He groped for the whistle about his neck and blew it hard in short, sharp notes. They were puny against the wind, but the men heard his signal. He watched them tugging at the sodden lines and falling off their feet as wave after wave smashed down at them. Eventually a small brown triangle crept with painful slowness upwards from the bowsprit, and then bellied out full and hard, as if it was a solid thing. For a moment the ship rallied to its support, then as it split and vanished the bows plunged more crazily than before. Again the whistle commanded, and the flying jib followed its mate up the twanging forestay. They all held their breaths, and Tarrou watched it with fascinated eyes.
The steep waves thundered against.the transom, and then they were falling astern. Now the crests were farther apart, the troughs deeper and more engulfing. Tarrou no longer cared. They were over the reef, and as he blew the whistle again, and began to ease the slippery spokes, he knew that the worst was over.
A chorus of cries came from forward as the maintopmast splintered and plunged down like a spear, to be pulled up inches from the deck by a web of tangled rigging.
Tarrou yelled and shook his fist, his voice a hoarse croak. `Axes! Cut it away, you trash!’
The headland bowed darkly through a gap in the rain, and then was gone, and following the reeling compass he swung the labouring ship towards the shelter of the coast. Deep water and high cliffs began to have their effect, and the crazy motion of the masts seemed to ease.
The axes shone like fire in the lurid sunset as the men worked feverishly to clear away the wreckage. With a lurch the stricken topmast swung down and plunged over the rail. Tarrou winced as the splintered spar dragged alongside, striking at the schooner’s round bilges in short, savage strokes. The men had stopped cutting, and were grouped round the mass of useless rope which held the menace tied alongside the plunging schooner.
Kari ran towards the wheel and, deaf to his high-pitched voice, Tarrou pushed him against the spinning spokes and ran to see the cause of the delay. To be cheated now, when they were almost free. He shook his head as if in pain and pushed his way past the silent men. A three-inch stay, its torn strands poking out like barbed wire, had fallen in one great twisted mass across the gunwale and had pinned Old Buka underneath. He lay half over the ship’s side, the whole weight of the heavy topmast tearing at his bent body. Even as he watched, Tarrou could see it cutting into the knotted muscles of his stomach, as a wire will slice a cheese in two.
Crash! The spar pounded again against the hull. Tarrou knew to an inch what thickness of timber was below the waterline. It was not enough for this.
Yalla pulled with his bare hands at the wire, but the old man was held fast. His one eye shone like fire, as if trying to hold on to the setting sun. It never flickered as Tarrou seized an axe and slashed with swift blows at the wire where it was spliced into a ringbolt on the deck. There was a rumble as the wire parted, and as the tangled mass slithered towards the rail the topmast took the full strain and tugged itself free of the ship.
Like an animal caught in a monstrous web, Old Buka was dragged backwards across the gunwale, his filed teeth bared in a savage grin. With a final jerk of his thin legs he was gone, and even the heavy spar was dragged down by the weight of the wire.
The men stared at the scored wood and the smears of
dark blood which were already fading in the spray. Tarrou swayed, and threw the axe over the side. `I had to do that! Don’t you see?’
But they would not look at him, and moved slowly forward to the fo’c’sle. Without speaking they began to set another jibsail.
Tarrou returned to the wheel and stood behind Kari, halfwatching the man’s hands on the spokes- and half-looking at the tumbling wastes of white water, as if he expected to see that eye mocking him even in death.
8
BLAIR stumbled against the upended roots of a fallen tree and fell awkwardly into the mess of churned-up soil. Around and above him the wind rose to a screaming wail, and in the near darkness he could hear the berserk thunder of the surf against the narrow beach which they had just left behind them. He was half-blinded by the torrential rain which battered down on his aching shoulders, or was flung parallel to the ground by the force of the wind. Sand, small stones and pieces of rotten wood tore and whipped at his raw face, and he could feel the rifle-sling biting into his arm like a hot wire. They seemed to have been stumbling through the storm for hours, and its force had left him almost witless as he tried to shade his eyes from the slashing force of the rain and peer after the wavering shapes of Fraser and Hogan.
As if by some silent agreement they grouped together beneath a tight clump of jerking palms, breathless, and half dead with sheer exhaustion.
Blair leaned heavily on his rifle and moved his crippled foot in slow, careful motions. It was no good. The pain was getting worse, and the last fall had all but made him scream aloud.
He peered back at the beach and saw the long pale edge of a monster wave rear up to hang momentarily against the black sea and then thunder down on the wet sand. This time it did not fall back, but with sudden rage roared towards the edge of the trees, its fading power reaching up at the madly waving fronds, to fling clouds of spray even to their feet.
Fraser groaned. `It’s no use. We’ll have to press farther up the slope. The beach gives up here anyway, so the sooner we get goin’ the better.’ He stared hard in Blair’s direction, but it was Hogan who answered in a choked voice.
`That’s right, Vic. Keep on up through ‘ere, an’ we’ll be on the side of the ‘eadland. With this sea runnin’, the ‘ole flamin’ island‘11 be awash around ‘ere!’ He staggered against a tree as a sudden gust of wind punched at his dripping body. `I feel a bit weak, mate,’ he added in a small voice,
Fraser felt the sodden bandage on the man’s arm and shook his head. `You lost quite a bit of juice, Jim. But we’ll get you to the ship okay.’ He glared again at Blair. If it’s still there!’
Blair jerked his head. `Lead on then. At least your friends the Mota seem quiet.’
Hogan fumbled for a cigarette and then threw the sodden packet away with despair. ‘Nah. They don’t like this sort of caper any more than we does.’
Blair took one of Hogan’s guns and slung it across his back. Using his rifle like a stave, he followed the others up the steep rise, which Hogan had said led towards the northern side of the headland. The rainwater poured down the slope towards them like a mountain stream, dislodging starved bushes, and even sizable boulders, so that they continually had to sidestep and stumble over the churned-up ground, each step being a fresh nightmare to Blair, who fell farther and farther behind.
Hogan was getting weaker, and as he halted to regain his breath he smashed his shotgun against a tree, splintering the butt to fragments. With a grunt he threw the broken weapon down in the sand, the strength drained from him.
`Don’t want the bastards to get their ‘ands on that !’ he panted.
Fraser slipped his hand round the mark’s waist and, like two drunks, they staggered on up the crumbling slope.
Blair noticed vaguely that Hogan’s face was upturned and heedless of the pounding rain. His breath was rasping as if he was choking, and his thick legs seemed to be moving automatically, almost dissociated with the rest of his body.
As they passed through a small, windswept clearing, Blair
looked up and saw the thick rolls of racing cloud. It made him feel giddy. It seemed as if the island was swinging like a pendulum beneath his feet.
He tried to reassemble his bruised mind, but only obtained a few disjointed pictures. Gillian’s face repeatedly appeared, and he found that he was praying that she was safe aboard the schooner. It was odd how they all looked on the ship as a refuge. Fraser was obviously thinking of nothing else. Without it he seemed lost, and away from it was like a man robbed of his strength and will to exist.
He shook the water from his plastered hair and rubbed at his eyes. They felt raw and inflamed, and he could feel the b
lown sand hot beneath the lids.
Not much farther, surely. Can’t keep this up much longer. Must rest for a bit. He gritted his teeth and drove the riflebutt deep into the shifting mud, the smouldering anger within him only helping to add to his feeling of loss and disillusionment. This damned island is destroying us all. And I am destroying myself. The shotgun slipped across his shoulder and fell into the mud. Ile bent to retrieve it, and slithered down on his face.
He retched, and spat out the filth which moved like a miniature quicksand over his outflung hands. With every muscle and fibre screaming a protest, he tried to stand up. He could feel the rain exploring the full length of his spreadeagled body, each drop like an individual blow. His foot felt quite numb, and he could not tell which way it was pointing. With a sudden chill he tried again, his heart pounding noisily against his sore ribs.
His shirt was torn open, and he could sense the clinging sensation of the mud across his stomach and weighing down on his bush jacket. With a groan he rolled over on his side, and with slow, agonizing movements pulled himself to his feet, and hung with weary desperation to a small palm tree. He leaned his forehead against the wet bark, and was aware of the noise of the rain. It was all that he could hear. He was afraid to release his hold on the tree and face the storm again. He knew that if he fell once more he would stay down. He knew, too, that he was alone. It was the same feeling he had remembered all through the years since that day in Burma. The sudden realization that he had lost his men, that he was alone in a hostile land, had been the same as this.
He pressed his head closer. Was this what he had come to do? To sacrifice himself completely for something which was not his fault, and yet had held him in its grip through everything which had passed? He heard the snapping of twigs, and expected to hear Fraser call, but it was only a rotting branch, flying in the wind like a misshaped spear.
A tall-sided slab of rock jutted from some bushes like a giant gravestone, and with dedicated effort he began to pull himself towards it. Heedless of the filth, he lowered his body down into the tiny piece of shelter afforded by the leaning rock, and allowed his shoulders to sag against it. He stared at his legs, which jutted out into the darkness, and felt the rain beating them like whips. There was no feeling at all in his foot.
The meaning of his predicament moved across him like a chill wind, and he pulled the rifle out of the mud and almost without thinking began to empty the magazine with listless movements of the bolt. As he cleaned the mud from each bullet, drawing the smooth cool shapes across his tattered jacket, and refilled the magazine, he tried to imagine what the others would do when they found he was missing. The fact that Fraser had not come back for him seemed like an answer. The full realization of the man’s hatred was laid stark and terrible with the force and directness of a blow.
He thought again of Gillian. She has got her story, he half smiled with bitter despair. That was, after all, what she had come for. He closed his eyes. Perhaps I shall be better off dead. He clamped his teeth together with sudden anger. What’s got into you? What the hell did you expect to prove by coming to this damned island? He was suddenly aware of a new quiet around him. Apart from the slow heavy drops falling from the trees, and the gentle gurgle of water down the slope, there was silence. And as he looked up he saw the needle points of distant stars between the formless shapes of
the clouds. Without the wind and the savage rain it seemed as if the island was also brooding. As if it was waiting for him.
The thunder of surf and the gale-whipped frenzy of the waves still persisted in Gillian’s ears, although the effect was more muffled, like the echoes in a giant conch shell, and, as it faded, the pain in her head came back, so that a red mist hovered in front of her tightly closed eyes. As her consciousness returned she was aware, too, that the crazy motion of the dinghy was no longer there and, as her hands moved weakly at her sides, she could sense the coarse touch of blankets against her skin.
Very slowly she opened her eyes, the splitting pain in her head making her feel faint and hover again on the edge of insensibility. She stared at the low, beamed roof above her head, and for a moment was near to panic. Then, as strength ebbed back to her, the uneven jumble of memories crowded in on her aching mind, so that she could see with sudden clarity the small boat, with its ripped sail, as the great waves picked it up and flung it towards the shore. She saw Watute, too, his mouth wide with soundless cries, and his dark scrabbling hands trying to steady her body against the shock of impact. There had been one sickening, grinding crash, and the very instant that the boat had struck she had seen the giant wave towering high overhead. Then her world had turned upside down, and she could remember nothing more.
She tried to move, but the pain burst on her brain like fire, and her throat filled with bile. She moved her head gingerly to one side, and stared at the familiar outline of the small room. She was lying on a narrow couch, a coarse blanket pulled up to her chin, and she noticed that on the opposite wall a crucifix gleamed dully in the light of a pressure lamp.
Her hearing, which had been deadened by the cruel pounding of the waves, came back with unexpected suddenness, and the whole building was filled immediately with the high, plaintive notes of an organ, rising and falling, their intensity magnified and distorted by the iron roof overhead.
She winced, and tried to relax her taut body. So she was back at Ivor Spencer’s mission. Watute must have run to get help after dragging her from the sea. She tried to fit the pieces together, but it was no good. Her bruises, and the deafening insistence of the organ, defied all her efforts.
With a final boom the music stopped, and a tall shadow passed haltingly in front of the light. Ivor Spencer stood, his thin face in darkness, staring down at her, his arms folded across his chest.
Her voice sounded small, and seemed to come from a long way off. `Hello there. How long have I been here?’
She could hear his unsteady breathing, and could sense the close scrutiny his shadowed eyes were giving her.
He nodded slowly. ` “Nearer My God To Thee”. A beautiful piece of music, my child.’ His voice was low, almost caressing. `When I play it at night on the veranda it seems to defy the jungle and keep it at bay.’ He gave a strange chuckle. `You would call that symbolic, no doubt?’
Gillian tried to struggle up on her elbows, but in a stride he crossed the space between them and pressed her head back on the pillow. His hand felt dry and hot.
`It is better if you stay as you are. I’m afraid you have no clothes as yet.’ He stood back, as if to study her reaction.
She lay quite still, immediately aware of the touch of the blankets against her body.
`My servants took care of you, so your modesty is in no danger.’ His tone was completely flat, and almost matter-offact. `They found you just in time, it seems.’
She swallowed hard. `I suppose I should thank you,’ she faltered. `But what about the boy who was with me?’
Spencer strode to the window, and played vaguely with his shirt buttons. `I fear the Almighty has taken him. It was His wish.’
She closed her eyes. Poor Watute. He had been so happy,
so confident that he could protect her. Her thoughts seemed to magnify themselves. She felt the beginnings of fear in the back of her mind, but in a tight voice she said, `Have you told my friends I am here?’
He did not answer for a while. `Friends? I regret they have gone.’ He turned swiftly to watch her face and startled eyes. `The ship has departed. It seems that they think you were drowned!’ His whole personality seemed to change, as his long face split into a wide grin. `It was His will that you should be spared to help me.’
She could hear her own heart beating, and was conscious of the great silence which enshrouded the house. It was as if the pressure lamp was the only thing which held all the evil of the unknown at bay.
She tried to speak sharply. `Now hold on, Mr. Spencer, there’s no need to try and scare me. I’ve had about as much as I can take for one
day!’
The grin vanished, and his eyes were compressed into tiny slits of bright light as he fought to bring his emotions under control. `Silence! You cannot blame me for this! I warned you not to come here!’
She lay still in shocked silence, her eyes following his gaunt shape as he began to pace the floor. Back and forth her frightened stare followed the long shadow as it bent and twisted across the bare white walls. Her stomach felt like liquid, and she could feel her fingers gripping at the mattress as if to keep control of herself. All the time he paced his voice ebbed and flowed like the notes of the organ. Sometimes it was so low she could only guess what he was saying, and occasionally he would halt in his stride and shout in a loud exalted tone, as if addressing an audience.
`I have watched my work grow and flower over the years! Do you imagine that I can let it wither and die because of you? Do you?’ It was nearly a scream. `This is your chance now. Don’t you see?’ He stopped by the couch and passed one hand across his brow. Almost humbly he said, `You do see, don’t you?’
His eyes flickered momentarily like the open doors of a furnace, and when she did not answer he added heavily: `They think I betrayed them, you see. They must never think that, must they?’
She watched him, her voice husky. `Please tell me what you mean. I don’t understand ‘ She flinched as he waved his long hands in the air.
‘I told you not to pry into their affairs. They thought you had come to rebuke them for their sins.’ He frowned. `And that is my privilege alone. I am God’s instrument, and they understand that now.’
He stepped back with such violence that he nearly overturned the lamp. The hollow cheeks were working with suffused rage. `Don’t try to deceive me! Your soft words are a temptation! But you do not have any effect here!’ He gave a crafty smile. ‘I saw it all, you know. I was here on the island when that boat was lost.’ The words poured out in a steady flood, as if he could no longer bear to hold the secret. ‘I saw those stupid creatures blundering up the beach with their guns, and their bleatings!’
The Hostile Shore Page 14