The Strode Venturer (33 page)

“Then why have those two vedis sailed?”

“Natives. They know nothing about navigation.”

“Excuse please.”

Ali Raza moved forward, but Reece brushed him aside. “Do you think I’d make an error of navigation of over 500 miles? If they want to kill themselves, that’s their affair. It proves nothing. The shallows on which we grounded were volcanic. You know that as well as I do. So was the island in my opinion—all part of a volcanic instability.”

“Then why didn’t you make an attempt to get the shore party off?”

It pulled him up short and the sweat burst out on his forehead. “I have explained all that in my report. My first consideration was for the safety of the ship.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve read your report. It’s very convincing, but if you thought the island——”

“You’re trying to blame me for what’s happened. It’s not my fault—it’s Strode’s. Taking the ship into an area like that, anchoring her on top of a submarine volcano—he must have been crazy. If it hadn’t been for me——”

“You dirty little Welsh bastard!” A great paw of a hand reached out and gripped him by the shoulders. “You left them there to rot.” Deacon’s voice, solid, angry, with an edge of violence in it, held us all rooted, whilst Reece squirmed in his grasp.

How long he’d been there, how much he’d heard I don’t know. He had entered without a sound and now he stood like an enormous bear, his black, matted chest of hair showing through the open front of his pyjama jacket. He wore an old pair of blue serge trousers, worn-out carpet slippers, and the bald dome of his head shone in the light. “Well?” The grip of his hand on Reece’s shoulder tightened, thick hairy fingers digging into the man’s flesh. “Why did you do it? Why did you leave him there if you were so bloody sure the place was going to erupt in your face?”

“I didn’t think there was any immediate danger.” The words came in a rush—quick, almost glib. “It was the storm that concerned me then, you see. I had to think of the ship.”

“Come here.” Deacon lumbered to the chart table, dragging Reece with him. “You went aground somewhere there—that’s what you claim, isn’t it?” His thick finger pointed to the position Reece had given and which I had pencilled in on the chart. “On the northern tip of a big area of shallows. Are you telling me those shallows wouldn’t be visible from the air?”

“It’s quite possible,” Canning interjected. “The light out here can be very difficult, especially in the afternoon heat.”

“What about the ship then?” Deacon had swung his big head, his bloodshot eyes seeming to stare as he faced Canning. “The
Strode Trader
must have been about halfway between the island and Gan when you began your search.”

“The crews went out before dawn and returned after dark. There was no possibility of their sighting the ship.”

“All right. They couldn’t see the ship because it was dark and they missed the shallows because of the midday haze. But Christ! There’s no excuse for missing a bloody island, not with radar.”

Canning didn’t say anything and his silence was more expressive than words.

“It’s disappeared. That’s your point, is it? Bloody convenient!” Deacon growled. “Since your aircrews have failed to sight it you say it isn’t there any more. Christ Almighty, man! Why can’t you admit you’ve been searching the wrong area?” He stared at Canning, and when the C.O. made no comment, he swung round on Reece again, his eyes blazing with anger. “Who told you to fix it so that they were left to fend for themselves?”

Reece looked up, a quick movement of his head. He was scared then. “Nobody,” he said quickly, and the way he said it, the sudden shiftiness of his eyes—it made me want to take hold of him and shake the truth out of him.

Deacon’s hand reached out, gripped his shoulder again. “You’re lying.” Canning started to say that accusations of that sort didn’t help, but Deacon turned on him furiously. “I know when a man’s lying. Somebody’s got at him.”

There was a heavy silence. Finally Deacon let go of Reece. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s not important at the moment. What worries Bailey and myself is those men—out there in the middle of the Indian Ocean with nobody bothering to look for them any more.” He turned back to the chart, ignoring Reece, his eyes on Canning. “You’ve searched one area and found nothing. What’s your objection to searching there?” And he jabbed at the chart with his finger. “Don’t forget, I’ve been to this island, too. And I say it’s there—somewhere in that area. Hm?” The phlegm sounded in his throat as he stared belligerently. “Well, what do you say to that?”

Canning gave a little shrug. “There’s nothing I can say. A resumption of the search requires Air Ministry authority. Of course, if Captain Reece were in any doubt about his position …”

“I have no doubts,” Reece said quickly. “No doubts whatever.” He reached for the dividers and measured the distance against degrees and minutes at the side of the chart. “There’s just on six hundred miles between his position and mine.” He turned to Deacon. “Are you accusing me of deliberately giving a false position?” Even Deacon wasn’t prepared to go that far and Reece was suddenly sure of himself as he faced Canning. “I’ve said this to you before and I’ll say it again in front of these two gentlemen: the position I have given is not exact, but it is reasonably correct. That I will swear to.” It was said firmly, confidently, and I could see Canning comparing the two of them and settling irrevocably for the neat, tidy, reasonable Reece who probably didn’t drink and was ambitious. I couldn’t blame him. Reece had brought his ship in leaking like a sieve and gutted by fire. He was, therefore, the sort of man you could rely on. Not like Deacon whose reputation in Gan was that of a drunk who let his ship be run by a Chinese steward and who was now standing
there, baffled and sullen, a great fat slob of a man looking like a brewer’s drayman, half-clothed and with the black stubble of a beard accentuating the ill pallor of his skin.

Deacon must have sensed the comparison that was being made for he turned to Canning and said, “So you’ve made up your mind. You won’t fly a search in that area?” He pointed to the red circle on the chart.

“I’m afraid it’s out of my hands now. If you can put up a convincing case, then I’ll be happy to pass it on to Air Ministry.” The matter was closed as far as Canning was concerned.

Deacon stared at him for a moment, then at Reece. Finally he seemed to brace himself. “Mr. Fields!” The first officer materialized in the doorway as though he had been waiting upon his cue. “Clear the ship and prepare for sea.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“If you’re thinking of taking your ship into that area I must warn you …”

“You can’t stop me.”

“No. But you do so at your own risk. You understand that?”

“What risk? What the hell are you talking about? I’m going five hundred miles away from where Reece says he was.”

An awkward silence followed, the two of them standing there facing each other. But Canning was far too experienced an officer to let his personal feelings over-ride his duty. Quietly he reminded Deacon that air-sea rescue in the Indian Ocean was his responsibility, that his air crews had already pressed one search to the point of exhaustion. “I don’t want any more trouble.” And he added, “You don’t seem to understand what Captain Reece has been telling you. The shallows where his ship stranded were volcanically active. That activity may be just local or it may extend over a wide area.”

And Reece, still following his own train of thought, said, “They’d no boats, you see—no means of getting away from the place.”

“What’s that got to do with it if the position you’ve given is the wrong one?” Deacon spoke slowly, a hoarse whisper, and a little runnel of sweat ran down the side of his face as he swung his head to stare at Reece. “You little bastard!” he said in that same hoarse whisper. “You’re lying—about something; but I don’t know what it is.” He looked sick and tired and his eyes had a baffled look. Canning had turned towards the door, Goodwin at his heels. Reece started to follow him, but Deacon gripped him by the shoulder again. “You’re coming with us,” he said. “We’ll see who’s bloody right, you or me.”

I saw Reece’s fist clench and I moved just ahead of Goodwin. “Let him go,” I said. “You’ll find out the truth, whether he’s with you or not.”

Deacon hesitated. Then slowly his hand relaxed its grip. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But truth is not an absolute and the events that lead to a man’s death can be very devious.” He was looking at me then and I knew he was referring to my father. But what surprised me was his choice of words, the remnants of a good education glimpsed through the rags of life’s hard schooling. He turned abruptly and went out on to the wing of the bridge, his voice bawling at the mate to get a man on the helm.

“Are you coming ashore?” Canning asked me.

“No,” I said.

He nodded, his mouth a tight line, his eyes cold and unsmiling. Isolated here in the middle of a big ocean he carried a heavy load on his shoulders and I was glad I didn’t have his burden of responsibility. “I’ll instruct my people to maintain wireless contact. And I’ll notify Air Ministry, of course.” At the head of the gangway he turned to me again. “I’m sorry, Bailey. It’s the best I can do in the circumstances.”

“I understand,” I said, and I stood there and watched them go, the launch cutting a broad V of white in the darkness as it headed in towards the jetty. I was thinking of the broken line of the palms on Wilingili that I had seen from the helicopter and my gaze turned involuntarily to the beached hulk of the
Strode Trader
standing black against
the low shore line, remembering how it had happened. Now that I was back in the islands it all seemed to add up to one thing. And if Canning were right, if the whole area were unstable …

“Can’t you persuade him to hold off till morning, sir?” It was Wilcox, angry at being told to get his men off the ship when unloading had only just begun.

“No,” I said. “And I don’t intend to try.”

The anchor was coming up, the hatch cover
going
on, the cargo booms already lowered; a hiss of steam from for’ard of the funnel, a white plume against the stars, and then the boom of the siren, brazen in the quiet of the night. I sent Ali Raza ashore with the marine craft officer, and when he had gone I felt suddenly depressed, cut off from the world I knew, the future full of uncertainty. The bridge was manned now, the deck alive under my feet. The engine-room telegraph rang; the screw threshed the water. The
Strode Venturer
gathered way, throwing off the last of the barge warps as she swung her bows towards the Wilingili Channel. And as we steamed through it and the dark line of Addu Atoll was swallowed up astern, I knew there was no escape. I was committed now. The night air was warm on my face and ahead of me the Indian Ocean lay stretched out under the stars. But all I saw was what was in my mind—the water boiling on those shallows, the pumice and the smell of sulphur, the ship stranded. I didn’t think I could expect to get away with it a second time.

Two days out from Addu Atoll and the day dawning like all the other days I had spent on that strange ship. I woke to the surge of the bow wave and a flat calm sea that was like the beaten surface of a bronze shield. Then suddenly the sun was up and it was hot, the sea a mirror so full of light it hurt the eyes. A knock at the door, and one of the
Chinese crew came in with a wireless message. It was from George Strode ordering the ship to return to Gan immediately to complete the unloading of R.A.F. stores. It was a terse, angry message, demanding an explanation of the ship’s failure to deliver the cargo and threatening legal action.

I lay there listening to the sound of the sea and thinking about the future, my naked body sweating under the coarse cotton sheet; thinking, too, of what Ida had said in that letter, the Strode Orient meeting only a fortnight away and Felden now prepared to vote for the liquidation of the company. We couldn’t even rely on Whimbrill any more,
They have made him an offer and he is under great pressure.
And Ida had added,
I have done my best. I am at Strode House almost every day. But unless you find the island—and Peter—the situation is hopeless.

I stared out of the open porthole. Nothing but sea—endless, flat and torpid with the heat. The horizon was already hazed, a blurred line shimmering. London seemed a long way away, so remote that I thought it hardly worth the effort of replying to Ida’s letter. The knowledge that to-morrow we would start searching did nothing to lift my spirits. The chances of success appeared very slight indeed.

I dressed and went up on to the bridge. The Chinese quartermaster was there. Nobody else, except the helmsman. And the ship ploughing steadily on into the blinding dazzle of the sun’s reflected light. I had scarcely seen Deacon since we’d sailed. Once we were through the Wilingili Channel he had retired to his cabin. And yet in some strange way the personality of the man seemed to dominate the ship so that in spite of everything it was an entity that worked. Nobody questioned his decision to sail in search of the island, not even Fields whom I knew to be scared, or Brady who was worrying about his engines which had been running now for almost sixty hours at near maximum revolutions. They were both of them at breakfast when I went into the stuffy little dining-saloon just aft of the galley, Fields shifty-eyed and nervous, snapping at the steward, the
smell of whisky stale on his breath. And then Weston came in with the news that the Met officer at Gan had warned of a deterioration in the weather.

“Coom off it, lad,” Brady said. “Tha’s trying to scare us.”

Weston helped himself from the greasy plate of liver and sausages. “The usual tropical storms, that’s all. Cu-nim building up, wind strength forty knots plus in centres of disturbance, bad vis.” He was a solitary, a man whose world was the ether. It was a long speech for him and he added, “Nothing to worry about, Chief. Those tropical storms are always short-lived.”

“Nowt to worry aboot, eh?” Brady growled. “At this rate t’engines’ll shake the bloody bottom out of her wi’oot the aid of a storm.” He had had the pumps going ever since we left Addu Atoll and I remembered what Deacon had said that first time I’d set foot on the
Strode Venturer
, that some day the old bitch would lie down and die on him. I looked at Fields. His face was putty-coloured.