Redcap (20 page)

And that night the nervous were even more perturbed when, after the bugle had sent the second sitting to dinner, a messenger came down the bridge and whispered to the Captain, and he got up from his table and hurried away, his square red face unusually anxious.

Later, just a little later, they were even more distrait when an increased shudder became noticeable throughout the ship and the plates on the tables began dancing with the vibration, knives and forks and spoons clattering about like a lunatic orchestra, a vibration which made it feel as though the
New South Wales
was about to shake apart. The water swished more strongly past the hull, and when the ship heeled over sharply to starboard and the Indian Ocean rose up over the dining-room scuttles with a sudden hissing sound, the scared mutterings of the diners rose to the proportions of a minor panic. In the middle of all this a second messenger came down and approached the quiet man, the naval officer at Table 20, the man whom only a few of the passengers had got to know, and he too got up and slipped quietly away.

Nobody noticed the quiet smile which played around the flabby mouth of Sigurd Andersson; they were all too worried, too much in suspense.

They were left in doubt for only a little while longer.

Just after Shaw had left, the loudspeakers clicked on and Sir Donald’s voice came over. He said, “This is the Captain speaking, to all passengers and crew. You may be wondering what is happening.” There was a pause. “There is no cause for alarm. The
New South Wales
has altered course to the eastward and is increasing speed to her maximum. She is proceeding to the assistance of a ship with an injured man aboard, in response to a call for urgent medical assistance. This may delay the ship’s arrival in Fremantle and any inconvenience is regretted, but the man is understood to have little chance of surviving if we do not get there in time. That is all.”

The loudspeakers went off, and there was a silence; then everyone began talking at once, their voices high and excited, the suspense over. Of course-—-those planes had had some connexion with this medical call. Why hadn’t they been told earlier? When they got safely to Sydney, they would make a complaint about the Captain’s lack of consideration. Now, bottles of wine were called for, as though some celebration was indicated. There was an immediate, and feverishly unhealthy, raising of spirits; after dinner, an enthusiastic gathering played tombola in the veranda lounge, others danced to the ship’s orchestra, sweating away in the Square. Old ladies were back to their normal level of complaint. There wasn’t anything to worry about, after all.

Only a merchant seaman who was dying.

The Captain was in the chart-room when Shaw reached the bridge. He said, “I expect you’ve heard the broadcast. I thought you might care to come up and talk about this. The ship’s
there
.” He put his pencil on a small circle drawn on the chart. “We should rendezvous just about dawn at this speed.”

A little devil of mistrust was eating into Shaw’s brain. He asked, “What are the circumstances of the distress call, sir?”

Sir Donald said briefly, “That’s what I wanted to tell you. You’re not going to like this. She’s a tanker under the Chinese flag.”

Shaw’s heart lurched. “I certainly don’t like it,” he said grimly. “What did she say?”

“She’s the
Tungtai
, out of Brisbane for the Persian Gulf in ballast, through the Torres Strait. Man’s fallen down a tank while they were tank cleaning ready for loading high-octane spirit in Abadan. Broken his back, they think.”

“Has anyone else answered the call?”

“Yes, but there isn’t anyone else with a doctor aboard that’s near enough. She’s right off the Indian Ocean route, you see. According to the shipping reports, there’s an Orient liner—the
Oriana
—coming through the Bight from Melbourne, but that’s no use.”

“What about the aircraft carrier—those Fleet Air Arm planes—”

“We don’t know there was a carrier—that was only supposition. They could have come from a shore airfield, no doubt. Anyway, no carrier’s answered. It’s got to be us, Shaw.”

“I don’t like this at all.”

“Neither do I, in the circumstances, but—”

“I’m thinking about what we were saying early this morning, sir. I’m thinking about the boys who used to shadow the convoys. There may be more than just a tanker there, and somebody may be meaning to take REDCAP off us.” His face seemed thin and strained as he looked sharply at the Captain. “I suppose you must answer the call?”

“No possible question about that. I have no choice.”

Shaw said quietly, “I think you should give it a miss.”

Sir Donald stared, his face darkening. “Shaw, you’re a sailor. Wouldn’t you have answered a distress call when you were at sea?”

“Of course I would—unless by doing so I compromised something far bigger than one man’s life. I’m sorry, sir. But this is the kind of thing we had to face so often in the War . . . the sacrifice of life for a greater purpose, a greater good.”

Sir Donald snapped, “Don’t be sanctimonious. And don’t talk to me about the War. I’m R.N.R. In the First War I was a snotty in a destroyer. In the Second I was a convoy commodore. I’ve had some of that kind of thing.”

Shaw smiled, a tight, strained smile. He said, “Sorry again! Perhaps I’m worrying over nothing. But I’m sure I’m not.”

Sir Donald slammed his fist on to the chart. “Well, I’m not prepared to chance it. I’m not leaving a man to die for want of medical care unless there’s some real, concrete evidence that this call’s a phoney.” He breathed heavily. “Dammit, a Chinese can get injured the same as anybody else. He can die, too.”

Shaw compressed his lips. He said tightly, “Don’t forget that plane. It was just as though it was fixing our course and speed, and our position at that time. I don’t know what they wanted to do, but it could be that they were fixing us just so that we could be headed into a danger area by a phoney distress call to be sent at precisely the right time when that pilot knew we’d be the only ship to answer. He’d probably flown over the whole area before that call went out. Don’t you see, sir? We’d be a sitting duck!”

The Captain swung round irritably, walked up and down. Then he said, “Shaw, I know you’re not an ass. If I thought you were right, I wouldn’t risk my passengers—you know that. But I don’t think you are right. Those Australian planes patrolled the area and reported everything in order. That’s
fact
. What you say in just conjecture.”

“Yes, it could be, I know. All the same, I smell a trap.” Shaw thought for a moment. “Have you a Lloyd’s List handy, sir?”

The Captain put his hand on a large volume on a shelf, took it down. “I’ve just been checking her myself. She’s perfectly genuine. But have a look for yourself if you want to.”

“Thanks.” Shaw riffled the pages, found the tanker and glanced at the particulars. The Tungrni was a fairly old ship, a medium-sized T2 bought from Britain, just over 18,000 tons, capable of 17.5 knots. Carrying no passengers she would scarcely, particularly under Chinese regulations, be likely to have a doctor aboard. He asked, “Would you be prepared to call her up, sir, and ask her to repeat her message? Then if it’s a fake—if it’s been sent by some one else in her name, say—at least we’ll know.”

“My dear chap, no one would be ass enough to send a signal in the name of another ship. Too easy to do what you suggest—check! Besides, the
Tungtai
would be keeping her own listening watch. She’d pick up the transmission herself and query it on the air.”

“Yes, I dare say, but it would help to set my mind at rest. Perhaps they wouldn’t realize I’d got such a suspicious mind!”

The Captain grunted and turned away irritably, but he gave the order to have the message checked. The call-sign of the
Tungtai
was made and acknowledged quickly. She repeated her original signal word for word and added:

SEAMAN NOW WORSE PLEASE HURRY

Sir Donald’s face set grimly and he snapped into the telephone to the radio office: “Make,
New South Wales
will be with you soonest possible
.” He turned to Shaw. “Well— that’s that.”

Shaw, meanwhile, had been doing some fast thinking. He said, “Very well, sir. But would you meet me on one point?”

“What is it?”

“I’d like air cover. May I signal my contact in Sydney and ask for aircraft to meet us in the rendezvous position? If we’re covered . . . we may even get this thing settled once and for all.”

“You just don’t believe in this call, do you?” Sir Donald asked.

“No, I don’t, sir.”

The Captain frowned, but said: “Well, you can have your air cover, Shaw. I’ve no objection to that.”

“Thank you, sir.” Shaw went below then, encyphered the signal. If some poor so-and-so really was dying out there in the waste of seas, he could only beg his pardon and hope the liner would get there in time. Nevertheless, he felt that the job was crystallizing at last. He had to admit that to some extent at least he was working on instinct but, like Latymer, his instinct seldom let him down. That was one of the things about this game—without a flair for inspired guessing and an ability to act on one’s intuitions, you were lost half the time, you never got anywhere. . . .

That night Shaw slept very little. He lay awake for some hours listening to the surge of the water, feeling the quiver of the racing ship as she cut through the seas, a huge, lighted bulk thrusting the water aside, pounding on to—what?

At dawn Shaw stirred from what was by now a heavy, tired sleep. The curtain on his door was billowing out a little in a draught coming through the slats of the jalousie. He got up, pulled down the jalousie, looked out at the lightening sea. There was a fresh breeze ruffling it up into little furrows. They should be sighting the
Tungtai
about now. Shaw pulled on shirt and trousers quickly, and then spun the chambers in his revolver, loaded it, slipped spare rounds into his pocket. Then he fastened the shoulder-holster and slipped his light jacket on. He left the cabin, went along the silent alleyways and up on deck to the bridge.

Soon after Shaw reached the bridge, the officer-of-the-watch reported a smudge of smoke low down on the horizon to the south-east.

They looked ahead through glasses and within a few minutes a ship was seen plainly. She was a tanker and she was travelling fast; and she was alone.

A moment later she began flashing.

The officer-of-the-watch reported: “
Tungtai
, sir. Made her signal letters. She requests instructions for transfer of the injured man.”

Sir Donald, with an ‘I-told-you-so’ look at Shaw, said: “Very well. Tell her to approach and lie off my port side and be ruddy careful how she comes up. Tell her I’ll send a boat across.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The orders were passed to the
Tungtai
and within twenty minutes the covering aircraft requested by Shaw had arrived and made contact by signal, and the tanker was lying-to a couple of cable-lengths off the
New South Wales
with the plane zooming low over her; and a boat was being lowered from the liner to go across with the doctor. With them was Shaw, on the lookout for trouble still. He and Kelly, the liner’s Senior Second Officer who was in charge of the boat, were both armed. The decks were lined with onlookers until the Staff Commander cleared all passengers away, for the weight of bodies was giving the liner an awkward list.

As they pulled away, making for the tanker’s pilot-ladder just for’ard of her bridge, Shaw watched the yellow faces peering down from the
Tungtai’s
decks. Soon the boat was alongside and Shaw climbed up. Kelly, Dr O’Hara and two seamen came up behind him, and a Neil Robinson stretcher was lifted from the boat on a heaving line.

At the top, Shaw was met by a Chinese officer. All smiles and geniality, this man said in broken English: “Thank you for coming so fast. The man is badly hurt.” Even now Shaw felt surprise at that. He asked,

“You really have got an injured seaman aboard?”

“Certainly.” The officer looked at him oddly. “Come with me to see the Master.”

Shaw and the two British officers followed him up ladders to the tanker’s wheelhouse where a squat, ugly man stood looking out through the for’ard screen. He turned as Shaw came in, and he and his officer spoke rapidly together in Chinese. Then the Master turned to Shaw, smiled and bowed. He said, “You are most good, to come to us. Please carry my felicitations to your Captain.”

Shaw said, “I’ll do that. But first I want to have a look at that injured man of yours.”

“Yes, certainly. He is in his quarters, waiting for your doctor to come.” The Master gestured to one of his hands. O’Hara and Shaw, leaving Kelly on the bridge, followed the man down a ladder and aft along the flying-bridge which led above the tank-tops to the crew’s accommodation in the stem superstructure. O’Hara had the stretcher with him. They were taken to a doorway where they were met by a big, raw-boned Chinese in dirty blue jeans and a peaked cap. This man, who appeared to be a man of authority, probably the bos’n, led them down a ladder into a mess-room con-taming a single long table and many wooden bunks lining the bulkheads. The place was close, smelly; the atmosphere could have been cut with a knife. Men lay in the bunks, smoking but otherwise inert like corpses. There was an overpowering opium smell. The place gave Shaw the shivers. The injured man was pointed out to them, and they went quickly to the bunk-side.

Gently, O’Hara moved the man. There was a long-drawn groan; Shaw’s face went white. Quickly O’Hara assembled a hypodermic, cursing at the filthy condition of the room. He plunged the needle into the man’s arm, muttered: “That won’t put him right out, but it’ll make the end easier.”

“You don’t think he’s going to last, then?”

“Last!” O’Hara gave a grim laugh. “We might just as well have saved our time so far as saving his life goes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, we can’t leave him in this filth. Can you give me a hand? I want to roll him on to his side so we can ease him back on to the stretcher.”