South By Java Head (17 page)

"No, sir. Clips jammed." Jenkins shook his head tiredly. "Couldn't open them, sir."
"There's a pipe clipped to the hatch," Nicolson said savagely. "You know that as well as I do."
Jenkins said nothing, turned his palms up for inspection. Nicolson winced. There was no skin left, none at all, just red, raw flesh and the gleam of white bone.
"Good God!" Nicolson stared at the hands for a moment, then looked up at the pain-filled eyes. "My apologies, Jenkins. Go below. Wait outside the wireless office." He turned round quickly as someone touched him on the shoulder. "Van Effen. I suppose you know that apart from being a bloody fool you're the luckiest man alive?"
The tall Dutchman dropped two rifles, an automatic carbine and ammunition on the deck and straightened up. "You were right," he said quietly. "I was wasting my time. All dead." He nodded at Jenkins's retreating back. "I heard him. That's the small deckhouse just for'ard of the bridge, isn't it? I'll go."
Nicolson looked at the calm grey eyes for a moment, then nodded. "Come with me if you like. Might need help to get him out, whoever he is."
In the passage below they bumped into Vannier, staggering under the weight of an armful of blankets. "How are the boats, Fourth?" Nicolson asked quickly.
"Remarkable, sir. They're hardly scratched. You'd think the Japs had left them alone on purpose."
"Both of them?" Nicolson asked in astonishment.
"Yes, sir,"
"Gift horses," Nicolson muttered. "Carry on, Fourth. Don't forget the stretcher for the captain."
Down on the main deck the heat was almost suffocating, and both men were gasping for oxygen before ten seconds had passed. The petrol fire in the cargo holds was twice, three times as fierce as it had been five minutes ago, and dimly, through the roar of the flames, they could hear an almost continuous rumble of explosions as the metal fuel barrels ruptured and burst in the intense heat. But Nicolson noticed these things with only a corner of his mind. He was standing by the water-tight steel door of the entrance house to the hatch, rapping on the surface with the end of the two-foot length of pipe that served as clip levers for these doors. As he waited for a reply, bent low over the hatch, he could see the sweat from his forehead dripping on to^the hatch in an almost continuous trickle. The air was so dry and parched, the metal so hot -- they could feel the heat of the deck even through the soles of their shoes -- that the drips of perspiration evaporated and vanished almost as they touched the deck... And then, so suddenly that both men started in spite of their tense expectation, there came an answering rap from inside, very faint but quite unmistakable, and Nicolson waited no longer. The clips were very stiff indeed -- some explosive shock must have warped or shifted the metal -- and it took a dozen powerful strokes from the sledge he carried to free the two jammed clips: the last retaining clip sheered at the first blow.
A gust of hot, fetid air swept up from the gloomy depths of the pump-room, but Nicolson and Van Effen ignored it and peered into the darkness. Then Van Effen had switched on his torch and they could clearly see the oil-streaked grey hair of a man climbing up towards the top of the ladder. And then two long arms reached down and, a moment later, the man was standing on deck beside him, a forearm flung up in reflex instinct to shield himself from the heat of the flames. He was drenched in oil from head to foot, the whites of his eyes almost comically prominent in the black, smeared face.
Nicolson peered at him for a moment, and then said in astonishment: "Willy!"
"Even so," Willoughby intoned. "None other. Good old Willy. Golden lads and lasses must, etc., but not superannuated second engineers. No ordinary mortals we." He wiped some oil from his face. "Sing no sad songs for Willoughby."
"But what the hell were you doing? -- never mind. It can wait. Come on, Willy. No time to lose. We're leaving."
Willoughby panted for air as they climbed up to the bridge. "Dived in for shelter, my boy. Almost cut off in my prime. Where are we going?"
"As far away from this ship as possible," Nicolson said grimly. "She's due to go up any moment now."
Willoughby turned round, shielding his eyes with his hand. "Only a petrol fire, Johnny. Always a chance that it'll burn itself out."
"Number one cargo tank's gone up."
"The boats, and with all speed," Willoughby said hastily. "Old Willy would live and fight another day."
Within five minutes both boats had been provisioned and lowered for embarkation. All the survivors, including the wounded, were gathered together, waiting. Nicolson looked at the captain.
"Ready when you give the word, sir."
Findhorn smiled faintly: even that seemed an effort, for the smile ended in a grimace of pain. "A late hour for this modesty, Mr. Nicolson, You're in charge, my boy." He coughed, screwed shut his eyes, then looked up thoughtfully. "The 'planes, Mr. Nicolson. They could cut us to ribbons when we're lowering into the water."
"Why should they bother when they can have a far better go at us once we're in the water?" Nicolson shrugged his shoulders. "We've no option, sir."
"Of course. Forgive a foolish objection." Findhorn leaned back and closed his eyes.
"There will be no trouble from the 'planes." It was Van Effen speaking, and he seemed oddly sure of himself. He smiled at Nicolson. "You and I could have been dead twice over: they either cannot fire or do not wish to fire. There are other reasons, too, but time is short, Mr. Nicolson."
"Time is short." Nicolson nodded, then clenched his fists as a deep, rumbling roar reverberated throughout the ship. A heavy, prolonged shudder ran through the superstructure of the Viroma, a shudder that culminated in a sudden, sickening lurch as the deck dropped away under their feet, towards the stern. Nicolson smiled faintly at Van Effen. "Time is indeed short, Van Effen. Must you illustrate your points quite so thoroughly?" He raised his voice. "Right, everybody, into the boats."
The need for speed had been urgent before: it was desperate now. The bulkheads of number two tank had ruptured, and one of the tanks, possibly both, were open to the sea: the Viroma was already settling by the stern. But speed was a double-edged weapon and Nicolson only too clearly realised that undue haste and pressure would only drive the untrained passengers into panic, or, at best -- and equally delaying -- confusion. McKinnon and Van Effen were invaluable, shepherding the passengers to their positions, carrying the wounded and laying them down between the thwarts, talking quietly, encouragingly all the time. Inside, that is -- outside they had to shout to make themselves heard above the sound of the flames -- a weird, terrifying noise compounded of a thin, high-pitched hissing noise that set teeth and nerves on edge and a deep, continuous tearing sound like the ripping of calico, only magnified a thousand times.
The heat was no longer uncomfortable. It was intense, and the two great curtains of flame were beginning to sweep irresistibly together -- the pale-blue transparent gauze, shimmering and unreal, of the petrol fire from the bows, and the blood-red, smoke-shot flames from the stern. Breathing became a rasping, throat-tearing agony, and Jenkins, especially, suffered terribly as the super-heated air laid agonising fingers on his scorched skin and raw, bleeding hands. Of them all, young Peter Tallon suffered the least discomfort: McKinnon had dipped a large, fleecy blanket in the pantry sink and wrapped it round the little boy, covering him from head to toe.
Within three minutes of giving the order both boats were in the water. The port lifeboat, manned only by Siran and his six men, was first away -- with fewer men, and none of these injured, it had taken less time to embark them, but, from the glimpse Nicolson had of them before he ran back to the starboard lifeboat, it was going to take them a long time to get clear of the burning ship. They were having difficulty in clearing the falls, although Nicolson had given instructions about the patent release gear, two of them were swinging fear-maddened blows at one another and all of them gesticulating and shouting at the tops of their voices. Nicolson turned away, heedless, indifferent. Let them sort it out themselves and if they failed the world would be the better for their failure. He.had given them what they had denied the little boy -- a chance to live.
Less than a minute later Nicolson, the last man to leave, was sliding down the knotted lifeline into the waterborne number one lifeboat. He could see the lifeboat beneath him, jammed with passengers and equipment, and realised how difficult it would be to ship the oars and pull away, especially with only three or four people fit or able to use an oar, but even as his feet touched a thwart the engine coughed, sputtered, coughed again, caught and settled down to a gentle murmur he could barely hear above the flames.
Within a minute they were well away from the Viroma's side, circling anti-clockwise round the bows. Abreast the fo'c'sle, with two hundred feet of intervening sea, the heat from the flames still stung their eyes and caught at their throats but Nicolson still held the lifeboat in, rounding the bows as closely as they dared. And then, all at once, the long length of the port side of the Viroma opened up and they could see number two lifeboat. Three minutes, at least, had passed since she had been launched: she was still less than twenty yards from the side of the ship. Siran had finally succeeded in restoring order with the lash of his tongue and the heavy and indiscriminate use of the boathook, but, with two men lying groaning on the bottom-boards and a third nursing a numbed and, for the moment, useless arm, Siran had only three men left to man the heavy sweeps. On board number one boat Nicolson compressed his lips and looked at Findhorn. The captain interpreted the look correctly and nodded heavily and reluctantly.
Half a minute later McKinnon sent a coil of rope snaking expertly over the water. Siran himself caught it and made it fast to the mast thwart, and almost at once the motorboat took up the slack and started towing Siran and his men clear of the ship's side. This time Nicolson made no attempt to circle the ship but moved straight out to sea intent on putting the maximum possible distance between themselves and the Viroma in the least possible time.
Five minutes and five hundred yards passed and still nothing happened. The motorboat, with the other lifeboat in tow, was making a top speed of perhaps three and a half knots, but every foot covered was a foot nearer safety. The fighters still cruised overhead, but aimlessly: they, had made no move to attack since the embarkation had begun and obviously had no intention of making any now.
Two more minutes passed, and the Viroma was burning more fiercely than ever. The flames from the fo'c'sle were now clearly visible, no longer swallowed up by the brilliance of the sunlight: the dense pall of smoke from the two after cargo tanks now spread over half a square mile of sea and not even the fierce tropical sun could penetrate its black intensity. Under this dark canopy the two great pillars of flame swept more and more closely together, remorseless, majestic in the splendour of their inexorable progress. The tips of the two great fires leaned in towards one another -- some curious freak of the superheated atmosphere -- and Findhorn, twisted round in his seat and watched his ship die, knew with sudden certainty that when these two flames touched the end would come. And so it was.
After the barbaric magnificence of the dying, the death was strangely subdued and unspectacular. A column of white flame streaked upwards just abaft the bridge, climbing two, three, four hundred feet, then vanishing as suddenly as it had come. Even as it vanished a low, deep, prolonged rumble came at them across the stillness of the sea; by and by the echoes vanished away in the empty distance and there was only then the silence. The end came quietly and without any fuss, even with a certain grace and dignity, the Viroma slipping gently under the surface of the sea on an even steady keel, a tired and dreadfully wounded ship that had taken all it could and was glad to go to rest. The watchers in the lifeboats could hear the gentle hissing, quickly extinguished, of water pouring into red-hot holds, could see the tips of the two slender masts sliding down vertically into the sea, then a few bubbles and then nothing at all, no floating wood or flotsam on the oily waters, just nothing at all. It was as if the Viroma had never been.
Captain Findhorn turned to Nicolson, his face like a stone, his eyes drained and empty of all expression. Almost everybody in the lifeboat was looking at him, openly or covertly, but he seemed completely unaware of it, a man sunk in a vast and heedless indifference.
"Unaltered course, Mr. Nicolson, if you please." His voice was low and husky, but only from weakness and blood. "200, as I remember. Our objective remains. We should reach the Macclesfield Channel in twelve hours."
CHAPTER EIGHT
HOURS PASSED, interminable, breathless hours under a blue, windless sky and the fierce glare of the tropical sun and still number one lifeboat chugged steadily south, towing the other boat behind it. Normally a lifeboat carries a fuel supply good only for a hundred miles steaming at about four knots, and is used solely for emergencies, such as towing other boats clear of a sinking ship, cruising around for survivors, going for immediate help or keeping the boat itself hove to in heavy seas. But McKinnon had had the foresight to throw in extra cans of petrol and, even allowing for the possibility of bad weather, they had enough, and more than enough, to carry them to Lepar, an island about the size of the Isle of Sheppey on the starboard hand as they passed through the Macclesfield Channel. Captain Findhorn, with fifteen years in the Archipelago behind him, knew where he could find petrol on Lepar, and plenty of it. The only unknown quantity was the Japanese: they might have already taken over the island, but with their land forces already so widespread and thinly stretched it seemed unlikely that they could yet have had the time or sufficient reason to garrison so small a place. And with plenty of petrol and fresh water there was no saying how far they might go; the Sunda Straits between Sumatra and Java was not impossible, especially when the north-east trades started up again and helped them on their way.
But there were no trades just now, not even the lightest zephyr of a breeze; it was absolutely still and airless and suffocatingly hot and the tiny movement of air from their slow passage through the water was only a mockery of coolness and worse than nothing at all. The blazing sun was falling now, slipping far to the west, but still burning hot: Nicolson had both sails stretched as awnings, the jib for the fore end and the lug-sail, its yard lashed half-way up the mast, stretched aft as far as it would go, but even beneath the shelter of these the heat was still oppressive, somewhere between eighty and ninety degrees with a relative humidity of over 85 per cent. It was seldom enough in the East Indies, at any time of the year, that the temperature dropped below eighty degrees. Nor was there any relief to be obtained, any chance of cooling off by plunging over the side into the water, the temperature of which lay somewhere between eighty degrees and eighty-five. All the passengers could do was to recline limply and listlessly in the shade of awnings, to sit and suffer and sweat and pray for the sun to go down.