Murdo's War (8 page)

‘And that’s the lot,’ Gunner said.

Hector took a deep breath and wrinkled his brow. ‘Mm,’ he said thoughtfully.

‘What do you think?’ Henry Smith said.

‘Hard to say,’ Hector replied. ‘Ten loads perhaps?’ He took the end of a case and lifted it a few inches to test the weight. ‘If they’re all as light as this there should be no trouble.’

Henry Smith smiled. ‘I’m afraid they’re not. Some of them are rather heavy.’ He crossed to a small box only about eighteen inches square, which stood on a long crate near the window. He put his arms about it, settled his legs, and lifted. His muscles strained, and then the box was in the air, but clearly it was very heavy.

He put it down again and dusted his hands to remove some clinging dirt. Then he reached into the side pocket of his tweed trousers and pulled out a small metal lever.

‘Better let you see what’s in them,’ he said. ‘If I was in your place I’d be wanting some kind of reassurance.’ He shifted the lantern to give himself better light, and began to prise the boards from the top of a case that stood conveniently at hand.

While he was busy, Murdo went over to the small box near the window and tried to lift it for himself. To his surprise, as he took the box in his strong hands, it hardly moved at all. He set himself more firmly, grasped the rough edges, and heaved upwards. Slowly the box came up until he clutched it against his chest. It was very heavy indeed. Carefully he set it down again. At the far side of the lantern, big Bjorn saw him and smiled. Murdo, who knew that he was quite strong for his age, looked across at the busy figure of Henry Smith. There was more power in those pink hands and that tweed-clad body than he had thought.

Once the binding wire was removed, the boards came off surprisingly easy. Carefully Henry Smith laid the silver nails and wooden planks to one side. Then he was tumbling wood shavings to the floor as he lifted out a long object, wrapped in brown waxpaper. Moving the men backwards to get better light, he carefully folded back the paper to reveal a gleaming, steel-blue metal arm. Three long diagonal whorls of bronze teeth were set near the head, and at the foot a complex series of cams and two white metal inlays
for ball-bearing races. It was beautifully finished and polished to a satin smoothness. A film of fine oil glistened down the shaft as he turned it in his hands.

‘Well, it doesn’t mean a thing to me,’ said Hector, passing a rough finger down it. ‘I know a bit about engines, but I’ve seen nothing like this before.’

‘It’s a new design,’ Henry Smith said, gently laying the arm back in its crate of shavings. ‘The principles are entirely different.’ He pulled the lever from his pocket again and turned to one of the smaller cases. ‘I think this will be a cooling block, or valves.’

‘It’s all right,’ Hector said, shaking his head as the first board splintered slightly, and a nail tinkled to the floor. ‘Don’t bother. I’ve seen all I want.’

‘You’re sure?’ Henry Smith looked up, his gold-rimmed spectacles flashing in the lamplight. ‘It’ll only take a minute.’

Hector looked around the room and through the door to the head of the stairs. The murmur of the men’s voices drifted from below and there was a short, sharp burst of laughter. Someone was playing a happy little tune on a tin flute.

Henry Smith stood back from the case, ‘It will do, then? You’re satisfied?’

‘I think so,’ Hector replied.

‘It’s a deal?’

Hector glanced at Murdo and raised his eyebrows. He smiled ruefully. ‘I suppose so.’

Delighted, Henry Smith clapped him on the arm and his face lit up with pleasure. Leaving the cases as they were he raised the lantern high to give them light, and they filed out on to the bare landing.

After the icy chill of the house, the schoolroom was aglow with warmth and light and friendliness. The Norwegians’ eyes turned expectantly towards them as they walked in the door. The smile on Henry Smith’s face told them all they needed to know.

‘It is fixed,’ he said jubilantly. ‘We move on. We have our crossing to the mainland.’

Their eyes turned to the stocky old seaman and the boy who stood behind him.

‘I think this calls for a drink.’ Henry Smith reached into his jacket pocket and produced a half bottle of whisky, roughly corked, with the label half picked away. ‘Here, Bjorn, pass over a few mugs.’

Bjorn and the man named Dag, a small, red-haired, happy fellow, with a silver flute sticking out of his shirt pocket, carried two clusters of mugs across to a basin and came back with them dripping clear drops on to the bare boards of the schoolroom. They laid them on top of the levelled desk and Henry Smith poured a generous tot into each, emptying the bottle. He tossed it into an old fish box full of rubbish, and the men gathered round, reaching for the wet mugs. Only Carl Voss did not join the throng, but crossed to a chair beside his bed roll and took out a knife, trimming his nails and watching them sardonically. Henry Smith regarded him for a moment, and imperceptibly the expression on his face changed. His lips narrowed, his nostrils flared, a shadow passed across his pale eyes. He decided, for the moment at least, to ignore the man. Turning back to the crowd around him, he raised a chipped mug.

‘A toast! Calm seas and may our good luck continue.’ The men drank, gasping as the fiery Orkney spirit reached their throats.

Hector opened his jacket and consulted an ancient pocket watch on which the silver casing had long since faded to brass. ‘It’s – quarter to one. If you want a load taking over tonight, that’s fine with me. We might as well, since we’re here. But I want to get
Lobster Boy
out of the pool soon. If we don’t we’ll be here for the night.’

‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t,’ said Henry Smith.

He looked questioningly at the tall, thin man named Knut. He was a striking figure with very fair hair and a dark curly beard. His nose was a mere button in the pale Nordic face.

‘You can be ready?’

‘Any time,’ Knut said. ‘Five minutes to change, that’s all.’

‘Knut will be coming with us as guard,’ Henry Smith explained. Hector nodded.

‘Good. Well, then; if you’ll all get ready, we can start taking some of the cases down to the shore.’ The Englishman smiled wryly. ‘At least it will be easier than carrying them up.’ He began buttoning his heavy coat and turned up the fur collar.

Those Norwegians who had not finished their drinks tossed them back and crossed to their bed-rolls and rucksacks. In a couple of minutes they were ready. At the far end of the room Knut had pulled off his sweater and was carefully unfolding a set of neat black clothes. Murdo saw the glint of gold. It looked to him like a uniform.

Ten minutes later they were on their way. Murdo shifted the heavy box on his shoulder so that the sharp edge did not come against the bone. Before and behind him a line of men, shouldering and clasping similar boxes, stumbled across the rough heathery ground towards the cliff top. Murdo was not at all sure he would be able to manage his case down the steps when they came to them. He imagined clutching the wobbly rail for balance; felt it lurch out under his weight. He thought of the sickening drop to the rocks – at the very least his priceless case falling to destruction in an avalanche of stone, box-wood and twisted metal; or landing in the sea with a splash, and sinking.

In the outcome, no-one suffered any mishap, and a few minutes later they all stood safely on the little concrete jetty by the pool. Dag was the last man down. He laid his case on top of the others and wiped a trembling hand across his forehead.

‘Dear God,’ he said, and sat on one of the boxes with his head in his hand. Then he shrugged his shoulders to loosen the shirt that was sticking to him with sweat.

Murdo did the same, and ran a dry tongue around his lips. There were not enough boxes yet to make a load, they would have to go back for more. He closed his eyes for a moment at the thought, but said nothing.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up to see Bjorn smiling down at him. He raised his eyebrows and smiled back.

‘Right.’ Hector took charge. ‘Let’s not waste too much time. You leave the cases there. Murdo and I will load them into the boat.’ Raggedly the Norwegians crossed the rocks and began to climb the shadowy path once more. Henry Smith looked briefly and pointedly at the man called Arne, then turned away towards the steps with the others. Murdo was surprised, he would not have expected him to negotiate the steep path a second time when it was unnecessary. Already many things were puzzling him about Mr Smith.

They passed from sight. Arne alone remained by the pool. He was slightly built and so fair as to be almost an albino, with cropped hair and red rims to his eyes.

Hector addressed him. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Murdo and I can manage. You give the others a hand.’

‘No, I’ll stay and help you,’ Arne said. He slid one of the crates nearer to the edge of the jetty.

‘As you like,’ Hector said.

Murdo pulled the boat from her mooring and tied her up alongside. It was the work of only a few minutes to pass the cases across and stack them neatly on the bottom boards.

Arne was not disposed to talk. When they had finished he sat on a corner of the jetty and smoked a cigarette, sheltered from the wind by a projecting rock and looking over the moonlit sea.

The men were soon back, and after four of the Norwegians had made a third trip the boat was full. Murdo spread a tarpaulin over the boxes and lashed it in place.

Hector checked his boat’s level in the water. ‘She’ll do fine at that today. Not much freeboard, but the sea’s calm enough.’ He looked up at Henry Smith. ‘Murdo and I will take her through the passage and pick you up at the other jetty. It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze.’

‘I’ll come with you, if it’s all the same,’ Henry Smith said. Hector shrugged. ‘Come if you want,’ he said. ‘Do you expect
us to go off and leave you?’

‘You could.’ Henry Smith stepped neatly aboard and seated himself amidships. He looked up at the men on the jetty.

‘Knut,’ he said.

The Norwegian who was going to act as guard at the cave stepped forward. He had removed a long parka, and now it was revealed that he had changed into the uniform of a British naval sub-lieutenant. A white scarf hung about his neck and he carried a navy-blue duffle coat over one arm. With his dark beard and erect, easy bearing, he looked every inch the young officer.

‘We’ll pick you up at the far jetty,’ Henry Smith said.

Hector looked coldly at the uniform. Distaste welled up in him.

‘Does he have to wear that?’ he said.

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Henry Smith answered. ‘Just in case someone strays down to the cave.’

‘I told you, nobody will.’

‘You can’t be that sure.’

‘What if it’s the police?’

‘He has documents,’ Henry Smith replied smoothly.

‘Where did you get that uniform?’ Hector said to the young
Norwegian.

Knut shook his head.

‘What does it matter where he got it?’ Henry Smith broke in impatiently. ‘He stole it! The captain who brought them over had a spare one! It doesn’t matter! I told you, everything’s arranged – it’s all been worked out.’

Again there was silence. Two of the men on the jetty shifted their feet against the cold.

‘Well, I don’t like it,’ Hector said.

Murdo pulled a hard end of rope straight. ‘What boat was it,’ he asked, ‘you came over on?’ The question had been in his mind all evening.

Henry Smith smiled and shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. Murdo looked down again and toyed with the end of rope.

‘Well, if he’s coming anyway, he might as well get in now,’ Hector said at last. ‘Four’s the same as three. Maybe keep us a bit lower in the water when we go through.’

Knut, who had listened in silence, swung his rucksack and bed-roll to Murdo and climbed into the boat.

‘Move for’ard a bit,’ Hector said. ‘We’ll have to use the oars.’ The two passengers shifted towards Murdo in the bows.

‘All right, then,’ Hector said. ‘Let’s away. Throw down the ropes will you.’

In a moment they were gliding through the channel, crouching as the ragged roof slipped past their heads. A little way along the bow struck a particularly low fang of rock and the boat jarred to a halt with a little splintering crack, which swung them sideways so that the stern struck as well.

Hector handed Knut a box of matches. ‘Here, give us a bit of light.’

It was eerie in the dim orange light of the match; the black water slurping on the barnacled rocks, the jutting roof so close above the gunwale of the boat.

Two minutes later they were chugging beneath the towering crags that curved like pincers about the narrow entrance of the bay. The shadowy group of men on the rocks waved as they drew past. Then Hector pushed the throttle wide and the engine note picked up. The little boat surged forward, heading once more for the open sea.

The journey back seemed shorter than the trip out. Soon Island Roan had sunk to a dark shadow against the glittering sea behind them. They seemed perpetually to be heading into the darkness. The wind had shifted slightly and now blew straight into their faces from the north-east, from the snowfields of northern Europe. It was witheringly cold. With the added weight of cargo the boat swung less. Unaccustomed to such a load, Murdo felt her driving through the waves rather than riding lightly above them, as she had done on the way out. But the
Lobster Boy
made good speed, and almost before he was ready for it Strathy Point was looming up ahead, the blinded lighthouse squat above the cliffs. Well clear of the sucking rocks he rounded it to starboard. Twenty minutes later the thin white line of the beach was rising to meet them.