South By Java Head (19 page)

For a moment she transferred her glacial stare to Nicolson, and he thought he had gone too far. Then she pressed her lips together and nodded. "A long time. For me, far too long. He had his own regiment in Singapore, years before the war, but I doubt whether they ever saw him. He practically lived in the Bengal Club. Drunk, of course. AE the time."
"By heaven, madam!" Farnholme shouted. His bristly white eyebrows were twitching furiously. "If you were a man------"
"Oh, do be quiet," she interrupted wearily. "When you repeat yourself so often, Foster, it becomes downright nauseating."
Farnholme muttered angrily to himself, but everybody's attention was suddenly transferred to the plane. The engine note had deepened, and for one brief moment Nicolson thought it was coming in to attack, but realised almost at once that its circle round the boats was widening, if anything. The seaplane had cut its engine booster, but only for extra power for climb. It was still circling, but rising steadily all the time, making a laborious job of it, but nonetheless climbing. At about five thousand feet it levelled off and began to cruise round in great circles four or five miles in diameter.
"Now what do you think he's done that for?" It was Findhorn talking, his voice stronger and clearer than it had been at any time since he had been wounded. "Very curious, don't you think, Mr. Nicolson?"
Nicolson smiled at him. "Thought you were still asleep, sir. How do you feel now?"
"Hungry and thirsty. Ah, thank you, Miss Plenderleith." He stretched out his hand for a cup, winced at the sudden pain the movement caused him, then looked again at Nicolson. "You haven't answered my question."
"Sorry, sir. Difficult to say. I suspect he's bringing some of his pals along to see us and he's giving himself a spot of elevation, probably to act as a marker. Only a guess, of course."
"Your guesses have an unfortunate habit of being too damned accurate for my liking." Findhorn lapsed into silence and sank his teeth into a corned beef sandwich.
Half an hour passed, and still the scout seaplane stayed in the same relative position. It was all rather nerve-racking and necks began to ache from staring up so fixedly into the sky. But at least it was obvious now that the 'plane had no directly hostile intentions towa'rds them.
Another half-hour passed and the blood-red sun was slipping swiftly, vertically down towards the rim of the sea, a mirror-smooth sea that faded darkly towards the blurred horizon to the east, but a great motionless plain of vermilion to the west, stretching far away into the eye of the setting sun. Not quite mirror-smooth on this side -- one or two tiny islets dimpled the red sheen of the water, standing out black against the level rays of the sun, and away to the left, just off the starboard bow and maybe four miles to the south-south-west a larger, low-lying island was beginning to climb imperceptibly above the tranquil surface of the sea.
It was soon after sighting this last island that they saw the seaplane begin to lose height and move off to the east in a long shallow dive. Vannier looked hopefully at Nicolson.
"Knocking-off time for the watch-dog, sir? Off home to bed, likely enough."
"Afraid not, Fourth." Nicolson nodded in the direction of the retreating plane. "Nothing but hundreds of miles of sea in that direction, and then Borneo -- and that's not where our friend's home is. He's spotted a pal, a hundred to one." He looked at the captain. "What do you think, sir?"
"You're probably right again, damn you." Findhorn's smile robbed the words of any offence, and then the smile slowly vanished and the eyes became bleak as the seaplane levelled off about a thousand feet and began to circle. "You are right, Mr. Nicolson," he added softly. He twisted painfully in his seat and stared ahead. "How far off would you say that island there is?"
"Two and a half miles, sir. Maybe three."
"Near enough three." Findhorn turned to look at Wil-loughby, then nodded at the engine. "Can you get any more revs out of that sewing machine of yours, Second?"
"Another knot, sir, if I'm lucky." WiUoughby laid a hand on the tow-rope that stretched back to Siran's boat. "Two, if I cut this."
"Don't tempt me, Second. Give her all you can, will you?"
He jerked his head at Nicolson, who handed over the tiller to Vannier and moved over beside the captain. "What's your guess, Johnny?" Findhorn murmured.
"What do you mean, sir? Kind of ship it is, or what's going to happen?"
"Both."
"No idea about the first -- destroyer, M.T.B., fishing boat, anything. As to the other -- well, it's clear now that they want us, and not our blood." Nicolson grimaced. "The blood will come later. Meantime, they take us prisoner -- then the old green bamboo torture, the toenails and teeth, the water treatment, the silos and all the usual refinements." Nicolson's mouth was only a white gash in his face and his eyes were gazing at the sternsheets where Peter and Miss Drachmann were playing together, laughing at each other, the girl as if she hadn't a care in the world. Findhorn followed his gaze and nodded slowly.
"Yes, me too, Johnny. It hurts -- just to look at them hurts. They go well together." He rubbed his grey-grizzled chin thoughtfully. 'Translucent amber' -- that was the phrase some writing johnny used once about his heroine's complexion. Blasted fool -- or that was what I thought then. I'd like to apologise to him some day. Really incredible, isn't it." He grinned. "Imagine the traffic jam if you brought her back to Piccadilly."
Nicolson smiled in turn. "It's just the sunset, sir, and your bloodshot eyes." He was grateful to the older man for deliberately diverting his train of thought and, remembering, he quickly became serious again. "That bloody awful gash. Our yellow brethren. I think there should be some payment on account."
Findhorn nodded slowly. "We should -- ah -- postpone our capture, perhaps? Let the thumb-screws rust a while longer? The idea is not without its attractions, Johnny." He paused, then went on quietly: "I think I can see something."
Nicolson had his glasses to his eyes at once. He stared through them for a moment, caught a glimpse of a craft hull-down on the horizon with the golden gleams of the setting sun striking highlights off its superstructure, lowered the glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Seconds passed, then he lowered the binoculars, his face expressionless, and handed them in silence to the captain. Findhorn took them, held them steady to his eyes, then handed them back to Nicolson. "No signs of our luck turning, is there? Tell them, will you? Trying to raise my voice above that damned engine is like having a set of fish-hooks dragged up my throat."
Nicolson nodded and turned round.
"Sorry, everybody, but -- well, I'm afraid there's some more trouble coming along. It's a Jap submarine, and it's overtaking us as if we were standing still. If he'd appeared fifteen minutes later we might have made that island there." He nodded forward over the starboard bow. "As it is, he'll be up on us before we're much more than half-way there."
"And what do you think will happen then, Mr. Nicolson?" Miss Plenderleith's voice was composed almost to the level of indifference.
"Captain Findhorn thinks -- and I agree with him -- that they will probably try to take us prisoner." Nicolson smiled wryly. "All I can say just now, Miss Plenderleith, is that we'll try not to be taken prisoner. It will be difficult."
"It will be impossible." Van Effen spoke from his seat in the bows, and his voice was cold. "It's a submarine, man. What can our little pop-guns do against a pressure hull. Our bullets will just bounce off."
"You propose that we give ourselves up?" Nicolson could see the logic of Van Effen's words and knew that the man was without fear: nevertheless he felt vaguely disappointed.
"Why commit outright suicide -- which is what you suggest we do." Van Effen was pounding the heel of his fist gently on the gunwale, emphasising his point. "We can always find a better chance to escape later."
"You obviously don't know the Japs," Nicolson said wearily. "This is not only the best chance we'll ever have -- it's also the last."
"And I say you're talking nonsense!" There was hostility now in every line in Van Effen's face. "Let us put it to the vote, Mr. Nicolson." He looked round the boat. "How many of you are in favour of------"
"Shut up and don't talk like a fool!" Nicolson said roughly. "You're not attending a political meeting, Van Effen. You're aboard a vessel of the British Mercantile Marine, and such vessels are not run by committees but by the authority of one man only -- the captain. Captain Findhorn says we offer resistance -- and that's that."
"The captain is absolutely determined on that?"
"He is."
"My apologies." Van Effen bowed. "I bow to the authority of the captain."
"Thank you." Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Nicolson transferred his gaze to the submarine. It was clearly visible now, in all its major details, less than a mile distant. The seaplane was still circling overhead. Nicolson looked at it and scowled.
"I wish that damn' snoop would go on home," he muttered.
"He does complicate things rather," Findhorn agreed. "Time is running out, Johnny. He'll be up with us in five minutes."
Nicolson nodded absently. "We've seen that type of sub before, sir?"
"I rather think we have," Findhorn said slowly.
"We have." Nicolson was certain now. "Light A.A. gun aft, machine-gun on the bridge and a heavy gun for'ard -- 3.7 or 4-inch, something like that, I'm not sure. If they want to take us aboard we'll have to go right alongside the hull -- beneath the conning-tower, probably. Neither of the two guns can depress that far." He bit his lip and stared ahead. "It'll be dark in twenty minutes -- and that island won't be much more than half a mile away by the time he stops us. It's a chance, a damn' poor chance at that, but still..." He raised the glasses again and stared at the submarine, then shook his head slowly. "Yes, I thought I remembered that. That 3.7 or whatever it is has a big armoured shield for its gun-crew. Some sort of hinged, collapsible thing, probably." His voice trailed off and his fingers beat an urgent tattoo on the rim of the gunwale. He looked absently at the captain. "Complicates things rather, doesn't it, sir?"
"I'm not with you, Johnny." Findhorn was beginning to sound tired again. "Afraid my head's not at its best for this sort of thing. If you've got any idea at all-----"
"I have. Crazy, but it might work." Nicolson explained rapidly, then beckoned to Vannier, who handed the tiller to the bo'sun and moved across. "Don't smoke, do you, Fourth?"
"No, sir." Vannier looked at Nicolson as if he had gone off his head.
"You're starting tonight." Nicolson dug into his pocket, fished out a flat tin of Benson and Hedges and a box of matches. He gave them to him, along with a few quick instructions. "Right up in the bows, past Van Effen. Don't forget, everything depends on you. Brigadier? A moment, if you please."
Farnholme looked up in surprise, lumbered over a couple of thwarts and sat down beside them. Nicolson looked at him for a second or two in silence and then said seriously: "You really know how to use that automatic carbine, Brigadier?"
"Good God, man, yes!" the Brigadier snorted. "I practically invented the bloody thing."
"How accurate are you?" Nicolson persisted quietly.
"Bisley," Farnholme answered briefly. "Champion. As good as that, Mr. Nicolson."
"Bisley?" Nicolson's eyebrows reflected his astonishment.
"King's marksman." Farnholme's voice was completely out of character now, as quiet as Nicolson's own. "Chuck a tin over the side, let it go a hundred feet and I'll give you a demonstration. Riddle it with this carbine in two seconds." The tone was matter-of-fact; more, it was convincing.
"No demonstration," Nicolson said hastily. "That's the last thing we want. As far as brother Jap is concerned, we haven't even a fire-cracker between us. This is what I want you to do." His instructions to Farnholme were rapid and concise, as were those given immediately afterwards to the rest of the boat's company. There was no time to waste on lengthier explanations, to make sure he was fully understood: the enemy was almost on them.
The sky to the west was still alive and glowing, a kaleidoscopic radiance of red and orange and gold, the barred clouds on the horizon ablaze with fire, but the sun was gone, the east was grey and the sudden darkness of the tropical night was rushing across the sea. The submarine was angling in on their starboard quarter, grim and black and menacing in the gathering twilight, the glassy sea piling up in phosphorescent whiteness on either side of its bows, the diesels dying away to a muted murmur, the dark, evil mouth of the big for'ard gun dipping and moving slowly aft as it matched the relative movement of the little lifeboat, foot by remorseless foot. And then there had come some sharp, unintelligible command from the conning-tower of the submarine; McKinnon cut the engine at a gesture from Nicolson and the iron hull of the submarine scraped harshly along the rubbing piece of the lifeboat.
Nicolson craned his neck and looked swiftly along the deck and conning-tower of the submarine. The big gun for'ard was pointing in their direction, but over their heads, as he had guessed it would: it had already reached maximum depression. The light A.A. gun aft was also lined up at them -- lined up into the heart of their boat: he had miscalculated about that one, but it was a chance they had to take. There were three men in the conning-tower, two of them armed -- an officer with a pistol and a sailor with what looked like a submachine gun -- and five or six sailors at the foot of the conning-tower, only one of them armed. As a reception committee it was dismaying enough, but less than what he had expected. He had thought that the lifeboat's abrupt, last-minute alteration of course to-port -- a movement calculated to bring them alongside the port side of the submarine, leaving them half-shadowed in the gloom to the east while the Japanese were silhouetted against the after-glow of sunset -- might have aroused lively suspicion: but it must have been almost inevitably interpreted as a panic-stricken attempt to escape, an attempt no sooner made than its futility realised. A lifeboat offered no threat to anyone and the submarine commander must have thought that he had already taken far more than ample precautions against such puny resistance as they could possibly offer.
The three craft -- the submarine and the two lifeboats -- were still moving ahead at about two knots when a rope came spinning down from the deck of the submarine and fell across the bows of number one lifeboat. Automatically Vannier caught it and looked back at Nicolson.