The Hostile Shore

by Douglas Reeman

  Gillian squeezed Blair’s arm. `Sure he does, Michel! And so do we all!’

  They watched in silent wonder as the pale blob, which had first appeared as another mass of foam, grew more distinct, and without daring to guess at Fraser’s reasons for turning back, followed the schooner’s slow but superb efforts to approach the reef.

  Blair could feel a lump in his throat, and wanted to cheer the frail white shape which staggered and plunged across the tumult of the waves, and which seemed to defy even the greatest breakers which danced across the reef. He forced himself to think calmly. Fraser could have no idea where they were, nor would he even know for sure that they were alive. He groped for the discarded revolver, and without taking his eyes from the ship, felt the wet metal with his fingers and prayed that it would still fire. Gently disengaging his arm from the girl’s shoulders, he crawled to the rim of the cliff and peered down at the pounding surf. Although the tide was dropping, the fury of the wind still held power over the water, and retained the battering strength of the waves at the foot of the cliff face. He dashed the rain from his plastered hair and looked again. There was one small piece of beach that was visible. Steeper, and higher than the rest, it made a tiny shelf which somehow managed to defy even the highest breaker.

  He spoke slowly over his shoulder. It would not do to make Tarrou more excited, and too much was at stake at this point.

  `I am going down there.’ He indicated the place with the revolver. `When you think the schooner is safely through the reef I want you to fire the rifle, d’you understand?’ The dark head nodded, and he hurried on: `Down there I may not be able to see the ship very well, and I shall be depending on you,’ his teeth showed briefly in a smile, `again!’

  Gillian knelt beside him, her voice anxious. `Why must you go down?’

  `I shall fire the revolver to signal our position. Up here, the wind would carry the sound away before Fraser could hear it, but on that little beach each shot will be magnified and reflected by this cliff.’ He smoothed the hair from her brow with a grin. `Simple, see?’

  Tarrou pointed wildly. `See how she comes! Vic’s driving her like a bird!’

  The schooner was like nothing Blair had ever seen. Small and fragile in the black waves, she never faltered. She was much closer inshore now, and he could see the hard outline of her straining sails, and the creaming bone of foam under her forefoot. It was as if the old ship was flinging herself straight at the island, and Blair imagined Fraser’s impassive face peering across the wheel as he drove his ship to the limit of its endurance. It was time to go. His injured foot would not allow him much time, but it was better that he should go and not Tarrou. I’m no sailor, he thought grimly, and Tarrou’ll be able to guess the ship’s intentions far easier than I would.

  Something moved in his pocket, and in surprise he pulled out the cigarette-case. He laughed and passed it to the girl. `A top-ranking journalist and a captain of industry, and look at us! This is all we’ve got left!’

  He began to lower himself over the edge, his shoes slipping in the rivulets of rain as they kicked out for a foothold.

  As their faces drew level, the girl leaned over the edge. Her lips brushed against his mouth, and he could see her eyes, almost luminous, in her pale face.

  `You’re all I want, darling!’ She had to shout above the sib

  banshee wail of the wind. `If we had ended our lives together right here, I would have been content!’

  For a short moment longer he hung there, savouring her words and her touch. Then he was slipping and sliding over the smooth rock face, his injured foot sending messages of pain to his crowded brain. Once he nearly fell, but somehow he managed to summon up the last of his strength and cling to a small niche of rock, and check that the gun was still in his belt. It was nearly over now. He felt the sand soggy beneath his groping feet, and seconds later he was leaning back against the cliff, facing the fury of the sea, and soaked by the spray as well as the water which cascaded down from above.

  He sometimes imagined that he could see the schooner, and wondered what Fraser would say when they met again. He smiled inwardly. Each had nothing to fear from the other. Each had followed his own code in his own way. He thought of the girl he had just left, and shivered. She made the fury of the storm almost unimportant.

  Gillian laid full length and tried to see where Blair was standing. At first she could see only the breakers, and then she saw his small shape, pale against the glistening piece of beach. He looked so isolated and helpless that she wished she had insisted on going down with him.

  Tarrou was murmuring encouragement to the schooner, like a mother to a fretting child. `Come on there! Keep your head up!’

  She smiled. How they had all changed. Blair had been right when he had said that they had been stripped of all pretence and property. They had been left to fend for themselves, as mere mortals, without the protection of their remote society.

  Tarrou’s voice at her side broke off for an instant, and she lifted her eyes to look for the schooner. She saw its shape lengthen as it began to broach to. Then Tarrou began to scream, his voice cracked with anguish. Over and beyond the ship the great tidal wave rode in like another giant cliff. From their position they both saw its unspeakable horror at the same moment, and were stunned by its size and power.

  Like a trapped animal the Queensland Pearl tacked round to meet the challenge, her sails flapping in silent protest as the water raced across the wallowing bulwarks. The wave towered over her full length, so that her slim masts and arching booms stood out with sudden clarity and sad beauty. The white crest curled and broke, and even on the cliff they heard the great rumble of sound as the avalanche of water crashed down on to the unprotected deck. Then the wave had passed over her, and they saw the schooner lying half submerged on her beam ends. Dismasted, her sails and rigging dragging painfully alongside, she appeared to drift willingly on the tearing wake of the wave. She seemed to make one final effort to right herself, the curved line of her poop rising as if in defiance to her destroyer, and then, with a splintering shudder she struck the reef. As the next leaping line of surf subsided from the coral they saw that the sea was empty.

  Tarrou tore his eyes from the place where the ship had vanished and flung himself on the girl’s back, and with all his strength pinned her arms to her sides, while she screamed and pleaded and stared with horrified eyes at the victorious wave as it bore unchallenged towards the foot of the cliff.

  She leaned far over the edge, kicking and tearing at Tarrou’s grip, and trying to find again the small figure at the bottom of the rock wall. She cried his name again and again, her screams lost in the wind and in the roar of the approaching wave. She imagined that she could see his upturned face, and she fought still harder to free herself.

  After crossing the open sea, and gathering the power of the ocean as it went, the tidal wave had all but spent itself on the rock and coral of the reef. Yet, when it reached the foot of the cliff, the very island seemed to shake, and a towering mantle of spray rose up over their heads, so that Tarrou all but let the girl slip through his arms. He realized that she had fallen limp in his grip, and he shook his head dazedly, stunned by the enormity of this final disaster.

  As the sea, hissing and grumbling, subsided from the empty beach, a small gap broke through the racing clouds, and a

  star showed through. The storm had passed, and within the reef the water glided uneasily in the dying wind.

  Tarrou pressed his hands into the girl’s shoulders, and wondered how he could help. Now there was nothing left, and the dawn no longer mattered,

  EPILOGUE

  THE afternoon sun hung motionless over the calm blue water of the harbour, and reflected against the pale grey sides of the Australian frigate which swung easily at her moorings. Her sharp, business-like outline clashed with those of the nodding schooners and high-hulled shape of the Burns Philp steamer, whose spidery derricks clanked and squeaked as she unloaded stores into the waiting li
ghters.

  The frigate’s captain stared down at his ship from the window of Grainger’s office in the British Residency, his sleep-starved eyes momentarily softening with affection. The ensign hung quite limp over the ship, as did the flag outside the office window. A staccato roar filled the quiet harbour with sound, and Grainger rose quickly from his desk and crossed to the other man’s side.

  On the far side of the harbour the Qantas flying-boat shivered under a brief cloud of thin smoke, and then, as the engines settled down into a confident growl, the small boats which hovered nearby began to idle clear, the occupants waving jerkily in the relentless glare.

  Grainger watched with narrowed eyes. `It’s all quite a story,’ he said, half to himself. `If you hadn’t sent a landingparty on to the island I don’t suppose we should ever have known what had happened.’

  The naval officer grunted. `I thought the girl was a gonner, I can tell you, but the other character soon got his strength back.’

  The flying-boat started to taxi slowly across the water, a twin roll of white foam creaming away from her hull.

  Below the Residency some natives paused in their work repairing the roof of a small weatherboard building. Apart from the missing corrugated iron, which had been flung fifty yards up the road, and the small launch which now lay upended on the beach, there was little left to show where the storm had struck and passed on.

  ‘We did all we could for the girl,’ Grainger continued slowly, `but she hardly spoke the whole time. There was a telegram waiting for her from her New York office, but she did not even glance at it. I think it was another assignment for her.’ He shook his head, unable to forget Gillian Bligh’s face.

  `Where’s she off to now?’ The captain’s voice reminded Grainger of Fraser, and his heart felt suddenly heavy.

  `She said she was going home,’ he said simply.

  The flying-boat lifted easily from the clutching water and began to bank lazily towards the west. Grainger turned away from the window and stared at his wall chart. There would be a lot to do on Hog Island before he could relax again, he considered. He tried to raise some enthusiasm, but the noise of the flying-boat’s engines seemed to defy hi; thoughts.

  On the beach, within feet of the gentle water, Tarrou followed the aircraft until its sound and glittering shape had vanished. Gently, and with extreme care, he took the gold cigarette-case from his pocket and turned it over in his hands.

  When he had said good-bye to her as she had stepped down into the waiting launch, she had handed it to him without a word.

  A few people passed him as they walked back towards the town. Those who noticed him assumed that he had been staring too long at the flying-boat. How else could his eyes be so wet?

  End