Hammond Innes - Solomons Seal

I thanked him, and then the launch was swinging away and I was climbing the rusty side. And when I reached the catwalk, and stood looking down at the empty tank deck with the storm and ramp doors at the far end, it was all so familiar that it was like that first time I had gone aboard an LCT at Helensburgh, a young National Serviceman nervous at the thought of going to sea in such a strange craft.

‘You, what you like?’

I turned to find a man in thin blue trousers and a heavy sweater standing below the bridge housing. He was very black with a great mop of frizzy black hair. ‘Is the Captain on board?’ I asked him.

He stared at me, the whites of his eyes showing, and there was a long silence. ‘You like to see him?’

‘Where is he? In the wardroom?’

‘What you want him for?’

I hesitated. ‘Is his name Holland?’

‘He not seeing anybody.’

‘Tell him I have news of his sister.’ I had moved along the catwalk and was now quite close to the man. He was shivering slightly, and the glossy smoothness of his black skin had a blue tinge as though he had been dipped in indigo. ‘You’ll get cold out here,’ I said, moving past him towards the bridge ladder.

‘Okay. I take you.’

‘Don’t bother. I know the way.’ I went up the ladder to the bridge wing and slid back the door to the wheelhouse. It was dark inside, only the glow of the shore lights to show me the dim outline of the wheel and the engine-room telegraph. It was very quiet, no sound of movement or voices, not even a radio, and the hum of the ship’s generator muted to a gentle persistent murmur deep down below me. I went through into the passage leading aft, past the captain’s cabin and the signals office with its radio equipment. Light showed in the heat cracks of the wardroom door, and I pushed it open.

The layout hadn’t changed, a black grease-stained leather settle around two sides of the mess table, some chairs and the inevitable ship photographs and Service plaques on the walls. The mess table had a chart spread half across it, and there were books open, one of them an Admiralty Pilot , and beside it a sheet of paper with some notes. There was also a half-empty bottle of whisky and a china jug with the lip broken. All this I took in at a glance, my mind slipping back twenty years and my eyes fastening on the man slumped at the far end of the settle under the porthole, his legs up and his head leaning back against the corner. He had dark hair, almost black, a square freckled face, very sallow with deep lines creasing the forehead and his mouth hung slightly open.

He looked ill and tired, and I thought for a moment he had fallen into a drunken coma. But then his eyes opened, staring at me wide with shock. Suddenly he sat up, a quick startled movement. ‘Who are you?’

‘You’re the Captain, are you?’ I asked him.

He nodded slowly, his eyes still wide and that startled, almost frightened look. I told him my name, but he didn’t seem to take it in. ‘Who sen’ you?’ His voice was soft, a little slurred. ‘Wha’ you want?’

He wasn’t ill. He was just scared. I could literally smell his fear, the nerve twitching a muscle in his cheek, his self-control almost gone.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, trying to reassure him. ‘I just came to see if you had room for a passenger. They told me you’d be sailing on Friday as soon as you had taken on cargo.’ I was talking fast, trying to give him time to accustom himself to my presence. ‘I’m from England, on business, but I’ve got over a month to kill and I thought-’

‘Who told you I’d be sailing on Friday?’

‘The agents.’

‘An’ you wan’ come with me, on this ship?’ The creases on his forehead deepened as he forced his brain to concentrate. ‘Why? Who put you up to this?’

‘Nobody,’ I said. ‘I’ve just told you, I’ve time to kill and I’ve never been to Bougainville or the Solomons. I’d like to sail with you, that’s all.’ And then, because he bore no resemblance to Perenna Holland and I wanted to make doubly sure of his identity, I asked him if he were the owner as well as the captain.

‘Yes, I own this ship.’ He was staring at me, breathing hard. ‘Didn’t you know that? Didn’t they tell you?’

‘You’re Jona Holland, then.’

‘Who told you that? My name’s Jonathan Holland. Nobody calls me Jona, ‘cept — ‘cept my sister.’ He sounded confused, fear giving way to resentment. ‘I don’t know who you are, what you’re doing here. I’ve got things to consider — decisions — must think clearly, work it out.’ He pushed his hand up through his hair, staring with glazed eyes at the bottle. ‘Tomorrow night and the nex’ night and the nex’. No sleep. Five nights and then-’ He looked up at me suddenly. ‘You know Perenna?’

‘I’ve met her.’

‘In Suffolk?’

‘Yes, at the house in Aldeburgh.’ And I started to explain the circumstances, but he wasn’t listening. Even when I told him she wasn’t there any more, he didn’t seem to take it in, muttering to himself, ‘She doesn’t understand. About money, I mean. The difficulties-’ He checked himself, staring at me with a surprised look as though suddenly conscious of my presence. ‘Sit down. Have a drink.’ He waved vaguely to a chair. ‘Strange girl, Perenna. Tough. She won’t stay there, will she? Not now she’s put him in a home. Did she tell you she’d killed a man? She was with Mother in the kitchen when they burst in, an’ she fought them off with a meat cleaver. Killed one and wounded another before they-’ His eyes were wide open, reliving the scene. ‘She was only seventeen. Blood everywhere. Always remember it. Terrible sham’les.’ I thought for a moment he was going to burst into tears, but then he pulled himself together, a conscious effort. ‘Glasses in cupboard. Wha’ d’you say your name was?’

‘Slingsby,’ I said. ‘Roy Slingsby.’ I got a glass and poured myself a drink, appalled at the scene, at his vivid recollection of it. ‘What caused the natives to behave so violently?’ I asked.

‘Cargo,’ he muttered darkly. ‘Bloo’y Cargo. They go crazy.’ He shook himself as though to get rid of the memory. ‘Why d’you wan’ to go to Bougainville anyway?’ He pronounced it Boganville.

‘I’ve always wanted to visit a Pacific island.’

‘Coral beaches, white sands, blue sea, blue sky, eh?’ He laughed, but on a high, tense note. ‘Bougainville’s not like that. Just rain and mountains and rainforests, and copper, bloo’y copper. Copper and gold. Gone to their silly heads.’ He reached for the bottle, looking round vaguely for his glass, which was lying on the floor. I got it for him, and he mumbled his thanks. Then, suddenly suspicious again: ‘Who you going to see on Bougainville?’

‘Nobody. I don’t know anybody there.’

‘Bloo’y liar.’ The bottle rattled against the glass as he poured the whisky. ‘Nobody goes to Bougainville without a reason.’ He looked up at me, his eyes focusing, his forehead creased with the effort. ‘You going to make trouble, start organising things?’

I hesitated, but his behaviour was so odd … ‘Are you expecting trouble?’ I asked. ‘Is that why you’re scared?’

‘Scared?’

‘Yes, scared. You’re scared of something.’

He shook his head vaguely. ‘Drunk too much,’ he muttered, pushing the glass away. ‘Copper an’ gold. They think it’s Cargo. You know about Cargo?’

It seemed a pointless question, but when I said, Yes, of course I did, he got very excited. ‘You’ve been briefed. They’ve briefed you, and now you want me-’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’m just an estate agent acting for a friend of mine in England. I know nothing about Bougainville, only that you operate out of the Buka Passage.’ I told him about Munnobungle then and having to wait until August 22 for the sale. ‘I’ve time to kill, and this seemed a good way of doing it.’