Алистер Маклин - South by Java Head

The torch snapped off and quietly, without haste, Nicolson turned away from the rail and stood in front of the young soldier. Alex hadn’t moved, his breath came in short, shallow gasps. Nicolson transferred the torch to his left hand, lined it up, snapped it on, caught a brief glimpse of a white, strained face, bloodless lips drawn back over bared teeth and staring eyes that screwed tight shut as the light struck at them, then hit him once, accurately and very hard, under the corner of the jawbone. He caught the boy before he had started falling, heaved him over the taffrail, slid across himself, stood there for a second, sharply limned in a cone of light from a torch new lit in the boat – McKinnon had prudently bided his time until he had heard the sharp thud of the blow – crooked an arm round the young soldier’s waist and jumped. They hit the water within five feet of the boat, vanished almost silently beneath the oil-bound sea, surfaced, were caught at once by waiting hands and dragged inside the lifeboat, Nicolson cursing and coughing, trying to clear gummed-up eyes, nose and ears, the young soldier lying motionless along the starboard side bench, Vannier and Miss Drachmann working over him with strips torn from Vannier’s shirt.

The passage back to the Viroma was not dangerous, just very brief and very rough indeed, with almost all the passengers so seasick and so weak that they had to be helped out of the boat when they finally came alongside the tanker.

Within fifteen minutes of his jump into the water with the young soldier Nicolson had the lifeboat safely heaved home on her housing on the patent gravity davits, the last of the gripes in position and had turned for a final look at the Kerry Dancer . But there was no sign of her anywhere, she had vanished as if she had never been; she had filled up, slid off the reef and gone to the bottom.

For a moment or two Nicolson stood staring out over the dark waters, then turned to the ladder at his side and climbed slowly up to the bridge.

HALF AN hour later the Viroma was rolling steadily to the south-west under maximum power, the long, low blur of Metsana falling away off the starboard quarter and vanishing into the gloom. Strangely, the typhoon still held off, the hurricane winds had not returned. It could only be that they were moving with the track of the storm: but they had to move out, to break through it sometime.

Nicolson, showered, violently scrubbed and almost free from oil, was standing by the screen window on the bridge, talking quietly to the second mate when Captain Findhorn joined them. He tapped Nicolson lightly on the shoulder.

“A word with you in my cabin, if you please, Mr. Nicolson. You’ll be all right, Mr. Barrett?”

“Yes, sir, of course. I’ll call you if anything happens?” It was half-question, half-statement, and thoroughly typical of Barrett. A good many years older than Nicolson, stolid and unimaginative, Barrett was reliable enough but had no taste at all for responsibility, which was why he was still only a second officer.

“Do that.” Findhorn led the way through the chartroom to his day cabin – it was on the same deck as the bridge-closed the door, checked that the blackout scuttles were shut, switched on the light and waved Nicolson to a settee. He stooped to open a cupboard, and when he stood up he had a couple of glasses and an unopened bottle of Standfast in his hand. He broke the seal, poured three fingers into each glass, and pushed one across to Nicolson.

“Help yourself to water, Johnny. Lord only knows you’ve earned it – and a few hours’ sleep. Just as soon as you leave here.”

“Delighted,” Nicolson murmured, “Just as soon as you wake up, I’ll be off to my bunk. You didn’t leave the bridge all last night. Remember?”

“All right, all right.” Findhorn held up a hand in mock defence. “We’ll argue later.” He drank some whisky, then looked thoughtfully at Nicolson over the rim of his glass. “Well, Johnny, what did you make of her?”

“The Kerry Dancer !”

Findhorn nodded, waiting.

“A slaver,” Nicolson said quietly. “Remember that Arabian steamer the Navy stopped off Ras al Hadd last year?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Identical, as near as makes no difference. Steel doors all over the shop, main and upper decks. Most of them could only be opened from one side. Eight-inch scuttles – where there were scuttles. Ring-bolts beside every bunk. Based on the islands, I suppose, and no lack of trade up round Amoy and Macao.”

“The twentieth century, eh?” Findhorn said softly. “Buying and selling in human lives.”

“Yes,” Nicolson said dryly, “But at least they keep ’em alive. Wait till they catch up with the civilised nations of the west and start on the wholesale stuff – poison gas, concentration camps, the bombing of open cities and what have you. Give ’em time. They’re only amateurs yet.”

“Cynicism, young man, cynicism.” Findhorn shook his head reprovingly. “Anyway, what you say about the Kerry Dancer bears out Brigadier Farnholme’s statements.”

“So you’ve been talking to his Lordship.” Nicolson grinned. “Court-martialling me at dawn tomorrow?”

“What’s that?”

“He didn’t approve of me,” Nicolson explained. “He wasn’t backward about saying so either.”

“Must have changed his mind.” Findhorn refilled their glasses. “ ‘Able young man that, very able, but – ah – impetuous.’ Something like that. Very pukka, the Tuan Besar to the life.”

Nicolson nodded. “I can just see him stuffed to the ears, stewed to the gills and snoring his head off in an arm-chair in the Bengal Club. But he’s a curious bird. Did a good job with a rope in the lifeboat. How phoney do you reckon he is?”

“Not much.” Findhorn considered for a moment. “A little, but not much. A retired army officer for a certainty. Probably upped himself a little bit in rank after his retirement.”

“And what the hell’s a man like that doing aboard the Kerry Dancer !” Nicolson asked curiously.

“All sorts of people are finding themselves with all sorts of strange bed-fellows these days,” Findhorn replied. “And you’re wrong about the Bengal Club, Johnny. He didn’t come from Singapore. He’s some sort of business man in Borneo – he was a bit vague about the business – and he joined the Kerry Dancer in Banjermasin, along with a few other Europeans who found the Japanese making things a little too hot for them. She was supposed to be sailing for Bali, and they hoped to find another ship there that would take them to Darwin. But apparently Siran – that’s the name of the captain, and a thorough-going bad lot according to old Farnholme – got radio orders from his bosses in Macassar to proceed to Kota Bharu. Farnholme bribed him to go to Singapore, and he agreed. Why, heaven only knows, with the Japs more or less knocking at the gates, but there’s always opportunity for sufficiently unscrupulous men to exploit a situation such as exists there just now. Or maybe they expected to make a quick fortune by charging the earth for passages out of Singapore. What they didn’t expect, obviously, was what happened – that the Army should commandeer the Kerry Dancer .”

“Yes, the army,” Nicolson murmured. “I wonder what happened to the soldiers – McKinnon says there were at least two dozen – who went aboard to see that the Kerry Dancer did go straight to Darwin, and no funny tricks?”

“I wonder.” Findhorn was tight-lipped. “Farnholme says they were quartered in the fo’c’sle.”

“With one of these clever little doors that you can only open from one side, maybe?”