Through the mist of shock and exhaustion Fraser was aware for the first time that there was something more still to be endured. He lifted an arm that felt of immeasurable weight, and pointed to Hogan’s shape. `There’s Jim. Blair’s missin’. I guess you already realized that. What else has gone wrong, and where is the Bligh woman?’
Tarrou twisted his jacket wretchedly between his dark hands. `It was not my fault! She left the ship without my permission. Watute went with her, and then the storm, I ‘
He staggered back as Fraser bounded from the rail and seized him by the throat. `She what? Say that again, you frogeatin’ bastard!’
Tarrou squirmed, his eyes staring madly. `Don’t blame me!’ he screamed, aware of the dull eyes watching him. `I could not stop her. She was going to the mission I think!’
`That’s not all, Cap’n.’ Wabu’s voice was filled with contempt. `He ran us on sand-bar. Engine all made bad!’
Fraser shook Tarrou’s body very slowly, as if to emphasize his words. `Why did you bring the Pearl so close inshore? I suppose that was someone else’s fault, too?’ He threw back his head to stifle the urge to kill the wretched man in his grip, as he had killed the Mota tribesman. `Jesus Christ! Do you know what you’ve done?’
Tarrou’s face ran freely with sweat, and his eyes were black with fear and hurt. For Vic to do this in front of the others, after all that he had gone through, was more than the final blow. Something had snapped in his brain, and although he was still dazed by Fraser’s return the Australian’s harsh voice no longer had any effect. It was only a distant rumble which threatened to interfere with his growing fury against the girl. She had mocked him, and destroyed him. She and Blair had brought down his world, and nothing was left for him, but revenge.
Fraser turned his head. `Any other damage? Get Old Buka here. He’ll know.’
Yalla dropped his eyes. `Him dead. He cause him to die.’
Tarrou felt the fingers loosen their hold, and he stepped back to the rail. `It’s not true! They’re all against me! I saved the ship for you, Vic, and they resent it, don’t you see?’ There were little flecks of foam on his thick lip.
Kari tapped his skull. `Him go longlong!’
The voice rose to an even higher pitch. ‘I’ll show you all! I shall get the engine going again, and then you will see.’
They were not listening to him, but watching Fraser again.
He sat down on the bulwark, his stubbled face expressionless. `She drowned, you reckon?’ It was a question at large.
Myers spoke from the hatch, his voice slurred. `We saw ‘er set off to come back, then the storm got up. Wabu swam ashore and asked one of the villagers from the mission if there was any news. That Spencer bloke said that the boat capsized.’ He shrugged weakly. `So that’s that.’
Fraser sighed. `Right. Now listen to me all of you. We’re in a bad spot here if the storm comes back. We’re on a lee shore, and the engine’s kaput! So we’ve got to work like hell to get under way, savvy?’
They nodded gravely.
`And as for you Mister Tarrou, clean that engine, pump,
or whatever it is, and don’t let me see your face till it is ready!’
He turned away towards Myers. `You can help the divers have a look for underwater damage. When that’s done, lend a hand to Kari. I want some new sails bent on, just in case.’
Myers shrugged. `You’re the boss.’
Yalla still stood before Fraser, his narrow eyes glinting. `We not take orders from mate any more!’ The words halted Tarrou as he went towards the engine-room.
`Suits me.’ Fraser spread his hands on the warm rail. `I was evidently wrong about him, that’s all.’
For an instant Tarrou quivered like a man with fever, then he lifted up his head and gave an unearthly scream. As they watched him with stricken eyes, he sprang to the rail, his face contorted with a consuming madness. Then he was gone, and they watched him swimming strongly towards the beach. Without speaking they stared after him, while he ran jerkily through the surf and vanished into the trees.
Fraser again turned his back. Nothing could shock him any more, he thought.
`Okay, Myers,’ he said calmly, `you can see to the engine.’
He watched the water surging round the headland, yellow in the dawn sunlight. `We’re going home,’ he added slowly as his gaze fell on Hogan’s body. `Or what’s left of us.’
9
Tnr:xou could not remember how long he had been running, but as the slope beneath his pounding feet became steeper, and the glistening shrubs and roots thicker and more treacherous, he staggered breathlessly to a halt, his head hanging down to his heaving chest and his tongue lolling across parched lips. Although_ his body cried out for rest, and he could feel his heart pounding wildly against his ribs, he was still in the grip of that same overpowering madness which had flung him over the schooner’s side and sent him careering through the bush, heedless of all possible danger, and of the noise his haphazard course was making.
Slowly he lifted his head and peered blindly through his sweat, aware for the first time of the island’s great silence. Where the torpid heat had begun to penetrate the dripping trees the steam rose in a thick, undulating vapour, tinged green and purple by the backcloth of the bush, and giving the whole silent jungle an appearance of nightmarish unreality. A bird called querulously overhead, but it, too, sounded muffled, as if part of another existence. He rested his aching back against a tree, and tried to control the savage emotions which coursed through him, and which threatened to drive him forward again into the darkness of the bush. A warm trickle of blood ran wetly down his cheek, where he had collided with a groping branch. He watched a small red droplet fall on to his caked jacket, and shuddered. He had always tried to keep himself smart and clean, and even in his present agony it pained him to see the state of his clothing.
When he had waded through the surf and staggered up the small beach, he had half expected to be cut down by a spear before he could reach the first line of trees. That would have made Fraser ashamed. That would have shown all of them what they had done to him.
The thought of the schooner sailing without him made him peer momentarily backwards, as if he might still see her white shape through the trees. Not even the slightest gleam of water showed, however, and he began to wonder how far he had come.
Fraser would be sorry when he got back to Vila, he thought. His dark eyes clouded as he visualized the scene on the jetty. The grim faces, and Fraser turning from one to the other, his explanations falling on deaf ears. He clutched wildly at his throat as a new convulsion of rage and frustration ran through him like fire. Suddenly he realized that he was trying to deceive himself yet again. Of course it would not be like that at all. Nobody would care about Michel Tarrou. The American girl’s death would be enough for them. Even that drunken beast Hogan was worth more than he. His whole body shook, and two small tears of self-pity ran unheeded down his cheeks to mix with the blood on his jacket.
Some of the old traders might even laugh. He closed his eyes tight, as if to shut out the picture he had created. Fraser drinking in the club, surrounded by those fat red faces. `Sure,’ he would drawl, `I lost the stupid bugger in the bush!’ And they would all laugh, and down their drinks. Then one of them would add, `Just like a bloody boong!’
And how had all this happened? He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, frowning with concentration. Blair had been responsible right from the start. He had resented his friendship with the girl, and her attraction to him. He had hated the fact that he, Michel Tarrou, was strong and whole, while he was crippled and useless.
Now the girl had died, and his position in the schooner was finished. He could never look anyone in the face again without somebody saying, `Aren’t you the man who ran the schooner aground?’ Or, `Did you really believe that a white girl could fall for a joker like you?’
Remorselessly he tore down one pretence after the other, so that even the small beliefs upon w
hich he alone had depended became less of a comfort, and joined instead the great jeering, screaming chorus in his brain.
He noticed that he had started to move again, and with bright eyes he watched his own feet marching onward up the slope. He felt strong once more, and his sense of self-pity gave way as he walked to one of overwhelming cunning and intelligence.
I shall find Blair, he decided. And if he is still alive I shall kill him. The possibility that he might already be dead, or that he might be too well hidden in the bush, filled him with dismay, and he quickened his pace, his eyes slanting from side to side, looking for any clue which might guide him to Blair’s hiding-place.
Some inner sense seemed to tell him that he was alone, and he did not feel that he was being watched. It was as if all the living beings had been drawn out of the jungle by some superior power. To leave it free for him to find Blair.
Everything about and around him was sodden and still, and through the small gaps overhead he could see a leaden sky which looked heavy and threatening. He started to remember the schooner, and the screaming force of the gale which had driven her along like a mad thing. That had surely been his greatest moment. Until they had lurched across that sand-bar, and two of the sails had been blown to shreds. Those boys in the crew had done that to him. He halted in his tracks, his staring eyes slowly focussing on a strip of cloth which hung limply from a jagged branch. He circled the place, his anxious glance taking in the heavy footmarks which crossed through a trough of drying mud and disappeared down the slope. Two sets of prints. He stared ahead, trying to visualize the jungle in total darkness, with Fraser and Hogan stumbling through the torrential rain. Somewhere farther back was Blair. Why had Fraser left him behind? He creased his brow in two deep furrows as he tried to reason it out. Perhaps Fraser had been afraid to go back? He toyed momentarily with the idea and discarded it with reluctance.
Something else must have happened. More cautiously he began to move through the wet undergrowth, and as the trees thickened around him he drew the heavy revolver from his pocket and carried it awkwardly in his hand. He wondered vaguely what effect the sea-water would have had on the bullets, and whether Blair would be armed.
His clothes felt dry and stiff on his skin, and he was aware of the trapped and mounting heat within the jungle. He had often heard the schooner skippers say that the `eye of the storm’ was often broken by contact with an island, but that the fury of it would return from a different angle.
He bared his teeth at the thought of Fraser battling against a new storm, with a damaged ship and a depleted crew for company. Let him see how he likes it, he thought savagely.
Once he stopped to rest, but his legs quivered so much with fatigue that he pressed forward almost at once, driving his wiry body without mercy.
The hours passed, and his tongue seemed to have doubled in size as it moved restlessly behind his bared teeth in search of moisture to cure his thirst.
One of his shoes had gone, and a leg of his drill trousers was slit from thigh to ankle, so that it caught and flapped over each small obstacle. Must be halfway to the trade store by now, he thought. Suppose I have lost my way? He glanced round wildly, the sweat suddenly cold on his heaving chest. Through the green curtain ahead he could make out the shape of a giant boulder. Perhaps if he climbed to the top of it he could get a better idea of his position. After all, he told himself with mounting anxiety, the sea could not be far away.
A pulse throbbed with sudden pounding strokes against the inside of his skull, and he had difficulty in breathing. He did not dare move his cramped feet for fear that he should miss the sound if it came again. He jumped. That was it. Like the rustle of something moving over the ground. It seemed to be coming from the boulder.
Then there was another sound. It was like a long, low groan. With every nerve straining, he began to crawl on his knees towards a clump of sea grapes, his face feeling like a leather mask. Very slowly he raised himself on his hands and peered through a tiny gap, his tiredness completely forgotten.
He saw Blair’s feet moving listlessly in the dried mud, the torn shoes jerking in short, ineffectual attempts to gain a purchase in the yellow filth which had run down around the tall rock, and which hid the rest of his body from Tarrou’s sight.
He was alive. Tarrou slowly wiped the sweat from his eyes and began to wriggle round the side of the great boulder. He stopped to listen, as Blair said with sudden clarity:
`Too bloody quiet!’ Then he groaned again, as the disembodied feet began to slide in the mud. `That’s right! Let me down again, damn you!’ He sounded as if he was speaking through his teeth.
Tarrou began to shiver with excitement, and his hand holding the revolver shook so much that he almost dropped it. He inched his way carefully round the last of the obstruction, and found himself staring straight at Blair.
He was amazed at the difference which had changed the man from a brisk, superior being to this grey-faced, ragged creature which now confronted him. His clothes were in rags, and his stained face was flung upwards towards the racing clouds, the mouth moving painfully as he tried to manoeuvre his legs. Tarrou’s eye fell on the rifle. It was by the other man’s side, and still within his reach.
He raised the heavy pistol so that Blair’s mouth was cut in two by its thick foresight. This would finish all the humiliation and misery once and for all. He would have no time to get the rifle, he would not even know what had happened.
His finger tightened, and he felt the trigger begin to move. It was not right that Blair should die without knowing who had beaten him, he reflected wildly. Without a second thought he lowered the gun and stood up, his shadow covering Blair’s sprawled body like a canopy.
Blair opened his eyes and stared up at him.
Tarrou fought to control his quivering limbs, his shadowed face devoid of expression. He wanted to scream: `What have
you to say now, Major Blair? Do you want to say your prayers?’ But he could only stare, and feel the weight of the gun in his grip.
Blair gave a weak smile. `Well, thank God someone had the guts to come back!’ He coughed, and laughed strangely. `You certainly take the biscuit, I must say!’
He closed his eyes again, and Tarrou took another step forward. `Major Blair,’ he began, his tone thick and unsteady, `I have come ‘
One hand lifted in a tired salute. `You’re a good chap, Tarrou. I am afraid I couldn’t have lasted much longer. My leg’s twisted, and that damned foot…‘His voice trailed away.
Tarrou found that he was unable to find the right words. He was completely unnerved by Blair’s greeting, yet unwilling to admit that he was afraid of the defenceless creature at his feet.
Blair was speaking again. `You alone? How is Gillian?’ He said her name again, more slowly. `Gillian?’
Tarrou had difficulty in breathing. `She is dead. Drowned.’
Blair’s head fell back against the rock, and his face seemed to shrink under the caked mud. `Oh God,’ he said in a small, broken voice. `Not her, too!’
Tarrou was shaking uncontrollably. `It was your fault! It was all your fault!’
Blair nodded heavily. `Yes. You are so right, my friend. And I thought…’ He did not finish but lay back as if in surrender to the fever which showed itself in the brightness of his eyes.
Tarrou stared round the tiny clearing in desperation. `She went up to the mission. She was drowned. It was not my fault! You were to blame!’
Blair sighed. `That damned mission.’ His voice seemed to come from far away. `She must have been going to see Spencer.’ He groaned, and allowed his legs to slip lower. `And now she’s dead. Just when I thought …’ Tarrou noticed that he was biting his lower lip and the feverish eyes were blurred. `And now you’re here, Tarrou. Well, you can damned well go back to the ship and tell them you could not find me, see?’
Tarrou ran his fingers through his greased hair. This was all wrong. Everything was getting out of control again. He heard himself ask in a strange vo
ice, `Were you really fond of her?’
Blair’s tight mouth quivered. `Fond of her? Yes, that would be it. I suppose you think that’s strange?’ Tarrou did not answer, and he continued: `She was the best thing that ever happened to me.’ His eye fell on the revolver. `What were you going to do with that? Shoot me or something?’ His chest heaved weakly as he laughed without humour. `Not a bad idea at that!’
Tarrou self-consciously thrust the gun into his pocket. `You must not mock me! I have been through so much!’ He knew he could not shoot him now. If only Blair had cursed him, or sneered at him. It would have been easy then.
Blair’s voice was very low. `The mission, you say? I wonder what Spencer knows?’ Another pause. `I let you down, Gillian. Just like all the others.’
Tarrou shifted uneasily. `What others?’
`Family. My sister had hair like Gillian. Fair as …’ His tired mind seemed to grope for the right word, but instead he merely sighed. `But now she’s gone, too.’
Tarrou nodded gravely. `Her hair was like nothing I have ever seen. All the boys on board said it was like the sun.’ He stopped, aware that Blair had struggled up into a sitting position and was gripping the ragged edge of his trousers.
`By God, that’s it! I knew there was something!’ He coughed, and struggled even harder. `Don’t you see, man?’
Tarrou stared at him worriedly. He was delirious, or mad. He was not sure what to do about it, and merely shook his head.
Blair’s fist beat weakly on the mud. `Why didn’t I notice that! When we first landed at the mission,’ his eyes shone with sudden desperation, `none of the villagers took any notice of her hair! Yet everywhere else around here, and on the schooner, the natives were all gaping at it!’ He shook Tarrou’s leg to emphasize his strangled words. `Because those people at the mission had seen hair like that before!’
Tarrou’s mouth hung slack. `Your sister?’
Blair was already struggling to his feet, climbing up Tarrou’s body like a monkey up a tree. `Must get there. You’ll have to help me!’
The Hostile Shore Page 16