The Strode Venturer (38 page)

Two things I particularly remember that afternoon: the first was a tour of the island we made with Don Mansoor. He was tired and his first enthusiasm had worn off. He was looking at the island then with a critical eye, facing the problem of establishing his people in an area that to my mind was distinctly inhospitable. We went first to the hollow where the palm tree seedlings had established themselves and I was amazed to see how lush the growth of vegetation had become in the short time since I had last seen it. He went down on his hands and knees, tearing at the soil with his dark fingers, examining the roots. Finally he stood up. “We are bringing with us many little plants. Everything growing on Midu. Is okay. All making good in this soil.” He was smiling happily. And then we went out to the north end of the island where the shallows were. There were drifts of dark, rich sand and already here and there the first green of vegetation, the growth of seeds carried on the wind from distant shores. And there were terns, the first wild life I had seen. “Is good,” he said. “Is very good. A year, two years—all is green.”

The second thing I shall always remember occurred just after we had returned to the quay. The Adduans had been
checking on the fishing, using one of the dhonis since it would be several days before the batteli could be re-assembled. The breeze had held all day and the dhoni came roaring in through the shallows, its squares’l sheeted hard in and the men in her shouting and waving. In little over an hour, using their bent metal nails and long bamboo rods, they had half-filled the boat with fish, mainly bonito.

They would still need sugar, rice, implements, but they knew now that the island was viable. They had the illusion, if not the actuality, of independence. And in the stockpile of ore on the quay they had the assurance that here was something else besides cowrie shells and dried fish that they could trade to the outside world. They were in great spirits and their morale was high when shortly after four the frigate was sighted, steaming in from the north-west.

She came into the anchorage, feeling her way carefully, and let go just astern of the
Strode Venturer.
A few minutes later a boat put off from her side. It was a lieutenant-commander who came ashore, a strange contrast in his immaculate white uniform to the motley crowd awaiting him on the quay. Don Mansoor stepped forward to greet him. “Welcome, sir, to Ran-a-Maari. Me commanding expedition of the Adduan People’s Republic.” It was said gravely, courteously.

The lieutenant-commander saluted him, equally grave, equally courteous, as he shook hands. “My name is Wainwright.” He glanced at the flag now hanging limp from its improvised pole. “I am instructed to offer you any assistance you may need and for your protection to put a naval party ashore on the island.”

No doubt in international law the occupation of the island by the Adduans posed a nice problem, since they were regarded as rebels by the Malé Government and the People’s Republic was not recognized by any of the powers. But by establishing a naval party ashore, ostensibly for the protection of the Adduan settlers, the British Government had reserved its rights without committing itself in any way. The presence of the frigate certainly pleased Don
Mansoor. It gave strong backing to his occupation of the island. And now that the Adduans had arrived it pleased Peter, too, since it had the effect of endorsing our claim for the exploitation of the mineral rights. It also solved our transport problem, the frigate having been
en route
for Singapore when it had been diverted.

A party of us, including Don Mansoor, were entertained on board that night. And in the morning Wainwright started setting up his shore base. The Adduans were also establishing themselves ashore, erecting huts of palm matting on spars and planks brought off from the vedis. The masts were taken out and the vessels stripped of their decks and all superstructure so that they could be used as ore-carriers. The
Strode Venturer
was manoeuvred into the deep-water channel by the first shoal and hawsers run out between the vessel and the quay so that the loaded vedis could be winched out to the ship. And that evening as the sun set sails were sighted to the west—five ships in silhouette against the flaming sky.

It was Ali Raza with the rest of the fleet, his vedis spread out in a line, their sails filled by a gentle westerly. Slowly the sky’s glow faded, darkness fell and they came in gliding like ghosts on the last of the breeze. The sea was calm, a lake across which every sound was magnified, and the quiet of Ran-a-Maari was broken by the high, wild cries of the people of Midu greeting each other.

We were already embarked on the frigate, having left Ford and Haines in charge of loading. The anchor was coming up, the engines vibrating under our feet, and as the bows swung to the open sea the siren blared. “A pity George can’t see this,” Peter said. We were standing on the upper bridge and as the frigate steamed out of the anchorage bound for Singapore, the vedis were coming to rest, the sails falling to the decks like five fat women shedding their clothing. The dhonis were putting off from the quay, four men rowing, and ashore, in a blaze of lights from the generator, we could see small figures shovelling ore from the stockpile on to the conveyor belt and the black nodules
falling steadily into the vedi lying alongside. The dark bulk of the island, the stars bright as diamonds and the
Strode Venturer
huge in the night with her deck lights blazing and the hatch covers off, the cargo booms swung out ready; it was a strange, almost beautiful sight. And the man whose dream it was stood tense beside me. He did not move or utter a word until we had turned the northern end of the island and the great expanse of ocean had closed us in. Then he murmured something in Adduan, the word Ran-a-Maari rolling off his tongue. It might have been a prayer the way he said it. And after staring for a moment longer at the blackness of the sea ahead, he turned without another word and left me, his shoulders drooped, his feet dragging, a man exhausted with the effort of turning a dream into reality.

T
HE
extraordinary general meeting of Strode Orient shareholders had been convened for one purpose and one purpose only—the voluntary liquidation of the company. This proposal had the backing of the entire board of directors and was supported by Strode & Company as well as Lingrose and his associates. The meeting was held at noon on 24th July. At that time we were off the coast of Sumatra, the frigate having proved slower than we had expected. We didn’t reach London until two days later and it was only then that we heard from Ida what had happened.

The resolution had been carried on a show of hands. A vote had then been demanded and at that point Felden had intervened, stating that his clients had not been given the statutory twenty-one days’ notice. This was confirmed by Whimbrill who said that owing to an oversight several shareholders, among them Mossbacher Fayle & Co., the merchant bankers acting for the insurance company’s interests, had not been given notice of the meeting. The oversight had, of course, been deliberate. Whimbrill was playing for time. So was Felden by then. Merchant bankers don’t like to have their clients accept a big loss when by holding on they could come out of it with a profit. He had demanded a postal vote and at least ten days’ grace.

It was a technicality, of course, and the Strode Orient board already had overwhelming support for their resolution. But half of it was represented by the forty-four per cent Strode & Company holding and the board’s decision to vote in favour had been taken at a meeting attended only by Henry Strode, le Fleming, Crane and Whimbrill. Ida had
not been present and once it was known that Peter was alive the validity of that decision was in doubt. Felden’s support had then become crucial.

“So we have ten days,” Peter said. “Ten days in which to tear this resolution to shreds.” The excitement in his voice, the underlying note of violence brought a cautionary glance from Ida.

“You have seven days as from to-morrow,” she said quietly. “And you still have to convince Felden that his clients will make more by backing you than they would out of the carving up of Strode Orient.”

Prior to that, of course, the Strode & Company decision to support the winding-up had to be reversed. Peter had cabled Whimbrill from Singapore and now Ida told us that a meeting of the board had been called for nine o’clock next morning. Peter refused to discuss the line he would take and this worried her. She was also worried about Henry Strode’s attitude to our appointment as directors. It was the first board meeting either of us had attended and I think we were both a little nervous—so much depended on it.

It was raining when we left the flat in the morning, a warm summer rain that reminded me of Ran-a-Maari, but softer, more gentle. By the time we got to the Embankment it had stopped. The flooding river gleamed mistily in shafts of watery sunlight and the churches and office towers of the City had a soft, Turneresque glow. We didn’t talk. We had said all there was to say. But as our taxi stopped in the traffic at the Bank Ida’s hand sought mine and held it a moment—a gesture that was part affection, part encouragement.

I was thinking of that time I had stood alone on the Embankment in the bitter cold after having read the account of my father’s crash. It seemed a long time ago now, and this the end of a long journey. I glanced at Ida and her eyes met mine—warm and alive. She was dressed in a dark blue suit, silk by the sheen of it, and she wore an antique gold necklace, a gold fob. The effect was businesslike and at the same time very feminine, her dark hair framing her face.

And then our taxi pulled up at Strode House and we went in together, up the big staircase with the portrait of Sir Reginald Bailey. It no longer seemed to me like a trophy hung on the wall, rather the ghost of my father welcoming me into the world he had helped to create. Peter was waiting for us at the head of the stairs, his tanned face gaunt under its fringe of beard. The tightness of his mouth, the hard, tense look in his eyes, should have warned me. It was the face of a man who had worked himself up to a point where he would destroy anybody who stood between him and his objective. I think Ida understood his mood for she put her hand on his arm as though to restrain him. But she didn’t say anything. Whimbrill was there. By contrast his face looked very pale, almost scared.

We went into the boardroom then. Henry Strode was already there, seated at the head of the big table talking to Crane. Behind him loomed the portrait of his father. The atmosphere of the room with its panelling, its pictures, its heavy chandeliers, was solid, almost Victorian. It had the air of established power that belonged to a past age. Le Fleming arrived a moment later. Whimbrill closed the door behind him and a heavy silence settled on the room. It was broken by Henry Strode. “If you’ll sit down, gentlemen …” And when we were settled he opened the meeting by formally welcoming Ida and myself to the board. He did it without enthusiasm, his eyes fixed coldly on Ida’s handbag as though the polished surface of the boardroom table had been somehow desecrated. He then turned to Peter and in the same flat, formal voice congratulated him on what he described as his miraculous escape. “And now, since I gather from Whimbrill that it is at your instance we have all forgathered here, perhaps you would care to address the meeting.”

I naturally assumed that Peter would take this opportunity to enlarge on the potentiality of the island in an endeavour to persuade them that this was not the time to wind up the shipping side of the business. I think the others expected it, too, for there was a general settling back into the big, comfortable chairs. But he didn’t bother about that.
He was intent only on destroying all opposition. “I have been looking at the Memorandum and Articles of Association of the Strode companies and I find we have the right to nominate two directors to serve on the Strode Orient board. Our two nominees at the present time are yourself—” he was looking straight at Henry Strode—“and your brother George. I propose that you both be instructed to resign as directors of Strode Orient and that in your place we nominate Geoffrey Bailey here and a man of some standing from outside the organization who has an interest in Strode Orient—I think Felden would be a good choice and suggest that he be approached.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Nobody was leaning back in their chairs any more. They were all staring at Peter. And the stillness in the room was absolute so that I became conscious of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. The ticking of it was very loud, and above it the face of old Henry Strode glowered down at us from its ornate frame.

Peter looked across the table at Whimbrill. “Will you second that?”

“Just a moment.” Henry Strode leaned quickly forward. His eyes gleamed behind his glasses, two angry spots of colour showing on his sallow cheeks. “Your proposal has not yet been formally put before the meeting. And I think I should tell you that as long as I am in the chair here it will not be put. It’s the most outrageous——”

“I quite understand your reluctance.” Peter’s voice was tense and hard. “To save you that embarrassment perhaps I should tell you that I have a further proposal to put to this meeting.” I saw Ida’s hand reach out to restrain him, but he ignored it. “You’ve forced me to this—you and George between you. Now there is no alternative. I propose that you be removed from the chairmanship of this board and also from the position of managing director and that a new chairman and managing director be elected from among the directors present at this meeting.”

The directness of the attack, the personal nature of it took Henry Strode completely by surprise. There was a shocked
look on his face—on the faces of the others, too. Whimbrill’s breath expelled in an audible hiss.

“Perhaps you would have the motion read out and put to the meeting,” Peter said quietly.

It was a moment before Henry Strode found his voice. “I think I am entitled to say a few words before I do that.” He hesitated, his hands gripped on the arms of his chair so that he seemed to be bracing himself. He was literally trembling, dominated now by the family feud that had soured their relationship for years. “I’ve worked in the City for over thirty years, and so has George, whilst you’ve been travelling the world on the money we made for you. You know nothing about the problems we’ve had to face; yet now, after only three years’ business experience—and that in quite a junior capacity—you want to run this company, and Strode Orient as well.” The heavy eyelids flicked open and he stared stonily round the table. Finally his gaze settled on Whimbrill. He knew he had to have Whimbrill’s support or he would be out. “I think you should understand—all of you—what is involved here. I have a service agreement with this company and it was only renewed last year. If you break it I shall certainly sue. Further, I think I should make it clear that if this motion were to succeed my immediate reaction would be to resign from the board.” He stared at Whimbrill a moment longer and then his head turned and he was facing the rest of us. “I hope, gentlemen, I have made my position clear.”