Send a Gunboat (1960) (25 page)

There was a shout from another direction, it seemed as if it was right ahead, and he swerved violently, his arm grazing against a broken stump. He must have shown himself, for the two guns opened up again with renewed hate. Rat-tat-tat-tat! The earth jumped in little spurts at his feet, and splinters rained down on his head. He halted, his back pressed against some thick branches, his chest heaving painfully. Immediately the firing stopped, too, and he heard the crash of boots stumbling through the undergrowth. There were several more of them now. He swore desperately, if only he could get over the brow of the hill, away from the moon. He might stand a chance then. He stiffened, the hair rising on his neck. He could hear the sound of breathing very close to him, and the very soft creak of leather. He waited, holding in his breath, until little lights danced before his eyes. An age passed, and then, very slowly, and with infinite care, the bushes by his elbow were parted, moved apart by a gleaming bayonet. Fascinated, he watched the rifle appear, and as the barrel wavered, a booted foot rose carefully over the scrub, and as it took the pressure of the ground, the man slid into view.

He was a thick-set, powerful man, his brown uniform criss-crossed by bandoliers of gleaming ammunition, and his
movements controlled by all the instinct and training of a professional soldier.

Rolfe felt the dry leaves rustling his cheek, and he gripped the branch at his back, waiting for the exclamation, and the thrust of that cruel bayonet.

The soldier moved slowly forward, his head cocked for the least sound, a finger curled round the trigger. At that moment there was a savage burst of firing from another direction and more confused shouting. The soldier muttered irritably and dashed off in the direction of the new outbreak, his bayonet scabbard dragging coldly across Rolfe’s thigh. He listened unbelievingly to the fading sounds, wondering what chance sound or error had drawn the pursuit in the opposite direction. He saw a ripple of flashes at the foot of the hill, and heard the whip of bullets singing across the clearing. Then there was silence, and with the sweat cold on his face, Rolfe scrambled up the last few yards to the summit and, as the sea glittered welcomingly before him, he ran recklessly down the slope, until a loose stone brought him crashing down, the wind knocked out of his lungs, and then he lay panting, and realizing for the first time just how lucky he had been.

They will come back eventually, he thought, as he began to recover from the shock, it’s time to move and keep going!

The going was easier now, and with the black mound behind him he was able to watch his approaching objective, like a giant map.

He lost all sense of time as he twisted and turned through little gullies, and beneath towering humps of rock, and his brain became so tired with concentration that he had to force himself to stop and listen at each piece of open ground, and when he crossed the faint hill tracks, which seemed to run in every direction.

As he drew nearer to the sea he caught an occasional glimpse of the fort, its high, rugged outline picked out by the distant flash of automatic fire and the deep thud of grenades.

Rolfe wondered if all the General’s men were in the fort now, or whether some of them were still fighting from the other prepared positions. There seemed little point foi the Communist sentries, unless there were other forces abroad.

His heart began to beat faster as he saw the white ribbon of the coast road and heard the soft murmur of the sea.

Not far now to the hospital. And then—and then, what? He halted by the road, his face twisted into a frown. How would he get them to the other end of Santu? And then, how could they cross the water to the little island where they might be safe? He shook himself angrily, time enough to worry about that when you’re on your way back here!

By keeping to the edge of the road he was able to study the fishing village for some time, but he was quite unable to see any sign of life, or, for that matter, any sign of damage or fighting. A tinge of hope moved in his breast. The attack would have by-passed the town, as he was now doing, and it was still likely that the Communists were too busy to deploy their forces away from the main objectives, at least until the daylight.

Taking a deep breath, he padded across the road to shelter in the deep shadow of the first hut.

He realized then just how unused and untrained he was for this type of behaviour. At sea, in any ship, he could carry out his duties practically without conscious thought, and the more difficult and improbable tasks he had met with equal calmness and confidence. Yet here, in the silent village, the small houses and huts slashed into strange black and white shapes by the moonlight, he felt uneasy and defenceless.

He waited until another burst of firing awakened the echoes, and then he stepped from his shelter and along the narrow lane between the squalid dwellings, his footsteps drowned by the barrage.

The walls seemed to move in on him and he had to duck repeatedly to avoid the dangling nets and the untidy coils of fish line which hung from every roof.

He blundered blindly past a deserted food stall, its cheap earthenware platters scattered in the dust and crackling beneath his feet. The moon was again masked by the buildings and he walked stiffly forward, his arms outstretched like a sleepwalker, and his face tensed for the expected collision from some fresh obstruction.

The firing stopped and, as he waited in the deep doorway of what appeared to be a storehouse, his eyes stretched in an effort
to pierce the darkness, he heard the slow step of boots upon the road, accompanied by a soft humming. A pleasant sound, like someone taking a quiet evening stroll in the country before returning home to bed, but singularly out of place here.

But as he listened, Rolfe felt a surge of hope, the tune being hummed was familiar, and even the slow, slouching steps could not be a piece of his imagination.

He trembled with suppressed excitement. Major Ling, he breathed, it had to be! And that meant that here in the village at least, all was well.

Opposite to where he crouched in the doorway was a high white wall, and as the other man crossed in front of it, Rolfe saw the familiar stooped shoulders, the long legs and the strange, shambling gait. It was like a dim shadow, immediately swallowed up by the darkness as soon as it had passed the white wall. The shape moved carelessly and with a confidence born of familiarity with this very street.

Rolfe stepped out into the road. “Ling? Major Ling? Is that you?”

The humming stopped and he heard the scrape of feet as the man turned round with a sharp intake of breath.

For one terrible moment Rolfe thought he had made a mistake, and half-expected the crash of shots, and the searing shock of bullets hitting his body, but instead, a soft voice called out, “Captain! Well this is a surprise! Where did you come from?”

Rolfe groped his way towards him, impatient to be going to the hospital. “Just swam ashore,” he answered, aware of the incredulous sound of his explanation. “I came back here at once!”

“But your ship, Captain! Where is it?” The teeth gleamed eerily.

“Gone! Out to sea!” He shook aside the questions and grabbed Ling’s arm impatiently. “The hospital, are they all safe there? I’d like to go there right away, if I can!”

Ling laughed softly. “Certainly, Captain, they are quite safe, and I am on my way there myself. I shall now have the additional pleasure of your company!” He touched Rolfe’s arm. “But do not talk. I must be sure to hear my sentries if they call out. I do not wish to be shot by my own men!”

They turned into an even darker alley, which was quite unknown to Rolfe, but as he was about to question Ling’s judgement, a sharp challenge rapped out of the darkness. Ling called back some unintelligible words, and taking Rolfe’s arm, he guided him between the upended shapes of two wagons, from behind which he could see several prone riflemen. He forgot them at once, as the corrugated iron roof of the hospital rose above him. No wonder he didn’t recognize the route, this was the back entrance. Along the bottom edge of the ill-fitting door he saw the hard light of the pressure lamp, and at that moment it was the most welcome sight in the world.

Ling stood back to allow him to enter, and with something like shy excitement, Rolfe opened the door and stepped, half-blinded, into the little room.

His words of welcome died on his lips, and an ice-cold shock stabbed at his heart, until he reeled dazedly on his feet. Facing him across the table was a short, brutal Chinese soldier, his automatic rifle trained on Rolfe’s stomach, and his tiny, slitted eyes unwavering in terrible concentration. As he spun round to face Ling, he knew then how miserable was his failure.

Like the little soldier, Major Ling was dressed in the plain brown uniform, with its red stars of Communist China.

Ling eyed him impassively, his shoulder resting against the door, in an attitude of bored detachment. There was nothing slack about the pistol in his fist, or the two soldiers at his back.

He smiled sympathetically. “So sorry you fell into the trap, Captain!”

Rolfe swallowed hard, fighting back the feeling of shame and defeat. “Trap?” he repeated wearily, “what trap?”

“The trap of the night! As you say in your country, ‘All cats, look alike in the dark’.” He glanced down at his uniform. “And I suggest that if you had seen my change of appearance you would not have hailed me with such a welcome in your voice!” He snapped a brief order, and then smiled apologetically. “A mere formality, Captain. My men are going to search you!”

Rolfe stood helplessly while the two soldiers ran over his clothing, their rough hands jerking at his pockets, as if he were already dead. I might just as well be, he cursed, as he watched
the soldiers lay his compass down on the table. What a fool I’ve been! I’ve thrown my life away for nothing!

“A compass?” Ling smiled blandly. “A little unusual? But then, you say you swam ashore?” He waited for an explanation, his dark eyes watchful.

Rolfe’s brain began to whirl. If he told them about the
Wagtail’s
rendezvous, it was as good as signing a death warrant for the ship and everyone in her. “I was in action with two of
your
landing craft,” he said slowly, his hatred for this man helping to overcome his feeling of defeat. “I was blown overboard by an explosion, and,” he shrugged, “the ship carried on without me. She had no alternative under the circumstances!” It sounded a stupid story, but he stared defiantly at the impassive face, waiting for the challenge.

Ling nodded thoughtfully. “Then you swam ashore? Most interesting, Captain, and very unfortunate for you. However,” he continued briskly, “it is a fortune of war, and at the moment, a most helpful solution to one of my problems!”

“You said that the Feltons were safe! What have you done to them?”

As if reading the menace in his eyes, the soldiers moved closer to him, and he became aware of their sickening stench and coarse, brutal features. They were not like the islanders or the Chinese he had seen in Hong Kong. They were the raw material from the mainland, swept up from the vast reserves of the peasant masses for service in the army. Their blank, unintelligent faces showed no interest or feeling, and their hard eyes merely mirrored an almost animal instinct.

“They cannot understand what you are saying, Captain.” Ling followed his gaze. “But they make good soldiers. Cheap to run and easy to replace!” He laughed mockingly. “And as for your two friends, I was not lying. They are uncomfortable, perhaps, but quite safe!”

Rolfe clenched his fists. “If you’ve harmed that girl I’ll see that you’re paid back, if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

Ling slipped his gun into the holster and patted it. “It would be! Now follow me. We have much to do!”

He pushed open the door of the surgery and with a gun at the base of his spine, Rolfe followed him.

Judith Felton and her brother were sitting on the bench at the far side. Their hands were behind them, and even as he stared, Rolfe saw the ends of the rope which pinned them against the supports to the roof. Felton leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed, the distorted side of his face clashing horribly with the other half, which remained still and pale.

Judith sat unmoving on the edge of the bench, her head low, and the mass of gleaming hair falling down across her shoulders. She was still wearing the patched dress, and Rolfe felt his throat tighten, as he saw the stains on the cloth and the bruise on her brown arm. She looked so small and alone that he felt a wave of fury sweeping over him. I’ll get her out of this somehow, he swore.

“Visitor for you!” Ling snapped sharply, and Rolfe stepped forward, ignoring the soldiers and turning his back on Ling’s amused stare.

Judith hadn’t moved, and very gently he put his hand under her chin to tilt her face. “Judith,” he whispered, “are you all right?”

For a second her lithe body twisted with a sudden violence to get away from his hand, and then as she looked up at him, her terror-filled eyes widened with amazement and hope, which like a brief flame died away, as she looked over his shoulder at the others. Her dry lips moved, “Justin, you’ve come back! You came back, just as you promised!” A tear passed down her cheek and she bit her lip cruelly. “Thank you for trying, Justin!”

Felton was watching them without expression or emotion. “So they got you too, eh?” He laughed harshly. “These are my friends! And Ling there has turned out to be one of the people I’ve been looking up to all these years!”

Ling sat on the edge of the operating table, his head glossy under the swinging lamp.

“That will do! I’ve a lot to do before the morning, and it will be much easier if you all co-operate!” He eyed each one of them separately. “I am sorry it has to be like this, but I am afraid that we are too busy to be concerned with small, individual problems!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rolfe’s voice was trembling with fury. “Stop talking in riddles and come to the point!”

Felton strained forward, the rope pulling at his wrists. “He wants me to confess!” His good eye gleamed wildly. “Confess to being a spy for the Western powers!” He lowered his head, suddenly weary. “Me, a spy! After all I’ve done to help the spread of Communism amongst these people in Santu. Now I’m a spy for the imperialists!” Something like a sob broke from his lips. “The man I’ve loathed the sight of all these years, suddenly turns out to be the representative of the new China! What a ruddy laugh!” His head jerked back, as without apparently moving from the table Ling reached out and struck him across the mouth.