Operation Nassau (26 page)

The walking wounded were insensibly growing. If you counted James Ulric’s asthma, the only unblemished scout in the Save Edgecombe Club was the Begum.

Now I can realize how far I had been reduced, deliberately reduced, below my own high intellectual watermark. Then, I merely felt pleased that I had exchanged my wig for a neat cotton turban, and, holding my face up to the sun, listened to Violet of New York discoursing about the glandular troubles of civet cats while Bart Edgecombe made conversation with Trotter about his Tattoos.

Then Edgecombe turned his grey head to me, and grinned, and said, his voice public, his eyes conspiratorially private, ‘I rather like the way Johnson keeps throwing us together. Or is it you and Wallace Brady he’s throwing together?’

‘I can feel thrown together,’ I said heavily, ‘without any outside help whatsoever.’ I dislike double talk. I dislike haphazard danger. I dislike not being in anyone’s confidence.

I asked Johnson how he felt after his sea bath, and he said. Fine: that he had developed Cheyne-Stokes breathing at breakfast, but Cheyne-Stokes wouldn’t pay him a cent.

I turned my back on him. Someone switched on a stereo cassette of that cello piece by Saint-Saёns and all the men started to warble it. Spry came round with Royal Hawaiian macadamia nuts, fifteen shillings for three and a half ounces, and a tray of strong planter’s punch. I helped myself freely to everything and watched
Dolly
run gently north and west before the soft south-east wind to the fishing- ground.

It was a short sail, as we had to be back. Edgecombe guided Johnson into the currents, their heads together over the chart, and too soon for the sluggards
Dolly
went about and idling, dropped all her canvas. Then we were lying in the full sun again under bare poles, and Spry was handing out fishing-tackle and lures. Violet, holding on to her hat, went below and returned with a jam jar of shrimps and Rodney Trotter, who had brought his own rod. The handsome Harry, now sitting beside me, was gazing speculatively at the undynamic figure of Johnson.

‘Now who,’ he said, ‘would have expected such mad efficiency?’

The bifocals turned and got him into alignment. ‘I only look like this,’ explained Johnson, ‘because there wasn’t enough zinc in my egg.’

Bart Edgecombe, baiting his hook, grinned without turning. ‘And he only looks efficient,’ he said, ‘because
Dolly
’s a cow. A cutter for imperious youth, a yawl for respectable middle-age and a ketch for the old and feeble. Old Balinese proverb.’

‘My ethos can stand it,’ said Johnson. ‘Is this tub drifting too fast? We’re just about at slack water.”

‘The wind has freshened,’ said Brady. ‘Does it matter?’ And indeed, we seemed in no need of searoom: the two-hundred-foot mast on Great Stirrup Cay was the nearest sign of the Great Harbour Cay group of islands, far on our left as our bows pointed upwind and south. I stared at it through my dark glasses and said, ‘What is it? A radio mast?’

‘The tracking-station,’ said Edgecombe mildly, after a moment. I hadn’t heard of it. I suppose it was public knowledge that one of them lay in these islands. But I realized now why Bart Edgecombe had chosen to live where he had. And remembered afresh, as we gently rocked there on the warm turquoise sea, that somewhere, there was a gun at his head.

Brady said, ‘We are drifting,’ and Johnson, who had pulled out the chart, said, ‘Yes. I think the anchor. Come on, Bartholomew. You’ve got to work for your bloody beads and striped blanket. Is this the right place?’

‘Yes, but Brady’s right. There are shoals to the north-east back there, and some coral heads beyond that, and out west. If the tide’s on the turn I should watch it, but you’ll be perfectly safe with your anchor. Anyway, the chart’ll give you your bearings.’

‘All right. Let it go,’ Johnson said. His pencil, poised, made a mark on the chart among several beer-rings. Spry moved forward, but Edgecombe, already in the bows, had picked up the anchor. Brady and Trotter, in the cockpit, were arguing about British and American scarphing. They both sounded knowledgeable.

The second anchor for this kind of ketch weighs about ninety pounds, so Spry told me later, and when it is heaved overboard, the three-quarter-inch cable for it comes flying up from the fo’c’sle through navel pipe and fairleads and over a chain-gipsy which spins it out over the stempost. Even when performed with precision, in a well-maintained boat with greased winches, it is not an exercise which is ever quite fool-proof. The chain can cross-link on its way up from the locker, or as it is rendering round the chain-gipsy. A projecting shackle-pin can cause an abrupt jam. Coming into a crowded anchorage you can find your anchor stuck, half-way to the bottom. Or jammed higher up. and kicking a hole in your hull. Or pulled up short as it flies through the air so that it plunges rolling back towards you and the deck, its iron flukes twisting.

That was what happened to Bart Edgecombe. The chain jammed and then somehow ran back, almost before the anchor got over the side. It kicked back: and in a moment those ninety pounds of galvanized iron would have been down on the deck and scooping Edgecombe’s legs over the side.

He didn’t have time to escape, but he did what anyone would have tried to do: he fended it off with his hands. I heard him shout and saw the blood spurting. The anchor crashed on the deck. Brady jumped out of the cockpit and in two strides got hold of Edgecombe’s arm: he had a handkerchief out, already scarlet with blood. Trotter followed, looked for me, and, choosing his priorities, dropped and began grimly to tear at the windlass. Spry, after a movement from Johnson, went forward to help him.

By that time. I was beside Edgecombe myself. I think my main preoccupation as I took his arm wasn’t the long open wound, tearing through the fascia and anterior brachial muscles and ending round the base of the thumb; even though I registered that it had somehow missed a main artery, and equally that it would be as ugly a scar, at the very best, as any arm lesion I ever had seen.

It was the fact that in this disaster-fraught climate, pure accident could claim its share. No one had pushed Edgecombe: no one had been anywhere near him: no one could have caused the fault in the chain. It was, as usual, merely Fate kicking.

But nothing was said, or could be said: thought was for later. Meanwhile the medical box was produced, and. aided surprisingly by the face-lifted Violet. I made a workmanlike job of the tear. The medicine-chest was impressive and included surgical needles and silk in a stopped glass tube, as well as dressings and mercury sublimate. Johnson produced a blanket and bowls of warm water and brandy. He also had ampoules of morphia and three new syringes wrapped in foil, but I shook my head and he packed them away. Edgecombe didn’t need them, and there was no need to advertise their existence. I wondered what other scenes, in other ports,
Dolly
had survived with the help of that competent chest.

Spry made some tea while we cleaned up, and Edgecombe and Johnson had a brief talk in the saloon, Edgecombe’s bandaged right arm cross-slung before him.

Trotter appeared suddenly at the top of the companionway and said, ‘We’ve freed the gipsy. Do you want to get under way? She’s still drifting.”

‘You haven’t had your fishing yet. Beltanno and Violet . . “Edgecombe was getting over the shock, although his face was still pale under the bright reddish tan.’ I couldn’t have done better if I’d been run over by a trolley in Guy’s. Look, J.J., there’s no need for a fuss. I’m as comfortable here as I’d be anywhere else. Get your anchor out and go on with your fishing.”

Johnson looked at me. I said, ‘No, I want him back. He’d better have an anti-tetanus jab, for one thing. And he ought to rest properly.’

‘Then I’ll go back in the launch,’ said Bart Edgecombe wearily. It was, I suppose, what they had planned. It left both Trotter and Brady on
Dolly
. And only Krishtof Bey to worry about at the castle.

I said, ‘That’s a good idea. And it’s faster. I’ll take him, if you’ll show me what to do.’

‘No, the launch is heavy. It needs a man,’ Johnson said. Trotter, waiting patiently at the top of the companionway. said, ‘I’ll steer, if you like. Provided Sir Bart here can pilot.”

Edgecombe looked quickly at Johnson and said. ‘I don’t mind, but perhaps Harry or someone would be better. They get more chances for fishing than Trotter.’

Trotter looked surprised and a little impatient. ‘No. I’ll take him,” he said. ‘No trouble at all. I’ll help Spry to get the Avenger unshipped.’ He disappeared.

We couldn’t talk, because Violet of New York was still there screwing rings on the pegs of her fingers. Johnson said to me, ‘Beltanno, you’d better go with him. Maybe one or two of the others would like to get back as well. Violet?’

‘You want me back,’ Violet said. She had repowdered her face, which had the fine texture of hospital rubber sheets: her eyelashes were painted dark blue. She didn’t fuss. She picked up her jar, and said philosophically, ‘I guess that’s the sort of life that shrimps have. You want them, Beltanno? They taste real good on toast with a little sesame seed.’

I took the jar and she smoothed down her hat and followed by Johnson led the way up on deck. There was a heavy splash, and then a rattle from the fo’c’sle as the anchor-chain ran out. I could hear her feet overhead and pulley-blocks squeaking as the launch was winched down into the water. I put the jar on the table.

There was no doubt that Edgecombe ought to go back. His pulse-rate was higher than I had hoped for, and he was lying inert with his eyes not quite closed. The man called Harry appeared silently on the stairs, and I said, ‘How fast is that launch?’

‘It’s fifty miles an hour, dearie. He’ll be on Crab in ten minutes,’ said Harry. I could hear Johnson’s voice above, talking to someone persuasively. He could be very persuasive, could Johnson.

Harry said, ‘Listen, dearie. Would you rather I went back with Sir Bartholomew?’

It was one way, I suppose, of finding out which of the men I was interested in. Or maybe he thought that he knew. I said, ‘No. It’s all right,’ just as Trotter appeared on the steps and said, ‘We’re ready, if you can show us how to carry him. Violet’s going.’

Edgecombe roused at once and got to his feet: between us we got him on deck and down the gangway into
Dolly
’s white launch. Violet was already ensconced there, her face-tucks showing in the clear light. Brady got down beside her and steadied Edgecombe as we lifted him down.

We were still in the slack of the tide and there was a slight jopple, enough to make the boat lurch more than it should. Edgecombe arrived in the well of the boat, stumbled, and put out a hand. Brady, not expecting it, lost his balance and saved himself by gripping the engine casing. There was a roar, and the engine, which had been idling, went into gear.

We saw the launch shoot backwards, graze
Dolly
’s virginal side; and then, as Brady frantically grabbed at the lever, stop and plunge nose outwards away from the yacht.

The lashing on deck unfurled like grey smoke and vanished. We saw Violet’s arms batten her hat, and Edgecombe fall and Brady, his eyes white with fright, try to regain his balance and wrench at the launch’s controls.

He throttled down, and started to bring the launch back. I saw Edgecombe move in the bottom, and Violet straightened her hat.

We stopped shouting. It had happened so quickly; but I suppose there had been no acute danger. Spry, beside me, had a line ready to throw them, and I stayed on the gangway with Trotter, whose language would have enchanted an Army anaesthetist.

He grinned at me. ‘If you ask me, that lad needs some help with his steering,’ said Trotter. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you on.’

But neither of us got on. As the launch came within earshot we could see Edgecombe had struggled up and that he and Brady were talking. Then Brady stood up and hailed us. ‘We won’t come back . . Now we’re off, Sir Bart thinks we should just carry on without spoiling your fishing. Save us a nice sixty-pound grouper.’

He gave a cheerful wave and stood down to the wheel. The throttle opened and the white launch, turning sleekly in the blue water, heeled and made off, gaining speed, southwards.

Harry had found Violet’s shrimps, but I think the other four of us stood staring at the boat until she curved out of sight; and Johnson had his binoculars on her to the end. Then he said flatly, ‘Poor Bart. I’ll go and radio the nurse to expect them. You might as well start fishing, Beltanno. Harry and Spry here are the experts. What about you, Trotter?’

His hand shading his eyes, Trotter was still watching the spot where the launch had disappeared. I wondered if it was Brady’s erratic steering he was worried about, or Brady’s interest in Edgecombe. He turned back and said, ‘Fishing it is. Mind you, I don’t know much about it, but I don’t suppose your amberjacks go much for launches. Would it be worth moving somewhere there’s been less commotion?’

Half-way down the companionway, Johnson glanced at his watch. ‘I’m not sure actually it’s worth moving anywhere,’ he said. I knew he had promised the Begum to bring us back in good time for lunch. I said, ‘If you want to start back. I don’t mind. We can fish another day.’

‘Wait,’ said Johnson; and went forward to the R/T. Trotter said, ‘I’m not much on for amberjacks either. I’d rather get back and see how the old fellow is.’

There couldn’t have been ten years between them. It was merely the reaction of an active man to a stricken one. Poor Bart indeed. I thought. I said, ‘Harry?’

Harry, shirtless, shrugged his shoulders tanned by several seasons of Great Harbour Cay sun. ‘Go ahead. I can fish anytime.’

‘Majority decision,’ said Trotter. ‘Come on, Spry. You start her up and I’ll winch up the anchor.’

Johnson came up as Spry pressed the button and the engine spluttered, hesitated and caught. Spry said, ‘They want to go back, sir.’

Johnson said, ‘You could sail and trawl, if you like.’ He looked preoccupied. His impulse, no doubt, I thought, was to race
Dolly
home. But whether he speeded or lingered, the launch with Edgecombe, dead or alive, would be home long before us.