Hammond Innes - Solomons Seal

Holland shouted something, but the crew were already galvanised into action, grabbing at the crates and man-handling them across the grinding steel ramps. He scrambled down the ladder, pushed past the men and walked quickly on to the open deck of the lighter, heading for the squat wheelhouse aft. Perenna followed him, but more slowly. I watched her as she climbed down the ladder and walked slowly, almost reluctantly, out through the open bows on to the deck of the other ship. There she stopped suddenly, standing very still as though rooted to the spot. And then I saw him, red hair like hers, standing at the starb’d rail by the wheelhouse door of the RPL, talking to Jona Holland; a short, energetic man in white shirt and shorts, his body leaning forward, his sunglasses catching the light as he turned and stared at her down the length of the ship.

The way they faced each other, both of them quite still, both of them staring; even from that distance I was conscious of something — lust, hate, I don’t know what — sensing it only as a current running between them. They were like that for what seemed a long, breathless minute, and then he had turned abruptly to question her brother, and she was moving resolutely between the trucks, climbing in slow motion up the ladder to the bridge deck. They didn’t shake hands, the three of them standing there, talking heatedly, and a man watching them from the wheelhouse, a black man, wrinkled face framed in one of the windows. Hans Holland jerked his head, a peremptory gesture of command, and they went inside.

I had only once seen an RPL, and that from a distance. I had never been on one. I walked along the catwalk to the for’ard ladder and climbed down into the tank deck. Two crates had already been shifted on to the lighter as I crossed the ramps. It was much smaller than an LCT, less than a third of the length, the bows square, everything very basic — a utilitarian motorised barge. The original grey showed through patches of different coloured paint, the flat steel sides of the cargo deck flaked and pitted by long years of work in the salt and heat of equatorial islands. The motorcycles roped to the sides were Japanese Hondas, four of them and all brand new. But the two small trucks were old American Dodges. It was very hot enclosed in those steel walls, the ramps grinding and the velvet-black backs of the men labouring over the crates glistening with sweat.

Perenna appeared on the bridge ladder, climbed down and walked past me without a word, a blank, set look on her face. She was like a person in a trance; I don’t think she even saw me. After watching her cross the ramps, still walking slowly, still locked in her thoughts, I turned back to the trucks, squeezing between them with the intention of seeing what they carried.

‘You there. Who are you?’ The voice, an Australian accent, came from above me. ‘What are you doing there?’

I came out from behind the truck, looking up to see him standing at the top of the ladder, his red hair bright against the flaking white paint of the wheel-house. ‘Hans Holland?’ I asked.

He came down the ladder at a run, squeezing past the first truck to stand facing me, the sunglasses hiding his eyes, but his mouth a hard line in a hard, tough face. ‘Who are you?’ he asked again. I gave him my name, and he said, ‘The name doesn’t matter. What’s your job? What are you doing on that ship?’

‘Passenger, acting as first officer.’

‘Passenger? I wasn’t told of any passenger.’ He was worried, and he didn’t believe me. ‘What the hell would a passenger know about running an LCT?’ I started to explain, but he cut me short. ‘Get off this ship. You’ve no business-’ He checked himself. ‘No, you wait there.’ And he raced back up the ladder, shouting for Jona.

I stayed there, wondering what he would do now that he knew I was witness to the contents of those crates. Somebody was shouting from across the ramps. The RPL was slewing, Teopas calling for more power, the plates vibrating against the soles of my feet as the engine revs increased. Then he was back, smiling now and more relaxed. ‘So you’re a trained LCT officer and looking for a job out here. That right?’ I nodded. ‘Stick around, then. I’ll see you later, on Bougainville.’ He tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Maybe I could use a trained landing craft man. Not easy to find now.’

I was conscious of him watching for my reaction behind his sunglasses. ‘What sort of a job?’ I asked.

‘We’ll talk about it later. But I promise you this, it will be a ship of your own. You think about it, eh?’ He stared at me for a moment, then switched his gaze for’ard. ‘Better get back now. Looks like that’s the last crate coming across. Just keep your mouth shut when you get ashore. Understand?’

He left me then, hurrying back up the ladder to the wheelhouse.

The two vessels were slewed almost at right angles, the ramps barely touching as I crossed to the LCT. The last crate was shifted across. I waited in the bow door opening for Jona Holland. He only just made it, jumping a gap that was opening up between the ramps. ‘Well?’ I asked him. ‘Did he tell you the destination of those guns?’

He didn’t answer me, only shook his head as he turned aft, moving quickly as though to avoid further questions. The RPL was backing off, the flat steel square of the bow door rising. Somebody shouted to stand clear, and then our own ramp was lifting, the bows closing. By the time I reached the bridge the deck was throbbing under my feet again and we were heading east to turn the end of Shortland Island. The rain had passed seaward, visibility good, and away to port the massive forest-clad bulk of Bougainville showed bright green in the slanting sunlight.

With the guns gone it was as though the ship had been relieved of an incubus, the mood almost carefree as we gathered for drinks in the wardroom before the evening meal. Luke was on watch, McAvoy in his cabin; otherwise we were all there, including Perenna, and nobody referred to what had happened before the RPL had taken the cases from us, talking about other things as though it were best forgotten. ‘We’ll be off Kieta at first light, get rid of those trucks, then go round to the copper port.’ Jona Holland turned to me. ‘If you’ll stand in till midnight, that’ll be it as far as you’re concerned, and you can have a good night’s sleep before going ashore. Luke and I will manage the night watches. I’m very grateful to you for all your help.’ His tone was friendly, his manner almost lighthearted.

Darkness had fallen in a steady downpour of rain, but when I relieved Luke, the island was a black silhouette against the stars and the group flash of the Shortland Harbour light just visible to port. Out on the bridge wing I could smell the land, a damp smell of sodden vegetation mingled with some indefinable aromatic scent. Most of that watch I was thinking about Hans Holland and his offer of a ship. He was buying my silence, of course, but much of my life had been connected with boats, and I didn’t have to like the man, just so long as the driving ambition I had sensed in him gave me the opportunity I was looking for.

Jona relieved me at midnight. There was something on his mind, and he was ill at ease, keeping me there, talking about nothing in particular. And then, when I said I was tired and going to bed, he suddenly came out with it: That job Hans offered you, are you going to take it?’

‘I might,’ I said.

I don’t know whether that was the answer he expected, but he didn’t say anything, just stood there frowning as though working out some complicated pattern in his mind.