Vincent had never fired a shot in anger in his life, but without a second’s hesitation, he squeezed the trigger at point-blank range across Ursula’s back, and as if in a nightmare, he saw the man’s face dissolve into a scarlet blotch, and disappear beneath the car. The shot, its report magnified and distorted by the surrounding trees, made the men around the car fall back in surprise, cannoning into the press behind them.
In that instant, a sort of madness gripped Vincent, and he vaulted out of the car, kicking out savagely at the man nearest him, and firing again twice into the seething crowd of bodies. He felt no pain as a stick struck his arm, only a savage wave of exhilaration as the gun jumped in his hand, and he tasted the stench of cordite. Heedless of the screams, he ran to the burning vehicle, where Lane had fallen to his knees, his hair smouldering on a gleaming, raw scalp.
Vincent jerked him viciously to his feet, shutting out the man’s cry of agony, and trying not to stare at the body of Melanie Lane, which lay a few paces from the car. She must have suffered terribly at the hands of the mob, before someone had cut her throat.
“Get back you bastards!” He didn’t recognize his own voice, or realize that he had fired again, until he saw two men drop writhing at his feet. He only knew that the shining bodywork of Laker’s car represented a haven, and an only chance of escape.
The car moved towards him, the driving door still hanging open, and Ursula’s white face peering through a hole in the frosted windscreen.
“Get in, Lane!” He pushed the man clumsily into the car, seeing Mrs Laker on the floor, where her husband had thrust her, and watching Laker himself, a heavy tyre lever in his hand, thrashing out at the faces behind him.
“Quick, get going!” he choked, groping for the car with his foot, and then crying aloud with pain, as a hard head butted him in the back, and someone else grabbed at his ankle.
“Bastards!” he sobbed, the tears of agony blinding him, and as the car started to move from under him, he twisted sideways, feeling the foul breath in his face, and seeing the eyes filled with hate. The gun jumped in his hand, and he saw the man bare his teeth wildly, as if snapping at his last breath. The hammer clicked again on an empty cylinder, and he flung the useless weapon into the sea of heads around him. He clawed his way into the front of the car, his face brushing against Lane’s limp body, and his feet still dragging along the track. Ursula leaned over, groping for his tunic, her eyes on the weaving pattern of the road ahead.
With a final gasp, Vincent plummeted into the car, and somehow hauled himself upright, temporarily blinded by the sun’s reflection on the dented and scratched bonnet, and still deafened by the screams of the mob, although they were already out of earshot. As he lay against the girl, panting like a wild animal, he remembered Lane at his feet, and saw again in his mind the horribly mutilated body of his wife.
He lowered his head and retched, feeling the sour taste of vomit in his throat. Now that his blood was beginning to settle, a wave of weakness and shock swept over him.
Laker was leaning forward, mopping his face with his sleeve. “Well done, m’boy! Saved us all!”
Vincent swallowed in agony, and spoke through his clenched teeth. “For Christ’s sake shut your stupid mouth!” he ground.
He reached out shakily, and covered the girl’s hand on the wheel, squeezing until it hurt. “You were fine!” he croaked, and she darted a quick glance at his bruised face, her mouth quivering.
Her dress flapped in the breeze, the long scratches on her shoulder like the marks of a giant claw.
“David,” she faltered, “I thought we were done for! I never guessed this sort of thing could happen!”
Vincent wearily reached for his handkerchief, and turned his aching mind to the problem of Lane’s head. “It’s a thing I shall never forget!” he grated, fighting back at a fresh tide of nausea.
After what seemed like an age, they drew up on the harbour wall, several people pressing round, staring at their injuries, and the damage to the car. A whisper of uneasiness rippled through the ragged figures, and Vincent thought, that but for the presence of the soldiers, they would have been attacked again where they sat.
There was a jeep parked by the guard-hut, and the fat figure of Colonel Kyung eased itself from the small seat, and waddled over to them. In addition to his tight uniform, he was wearing a pair of long, shiny jackboots, which gleamed incongruously in the dusty road.
“You make a big fire, Mr. Laker?” His small eyes glittered like stones. “I think it very foolish to damage such a fine place!”
Laker stumbled from the car, his face mottled with anger, and the sudden necessity to cover up his fright.
“My land! Do what I damn well like with it!”
Vincent watched the fat colonel, noting the cruel scars on his cheeks. Go on, he prompted inwardly, hit the silly fool in the face. I shan’t help him! But the colonel merely smiled smugly.
“So long as the gallant Mr. Laker doesn’t waste the time of his Government, or mine, by asking for compensation at some later date!” He shrugged calmly. “If you had not behaved so recklessly, we could have come to some arrangement of course, but now . . .” He shrugged again, enjoying the expression of incredulous dismay which flooded Laker’s face. “However,” he continued in a brisk tone, “I will take your car for myself. I will commandeer, is that what you call it?”
Laker stepped forward, a vein bulging in his neck. “I’ll see you in hell first! I—I’ll drive the thing into the sea before I let your damned body use it!”
Colonel Kyung rapped a sharp command and a handful of rifles rose menacingly. “I think it is time to say farewell,” he snapped. “I am told that most of your estate is unharmed, so we are not ungrateful for your services!”
“You, you,” spluttered Laker, staring round at the watching soldiers and the levelled rifles. “You’ll be sorry for this!”
The colonel grinned and spat on the sand between them.
Vincent stepped forward, trying to disguise the shaking in his legs. “We will go aboard now!” he said sharply. “I think you’ve done and said enough, sir!”
He felt a sigh of relief in his throat as he saw the motor-boat curving towards the jetty. Suddenly he wanted to be aboard the gunboat more than anything else in the world.
He helped the seamen carry Lane into the boat where he lay moaning softly, his bloody head in Mrs. Laker’s lap. Ursula sat in the tiny cabin, her forehead pressed against the seat, her hands balled into tight fists. He smiled at her, ignoring Laker completely.
“You can have a damn good bath when you get aboard and then get some sleep.”
She lowered her head but reached out for the comfort of his hand.
As the boat pushed off from the jetty he saw Colonel Kyung driving the car slowly along the wall, followed admiringly by his men.
* * * * *
Rolfe laid his binoculars down on the flag locker with slow, deliberate movements, his mouth set in a tight line. He was aware that Fallow was watching him fearfully, and that but for the soft commands from Herridge—who was supervising the removal of Lane’s body from the motor-boat—the ship had fallen unnaturally quiet. Not trusting himself to speak, he climbed down to the main deck, a fierce pang of anger twisting his inside into a knot.
Vincent was explaining to the stewards what he wanted done for the two limp women when he looked up and saw Rolfe approaching.
“Well?” Rolfe dropped the word coldly into the silence. “What exactly has been happening?”
Vincent swayed slightly and steadied himself by the guardrail at his back. “The fire, sir. They saw the fire and came after us!” He bit his lip and Rolfe saw the sickness in his face. “They knew we were getting out, and tried to stop us, to get their revenge!” he finished wildly.
Rolfe looked him up and down, noting the torn uniform, and bruised face. He had already guessed what had happened when the explosion of the reservoir blowing up had brought him running to the bridge. Even as he cursed hi
mself for trusting Laker, he had watched the growing wall of smoke over the plateau.
“Why were you so long? Why didn’t you keep an eye on things more carefully?”
Vincent dropped his face, writhing under the Captain’s cold stare. “I did my best, sir, I couldn’t stop him!”
Rolfe turned slowly to Laker who was obviously getting irritated again at being discussed so openly by the officers, in front of the women and two or three watching seamen.
“Mr. Laker,” he began calmly, “is there anything you’d like to add?”
“There’s a hell of a lot I’ve got to add! Yes, indeed!” His grey hair bristled like a wire brush. “I’m not going to be spoken to by a damned jumped-up sailor in this manner!”
The seamen hissed expectantly and even Herridge was rooted to the deck, watching their faces and waiting for the storm to break. Rolfe eyed Laker for a few moments, giving no sign of the fury in his heart.
“When I came to Santu, Mr. Laker,” his tone was almost conversational, “you were reluctant to leave. You gave me certain views which as Acting Consul I was bound to listen to. Then, eventually, you realized the necessity for the evacuation and foolishly I thought you were going to be co-operative and help me with a quiet and efficient operation.” The grey eyes flashed with hidden fire. “But it appears that you decided to be heroic and tried to antagonize these wretched people, as if they haven’t got enough to contend with at the moment!”
Laker’s chin jutted forward, his mouth champing with temper. “I see you’ve been listenin’ to that bloody Felton!” he was shouting now. “Damned Commie! Probably a conchie into the bargain!” he added, groping for some additional insult.
Rolfe stiffened, staring across the other man’s sweating head. “Doctor Felton, as it happens, was a fighter pilot,” he announced tonelessly. “Not that it has any bearing on this matter. But he did very well in the last war, now that we’re on the subject, and while you were sitting on your behind making money and enjoying the high-sounding name of Brigadier, he was fighting for something he believed was worth while!”
Fallow gasped and Vincent forgot his misery as he studied Rolfe’s face, which was twisted into a cruel smile.
“Furthermore, Mr. Laker, your official status here has now ceased to exist, and I am Captain of this ship!” He looked down at Laker’s popping eyes, “And if I get one more bit of trouble from you, I’ll put you under arrest!” He swayed back on his heels, knowing that he meant what he said, and half hoping that Laker would hit him.
“I’ll see about that!” but Laker’s voice was trembling. “I, at least, have done my duty!” he added weakly, the fight gone from him.
Rolfe turned his back on him and put one foot on the ladder. “You have also caused the death of an innocent woman,” he said flatly, and mounted to the bridge, hearing Mrs. Laker’s cry of anguish.
Another minute, and I’ll have flattened him myself, he mused, letting his pent-up breath whistle through his teeth.
He busied himself with the charts, until Fallow pushed his way into the chart room.
“How is Lane getting on? Have you managed to make him comfortable?”
“’E’s quiet now, sir. I’ve made ’im comfortable in the Sick Bay. Gave ’im a shot of morphia, too, sir.”
“Good, good,” Rolfe scratched his chin absently. “It’s a shame we couldn’t have saved his wife!”
Fallow clenched his big fists nervously. “I’m glad you told Mr. Laker what ’e’d done, sir! ’E’ll ’ave to face up to the music when we get to Hong Kong!”
Rolfe regarded him stonily. That’s what you think, he thought, I’ll be answerable for her death, not Laker. He forced a smile. but his eyes were still hard. “It’s been quite a business, hasn’t it?”
Fallow twitched, his bar-taut nerves responding to anything out of the ordinary. A deep-sounding horn, like a fog-siren, echoed across the harbour.
Rolfe grunted with irritation. “Don’t take any notice of that, Number One. I was warned about it when we arrived. It’s a signal from the fort to inform the town that they’ve sighted the fishing fleet!”
They stepped out on to the wing of the bridge, looking up at the high cliff.
“From that high tower they must be able to see a damned long way, it’ll be some time before our lookouts spot anything.”
Fallow glanced around the quiet harbour, his seaman’s mind taking in the problem of Wagtail’s position.
“We’ll be a bit in the way ’ere, sir, won’t we?”
Rolfe’s gaze wandered to the bare horizon. “Yes. Start up the capstan, and we’ll shorten in on the cable!”
Eventually the Wagtail began to drag herself further along her cable towards her stern anchor, the slime-soaked links of the chain clattering on to the deck, and being meticulously scrubbed before they disappeared into the chain locker below.
Idly Rolfe scanned the jetty through his glasses, his lip curling as he saw the fat Chinese colonel still sitting in his new car, the bent bumper of which reached practically to the end of the stonework. He’ll have a job to turn it round and drive it back to the town, he thought, as the jetty’s end was its narrowest part, worn away by the breakers from the open sea beyond.
He swung his glasses on to the horizon, steadying them suddenly as he picked out a mass of tiny dots just mounting over the sun-dappled lip. He smiled secretly, thinking how he would be able to share these sights with Judith. Perhaps the future would be different, and not quite so full of uncertainty, if only she could understand what she had become for him. He shook his head, straining his ears. The sun hung like a red ball over the western sky as if poised and ready to leave the world for another night, but he didn’t notice its splendour any more, he was concentrating on the far distant rumble, which crept lazily across the miles of placid sea like summer thunder.
C.P.O. Herridge, who had been quietly sharpening a knife on a stone just beneath the bridge, raised his head questioningly, his calm features immediately alert. He looked up at Rolfe, an unspoken question on his lips.
Rolfe felt a chill at the base of his spine as he met the other man’s stare. “Gunfire!” he snapped briefly, and as Herridge jumped up, thrusting the knife in his belt, he reached into the wheelhouse and pressed the small red button. Even as the bell clanged madly throughout the ship, the guns on the fort began to fire.
Rolfe could see their black muzzles swinging across the ramparts before settling on the mystery target, then with a shattering roar, like a giant whiplash, each would fire independently and the heavy shells screamed overhead with the noise of an express train.
Vincent ran to his station on the bridge, his previous shock sweeping back remorselessly, and he felt something new to him, something he couldn’t place, but a sensation which drained away his last reserve of calm and outward steadiness.
He nodded jerkily as Chase reported the ship closed up at action stations, not trusting himself to speak. As the guns bellowed again, he winced, biting his lip hard to prevent himself from ducking his head beneath the breast-high plating.
He glanced sideways at Rolfe who was slowly and methodically filling his pipe. The sight of his firm, grim face and the strong fingers pressing home the tobacco did a lot to steady Vincent, but he leaned heavily against the rail, not trusting the strength of his legs.
Rolfe watched him through the smoke of his pipe, sensing the change that had come over Vincent since his return on board. He could sympathize with him, remembering only too well how he had reacted to gunfire when he was first stricken by its ear-shattering roar, so many years ago it seemed now. He dropped his lighter into his pocket, shutting off that train of thought. Sympathy was useless now. “Vincent!” he barked, “are the passengers secure?”
Vincent stared dazedly, “I’m not sure sir. I—I think—”
“It was your job! Now jump about, man! I want all of them taken below to the storerooms, at once!”
Vincent staggered out on to the open wing of the bridge, flinch
ing as another salvo crashed out, as if he expected to be shot down in his tracks.
Rolfe watched him go, thinking of the dark, airless storerooms, which were in the actual hull of the gunboat, just above the keel. On this ship, they were about the only part beneath the waterline, and even then his passengers would have to lie down, there was insufficient room to stand!
He forgot them immediately, as his glasses followed the broad line of advancing fishing boats, scattered across the dappled sea like so many insects. They were much nearer, and from their odd manœuvring, it appeared as if some of the boats were towing several of their companions. All the dun-coloured sails hung limp and useless, yet they were making some sort of progress towards their haven. He snapped his fingers, of course, some of the boats had engines of a sort and they were helping the less fortunate ones.
Then, almost like little white feathers, he saw the fall of shot from the fort’s guns, over and beyond the scurrying boats, kicking up the water in a steady bombardment. Whatever they were firing at much be pretty low in the sea, he thought.
He pounded the teak rail impatiently gripping his pipe stem until his teeth ached, cursing himself with cold, concentrated rage for not bringing Judith aboard earlier. This bombardment might delay matters, it might even—he turned sharply, as Fallow heaved himself down from the gun platform above the bridge. “Well?” He studied the fat, sweaty face, wondering how the man was reacting to this new menace.
“I put a look-out aloft, sir!” Fallow was breathless, but apart from that, he looked little different from usual. “’E can see the target quite well now!” He gulped, “Two biggish landing craft!”
Rolfe digested the information, vaguely aware that Vincent was back in his position, staring woodenly out of the window.
“Right. I’ll come up with you!”
Rolfe ran lightly up the ladder, noting with satisfaction that Herridge and a few hands were removing the last of the deck awnings. From beneath his feet he heard the metallic clang of steel shutters, as the stewards moved through the ship, closing up all scuttles and ports. The quaint, antiquated gunboat, cleared for action as she now was, took on a bare but purposeful appearance.
Send a Gunboat (1960) Page 16