Gibraltar Road (33 page)

As Shaw backed from the car he heard the roar of a fast-moving vehicle pulling out from the stream of traffic, and he thought he recognized Don Jaime’s car. A crowd was starting to gather as it flashed past, then checked, carried on for some way under its own impetus, and then screamed to a stop a few hundred yards farther along towards La Linea.

Karina glanced back through the rear window of the Citroen. When she faced in Shaw’s direction again she seemed to be smiling and composed. She called from the side window, “You won’t get away, my Esmonde.”

“Won’t I!” He was already moving down the beach.

“Even if you do, for now, we shall meet again, of that I am sure.”

“No, Karina, never again.” Keeping low, Shaw ran fast for the water’s edge. As he got there, in time to give Debonnair a hand with shoving out a boat from among the many lining the shingle, he caught a backward glimpse of Karina running up the beach towards the road. The men were coming down to meet her, and with them were two Civil Guards, probably alerted from San Roque.

She’d still try and bluff it out even now.

“All right now, Debbie.”

Shaw, who’d remained in the water to give the boat an initial thrust out, dragged himself over the gunwale and took up the oars, putting his back into the job, his whole soul and every ounce of his effort. The boat shot out fast from the shore, and as he strained away, pulling skilfully, with his seaman’s training helping him and with Debonnair at the tiller, a broad streak of wake widened back towards the beach, standing out clearly under the moon which hung above Algeciras Bay. Looking along that wake, Shaw noticed that Karina was talking frantically to the two Civil Guards, seemed to be arguing; then two more uniformed men came down on to the beach from the roadway and, after a word with the first two, ran along to man and launch a boat.

Shaw cursed.

He didn’t want to fire on the Civil Guard, whose men were only doing their duty; it had been bad enough that he’d been morally responsible for the death of that guardia back at Tarifa last night. Speed was the only defence open to him, and he strained harder at the heavy oars, his chest heaving, breath coming in great gulps. But he had got a good start, and by the time he was within hailing distance of the oil-hulk’s high decks the guardias’ boat was a good cable’s-length astern of him—and not pulling very expertly.

“Debbie,” he gasped. “Give ’em a shout. The hulk.”

She cupped her hands, stood up.

“Sit
down!
You’ll upset the boat.”

She sat; yelled up at the decks, which looked quite deserted. Shaw, looking anxiously over his shoulder and lying on his oars as his boat swept up dead astern, could see no ladders down. He made round for the starboard side, where he could see the long shape of the accommodation-ladder, high up and horizontal in its stowed position—they’d be able to lower that quickly from up top if there was anyone about. Surely there was a watchman of some sort?

If there was one he’d better be awake.

Debonnair yelled again, urgently.

Up above their heads a figure slouched to the ship’s side from the lee of an after deck-house. The watchman—a Gibraltarian by the sound of him—called down, “Who’s there, please?” Debonnair called back, “Commander Shaw of the British Navy.”

A chuckle floated down, a gob of spit plumped into the sea near by. Shaw didn’t wait for the inevitable back-chat.

He roared: “I’ll have you bloody well chucked in gaol if you don’t get a ladder down immediately. It’s a matter of high priority, and I’ve got to see His Excellency. Lower the starboard ladder, and lower it now.”

Shaw’s voice carried authority when he wanted it to.

“Yes, at once, sir, excuse me,” the Gibraltarian said. He disappeared, re-emerged a moment later alongside the starboard ladder.

As Shaw heard the dismal, rusty creaking sound above his head, the sound which indicated that the man was starting to wind the ladder down to them, the first bullets came whining in from the Civil Guards. Shaw pulled in close to the ship’s side. Some bullets zipped through the boat’s sides, smashing the planking, and she began to fill. As the level of the water rose the guardias’ boat swept round the stem of the tanker, collided with the sinking craft. The shock tumbled the men together into the bottom of their boat; Shaw, braced back against the tanker’s wall-like plates, kept his balance. He had an oar in his hand, and as the Civil Guards struggled up and then tried to stand so as to bring their carbines to bear, Shaw swept the heavy blade towards them. It got one man on the hip, hard, laid him flat, sending him smashing into the other, who fell over the gunwale into the water, his carbine going in after him. Taken completely by surprise, he hadn’t even time to cry out.

Shaw panted.

The ladder was coming down now, its bottom platform was nearly in the water. And just about in time. As the heavy platform dipped in just ahead of them Shaw’s boat filled to the rubbing-strake and lay awash. Grabbing Ackroyd, Shaw yelled to Debonnair, “Swim for the ladder!” As soon as he saw her on the way he pushed Ackroyd ahead of him. Debonnair climbed up and gave him a hand to get the little man on to the platform and then Shaw struggled up after them. The other boat had drifted away now, and the ditched guardia was swimming after it, having difficulty because of his heavy clinging uniform.

The small British party went up the steps of the ladder, and when they made the deck Shaw ordered the watchman to hoist away. As the ladder came up Shaw cut short the watchman’s agitated demands for an explanation. “That can wait,” he said tersely. He asked: “Got a signal lamp on the bridge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right.” Shaw dashed for the bridge ladder, ran up. He found the lamp and switched on the power. He trained the reflectors of the big signalling projector towards the harbour, and banged down the key at the side. A moment later the great white beam lanced into the night, up and down, urgently, stabbing across to the inner harbour of Gibraltar, sending its vital message to the Tower, from Commander Shaw to Rear-Admiral Forbes.

When he’d done Shaw lit a cigarette, the first for a hell of a long time; and he drew deeply on it. Then within minutes he heard the wonderful, lovely sound of a British naval power-boat speeding out into the Bay from the gap between the Detached and South Moles.

The telephone rang in the Rear-Admiral’s office. Harrison, the A.D.C., was on the line, his voice tense.

He said, “From H.E., sir, he’s going to broadcast in fifteen minutes—”

The voice went on, “—and the executive order to start the evacuation will be passed to all concerned as soon as he’s finished speaking, and Spain, Tangier, and general Mediterranean shipping will also be informed of the situation. I’m ringing the Brigadier and the A.O.C.—”

Energetically, Forbes broke in. “The situation’s changed somewhat, my lad—if you’ll get off the line, I’m just about to ring H.E. myself.” He added, “Shaw’s back.”

There was an exclamation at the other end, and then Forbes rang off and called The Convent.

The urgent summons of the telephone rasped at Hammersley’s nerves, the sudden noise making him start. The Governor, at this late stage—this almost final stage, as it seemed it must be—of Gibraltar’s life, was just about at his limit. He had been content, after Shaw’s report that morning to take Staunton’s advice and hold up the evacuation, due to start at noon, for a few hours more; that call from Algeciras had been a shot in the arm to the Command and the Staff, but now that those hours had dragged slowly, sickeningly, out until late evening he knew he had no right to go on delaying further. That moment of action had come.

Shaw might be in Algeciras, but Algeciras wasn’t Gibraltar, and most of the ships and the aircraft were waiting now— and so in ten minutes the Governor of Gibraltar would speak to the people for the last time.

And then the telephone had rung.

Hammersley reached out for that phone, jerked the handset off. The sudden quiet was almost ominous . . . and then an urgent voice came along the wire, and at first Hammersley didn’t take in what it had to say.

“Forbes here, sir. It’s all right now. Shaw’s aboard one of the oiling-hulks, and a boat’s gone out to get him.     Ackroyd is with him, and they’ve got the missing part of the power unit.”

Hammersley dropped back into his chair, feeling strangely weak, and then sat deathly still, didn’t answer.

“Are you there, sir?” Forbes sounded impatient.

Just for a moment, everything had gone swinging away before him, and the General felt almost light-headed. At the other end of the line the receiver-rest was jiggled up and down. Anxious now, Forbes repeated, “Are you there?”

“Yes, Forbes, I’m here.” The General’s voice was remote. “I’m sorry—go on.”

“I’m going down to the Tower Steps at once, sir, to meet Shaw. I’ll warn the men working on the fuel unit, tell them to hang on a little longer and reassemble the works as quick as they can—stripping down hasn’t done any good anyway—and disregard any orders to leave—if you’re agreeable?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have a naval doctor at the Tower as well.”

“Doctor? What d’you want him for—is Shaw hurt, Forbes?”

“No. But I understand Ackroyd is a bit off his rocker.” The phone shook in Hammersley’s fingers. He thought, God, what a damnably cruel thing to happen now. . . . He said, “That’s a bit of bad luck, isn’t it?” There was a tremor in his voice now, a tremor which he was quite unable to conceal.

“Yes, I know, sir. We’ll do all we can, though. Do I take it you’ll authorize a further delay, sir?”

Hammersley said, “It’s chancy now, but I’ll give you one more hour—one hour, Forbes, no longer. See to your end, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I’ll meet you at Tower Steps.” Hammersley put down the receiver. Taking it up again a moment later, he spoke to the Deputy Fortress Commander and then rang through direct to the broadcasting people to postpone his announcement.

Shaw came fast through the darkness towards the bright lights of the harbour and the town and made in through the moles. As he neared the jetty he could see the reception committee at Tower Steps—H.E., the Flag Officer, Major Staunton, and others. All the way across from the hulk Shaw had been trying to get Ackroyd to understand what he had to do, how everything depended on him now; he’d tried to get the little man into some sort of frame of mind in which he could grasp what was happening beneath the Rock. And all Ackroyd had done had been to look up at him and giggle.

It had given Shaw the shudders. The pain in his guts had come back tenfold, was coming up to gall the back of his throat. As soon as the boat touched he ran up the steps, pushing Ackroyd ahead of him, the small, vital piece of metal safe in his pocket now. Leaving Debonnair in the boat, he pushed brusquely through the reception committee, a bag of reflexes wanting to rush Ackroyd to AFPU ONE.

He caught Hammersley’s eye. “Reporting back, sir. And now we’d better hurry.”

“Of course.”

Transport was waiting, and Shaw took Ackroyd’s arm and propelled him towards the leading truck. The naval surgeon came towards them, eyes blinking rapidly through thick lenses. He put a hand on Shaw’s shoulder. “Just a moment, Commander,” he said. “My patient.”

Shaw rounded on him, shook off the detaining hand. “Your patient, hell!” he snapped. “He’s got a job to do first. After that you can put him to bed for a year for all I care.”

“But I understand . . . the man . . . I may be able to help in some way—”

“Get in the back of the truck with him, then, and help him as we go along.” Shaw gave the doctor a hard look. “I’m relying on his reacting automatically when we get there. That’s the only way and the only hope. Pills—stethoscopes— they won’t be any good.”

The Surgeon-Commander nodded non-committally, noting that Shaw himself was about all in. Then he got into the back of the truck with Ackroyd and they moved off, Shaw in the front seat, Hammersley and the others in another vehicle behind. They drove quickly along the jetty below the Tower, turned to the right by the Ragged Staff gate and moved along the dockyard’s eastern boundary until they came to the black hole which was the entry to Dockyard Tunnel; they drove under the arch into the gloom. The drips of water, ancient rains which had filtered down through the rock, fell on them, cold as a kiss of death—all the way Shaw could hear the Surgeon-Commander talking to Ackroyd in a low, soothing, continuous flow of words. Now and then Ackroyd’s giggle broke through to exacerbate what was left of Shaw’s nervous system, and then, farther along, the little man started that grotesque humming:
Dum-da, dum-da, dum-da.

After a while the going became hard, the truck seemed to bog down; they had to go slower. Shaw, seething with impatience, was relieved when he heard Hammersley’s order to stop. The General called, “Quicker on foot—pile out, there!”

They left the vehicles where they stood and went forward at the double. If that thing ahead of them went up now at least they wouldn’t know a thing about it. Shortly after they’d started running Shaw could hear the noise of the machine itself; as it got nearer it seemed almost to thud and drum through the living rock itself, a crescendo of sound which battered at the ears and drowned everything else. It was much faster than Shaw remembered it the day he’d first heard it, only—what was it?—five days before.

The noise grew louder, much louder, as they came up to the side tunnel, went along the narrow passage towards the power-house. Shaw glanced at Ackroyd; the man, though pale and shaky, was looking about him, as though more aware of his surroundings now; a chord, Shaw thought, may have been struck already. He prayed fervently that it had, that it would remain responsive.

The heat was intense, and it seemed to Shaw as though it was coming in great waves from the power-house itself; and when they crowded in through the entrance to the vast cavern he saw that the men working on the fuel unit were stripped down to their shorts, great beads of sweat rolling down their glistening bodies. In here, the heat was almost unbearable, and it made Shaw feel faint. He looked across at Ackroyd again, willing him to get cracking on the machine and sort things out. The little man had a frown on his face now, and he looked back at Shaw appealingly, and then away from him to the great thundering machine behind its lead curtain, now half stripped away. As Shaw followed his glance he saw that the metal casing proper was glowing faintly in parts as though it was red-hot.