither along the deck like a black crab and then hang precariously over the bows. He could see the taut cable, dark against the white rollers which surged down either side of the stem, and as he watched he could sense the tremendous strain being exerted on its dripping links. It was bar-taut, with the full weight of the wind-ravaged ship pulling on it. He was only dimly aware of the bodies pressing around him, and Old Buka’s harsh voice barking directions. The second anchor was manhandled across the fo’c’sle and shackled to its own cable.
A splintering crash grated along the ship’s hull, and too late he remembered the tethered dinghy. He was just_ in time to see it roll on to its back before the shattered planks were torn free and the remains of the dinghy were sucked astern to vanish into the curtain of rain.
The anchor was finally catted, and hung swaying against the high stem. He noticed that the ship was rising and falling much more now, the increased swell mounting every minute as the waves surged across the hidden reef to invade the once-sheltered bay.
With the tide coming in and the water being whipped into such savage frenzy, the solitary rock which Fraser used as an aiming mark for crossing the reef would soon be covered, if it was not already. The boys crouched by the anchor, watching him. He would have to decide soon whether or not he was going to leave the bay and beat out to sea. Once clear he might be able to encircle the island and ride out the storm in the lee of the high Northern coastline. That is what Fraser would have done. What he would expect him to do. He remembered his face as he had turned to follow Blair up the beach. `Beat out to sea, Michel. We shall be all right, but look after my ship!’
He trembled with rising fury. My ship. No one ever gave him anything but instructions. Where were they all when he needed help? Myers hiding on the poop; the crew muttering like mutinous bushmen; and Gillian … He paused at the thought of the girl and groaned with self-pity. She had gone away without even a word.
Old Buka shouted angrily, `What for wait?’
They all despised him. He ran forward to the group of shining black bodies. `You wait till I tell you! I’m in command now!’
They stared at his suffused face and fell silent. Around them the ship sighed and rattled, whilst from somewhere below came the crash of breaking crockery and glass.
Old Buka stood up, his bent body swaying. `We all die while you are like small child!’ His voice was filled with scorn.
The two divers, Wabu and Yalla, grunted in agreement, their faces hard in the copper glare from the sky.
Tarrou fell back. `We -are getting under way, now! We will use the engine to get clear! We will not drop the other anchor!’
Kari, the scarred seaman, shook his grey head. `No, no good!’
`We will not leave Cap’n Fraser.’ Old Buka spoke with calm authority.
They think I am running away. They don’t understand. Tarrou thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the heavy revolver.
His voice was near to breaking. `Stand by to hoist that anchor!’ His mind was made up. `We cannot stay here! Do you hear me, you stupid savages!’
They stared, fascinated by the gun. Myers, who had come running forward when the dinghy had carried away, shouted with sudden desperation, `What the ‘ell are you doin’?’
Tarrou did not turn. `Do you know how to start the engine?’ His voice sounded harsh.
Myers waved his hands. ‘Yeh, sure I can. Why, fer Gawd’s sake?’
`Then start it. Be quick; I will stay here!’
Myers tore his eyes from Tarrou’s wild face and the tense group of seamen and then ran gasping to the engine-room hatch. His ears were deafened by the rising scream of the storm, and his head sang with the onslaught of the rain.
He half fell down the hatch, and whimpered as his knee stumbled against the gleaming teeth of the giant fly-wheel.
I shall be. killed. The whole damn lot of us will. What a bloody place to die! The string of obscenities which followed were drowned by the thunder of the diesel as with a cough and a roar it came to life under his groping hands.
The familiar growl of the old engine, audible even above the noise of the storm, gave a small measure of comfort to Tarrou, and he backed slowly away from the watching seamen. They seemed to relax as if they, too, realized that they were now committed.
Tarrou bared his teeth, his face shining in the unearthly light. `Now you break that cable!’ He gestured with the pistol. It was like the symbol of his new power. `I cannot waste time heaving up the anchor.’
cld Buka grunted, and spat on the deck. One look at the pi essure of water building up around the bows was enough to tell him, at least, that they would never have managed to turn the capstan. His eye met those of Kari, and he nodded. It was a tiny movement but enough to show that Old Buka was not beaten. But, first, they had to save the ship.
Tarrou jammed the gun into his trousers and felt the wet metal against his leg. The fools, they had no idea of his power. He would show them.
Myers was peering over the engine-room hatch, his bald head streaming with rain. He looked as if he was drowning in it.
Tarrou stamped his foot, as Fraser had done so many times, and yelled above the din, `Put her ahead!’ To the others he called, `Let her go!’
There was a short, metallic clang as the shackle was broken, and with a scream of relief the straining cable rattled through the fairlead and disappeared into the water.
The effect was instantaneous. Caught in the savage force of the white-hooded rollers, the schooner’s bows paid off, the: masts groaning against the wire stays and every block and timber in the old hull making a noisy protest.
The rain was heavier, and the wind-force seemed to be mounting with each breathless second which passed. In rising alarm Tarrou peered over the wheel and tried to gauge the swing of the bowsprit, which seemed a mile away.
Too violently he slammed down the brass throttle by his side, and his heart all but stopped as the old engine coughed, missed and then picked up again. The deck vibrated as the revolutions mounted, and the screw felt as if it would tear free or come crashing through the poop.
Although his body was sodden with rain and sea alike, his mouth grew dry. The wheel was hard over, yet still the bows swung round, and the angle of the deck grew more acute.
Myers stared vacantly from the hatch, his stomach a tight knot of fear. We’re leaving the others behind, he thought dazedly. Then with sudden despair he shouted into the teeth of the storm: `Damn them! Damn the lo
t of ‘em!’
Tarrou only noticed that the ship was beginning to heel over as it rolled heavily into a deep trough. The engine seemed to be getting louder, or was it the sound of the surf on the beach? He put all his weight on the wheel, as if by his extra weight he might swing the balance in his favour.
Then all at once he saw the glow of the copper sky move with cruel majesty over the crazily pitching bowsprit.
`She’s going!’ His face was split into a maniac grin as he watched the schooner begin to swing about.
Myers heard him shout, and thought that the ship was going to founder. He hid his face in his hands and began to sob.
Into the very teeth of the storm the Queensland Pearl fought her way, while the crew cowered down to escape the rearing waves which climbed over the high bow and thundered down the full length of the ship to cascade against the poop and down the leaking hatches.
Tarrou pulled himself against the wheel and tried to peer over the rail. Once through the gap and they could go about and run before the storm.
Old Buka shouted and waved his arm out and downwards in a chopping motion. Tarrou took a deep breath and began to pull the wheel over to port. He could see nothing, but knew that the old man had found their aiming mark, and had made the signal. Along the length of the vessel both men looked at each other. Through the torrential rain and the writhing shapes of the halyards and braces they were mere human forms, but at that moment each man saw the other with sudden clarity and a new hatred.
Beyond the reef the sea was heavier, and the swell lifted roller after roller to send it thundering against the hidden barrier, and as each successive wave shattered on the coral, and rose to be shredded by the wind, the frustrated fury of the deep water seemed to increase, so that as the streaming white shape of the schooner flung itself across the small dip on the reef’s battlements it turned its rage upon it instead.
One desperate thought after another crowded through Tarrou’s racing mind. Must get some sail on her. Must! Must!
The Hostile Shore Page 13