Lawrence Durrell - Judith

It was mid-morning before the direct sunlight woke them, glaring down on their unshaven faces and creased eyes. The Yemeni boy brewed tea with a studious air and added condensed milk to it as he handed round the tin mugs. Yawning and stretching, they looked about them with satisfaction. They were quite alone in a harbour of natural rock, distinguished only by the fact that there was an abandoned jetty with a small rusty crane, together with the anomalous remains of a light railway which, at some time in the distant past, had connected with a stone tip jutting from an abandoned quarry on the hillside. But the workings had long since been abandoned, the miners had gone. It was a desolate corner, overgrown with shrubs and arbutus. Tortoises crunched about, hunting for warm stones on which to doze; lizards flickered among the rocks, bent on the same errand. High up in the blue a golden eagle sat motionless, staring down at them. The cliff-tops were deserted; so was the narrow rutted road which climbed up into nowhere. Isaac rubbed his hands with pleasure and sipped the nauseating ship’s brew with unction. They were hours too early for the rendezvous, and this too was very pleasant: Isaac was a methodical man and liked to take his time. The crew smoked and lounged, while from the galley came the pleasant odour of a beef stew with olives.

Nadeb, the engineer, went so far as to climb the nearest cliff and sweep the horizon with the glasses, but the few smudges he picked up were too distant to identify. It pleased him, however, to imagine that they were “Limpet” and “Havoc” sniffing down a false trail. He made a signal to the ship and cried, “We’ve lost them!”

“For how long, I wonder,” said Isaac thoughtfully, thinking of the return journey ahead of them. Nadeb had turned the glasses onto the Turkish coast now, sweeping the cliffs slowly and methodically. He picked out the distant smoke of a little town or hamlet, but no trace of guard posts or sentries. He came slowly down to sea-level once more and sat upon the jetty, dangling his long legs. “It’s absolutely deserted,” he said, in a tone touched with regret — he enjoyed excitement and was a choice shot with a pistol or a rifle. “Not a soul about.”

Isaac grunted happily as he filled his pipe.

“With any luck we’ll have the same mist tonight,” added Nadeb. “It will be an easy run, smooth as milk.”

“Touch wood.”

“Touch wood.”

Both did so and smiled. Isaac rose and stretched, emitting a fragrant cloud of smoke from mouth and nostrils. “I should say they will be here by five or six — then a quick load and turn-around, and… our troubles will begin.” He was not really as pessimistic as he sounded. They fell briefly to business now, standing the “Zion” in close alongside the ramshackle pierhead under the crane, and making her fast to the still-sturdy bollards. Then, as the crew fell to darning socks or playing cards, Isaac spent an hour with his pocket Bible, pencil and pad. He had contracted a schoolboy passion for playing county-cricket in this fashion, letting each letter stand for a number of runs scored. The life of each batsman was determined by the emergence of the letters “O” (out), “B” (bowled), “C” (caught), and so on. He had in fact managed in this singular fashion to play his way twice through the Bible without actually reading a word of it. He was in the middle of Judges now. It looked as though Surrey was going to beat Kent.

So the day passed in fitful lounging, punctuated by intervals for food and wine; some of the crew went ashore and skidded pebbles along the flat surface of the water. The sun was warm too, too warm. The Yemeni slept. The atmosphere was that of a leisurely picnic in some London park. They had almost forgotten their assignment, it would seem. Nadeb played patience earnestly, swearing softly from time to time.

A cry brought them to their feet: on the top of the headland stood the small and stocky figure of a young man. He wore a dirty mackintosh, cloth cap and long jackboots. He signalled with a kind of tentative urgency, the purport of his gestures being to enquire whether everything was normal. Isaac nodded and gave the pre-arranged reply by shaking hands with himself like a Chinaman. The young man nodded and pointed away across the cliffs; he disappeared at a lurching run.

“Here they come,” said Nadeb. Isaac, carefully consulting his watch and then the now westering sun, only grunted agreement. In a little while the noises of motors gradually grew upon the silence and increased in volume, until at last the two lorries appeared against the sky with their loaded crates jogging. They changed into bottom gear and, slowly as snails, dipped down upon the rough cart track, grinding and screeching. Beside them walked a little group of officials wearing a uniform which vaguely suggested a Customs Service; rather ahead, and accompanying the young man, walked a tall man in plain clothes who had the indefinable air of a plainclothes policeman. They advanced with grave courtesy, and Isaac and his crew stepped forward to meet them. The young man in the jackboots had a strong and purposeful air which suggested that this was his responsibility, his operation. His handclasp was rough like his voice. He said “Karageorge” and gave a stiff, sawing bow, full of grave awkwardness. Isaac responded with a bob, and, taking his pipe from his mouth, announced himself as “Jordan”.

“Everything is in order.”

“Excellent.”

After a grave ritual of handshakes, they turned their united attention to the loading operation: the lorries were run carefully onto the slip and the squeaky crane was brought into play to shift the crates aboard. The young man now touched Isaac’s arm; he had begun to look nervous and his lips trembled. “You’ll have to hurry,” he said in a low voice. Isaac turned from the chaffering crew and the officials to look at him. “Hurry?” he said. “Why?”

The young man turned aside and beckoned to him with a short choppy gesture: he wanted to tell him something which must not be overheard by the rest of the group — or so it seemed. Not that there was any apparent danger, for everyone was talking amiably, the officials in low voices. Money was being exchanged and papers which looked like Bills of Lading. Isaac walked over to the young man who uttered a few words — words so apparently surprising that the old man let the pipe drop from his mouth and only just retrieved it before it fell to the ground. His face had gone blank. He gazed uncomprehendingly at the crates. “Which ones?” he asked hoarsely. The young man licked his lips and answered, “Number Two and Three. They are marked.” Isaac turned upon him with sudden incoherent expostulation. “But, my God,” he burst out, “surely you could have…?” A gesture from the young man silenced him. “There were great difficulties. The Agency had trouble. There was nothing else to be done.”

“Goddammit,” said Isaac, striking his knee. He turned to the “Zion” — the crates had been loaded swiftly and expertly, the formalities seemed to be all but completed. He took one startled look at the young man’s face and began to hurry down the slip towards his boat. At the pierhead he said a hurried farewell to the officials, yelling “Engine-room!” over his shoulder in a voice which earned him a startled look from his engineer. He clambered aboard awkwardly and added: “No time to be lost. Cast off.” This sudden burst of urgency puzzled his crew but they obeyed. The engines throbbed and the “Zion” turned her black snout in a slow arc towards the harbour entrance, her wake beginning to fan out under the screws. Isaac waved incoherently to the group on shore and added croakily: “Full ahead there.” Nadeb remonstrated in a shocked tone. “Full ahead? You’ll spring her plates.” But a glance from Isaac quelled him, and the “Zion” began to throb in every rivet. Isaac whistled and beckoned to three men. He hissed: “Axes and crowbars. And look quick about it.” They looked at him in a dazed fashion but he made a savage, throat-slitting gesture which electrified them into action. Isaac himself unbuckled the heavy fire-axe which was strapped to the thwart beside him. “Nadeb,” he said, “round the first headland we heave-to, see?” Nadeb did not see. “What are we going to do? Break up the bloody ship?”