The Hostile Shore Read online

  `She seems a very fine girl,’ he answered gravely.

  But Blair only laughed. `I can see the next headline in that glossy, advert-stuffed rag of hers. “Gillian Bligh discovers Stone-Age Government under Union Jack! Headhunters are

  she says!” ‘ He laughed again. `If it wasn’t a form of debt

  certainly shouldn’t be taking her on this trip, I can tell you!’

  The launch bumped alongside and two native seamen

  d down to take the head and stern ropes.

  air stood up and swayed uncertainly on the small deck. Beneath the turn-up of his trouser leg the ugly, built-up wedge of his surgical shoe seemed to mock him, and he waved Grainger’s steadying hand aside with a sudden anger. `I can manage!’ Then he seemed to relent. `Nice to have met you. I shall write to the Commissioner and tell him how helpful you’ve been.’ With unexpected charm he held out his hand. `Thank you for putting me in the picture so well. You’ve been more use than you realize.’

  Then, brushing aside the native boys, he swung himself over the schooner’s low gunwale.

  Myers winked at the perplexed Grainger. A small movement, but to Grainger, who still stood in the launch’s cockpit as it idled clear of the old white ship, it explained a great deal.

  Across the schooner’s poop a small canopy had been rigged to provide a square island of shadow, beneath which, in a faded deck-chair, Vic Fraser, the captain, naked but for a pair of shorts, frowned in great concentration as he pulled a length of oiled rag through the barrel of an old British service rifle. Another similar rifle and two massive revolvers lay glistening on a piece of canvas, and with a final grunt he laid the weapon beside them. The rifles were essential on deck when sharks were about and should the divers be working below the surface, but the revolvers were for his personal satisfaction.

  Even sitting down Fraser appeared as a big man. Broad of shoulders, and deep-chested, his skin was burned to the colour of the poop rail, and around his eyes the flesh had been pulled into a mass of tiny crow’s-feet, the legacy of months at sea and staring into the sun to search for a reef. Normally, he lived an uncomplicated life. Uncomplicated by his standards, that is, and one that he was able to enjoy. But just lately things had started to go wrong. Trading had fallen off, and even more recently the local shell fishing had been prohibited because the waters had become `fished out’. It was alleged to be a temporary measure, but he was not so confident.

  To be hired for such a vast amount of easy money as offered by Rupert Blair’s agent had seemed to be like a godsend. With the money he could carry out all the much-needed repairs on the schooner and lay the foundations for his next season of trading. He had been quite prepared to overlook the destination. Vanua Santo, or Hog Island as it was known by the natives, because of its pig-like shape, was reputedly a bad place, but he had no intention of finding out just how bad. They would cross the reef, do the diving and then sail home. It had seemed just as simple as that.

  But then the American girl had come aboard and had demanded to be taken to her cabin. She had not yet reappeared. He rubbed his chest thoughtfully. It was a long time since he had seen such a pretty sheila, and certainly the only women passengers he had carried in the past had been the self-contained wives of missionaries. He ran his eye moodily along the spotless decks. In the small patches of shade provided by the rigging and slung boats the schooner’s entire crew hovered unnecessarily, as they waited to see the rest of their passengers. The girl had been a wow. The thought brought a grin to Fraser’s lips. The boys had clamoured around her to stare at her golden hair. She had won them over completely, if only because of her hair. He looked towards his crew with something like affection. Apart from Watute, the cabin boy, and assistant diver, and at thirteen the youngest one aboard, they had all been willed to him with the ship. His father, a great pearler in his day, who had squandered away everything but the ship and its crew, had solemnly handed them over to his son when Fraser had returned from the war, and with the practical manner in which he had lived out his eventful life went ashore for the last time and died.

  There was Old Buka, the senior man. Short, grizzled and having only one eye, his ferocious appearance, already enhanced by an eye-patch of palm bark, was made complete by his teeth, which were filed into sharp points. Wabu and Yalla were the two Torres Island divers. Young, and in the prime of condition, they could dive to eighty feet in search of trochus shell and ignore the constant dangers of sharks and the `bends’ alike.

  Kari, a squat, scarred seaman, and Dinkila, the Malay cook, whose flat face was split into a constant grin, completed the crew, but for Fraser’s mate, engineer and right-hand man Michel Tarrou.

  Some of the annoyance and irritation he had felt earlier left him as he thought of Tarrou. He had picked him off the beach because of his eagerness and obvious intelligence, and had trained him to help run the schooner. He was able to overlook the man’s vanity and the pathetic belief that he was French and not just another island half-caste. His father had certainly been French, although nobody could remember him, but his mother bad been a plump Torres Islander who had died of some obscure disease, claimed, nevertheless, by the old-timers to have been a broken heart.

  Tarrou climbed into view over the tiny engine-room coaming and stood blinking in the sunlight. He glanced quickly around him and then drew a white plastic comb through his sleek black hair and patted it into place. Then he pulled on a neat khaki-drill jacket and put his white-topped crap within easy reach.

  ‘Has she come on deck again, Vic?’ His deep black eyes looked eager, even nervous.

  ‘Nah! She must have heard about you, sport!, Fraser cheerfully.

  a ou smiled automatically. He understood Fraser’s 20

  rough humour at last, and was content with his lot. He dabbed a speck of grease from his jacket and frowned with great concentration. He had a broad, flat nose and rather thick loose lips, which outweighed the advantage given him by his skin, which was no darker than Fraser’s.

  `This trip is dangerous, Vic?’

  ‘Nah! So long as we avoid the Mota tribesmen and the reef we shall be okay. It’s the passengers I worry about.’ He rasped his hands together. `That bit of a girl, and a couple of Pommie bastards as well. I only hope we don’t all get at each others’ throats ‘cause I need that charter money!’

  Tarrou smiled gently. Fraser could do no wrong in his eyes. He had saved him from a miserable existence, and had made him someone of importance. A ship’s officer! He put on a pair of cheap sun-glasses and folded his arms as he had seen Fraser do. It would make a change to have some other company aboard, all the same. Fraser’s conversation was usually technical or rather coarse, and he was looking forward to seeing the American girl again, and also to speaking to a welleducated gentleman like this Major Blair was said to be. It was all rather wonderful to be happening to him.

  Fraser stiffened. `There’s the launch! That’ll be Blair now!’ He pointed to the guns, and took a small key from around his neck. `Go an’ lock ‘em up, Michel. Don’t want to scare the poor bloke!’

  He stepped forward to greet the other man, his big hand outstretched. `You must be Major Blair. Welcome aboard.’ He nodded to the second man who followed over the bulwark. That must be the diver. Typical Pommie, he thought.

  Blair eyed him calmly. `Are you ready for sea, as I instructed?’ His voice was even, but carried a trace of impatience. `Because after the rest of my gear is stowed I’d like to get moving.’

  `Ready an’ eager, Major! The sooner we leave the sooner we can get back!’

  Blair ignored him. He was looking at the girl, who had come unnoticed on deck.

  `Miss Bligh, I believe? I hope you won’t change your mind about this trip after we’ve sailed? It might be a little hard for a woman.’

  Her eyes were invisible behind the glasses, but her mouth mocked him openly. `That’s not exactly a welcome, is it?’

  His shoulders moved in a substitute for an apology. ‘Of course, I forgo
t that you are used to this sort of thing.’

  Tarrou appeared at his side, his face beaming. `Major Blair, sir, this is an honour! It is very nice to meet another European out here!’

  Blair stared at the wide grin and the outstretched hand with its purple-tinted nails. `Another European?’ His voice was cold and he made no move to shake hands. `I should have thought ‘

  Fraser moved between them, his voice suddenly hard. `This is Michel. He’s French!’

  Blair eyed the threatening Australian with amusement. `He can be a Buddhist monk for all I care! Let’s get started!’

  Fraser clapped his hand across the half-caste’s shoulder. `Start up the engine, Michel, and get the hands up forrard to the anchor.’

  The girl moved closer to Blair, and he faced her questioningly. She slowly lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke. `I just wanted to study an English gentleman at close quarters,’ she said calmly. `It was quite an experience.’

  The islanders on the jetty and on the slopes beyond the town watched the graceful schooner suddenly break free from the ground, and saw the dripping anchor black against her bows. Then there was a coughing roar from the ancient diesel engine, and a cloud of fine blue smoke hovered momentarily beneath her stern, followed by the upchurned froth from her hidden propeller.

  Grainger sighed as the ship began to gather way through the smooth water and moved past the green hump of Iririki Islet and pointed her bowsprit towards the open sea.

  In spite of himself, he began to wish he had gone along too.

  In Fraser’s cabin, which had been put at his disposal for the voyage, Blair sat heavily in a canvas chair, his tired body swaying to the easy roll of the schooner as it lifted over the long Pacific rollers.

  He felt washed out, yet nearer to complete satisfaction than he could remember. He studied his heavy shoe with hatred, and thought of his wife. Because of her constant entreaties he had suffered several agonizing operations on his foot, but to no avail. The Jap rifle-butts had done their work too well. Marcia, tall and poised. She had been half angry and half scornful when he had told her of his intended trip. He had watched her face reacting in her dressing-table mirror. `Why don’t you give up this stupid idea? Nobody cares what happened twenty years ago, Rupert! I’m sure I don’t!’ He had stared at her smooth white neck and tried to stop himself hating her. In his heart he knew that it might have been different had she not expected him to be the same carefree young subaltern when he was released from the prison camp. The picture of her which he had kept alive in his months of captivity and torment had proved as false as the defences of Singapore when he had put his family aboard the leaking, panic-ridden launch. Ironically, he and a handful of his men had been rescued by a minesweeper within minutes of the shameful surrender. He closed his eyes and saw again the great black pall of smoke over the dying city. The young skipper of the minesweeper had piloted them through sunken wrecks and screaming survivors and had laughed with the bitterness of his generation when Blair said, `God help those left behind!’

  He had replied, `He doesn’t care about us any more!’

  Blair threw himself down on the bunk and tried to relax. Now at last, in spite of everything, he would know what happened to his family. It might in some inexplicable way make up for all his other disappointments.

  2

  GILLIAN BLIGH awoke from her exhausted sleep, and for a long moment lay quite still and alert, her body tense and her eyes fixed on the white bulkhead at the foot of the bunk. Her aching mind wrestled with a feeling of uncertainty as she tried to remember her surroundings and to place what was different. The small cabin creaked about her, and she was aware of the pleasant gurgle of water against the timbered side, barely inches from her head, and she suddenly realized that the engine had stopped its incessant vibrations.

  She groped overhead until her slim fingers encountered her cigarettes on the small shelf, and as she automatically clicked her lighter she propped herself on her elbows and surveyed the stacked luggage and the disordered garments around the cabin, and remembered how she had fallen on to. the bunk, desperately eager for the sleep which of late had so often been denied her. Her pyjama jacket was open across her body, and although she could remember nothing, the bunk sheets were tangled and rumpled, mute evidence of another uneasy night.

  There was a gentle knock on the door, and pulling her jacket across her, she called out: `Okay! You can come in!’ Fraser had warned her that the cabin boy, Watute, would be bringing her coffee in the morning, although from her watch she saw that it was barely six o’clock.

  Watute sidled round the door, his dark eyes busy about the cabin, but his face split into a fixed grin.

  `Morning, missy! Coffee bin fix on time.’

  He laid the cup carefully on the small locker beside the bunk and stared shyly at the girl. Like the rest of the boys, he seemed fascinated by her blonde hair, and Gillian smiled back at his small pug face.

  `The engine has stopped,’ she said. `What is happening now?’

  He watched her mouth carefully, like a deaf man. `Sails all spread, missy.’ He waved his hands vaguely to represent a wind, and puffed out his cheeks. `We make through sea!’

  He was wearing a long shirt, presumably discarded by Fraser, the tails of which hung about his thin legs like two flapping aprons. It appeared to be his only garment. She was aware of the sweet sickly smell which hung about him like an animal scent, and the complete lack of guile, or, for that matter, any expression she could place, on his black face. She nodded.

  `Right, Watute, I’ll be on deck shortly.’

  He backed to the door. `You gonna make wife for Captain?’

  She laughed shortly. `Hell, no! I’m a writer.’ She shrugged helplessly. `You know, make stories!’

  He nodded, his face suddenly grave. `Understand.’ But disbelief shone from his eyes. As he turned to leave he added carefully, `Captain say you make good woman for some joker!’

  She lay back completely limp, not knowing whether to laugh or to allow this fresh bandied insult to add to her tension. She stubbed out the cigarette and swung her long legs over the edge of the bunk. She was immediately aware of the gentle rolling motion beneath her bare feet, and she saw her tousled reflection in the mirror. `Good woman, eh? Another goddamned master-mind, it seems!’

  She changed into a sleeveless shirt and drill slacks, and with a final glance into the mirror prepared to meet the world outside. Immediately after the schooner had weighed anchor she had retired to her cabin, and after making a pretence at reading through her notes and instructions had turned in. She stepped into the narrow passage-way and walked unsteadily towards the steep ladder at the end. She paused, and looked up at the bright blue rectangle of the sky. Directly above the open hatch she saw the straddled legs of the old seaman called Buka. His bent, muscled back rippled and shone in the calm morning sunlight as he eased the spokes of the wheel with his thick fingers. As she mounted the ladder he stiffened, and without looking behind him bobbed his shaggy head and greeted her with his strange, grating voice.

  ‘Mornin’, missy. Plenty fine day, huh?’

  She stepped carefully on to the deck, and saw that already it had been washed, and patches of dampness still showed along the dazzling lines of the planking. She stared with disbelief at the strange shapes of the huge sails which, controlled by the twin booms, swung across the lee rail like the wings of a giant bat.

  Fraser lay on his camp bed watching her, a lazy smile on his lips. She noticed that his thick hair was plastered to his forehead and a pair of swimming trunks, very new, hung wetly from the companion hatch. For my benefit, no doubt, she thought.

  `Sleep well?’ He sat up slowly and scratched his chest. `I never thought I’d have such a nice sight on the deck of the old Pearl!’ There was something mocking in his voice again, or was it defensive? She eyed him for a second, then allowed her face to smile.

  `Slept like a log.’ She waved towards the sails. `Can these things push us along okay?�
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  Fraser stood up and shook his cup over the rail. `Like a bird. Listen to her.’ He cocked his head, and Gillian heard the warm breeze explore the billowing canvas and the accompany= ing orchestra of taut rigging and creaking spars.

  She glanced along the deck to where the two divers sat cross-legged as they flaked down a mass of fine line.

  `Say, where is everyone? Am I the first? What did you want me to get up so early for?’

  She saw Fraser’s smile fade slightly, but he forced a deep laugh and pointed across the starboard bow. `Thought you’d like to see a bit of the islands.’

  She followed his arm and saw a thin line of deep green etched against the shimmering blue sea. She was aware of many things at once, and was glad to be in this ship, and for an instant wished that this moment could go on for ever. She was not normally given to such vague thoughts, and it made her feel uneasy, but the sight of the distant land, any land, made the ship feel more of a refuge than merely transport, and she was all at once glad that she had accepted this assignment.

  She was aware, too, that Fraser was watching her closely, his eyes puzzled. `Thanks, but I prefer your boat.’ She saw him grin, rather like a small boy. `How come you’re out here, anyway?’

  Fraser frowned and leaned heavily on the rail, his shoulder touching her. `Search me. I guess me an’ the old Pearl are just about fit for this an’ nothing else.’ He turned suddenly and stared at her, his brown eyes searching. `And what about you?’

  ‘I’ve a job to do.’ It sounded weak, and she felt the old caution creeping over her.

  `Sure. I rather had the feeling you were running away from something.’