The Hostile Shore

by Douglas Reeman

  `American girl.’ The sockets gleamed, so that Blair felt he was trying to see his face. `They took her away.’ The voice grew fainter. `I thought they would see reason….’

  Blair swayed back on his haunches. Gillian alive, only to be taken by the Moth. He clenched his teeth. `Tell me quickly. What about the other girl? There was one, wasn’t there?’

  Spencer’s head sagged. `Your sister, I believe?’ An awful rattle began deep in his throat. `She died many years ago. Mota thought that woman was she …’ The voice trailed away, but Blair gripped the bony shoulder with sudden desperation.

  `Where have they gone?’

  `Little cove … two miles from here … they call it House of Spirits … heathen sacrifices …’ Some of the strength filtered back into his voice. `But for you I would have converted all of them. I …’

  Blair stood up and stared through the window at the shimmering jungle. He retched again, the faintness making him stagger against those twitching fingers. He felt the gun in his hand, and swallowed the rising bile as he felt a growing agony of despair and urgency. It was almost unimportant now to realize that his sister had lived and died here. Perhaps later, if there was time to think, but now … He turned, the gun steady in his hand. He could not leave the man like this. But it was not necessary, and already the fat blue flies were exploring the mutilated remains of Ivor Spencer.

  Without even a glance in the other room he staggered out into the light and the heat. Tarrou ran to meet him, the relief dying on his face as he saw Blair’s stricken expression. He flinched as Blair’s hard hands gripped his shoulders, and unwillingly he managed to meet the blue stare.

  `Do you know of a small cove near here? Two miles away?’ The urgency made his voice harsh.

  Tarrou shook his head. `No, no! I know nothing! Please, what was in the mission?’

  Blair shook him savagely. `Think, man! Try to remember the chart! Where is that cove from here?’ He was shouting now and heedless of the noise.

  When Tarrou only whimpered, he added: `You were fond of Miss Bligh, weren’t you? Well, she’s alive, and they’ve taken her to this place! Now can you remember?’

  Tarrou’s hand lifted feebly and pointed across two humpbacked hills. The old volcano gleamed implacably and with sudden clarity in the far distance.

  `There! That way!’ He rolled his eyes back to the house. `Mr. Spencer?’

  Blair shook his head, and added as if to himself: `Convert them, he said! Like a mouse squeaking at the jungle!’ Then, his eyes shining with feverish brightness, he dragged Tarrou across the compound. The end of the journey was getting near.

  He remembered the quiet brass crucifix. Please God, let us be in time, just this once.

  10

  VIC FRASER lay full length on his bunk and stared unblinkingly at the low deckhead. Thirty feet farther along the hull the two divers completed their inspection and temporary r pairs by nailing a crude tingle, well-laced with grease, below the waterline, where a seam had been forced open by the shock of the schooner lurching across the sand-bar. Each muffled blow on the ancient timbers made Fraser’s inert hands twitch, and he seemed to be using his utmost strength to restrain himself from tearing on deck and ordering them to get a move on.

  The heat in the tiny cabin was so tremendous and sufi`os eating that it pained him to make the effort to breathe, but

  vas so sick with the agony of waiting and listening that he noticed it. He was still wearing his tattered shirt and s, which hung in. a tight, sweaty shroud about his limbs, till retained the stink of the jungle and of his fear.

  `llingly he turned his massive head and looked again P,-. -he scattered clothing and expensive leather cases which s- emed to fill the cabin with Blair’s memory and presence. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wipe out the picture of Blair’s dragging foot,, and his wild, remorseless eyes.

  With a groan he rolled heavily over the side of the bunk, ore open his shirt, baring his chest as if to strip off” the tormenting memories. His eye fell on the barometer, and he d that he was gripping his hair with his strong fingers until the pain made him stop. The glass had been falling steadily all morning, and the wind had altered both in direction and strength. Instead of the previous furnace heat,

  the wind which now moaned across the island, and stirred the dark water into long, uneasy rollers, was moist and clinging, like his clothes. There was no let-up in its power, and even the direction seemed to vary very little. The divers had remarked earlier that the water was full of strange currents. First a hot layer, then, within minutes, a cold breath in the sea itself, which would bring them shivering and spluttering to the surface. Fraser knew the signs of old. This was no ordinary `blow’. This was to be the real thing.

  He checked himself against leaving the cabin. What was the use? They were doing all they could, and even Dinkila the cook was busy with palm and needle repairing one of the sails. Old Kari merely bent over his work, his black eyes smoky and sullen, the shiny fingers moving with practised ease over the rough canvas.

  Fraser stared at his wild reflection in the mirror. Myers had apparently recovered from his drinking, and now sat broodingly by the bulwark watching the water around the two divers for a tell-tale dorsal fin, Fraser’s rifle in his red hands. Fraser almost cried out with frustration as he thought of Dyers’ face, rebellious and angry. Right now they should have been clawing their way clear of the island, the old diesel engine getting them a head start on the approaching store But Myers had shaken his head, and held up a small b piece of metal. ‘Water pump, sheared orf’;’ he had called th, engine compartment. ‘Bloody engine’s a write-orf, less you got a. spare, eh?’

  When Fraser had stormed at him, Myers had suddenly hardened, his round, sweating face filled with tired contempt.

  ‘Oo th ‘ell d’you think you’re yellin’ at? Wot can I do abaht it, eh?’ He waved. his grease-stained hands about the ship. `Look at it, carn’t yer? No bleedin’ radio, so we don’t know if there’s goin’ to be a ‘urricane or a blasted snowstorm’ Now that the pump’s sheered orf the engin’, you announces that you ain’t got any spares.’ He hung on the edge of the roaming, his face suddenly old. `Christ, man, you’ve bitched this up proper!’

  Fraser had stared down at him, filled with the sudden urge to kick him in the face, to shut his stupid whining once and for all. He had seen Kari watching them, and had dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.

  `What the hell d’you mean?’

  ‘Wot d’you think, mate? Poor bloody Major Blair left behind, Jim ‘Ogan chopped and the girl drowned. That’s quite apart from losin’ a few of the crew ‘ere an’ there like!’ His voice trembled. ‘Wot did you expect me to say? That you was entitled to a bloody medal?’

  If Myers had been ready to listen, perhaps he could have explained it all. He frowned again, so that the deep furrows around his mouth were like black lines. He could not even explain it to himself. He stared unseeingly at the smudged chart on the table. All he knew was that he had to get away from the island before the storm came. Before they were all finally wiped out, and the Queensland Pearl destroyed. He peered desperately around the dark cabin, but its familiar fittings no longer reassured him. The small skylight overhead was no longer blue. The rolling banks of grey clouds were laced with dirty brown, so that they looked like solid things.

  Myers had been right, of course. He had always meant to install a radio, and a new engine, and lots of other refinements, but something had always come up to forestall him. The cabin rolled and squeaked in slow, uneven curtsies, and he had to brace his legs wide to retain his balance.

  Through the skylight he caught a brief glimpse of the shortened mainmast, black against the angry sky. With the topmast missing, it gave the schooner the appearance of leaning forward, crouching under the starter’s orders perhaps. She wanted to be away, too, he thought abstractedly. Or did she? Was he the only one who had failed her? He jumped as someone knocked on the door.

  Kari stood framed by the
doorway, the light from the companion hatch playing across his scarred shoulders.

  `Well? Have you finished?’ Fraser felt hoarse.

  Kari nodded. `Finish, yes.’ He avoided Fraser’s eyes. `This bad trip, Cap’n. Buka daid. Watute daid. Mate go longlong!’ He shook his grizzled head sharply. `I think we lose more.’

  `Don’t talk like an old fool!’ Fraser watched him with growing uneasiness. `What do you want to tell me?’

  Kari touched the brass plate by the cabin door, its inscription almost polished away. ‘Built-Sydney-1914’. He could not read it, but its smooth surface seemed to decide him. `I sail with your father, Cap’n. Many years I dive for shell, an’ I serve, an’ I know my boss a good man.’ He hung his head and shuffled his black feet on the deck. `Now I know shame, Cap’n. ‘Cause you run away!’ He looked up suddenly, his old eyes blazing. `I Torres islander, Cap’n! My fathers were chiefs! We no run away!’

  Fraser took half a step forward, his fists doubled. `Why, you flamin’ old bastard! Who dragged you aboard after the tigers had been at you, eh? Who’s given you a job all these years?’

  Kari regarded him with sadness. `I know, Cap’n. But I think the spirits have taken your strength-‘ His head jerked as Fraser’s open palm struck him across the mouth.

  `Get on deck, damn you! Get those lazy boongs to stand by the anchor! We’re pullin’ out now, d’you understand that?’ His voice boomed in the humid cabin like the sound of that drum. He stared at the thin trickle of blood and spittle which ran down the old man’s chin. `There’s nothing more I can do now. They’re all dead, an’ Tarrou’s hopped it fer good!’

  Kari backed towards the ladder. `That drum say you lie!’ His voice was a hiss. `They no daid. You leaveum with your strength!’

  Fraser lifted his arm. `Get out, damn you! Do as I say, or I’ll …’ He saw that he was shouting at empty air, and heard Kari’s hard feet padding across the planks overhead.

  With a curse he snatched up his telescope and climbed heavily up the ladder and on to the deck, which now felt like the inside of a kiln. He walked to the wheel, his eye falling momentarily on the useless engine throttle. `Hoist away! Break her out!’ he yelled, and his voice murmured back at him from the silent shore and the glistening palms.

  The cable began to clank link by link through the fairlead, and he saw Myers bending his back with the others, as if he no longer wished to be associated with him.

  Fraser watched the great troughs in the heaving water, and tried to estimate the strength of the soaking, brain-searing wind.

  Kari raised his head and shouted. He could still see the red smear on his chin, even at the length of the ship. He tore his eyes away as he felt the ship begin to slide sideways, free from her anchor.

  `Break out the foresail an’ outer jib!’ He fretted with impatience as the figures moved listlessly to the halyards.

  Queensland Pearl drew her faded sails about her bare spars, like an old lady dressing herself for the last time. The big foresail, followed by the mainsail, swung out on its great boom, whilst from the graceful bowsprit the small triangular jibsails whipped out like flags, as they climbed up with painful slowness to capture the wind. The schooner slowly came to life and beneath his hard hands Fraser felt the wheel buck, and over his shoulder heard the soft gurgle and hiss as the rudder bit into the water and brought the vessel creaming round in a wide arc, until the bowsprit swung and parried towards the horizon.

  As she moved sedately along the headland the first gust of wind sighed in from the open and unprotected sea and hit the white hull with playful violence.

  The sails filled and hardened, the wind booming around the worn canvas with trapped fury, whilst all around the rigging clattered and creaked in answer to the challenge. Spray rose over the high stem, and covered the fo’c’sle with dark designs, and beaded the skins of the seamen as they made fast the anchor to its bed.

  Fraser concentrated on the compass and on the set of the sails, so that he should exclude the others from his thoughts. He reached up automatically to adjust the cap over his eyes, and felt another pang of guilt as he remembered that it was somewhere in the distant jungle. With the schooner alive beneath his feet he tried to regain the comfort which it usually gave him, and to reassure his mind at the same time. No one

  could blame him for what he had done. Grainger had told him, ordered him, in fact, not to go near the Mota, or do anything which might spark off trouble. It had all been Blair’s doing right from the beginning. There would probably be a hullabaloo about the girl’s death, but that could not be helped. It could have happened anywhere. His throat felt dry. She had been a fine girl. What did that old fool Kari mean about the drums? He felt another spasm of shame when he remembered striking the old man, but he lifted his chin and glared along the rising deck, his brown eyes hard. He had brought it on himself, he thought furiously. He had always thought of the boys as simple human beings, but they were all savages at heart. He allowed his mind to explore the biggest ache of all. Even Michel. He, too, had failed. He glanced over the weatherrail of the poop and stared in surprise at the green shape of Hog Island. It already looked small and insignificant again, like so many others of the group. Tiny, private worlds, which, as Gillian Bligh had pointed out, meant nothing to those on the outside.

  He could feel the schooner gaining speed through the water as she gathered the wind into her sails and flung herself over a crest into a deep, glass-sided trough, so that Fraser had to lean his whole weight on the spokes to bring her evenly to meet the next unbroken roller. He sighed as the bowsprit lifted and the glistening hull flung the clutching waves on either side in proud contempt.

  The foretopsail was being set now, and with eyes slitted against the glare he watched Wabu’s muscles move like snakes as he sheeted home a block and stood back to get his breath. His face, too, was dark and sullen. They did not sing or

  laugh, and as Dinkila slithered crabwise along the lively deck towards his small galley he avoided Fraser’s eye, his face heavy.

  Myers steadied himself against the compass, his tight eyes expressionless. `Where we makin’ for?’ he asked at length.

  `West for a bit. Then I’m runnin’ south. Might be able to get into shelter.’ He cursed as the compass card swung lazily in its bowl, and eased the spokes over until it steadied.

  Myers watched the hands on the wheel, and shuddered. In a minute, he thought desperately, I shall wake up, and the island will be just as it was before. The blue water of the bay, the shining, clear sky, and the native divers laughing as they watched him getting into his suit. He thought of Gillian Bligh as she had looked when she had sauntered into his cabin. The cool grey eyes and wide, generous mouth. Just like her pictures. But it was not a dream, especially about Major Blair. In all Myers’ difficulties and hard struggle upwards with the firm, Blair had been the one person who had treated him well. He trembled as he thought more deeply about it. When his wife had nagged him about the job, or the neighbours, or the hundred-and-one- other things she complained about, it had been Blair who had brought back his self-respect. When he had tried to describe him to his wife he had been momentarily at a loss for words. In the end he had fallen back on the highest compliment he knew. `Well, he’s a gentleman, you see .. ‘ But, of course, she had only laughed at him.

  He glared at Fraser’s taut face, the feeling of helplessness only adding to one of despair.

  The boys had gathered beneath the bulwark, and sat staring up at the protesting rigging and booming canvas. Myers and Fraser stood in swaying silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

  ‘Drivin’ ‘er a bit, ain’t you?’ Myers asked after a while. `Are we in any danger now?’

  Fraser jerked his head. `Take a look at the island.’ He knew inwardly that, like himself, Myers was afraid to trust his own power of speech. `I don’t know what sort of storm it’ll be, but we’ll be well out of it if we let the Pearl run free.’

  Myers shaded his eyes and looked back over the pitching ra
il. Hog Island lay directly astern now. It was, he thought, almost as if it stood in the direct path of something terrible. Something which had changed the sky to angry orange copper, so that the island appeared to have one huge halo of fire. The visibility had dropped away, and its shape was already indistinct, and the smaller islets which had seemed so near had vanished like chalk sponged from a blackboard. The schooner was alone on a limitless ocean and, even as he watched, the island was lost in the haze of steam and spray.

  Fraser’s voice broke in on his thoughts. ‘D’you still want me to go back? How long d’you think we could live in that?’ He hurried on, never taking his eyes from the ship. `You’ve got your life to live?’ He took a deep breath. `Well, so have I!’

  Myers blinked as a sheet of spray stung his eyes. `blot’s the use of talkin’? Yer mind’s bin made up a long time, ain’t it?’

  `Yes. Made up.’ He was talking to himself. `I don’t have any other life. I’m like poor old Jim Hogan down in the hold, I can’t afford to start all over again.’

  Myers shook his head. `What will ‘appen when you gets back?’

  He shrugged. `I suppose the authorities, British or French, will send some police up there to have a look-see. I don’t know. In a couple of months perhaps everythin’ll be back to normal. Nothin’ ever changes here. It’s only when outsiders interfere that we have any trouble!’

  Myers felt cold in spite of the heat, and heard’himself say, in a strange voice: `Take me back, Vic. Just me.’ The words tumbled out. He could not stop now. `You can still get clear, an’ I’ll go an’ look for the Major. Will you do that, Vic?’

  Fraser’s hands shook on the wheel. `For God’s sake leave me alone! What use would you be, eh? When you were in the last blow you took to the bottle, didn’t you? Well, didn’t you?’ He shouted louder when Myers’ stricken face did not change. ‘Nothin’ but bloody heroics! Let me tell you that heroics are for jokers who can afford them, and we can’t, see?’