Hammond Innes - Solomons Seal

‘You mean just a tourist trip. To Bougainville!’ He said it incredulously, glaring at me, his bloodshot eyes still doubtful. ‘Why don’t you fly, then?’

‘I like the sea.’

‘An old bucket like this? If we got another southerly buster, you’d be sick as a dog and so bloo’y frightened-’

‘I know what these ships are like in a blow.’

He didn’t seem to hear me. ‘She rolls and rattles and flops around like a limp sheet of tin. One day she’ll break her bloo’y back.’

‘You don’t have to tell me. I’ve sailed on LCTs before.’ And I added, ‘Maybe on this one. I served in three of them.’

That got through to him at least. ‘Three? You’ve been on three?’ He put his glass down carefully, leaning forward, the frown deepening as he tried to concentrate. ‘This one came from Singapore. There was a number on her. Can’t remember now. I’ve got it somewhere. The British were pulling out, and they were going to scrap her. She was so old they wouldn’t risk sailing her back. Were you in Singapore on LCTs?’

I nodded. ‘I had almost a year there. Before that I was on the St Kilda run. The Outer Hebrides and the North Atlantic. I wouldn’t think you could throw anything worse at me down here than we had on that run.’

He smiled then. ‘You were Army, were you? These ships weren’t Navy ships. They were run by a Maritime Detachment of the Army.’ His uneasiness returned. ‘What was your outfit?’

‘RASC Water Transport. I was doing my National Service.’

He hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, of course. They changed the name. Were you an officer?’ And when I told him I had been newly commissioned as a 2nd lieutenant, he said almost eagerly as though now, suddenly, he wanted to believe me, ‘A deck officer?’

‘Yes. A very junior one.’

‘How much do you remember about running these ships?’ His voice was no longer slurred, his manner almost urgent. ‘You say you like the sea. Have you done any navigating since?’ And when I told him I owned a sailing boat and occasionally raced her in the East Anglian offshore races, he leaned back, laughing quietly to himself. ‘And you just walk on board, like manna from bloo’y heaven. You know these buckets, you sail your own boat — Jesus Christ, there must be a catch in it somewhere.’ He paused, staring at me hard. ‘If I gave you a berth, would you be prepared to work your passage, take a watch? Not officially, of course. Officially my first officer is Pat McAvoy. But unofficially?’

‘What’s wrong with McAvoy?’ I asked.

‘He’s an alcoholic. He’s ashore now. He’s been ashore all during the engine overhaul. I know where he is, an’ his condition. But he’s on the list, and I’ll get him on board before we sail so they can’t stop me.’

‘What about the second officer?’

‘Luke? Luke is from New Britain. Inshore he’s fine, but not on this run. A fisherman’s son, passed his exams, but can’t be left to navigate an ocean passage. He knows the theory, but panics when he’s out of sight of land.’

‘So you’re on your own.’

‘For the run to Bougainville, yes. Coming over, I was five nights on the bridge. Five bloo’y nights with no sleep.’ He straightened up, leaning forward, his voice urgent again as he said, ‘Well, is it a deal? You sign on as a deckie, as one of the crew; then once we’re at sea I make you an acting ship’s officer, okay? There’s no union where I come from, so no problem, and that way, if anything goes wrong, I’m covered.’

‘Nothing I’d like better.’

He laughed then, suddenly relaxed as he reached for the bottle and poured me a stiff drink, slopping some of it on to the table in his excitement. He tipped the rest of the bottle into his own glass, then raised it. ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Slingsby. If you’re what you seem, then for once I’ll have had a slice of luck.’ He gulped down most of his whisky. ‘Bit of a change, that. Luck and I don’t seem to have been on speaking terms for a long while.’

We finished the whisky, and as I was about to leave, I asked him whether he had ever come across an aborigine half-caste named Lewis. But the name meant nothing to him, and he had never heard of Black Holland. ‘Red Holland, yes — but no’ Black Holland. No blacks, only mixeds in my fam’ly.’ And he gave a drunken titter. He tried to get up to see me off, but by then he was almost out on his feet. Slumped back on the settle again, he pulled himself together sufficiently to say, ‘See you Friday morning.’ And then with a great effort, ‘You meant it, didn’t you? ’Bout standing watch.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Send a boat for me at nine. Darling Island, I’ll be there.’

He nodded. ‘Dar’ing — ‘arling Island. Nine. Boat. I’ll be there. Tell Luke.’ His head lolled back, his eyes rolling, the whites yellow.

‘You all right?’

‘Sure. Sure I’m awright.’ His eyes closed, his mouth falling slightly open.

I hesitated, wondering what it was had started him off on a lonely drinking bout. Something he was scared of, but it wasn’t the sea or the condition of his ship. And it wasn’t the prospect of five sleepless nights. Well, doubtless I’d get it out of him in due course. I went back through the wheelhouse and down the bridge ladder. I didn’t have to signal the Yamagata ; there was a big inflatable with outboard at the bottom of the rope ladder now, and the man who had greeted me ran me the short distance to the wharf steps.

Before stepping ashore, I asked him his name, and he said, ‘Luke Pelau.’

I told him who I was and that I’d be sailing with him. ‘Remind Captain Holland to meet me here at o-nine-hundred Friday morning. Meanwhile, get him to bed.’ I was on the point of making some comment, but he didn’t look as though he was in the mood to respond to a touch of humour, his black face blank, almost sullen.

‘Gutbai,’ he said, and gunned the engine, swinging the inflatable out into the dark waters of the harbour, heading back to the slab-sided hull of the LCT, a black silhouette now against the headlights streaming across the Harbour Bridge.

It was a long walk back to the hotel, and I had plenty of time to consider Holland’s strange behaviour. I suppose it was that, and the realisation that in two days’ time I would be at sea with him, that started me thinking again about Carlos Holland and the disappearance of the Holland Trader. I had sandwiches brought up to my room and scribbled a note to Josh Keegan, passing on to him the stamp dealer’s description of the Solomons Seal ship label and enclosing a copy I made of the missionary’s letter confirming Lewis’s ownership. As soon as I had posted it, I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I was too excited. It was the thought of being on the bridge of an LCT again, this time heading out into the Coral Sea towards an unknown Pacific island — I was as excited as I had been that first time, years ago joining ship in the Clyde, and as nervous. But it was a different sort of nervousness now, more a feeling of uneasiness, almost trepidation.

First thing the following morning I went to the Maritime Services building in George Street. To my surprise they not only had records going back to the year 1911 but were able in a very short time to produce the details I had asked for. The Holland Trader had arrived from England via the Cape on July 4, 1911. She had discharged one member of the crew, a seaman, and had signed on two others. She had taken on coal and sailed for Port Moresby on July 10. They were even able to give me the names of the crew members who had been shipped at Sydney. One of them was named Lewis — Merlyn Dai Lewis. He had been signed on as a stoker.

I would have tried the newspaper offices then, to see what had been said about the ship’s disappearance, but I hadn’t time. The restrictions covering currency remittances overseas were very tight so that I had the bank as well as the lawyers to contend with. In the end I only just managed to purchase the additional items of clothing I thought I would need before the shops closed.