Send a Gunboat (1960) (9 page)

“Very good. Stop engines!”

The throbbing, their constant companion so far, died away, and the ship rolled uneasily on the green water.

Fallow paused in his work with his ear cocked. “We’ve stopped!” he exclaimed, and peered at Herridge as if for some explanation.

Herridge continued to check the contents of the ancient ice box against his list, and said nothing. He’s really windy, he thought. It was almost as if he had some premonition of disaster. Ah well, he shrugged, perhaps I shall be like that when I’m his age!

Vincent too, raised his head wearily, as he lay sprawled out in a wardroom chair, a tall glass in his fist. Another damned delay! He downed the gin in a gulp, feeling it claw its way through the rawness at the back of his throat. He banged it on the table and signalled to the steward, Peng, unable to speak without choking.
He watched the steward broodingly, and weakly scratched the inside of his bare legs. God, it’s hot, and there are still another forty-eight hours to go. He wondered what Santu would be like, and what sort of a mess the Captain would make of their mission. He sipped the second drink, and allowed his mind to drift back to Government House at Hong Kong. The white uniforms, and silk dresses, the music, and the witty conversation. His eye fell on one of Fallow’s gardening catalogues, and he groaned with disgust. Thank God he’d be shot of all these dead-beats soon, for good. He picked up a copy of the Tatler, and lazily perused the photographs of the weddings and house parties, looking with interest at the bored faces which stared up at him from the glossy pages. His sense of well-being began to return, and he settled comfortably in the chair, heedless of the shirt sticking to his skin. Soon, soon now, he told himself, and he too would be mingling with reasonable people again.

Rolfe too was thinking of people, but of a different sort. He was considering the prospect of meeting Mr. John Laker, the Acting Consul in Santu. Tea planter and retired brigadier, he sounded a formidable person from the report he had re-read several times. He grimaced. How would I feel, I wonder, if some bloody government department ordered
me
off my land? His eyes sharpened, and he grabbed for his glasses. As the powerful lenses groped across the dancing water, he saw a long grey hull lift itself over the horizon, its hazy outline hardening even as he watched. The white speck at its stem gave the impression of immense speed.

Turning to the bridge messenger, he decided to test the
Wagtail
’s new state of preparedness. “Action Stations!” he barked.

The bells jangled, and the thud of feet echoed throughout the ship, as officers and seamen panted to their positions.

Vincent arrived in the wheelhouse looking fresh and cool, an unspoken question on his face.

“Destroyer! Starboard bow!” snapped Rolfe, jamming on his cap. “American, I imagine.” With that, he scrambled up to the open upper bridge, where Fallow stood uneasily with the gun’s crew.

Leading Seaman Clinton, the gunlayer, sat heavily on his seat,
toying with his sights, his gaunt, hollow face heavy with sleep. He had just crawled into his mess for a quiet nap when the bells had started his legs moving automatically. Now, as he surveyed the approaching ship, with the Stars and Stripes flapping proudly at her gaff, he blew out his cheeks scornfully. Yanks! Always dashing about the ruddy hoggin as if they owned it! He glanced at the Captain’s tall frame, the brown shoulders smooth and muscular. Ruddy officers, he thought. Always in a panic about something!

Through his glasses Rolfe saw the rows of white faces, and the brass nameplate,
Arnold P. Crane.
On the other side of her raked funnel she bore an enormous crest, and her squadron motto ‘The Fastest and the Best!’

Rolfe smiled grimly, and watched as the signal lamp began to flash. Signalman Randall, an excitable young man from Birmingham, moved his lips silently as he followed the stabbing light.

“Wants to know if we’re in trouble, sir?”

At that moment the destroyer moved in closer, her power slowing down, until her superstructure towered over them. A loud hailer squeaked, and then a booming voice flooded across the gunboat.

“Say, ain’t you one of those old gunboats?”

Rolfe raised his battered megaphone. “Her Majesty’s Gunboat
Wagtail
,” he answered.

“Which Majesty is that? Queen Victoria?” The rich American voice quipped back.

Fallow glared angrily across the narrow strip of water, his fears temporarily forgotten. “Bloody cheek!” he muttered, watching Rolfe hopefully.

Rolfe was aware of Louch climbing painfully up the ladder, like a small gnome. “Ready to proceed, sir,” he announced quietly.

Rolfe smiled thankfully, “Did you see the ship, Chief?”

Louch met his gaze calmly, and he wiped his neck automatically with his piece of waste. “Ship? What ship, sir?” And without a glance at the American, he turned back down the ladder.

Rolfe grinned broadly at Fallow. “There you are, Number One, that’s the way to behave!”

He waved across to the destroyer. “We’re alright now! Nice to have met you!”

A bell jangled, and the
Wagtail
began to move, as if eager to be clear of her present company.

Several of the American sailors were training their cameras and pointing delightedly.

“Probably think this is all the Royal Navy can afford!” observed Fallow sourly.

The ships moved apart, the greyhound of the seas and the top-heavy gunboat.

Rolfe watched admiringly as the destroyer gathered way, remembering how it had felt with forty thousand horsepower under his feet.

“Don’t be taken in by their attitude, Number One. They’re different in their approach to things, that’s all!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Fallow gloomily, staring angrily after the grey shadow. “The fastest and the best! Huh!” He wiped his face clear of sweat. “They think they can do anything!”

“They couldn’t get into Santu harbour for a start! And what’s more, they don’t know we’re going to, or I don’t suppose he’d have been quite so jolly!” Then briskly, Rolfe added, “Right, time for another drill! This time we’ll lay out the gear for towing from aft! Carry on, Number One!”

As dusk fell,
Wagtail
crept past a sleeping Formosa, and turned on her fresh course to the north. The time for practice was over, and the game was about to start.

ON THE LARGE
scale chart of China’s Eastern Sea, the island of Santu shows a remarkable likeness to a question mark, even to the extent of having a tiny formation of rocks lying entirely separate, a couple of miles off the southern ‘tail-end’ of the island, making a natural ‘dot’. For a vessel of any size, the approaches to the island are few and treacherous, the apparently
placid waters being strewn with reefs and long, uneven sand-bars, some of which are uncharted, and most of which are unknown, but to the local coast shipping. High, reddish cliffs form the eastern side, and apart from deep anchorages, there are few landing places for even the smallest craft, the only harbour being situated within the natural curl of the rough-hewn ‘query’ at the northern end. That too has been allowed to silt up over the years, the hosts of small fishing boats preferring to beach themselves along the flat mud banks, while larger visiting ships have had to make do with a doubtful lighterage service to and from the shore.

Rolfe stood quietly at the front of the bridge, watching for the guiding marks and stone beacons which, according to his Pilot’s Guide, were the only visible aids to navigation. He was still surprised by his first sight of the island, by its lush greenness and tree-covered slopes rising above the yellow beach at the back of the harbour. The town, apparently consisting of small, single-storied white houses and huts, was strewn in a disordered and colourful jumble at the foot of a towering, red-stone cliff, the front of which had fallen down into the waters of the harbour in long flat slabs, like a handful of books tossed carelessly on a glass-topped table. The harbour wall, what there was of it, was merely an extension of this rocky formation, and looked as if it had stood for as long as the island itself. His gaze was held by the ancient, rambling walls of a fortress, which straggled along the top of the cliff, and dominated both the harbour approaches and the town; walls which were worn and pitted by weather and time, until they too seemed to be part of the rough, red stone on which they stood. From the squat, central tower, a tall flagstaff carried a long, green banner, which hung limply in the hot mid-day sun.

Apart from a few fishing boats drifting lazily nearby, the
Wagtail
had the sea to herself, and as she steamed purposefully along her set course, Rolfe felt that thousands of eyes were watching their approach, although, in fact, only a few figures could be seen on the distant harbour wall.

Fallow glanced apprehensively as a fang-toothed rock slid past the port side, and tried not to think of the others hidden below the friendly water which rippled quietly past the gunboat’s
hull, and concentrated instead on the shimmering face of the island. Looked friendly enough, he thought. Perhaps the job’d be over quickly after all.

“Hard a-starboard!” He heard Rolfe’s terse voice, and felt the gunboat swing awkwardly off her course to avoid another grinning reef. He mopped his face anxiously, and peered down over the ship’s side. It seemed frightening somehow, to be able to see the bottom of the sea from a moving vessel. They could but be in a few feet of water now, and the harbour was still half a mile distant.

He turned away from the rail, his eye falling on a group of idling seamen. “’Ere, come on then!” he growled, anxious to cover his fright. “Grab ’old of these wires an’ fenders for comin’ alongside the wall!” If we get there, he added to himself.

Rolfe sighed deeply as the blunt bows rounded the pointing finger of the stone breakwater. Here, at least, it was a sandy bottom, so even if they ran aground—he shook himself, suddenly angry—stop thinking of failure before you start, you’re getting as bad as the others, he cursed inwardly.

As the ship manœuvred up to the jetty, the crowd of jabbering and pointing Chinese swelled, until their very numbers threatened to force some of them into the water. Many hands snatched out to collect the heaving lines as they snaked ashore, and in a very short time the mooring-wires were clamped snugly around the weather-beaten stone bollards on the top of the wall.

Another group of ragged-looking coolies, their emaciated bodies straining and grunting, swung a long, carved gangway across to the gunboat’s deck, where it was secured under the watchful eye of C.P.O. Herridge, who mistrusted most other people’s ability to tie even the simplest knot.

Chase, his heavy face grim with importance, stood smartly at attention at the head of the gangway, by the armed sentry, and stared fiercely at the gaping crowd, both contemptuous of them, and conscious of his own impressive appearance.

A few scruffily dressed soldiers, clad in assorted bits of uniform, but armed to the teeth with sidearms and automatic rifles, shouldered their way roughly through the crowd, to stand impassively along the edge of the wall, facing the
Wagtail
.

Rolfe, straightening his tunic with slow, deliberate tugs,
watched the newcomers with interest. The soldiers of General Ch’en-Pei carried themselves with a certain confident swagger, which even their crude green uniforms could not disguise. They were definitely better fed than the townspeople, and looked more like bandits than soldiers, which they no doubt are, he thought dryly.

A hush fell over the crowd as some of the soldiers forced a passage through the packed bodies. Rolfe stepped forward to the gangway, feeling the sun on his neck like a sledgehammer, signing to Fallow to call the seamen to attention. He had seen a white panama hat floating through the lane of watching people, and he guessed that Mr. John Laker was losing no time in discovering the reason for a warship’s unheralded appearance in his little domain.

John Laker was gross. To describe him in any other terms would be useless, as everything about him was big and important. His round, brown face and flinty grey eyes had the stamp of the regular army officer, but the heavy, squat body, shrouded in a well-cut white suit, was the product of extremely good living. He walked with an unexpected lightness, and as he stepped carefully across the gangway, he swept the panama from his head, revealing a mass of well-trimmed, grey hair and a smooth, unlined forehead.

Following him across the gangway came the tall, stooping figure of a Chinese officer, dressed in a smart and better designed version of the green uniform worn by the other soldiers. His long arms hung limply at his sides as he walked, and his shoulders, narrow and rounded under the flashing shoulder straps of his tunic, moved in a curious loping motion, disconnected from the rest of his long body. His features were smooth and ageless, only the deep-set almond eyes showing any interest or animation in his surroundings.

Rolfe saluted and smiled. “Welcome aboard. Mr. Laker, isn’t it?”

Laker nodded vigorously. “Erm, that’s right, Captain. Brigadier Laker!” There was a slight reproof in his fruity voice. He ushered his companion forward. “An’ this is Major Ling,” the officer bowed at the mention of his name. “He’s here to welcome you on behalf of the General.”

“I am also Chief of Security here in Santu!” Ling’s voice was surprisingly soft and well-modulated, with hardly a trace of accent.

“Security? You mean the police?” Rolfe asked politely.

“We have no police in Santu. The army is quite sufficient!” One of his long arms waved negligently towards his men on the jetty. “As you see, Captain, they are a rough lot. But as you know, you judge a fighting dog not by its coat, but by its teeth!”

Rolfe pondered over those words, as he guided the two men into the wardroom, where he introduced his officers.

Fallow shook hands humbly, and then lapsed into silence, while Vincent flashed Laker a warm smile, and prepared himself for another conquest. The stewards had gone to great lengths to prepare for any such occasion as this, and the table glittered with a wide assortment of drinks and glasses. Even the lemons, fresh from the ice-box, still retained an appearance of newness.