Solomons Seal

Chapter Five

The small hours of a night watch are not the moment I would choose to face up to a decision involving moral principles. There was nothing to occupy my mind, the course set, no navigation required … time passing as I paced back and forth, wondering what the hell to do and conscious all the time that there were guns on board and a sullen crew — an explosive mixture.

Every now and then I glanced at the clock, the minutes dragging, wondering whether she would persuade her brother to get rid of them, expecting him to burst in on me at any moment. Suddenly the deck lights came on, and there were men down there at the for’ard end of the tank deck, dark figures in the shadows gathered round the back of that starb’d truck. The coxs’n’s head appeared, coming up the ladder from below and storming into the wheelhouse. ‘Yu. Yu opim em kes?’ He was naked to the waist, the muscles rippling under the velvet skin of his bare arms as he stood glaring at me. ‘Why yu do it? Cargo bilong Buka pipal. I tell yu before, bilong Buka Co’prative. Where I find Kepten Holland, in his cabin?’

I nodded, too surprised at the man’s anger, his proprietorial sense of outrage, to say anything.

‘Okay, I tokim. An’ yu’ — he was still glaring at me — ‘yu stay out of cargo deck. Nobody go on cargo deck — nobody, yu savvy, only Buka men.’ And he went through into the alleyway. I heard the door of Holland’s cabin thrown open, the sound of voices, then silence, only the murmur of the engines, the rattle of the cups on the ledge below the porthole.

A few minutes later Holland came in. ‘I’d like a word with you. Not here, in my cabin.’ He was wearing sandals and cotton trousers, nothing else, his face pale and that muscle twitching along the line of his jaw. I followed him into his cabin, the ceiling light blinding. There was a bottle and glasses on the desk, and Perenna was there, sitting withdrawn and very still, the tension in her filling the cabin. ‘I thought I’d better tell you. There’s nothing I can do about it.’ He had seated himself on his bunk, his body slumped. ‘By morning it’ll be all over the ship. Everybody will know we’re carrying guns.’ He reached for his glass as though to a lifeline. ‘Perenna wants me to ditch them. But I can’t. I can’t do that.’ And he added, ‘She thought I should tell you.’

I looked at her, expecting her to say something, but she remained silent, drawing on a cigarette in quick, short puffs. I hadn’t seen her smoking before. ‘What’s their destination?’ I asked.

‘Queen Carola Harbour in the north-west of Buka. The Co-operative takes them on from there.’

‘Yes, but who gets them in the end?’

‘How the hell do I know?’

I glanced at Perenna again, but still she didn’t say anything, her eyes avoiding mine, as she drew nervously on her cigarette, inhaling deeply. ‘So you don’t care where they’re going.’ I had turned back to her brother. ‘Or even what they’ll be used for?’

He shook his head as though to push that thought aside. ‘There were fuel bills,’ he muttered. ‘I told you. And the yard — the engine overhaul cost more than I thought.’ And then, still trying to justify himself: ‘Hans has always co-operated with the indigenes.’ He was looking across at his sister again. ‘He’s very close to them, so close that sometimes-’ He shrugged. ‘Well, you know his background. He’s almost one of them.’

‘He came to see Tim.’ Her voice sounded strained, a little wild. ‘I wrote you about it. At the end of May.’

‘Of course he came to see you. He was in England, and the accident happened on a coaster he’d chartered, so naturally-’

‘Don’t you ever read my letters? Tim was getting better, slowly. He was winning. And then suddenly there was no will left. He just seemed to give up. Hans was with him for the better part of an hour, and it was after that-’

‘For God’s sake, Perenna! You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’

‘Am I? Don’t you see what Hans is? A child of four hidden in thick forest under Mount Bei until the war was over, then brought up in Lemankoa by that man Sapuru. Red hair and a white skin, but underneath he’s Buka through and through. Grandpa saw that, why the hell can’t you?’

‘The Old Man was prejudiced. He thought Hans hated him. God knows he’d every reason-’

‘Why?’ She was leaning forward, her eyes fixed on him. ‘Why should Hans hate him?’

‘His father was killed during the war.’

‘Lots of people got killed in the war.’

‘He was killed in a raid on Carola Harbour. His schooners were based there, and it was the Old Man who led the raiding party.’

She stared at him a moment, then nodded. ‘I see.’ She said it huskily, her voice barely audible. ‘So that’s why he wouldn’t talk about it.’ And she added in a whisper, ‘Now I begin to understand.’

‘I hope you do. Red Holland was a collaborator, but from his son’s point of view — well, if it were my father who’d been killed …’ He left it at that, leaning forward and continuing quickly, ‘So don’t go on about Hans. And stop imagining things. He’s been very helpful.’

‘What about the guns?’ I asked.

He glanced at me, suddenly reminded of my presence. ‘I told you. That cargo belongs to the Buka Trading Co-operative.’ And then he had turned back to his sister, taking up where he had left off: ‘Hans helped found the Co-operative. He’s provided most of the finance and given it proper commercial direction. I admire him for that. Some return for their having saved his life during the war and looked after him until he was old enough to go to school in Australia.’

‘And you admire him?’

‘Yes. Yes, in some ways I do.’ And then, soothingly: ‘It’s just a trading organisation, Perenna. Nothing else. And it makes sense for us to have a close association with it. No white company can survive in the islands without being involved locally. Not any longer. It’s a matter of politics.’ He turned to me. ‘It’s happening all over the world. So why not in the Solomons? Don’t you agree?’

‘Trade is one thing,’ I said, ‘but guns-’

‘Governments deal in guns, don’t they? Your government, every government — they’re up to their necks in the arms trade. Just because I have to get them secretly, off an open beach, what’s the difference?’

‘Cargo,’ Perenna said. ‘That’s the difference. It’s Cargoism.’

He turned on her angrily. ‘Now don’t start on that again. What happened when you were last at Madehas was quite different. I know how you feel, but this is strictly a business proposition. It’s got nothing to do with the Cargo cult.’

‘The Hahalis Welfare Society called it “bisnis”,’ she said wearily. And then, leaning towards him: ‘I’ve never been able to ask you this to your face, but when Tim was sent to Buka, was it to deal with a new outbreak of Cargoism?’ He didn’t say anything, the silence seeming to last a long time. ‘Well, was it? I asked you in letters, but you never replied …’ She was staring at him, and he sat there, eyes fixed dumbly on his glass. ‘I see. First Mother and me, then Tim. But now it’s “bisnis”, nothing else — and two trucks full of guns.’ She stubbed out her cigarette, getting slowly to her feet.

I thought she had finally made up her mind and was going to tell him that if he didn’t dump them overboard, she’d notify the authorities. He seemed to think the same, for he started to tell her again that trading in arms wasn’t very different from trading in any other commodity. And then his voice trailed away as he saw her standing there with a look of contempt on her face. Then suddenly, without a word, she turned and left the cabin.

He didn’t say anything for a while, sitting motionless, his head in his hands. At length he finished his drink and looked up at me, an effort at a wry smile as he said, ‘That’s why I didn’t want her out here. She’s very emotional and last time she was at Madehas … you know about that, do you?’ I nodded, and he went on, ‘She’s right. It was Cargoism then. And when Tim was injured, that was Cargoism, too. But this is different. The Buka Trading Co-operative is just like any other co-operative anywhere in the world, entirely commercial. Those guns are being shipped to make a profit, and they’ll be passed on to some dealer, a friend probably of one of the traders at Chinaman’s Quay in the Buka Passage. They’ll finish up somewhere in South East Asia, I imagine. It’s just a business deal.’

‘And Teopas?’ I asked. ‘Where does he come into it?’

‘He’s only looking after the Co-operative’s interest. It’s run by a man called Sapuru. Teopas comes from the same village.’ He glanced at his watch and got to his feet. ‘You shouldn’t have let Perenna persuade you to check the contents of those cases. The crew are mostly Buka men, and monkeying around with Cooperative cargo makes them suspicious. Just stick to navigation in future.’ And he left me to go on watch.

Neither of them had offered me a drink, so I helped myself, drinking it, standing there and wondering about the Hollands, what the hell was going to happen. I had two small whiskies, then I went to my cabin, half expecting to find her there. But it was empty, and in a way I was glad. I was too damned tired. The questions could wait for the morning.

They were talking about it when I went in to breakfast shortly after eight, Shelvankar saying, ‘How was I to know it is not what it says on the manifest?’ And Holtz shaking his head and muttering, ‘It had to be something bad, but I never thought he would be such a bloody fool … ’ He checked at the sight of me, selfconsciously burying his face in his cup.

I sat down to an awkward silence. ‘Is Captain Holland still on watch?’ I asked, and Holtz nodded. ‘Where’s Luke then?’

He didn’t say anything, both of them sitting very still, watching me. My breakfast arrived, and I ate in silence. ‘The forecast is good,’ Shelvankar said. Silence again, an uneasy sense of waiting.

Then Luke appeared. ‘They don’t let me go near the trucks.’

‘How many of them?’ Holtz asked.

‘Four, five, I not sure. They say nothing to do with me. Is their Cargo.’ He hesitated, his eyes flitting nervously. Nobody said anything. Finally he turned to the door. ‘I tell Kepten. Buka men very funny about Cargo.’

‘What’s that mean?’ I asked Holtz.

‘Trouble.’ He stared at me, his eyes hostile. ‘Did you know what we were shipping off that beach?’

‘Not until early this morning.’

‘So, it is you who break open those crates.’ He seemed relieved. ‘I thought perhaps you were on board as an agent-’ He gave me a little apologetic smile. ‘My engine-room is full of rumours this morning.’

‘You mentioned trouble. What sort of trouble?’

He shook his head, wiping his moustache and getting to his feet. ‘Maybe it is nothing.’ And he muttered a formal apology, escaping back to his engines.

Shelvankar, too, got to his feet, excusing himself. ‘I must go to the radio.’

As soon as I had finished breakfast, I went along to the wheelhouse. Holland wasn’t there, only Luke and the helmsman. At the far end of the tank deck I could see several of the crew standing by the trucks. ‘There are four now,’ Luke said. ‘All Buka men.’

‘Has Captain Holland been down there?’ I asked him.

‘Yes. He talk to them. But they don’t let him go near.’ And he added, ‘Is it true, Mr Sling’by, that you and Miss Holland find guns in those trucks?’ I nodded, and I heard his breath sucked in between his big white teeth. ‘Tha’s bad.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’ know. The war, I think. There was a bad war in the islands, very bad on Bougainville and Buka. The Japanese, the Americans, the Australians, they bring so much Cargo.’ He didn’t say anything more, staring morosely through the porthole, and when I asked him to explain the significance of that word ‘Cargo’, he gave a high, nervous laugh. ‘All Buka people laik Cargo. My people also. But Buka people, they laik very much because their ancestors send it to them from across the sea.’ He gave a shrug, laughing nervously again. ‘Is what they believe.’

I went over to the chart table and stared at the pencilled cross that marked our 08.00 position. We were already more than halfway across the Solomon Sea. Soon the high mountains of Bougainville would show up on the radar. I turned to Luke again. He was still gazing nervously for’ard at the tank deck. ‘Have we any weapons up here or in the officers’ cabins?’

He shook his head. ‘I not seen any.’

And two truckfuls down there. I left him then and went to my cabin. The sun streamed in through the porthole, the small space hot and stuffy. I hesitated, but I knew rest would be impossible, so I went down the alleyway, past the empty wardroom, to what had once been the quarters for tank officers and other Service passengers. I pushed open the door. The same two-tier bunks and McAvoy lying there unshaven, his clothes piled in a heap on the upper berth, and a stale, old man’s smell pervading the cabin. His eyes were open, pale moonstones in rheumy sockets, the whites still bloodshot. ‘Come in and shut the door. That galley stinks.’

I sat myself down on the bunk opposite. I don’t think he had been drinking, but his eyes looked vacant, staring into space, and when I asked him about the Cargo Cult, he didn’t seem to hear me. ‘You read much?’ he asked.

‘A little.’

He nodded. ‘Thought mebbe you did. Myself, I never had the time. But there’s a writer man buried out here. On Upolu. I’ve climbed to the top of the hill overlooking the sea and seen his gravestone. Home is the sailor, home from sea. That’s what he wrote for them to put on it.’

‘Stevenson,’ I said.

‘Aye, that’s the man.’ He pulled himself up by his elbows till he was sitting propped up against the soiled pillow. ‘Care for a drink?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve only just had breakfast.’

‘That’s when you need it.’ He looked vaguely round the room, his eyes fastening on the locker below the porthole. ‘You’ll find a bottle and some glasses yonder. Pour me a dram, will you, and help yourself or not as you please.’ I got the bottle out, and as I poured him a drink, he went on, speaking slowly, ‘I’ve been thinking about that poet in his island grave. If they buried me at sea now … Just give it to me neat, will you? Burial at sea, I’ve never really liked the thought of that.’

I helped myself to a drink while he rambled on about death and not giving it a thought until he was damned near sixty. ‘When you’re young, somehow it don’t seem very important. Just a fact of life. But dying …’ He was staring dully at the porthole where the sun blazed in a blue sky. ‘I was on a dhow once, in the Red Sea. We had gold on board and we were pirated. Threw the nakauda and his crew overboard to the sharks, all except me. I was just a kid bumming my way from place to place. White, not Arab, so they figured I’d do as a hostage if they got caught. Missed India by a full point, hit the Maldives instead. That was my first experience of coral, wrecked on the outer reef of Suvadiva. But it never worried me.’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Got picked up by a vedi on its way back from Java to Addu Atoll.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Death never worried me, then or later. I didn’t give it a thought until the Old Man went … ’

Silence then, his neck showing white crease-lines, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed. ‘Never gave it a thought,’ he muttered again. ‘You leave it that late an’ it suddenly hits you. Wondering what it’s all about — life, death, the whole pointless bag of tricks. I lie here thinking … Then, by Christ, I need another drink.’ He held his glass out, and as I filled it, he said, ‘Wondering what to do about those Buka boys and their Cargo, are you?’

‘You’ve heard then?’

He nodded. ‘Perenna. She woke me in the middle of the night to tell me.’ He leaned forward suddenly, spilling his drink. ‘Leave them be, Slingsby. That’s what I told Perenna. Now I’m telling you. It’s Cargo. You try getting it away from them, and they’ll turn nasty.’ I asked what was meant by the words ‘Cargo Cult’, and he began telling me about the missionaries and how the ships that had supplied them from Europe and America were responsible for it all. ‘It was Cargo, from out of the sea. How would the islanders know where it came from? They got the new God mixed up with their old religion of ancestor worship an’ came to believe that if it worked for the missionaries, then why shouldn’t it work for them? That’s how it started.’ He leaned forward, hunched over his knees, holding his glass carefully. ‘Missionaries! They’re half the damned trouble.’ He didn’t like missionaries. He was an atheist himself. ‘They only got themselves to blame …’ He went into a long tirade, his words confused and difficult to follow. Then suddenly he said, ‘Pako. That was the fellow’s name. He started the Cargo Cult on Buka, and it spread to Bougainville. And Muling. Muling was the original Cult wizard.’

‘When was that?’ I asked.

‘Oh, a long time ago. Before the Kaiser’s war. The Germans held Bougainville then. But the second war, that’s what really did it. First the Nips, then the Americans, finally the Australians. Can you blame them? All those ships stuffed with everything they’d ever dreamed of.’ He gave a low, cackling laugh. ‘Jesus! It’s a funny world. War material sent by God. And if you believe your ancestors make just as good gods, then why the hell shouldn’t they deliver the goods to their own descendants?’

That was when I asked him about the welfare society Perenna had mentioned. ‘It was a co-operative, wasn’t it?’

He didn’t say anything for a long time, sitting there, nursing his drink, staring at nothing. Then at length, he mumbled the name. ‘Hahalis Welfare Society. I saw the start of that.’ He was speaking very slowly, his voice barely audible. ‘There was a woman, in a village just north of Hahalis. I was there when those two young devils, Hagi and Teosin, abandoned their Mission schooling and came back with their heads stuffed full of the business methods they’d picked up. Communism, and baby gardens to increase the working population!’ A long pause; then he said, ‘But Cargoism was a fact of life in the islands long before the war. When I first joined the Holland Line …’ He was nodding to himself. ‘And he was in it up to his neck, of course.’

I thought he meant Colonel Holland, but when I asked him why Colonel Holland had got himself mixed up in the Cargo Cult, he turned on me as though I had said something blasphemous. ‘No, it was the other one. Him and the Old Man, they were like as two peas. ‘Cept one of them was rotten. Aye, and something else, too-’ He frowned, groping for a word, then struck his fist against his knee. ‘Pagan. That’s what he was. Pagan bad.’ He was staring at nothing, silent, lost in the past.

‘Who?’ I asked him. ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Red Holland, of course.’ He almost snarled the name. ‘We burned the bastard. Alive.’ His head turned, eyes staring wildly. ‘Why do you ask? He’s dead now and none of your business.’

Shocked at the violence in him, I waited, expecting him to calm down. Instead, he suddenly screamed at me, ‘Get out!’ And then, muttering to himself: ‘They’re dead, all of them dead, the schooner captains, too. Lot of silly sheep, doing what he told them. Welcomed the Nips with open arms.’ He smiled, baring his teeth as though relishing the recollection. ‘We killed all four of them, took their ships back and sailed them for the Allies. Got a medal for that, but didn’t get my ship back. Finest little schooner I ever had, and I sank her in the Buka Passage.’ He was silent then, nursing his drink, his eyes with a glazed look. Finally he whispered, ‘Get out, d’you hear? Leave me be.’

I left him then and went along the alleyway to the wheelhouse. Jona Holland was there talking to Shelvankar, his sister standing silent beside the helmsman. ‘Makes sense.’ He was staring down at the message in his hand. ‘He’ll take them up to Queen Carola, and we go straight to Anewa.’ He turned at the sight of me. ‘There’s a slight change of course. I’ve just heard from Hans. One of his RPLs is going to meet us off Shortland Island.’

‘Will Hans be on board?’ Perenna asked, her voice sounding sharp and brittle.

He nodded. ‘Looks like it. I didn’t know he was back, but he says he sailed from Carola at first light, and he’s got Sapuru on board. He’s the head of the Co-operative.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Should make the rendezvous about five this afternoon, which means we’ll be shot of those guns by nightfall and can head round the south of Bougainville to deliver the Haulpaks to the copper port.’

‘You haven’t changed your mind, then?’

He jerked his head round, staring at her angrily. ‘No. And if you want to know the destination of that cargo, you can ask Hans.’ He was already moving towards the door. ‘Work out that course, will you?’ he said to me and escaped into the alleyway.

Perenna watched him go, then gave a little shrug. I thought it was a gesture of defeat, but then she turned to me. ‘What would you do? Come on, tell me. If you were captain …’ She was staring straight at me. ‘Would you hand those cases over, just like that? Well, would you?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ I said, turning away to the chart table.

‘But I want to know. I want to know if another man would behave the way Jona is behaving.’

‘We’re all different,’ I murmured, picking up the chart ruler. ‘We behave differently. Right now I don’t see that he’s any alternative.’

‘Meaning you would never have got yourself into this sort of situation.’

I didn’t answer, bending over the chart and concentrating on the Shortland Island course, conscious all the time of her eyes still fixed on me. After a while she said, ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re here.’ By the time I looked round she was gone.

Shelvankar gave me the rendezvous, which was off Gomai Point to the west of Shortland, and after taking some sun sights and establishing our position, I altered course to 27°. But for that damned cargo I would have been enjoying myself, standing there on the bridge of an LCT steaming through a milky haze in the Solomon Sea to a landfall on my first Pacific island. When I relieved Luke after the midday meal, Shelvankar had the ship’s radio tuned to the Brisbane station. I don’t know what its normal range was meant to be, but that morning we were receiving it loud and clear, music mostly, interspersed with local items of news and the odd interview. It must have been about three in the afternoon. I remember the faint trace of Bougainville’s Mt Taroka had been showing on the radar for ten minutes or so, and I had just fixed our position. Then the disc jockey interrupted a Heron Island waitress playing a guitar and trying to sing like Joan Baez to announce a news flash: Queensland police had traced the driver of a stolen Jaguar found abandoned in the Glass House Mountains. He had been picked up at Toowoomba with A$500 in cash on him and an air ticket to Sydney. The Jaguar had belonged to a dealer in Sydney. The police had not released the name of the man who had stolen it, only his statement that he had driven it up to Tin Can Bay to pick up the drivers of two trucks that had been shipped out from the beach at about 2 a.m. on Sunday night. The description of the ship indicates some sort of a landing craft. Police enquiries have already established that an old wartime tank landing craft of the Holland Line cleared Sydney on Saturday morning bound for Bougainville. They have alerted the PNG authorities, and Bougainville has been requested to search the vessel on arrival. The trucks are suspected of carrying contraband, possibly stolen silver. A search is now being made for the two missing drivers.

The newscast ended, and I went at once to Holland’s cabin. He wasn’t there, but then I heard his voice coming from behind the closed door of the signals office opposite. I pushed it open to find him sitting with Shelvankar at the desk, his face pale and bloodless, his hand trembling as he held the microphone to his mouth. ‘I tell you, I’ll have to think about it. Over … ’ He listened for a moment, then he said, ‘I know there’s a lot of money in it, but it’s me they’re after. They don’t know anything about you. They don’t know you’re involved. You should have told me. It’s a hell of a shock. I don’t know what’s best to do. I’ll just have to think. Over …’ And after a long pause, he nodded. ‘Well, if you’re sure they’ll stick to that if they are picked up. But I’ll keep tuned to Brisbane. If there’s nothing new comes through before we meet up, we can discuss it then, decide what we do. Over and out.’

Slowly he put down the microphone and switched off the VHF. ‘You heard the news, did you?’ He jerked his head at Shelvankar, and the little Indian sidled out. The muscle on his jaw was moving, his eyes as scared as when I had first seen him. ‘Well, come in and shut the door. I don’t know what the hell to do. Bloody stupid business. I never handled contraband, anything like that before. But guns …’ He half buried his head in his hands. ‘Christ! Everybody on the ship must have heard it.’ He dropped his hands, raising his head to stare at me again. ‘What are you going to say if they question you?’ He was like a man under sentence appealing for some way out.

‘That’s what I came to tell you.’ His eyes went blank, knowing what I was going to say. Then the door opened, and Perenna came in.

She closed it behind her, standing there, her face set as she stared down at him. ‘That settles it,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to get rid of them.’

He seemed to brace himself, shaking his head. ‘He’s already at the rendezvous, waiting. I was talking to him on the radio when that news flash came through.’ And then, speaking much faster: ‘All they know is that two trucks were loaded off the beach. They don’t know there was anything in them, and Hans says there’s no way they can find out. The drivers will say they were empty. He’ll take just the crates. I put the trucks ashore at Kieta. Empty trucks. The District Commissioner can’t make much of that. It’s not a crime. We’re always putting empty trucks ashore in the islands.’

‘You’re going to tell them that?’ She stared at him in disbelief. ‘What about Roy here? What about me? Do you expect us to swear those trucks were empty?’

‘Hans says once those cases are on board his RPL there’s no way anybody can prove-’

‘And you trust him? Well, I don’t.’ She was leaning forward, half bending over him, her voice urgent. ‘For God’s sake, have some sense. You’re the one who’s implicated, not Hans. You’ll never have a moment’s peace …’

‘What the hell do you suggest, then?’

‘Get rid of them. I’ve said that all along.’

‘But I can’t. He’s out there, waiting for them. Waiting to take them off me.’

They went on arguing about it, taking no notice of me as I stood watching through the porthole, the sun gradually overtaken by rain clouds, the sea losing its sparkle as though reflecting their mood. Behind me the murmur of their voices, and the sun disappearing, the sea all grey to the horizon; I thought I could see the vague silhouette of a small vessel lying broadside on to us against the drab backcloth.

Holland suddenly gave in. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want … ’ He got up abruptly and went through into the wheelhouse. I followed him. I saw Luke give him a startled look as he pushed past him, reaching for the handle of the engine-room telegraph and slamming it to Stop. The engine pulse died, and he disappeared out on to the bridge wing, hurrying down the ladder to the catwalk, calling to Teopas to get the bow doors open and the ramp lowered to sea level. It began to rain, big drops hitting the deck and drying instantly.

Gradually we lost way until we were lying stationary. The bow doors were open, the ramp coming down; soon I could see the length of the tank deck to the sea beyond. The men were hauling the crates out of the trucks, piling them at the top of the ramp, and Holland climbing the ladder to the catwalk. I had lost sight of the other ship, rain moving towards us across the sea in a solid mass, and when it reached us, the scene up for’ard was almost obliterated as the downpour hammered our steel plates with a noise like a waterfall.

Work stopped, black bodies glistening with water huddled for shelter under the Haulpaks, and Holland standing just inside the doorway leading to the bow door control gear. McAvoy suddenly appeared in the wheelhouse and stood staring at the scene, swaying slightly and blinking his eyes. ‘Thought we were on a reef, in the surf.’ He was leaning close to me to make himself heard, his breath smelling of whisky.

The full weight of the cloudburst lasted only a few minutes; then the rain eased, and the crew got back to the job of hauling the crates out on to the ramp. Whether Teopas realised his skipper was going to jettison them or whether he felt the bow door thrusters were his responsibility, I don’t know, but whatever it was, he was suddenly scrambling up the ladder to the catwalk. All the crates were out now, the canvas flaps of the two trucks being fastened down again, and Holland and his coxs’n facing each other, both of them talking urgently. Finally, with an angry gesture, Holland made to push past him through the watertight door that led to the control panel. Teopas flung him back so that he fell against the steps leading to the upper foredeck. I heard Perenna give a startled cry and turned to find her looking wildly round. Then she wrenched a fire axe from the wall and was out in a flash, tumbling down the ladder to the catwalk.

I followed, calling to her. I can’t remember what I said, but I was suddenly scared that the sight of her with that axe in her hand would start a riot. By the time I reached the catwalk she was already facing Teopas, the axe poised in her hand as though she were going to throw it at him, and he stood there, staring at her, his big mouth hanging open, his eyes rolling. ‘Get back,’ she screamed at him. ‘Get back down!’ She indicated the ladder down into the tank deck, the axe swinging, the blade with its red paint bright in the falling rain, and the way she held it, balanced and purposeful, I thought, She knows how to use it, and my God, she might.

Teopas must have thought so, too. The muscles of his body had tensed momentarily for a quick rush at her, but then he thought better of it. ‘Cargo not bilonging you, misis. Bilonging Buka pipal’s Cooperative. You understand?’

‘No, I do not understand.’ Then she was talking to him in Pidgin, something about guns, all the time moving slowly nearer him, step by step. Holland had picked himself up, but he didn’t do anything, just stood there. Suddenly Teopas moved, pushing past him up on to the foredeck, moving fast and shouting orders to the crew below as he crossed to the starboard catwalk and flung himself back down the vertical ladder on that side to rejoin his men on the tank deck.

All this time, Holland had stood quite still as though unable to move, staring at his sister. She yelled at him to get the ramp down to the full stretch of the chains, but he seemed incapable of movement, while down on the tank deck Teopas and the crew were hauling the crates back, stacking them on the solid deck, clear of the ramp.

And then a shot rang out. The rain had stopped, and the sound of the shot was very loud in the stillness.

On the tank deck the crew froze into immobility, all eyes turned to the port bridge wing where McAvoy stood above me, gazing down at them, smoke curling from the muzzle of a heavy revolver gripped in his hand. I don’t know what he said. He spoke to them in their own tongue. But there was no doubt about the way he said it. He might be a drunk, but he had years of command behind him, and the ring of authority that demanded instant obedience was there in his voice. I saw Teopas’s shoulders sag, a shut look on his face and resignation in every line of his body. The crew, too. It wasn’t the gun. They could have handled that in weaker hands. It was the man, the powerful, biting anger in his voice, the knowledge that he’d seen war, been one of the old-time Holland Line skippers — that, drunk or sober, he was still a Master.

It was a very strange moment, everything in limbo, all of them staring at him. Holland and his sister, too. He held them like that for a long minute, gazing down at them, his eyes moving from face to face, resting on each man individually till they were all of them avoiding his gaze. ‘Coxs’n. There will be no more trouble. You will obey orders. Understand?’ And when Teopas had been forced to nod his head in silent acknowledgement, he turned to Perenna. ‘Bring that axe back here please, Miss Perenna.’ And when she had brought it, he handed it to Luke. ‘Put it back where it belongs.’ Slowly he pushed the revolver into the waistband of his trousers. He was gripping the rail, his shoulders beginning to droop. ‘Captain Holland. Your ship.’ And he was gone, back into the wheelhouse, staggering a little, but his face still set, one eyebrow raised as he glanced fleetingly at me as though to say why the hell hadn’t I done something, his bloodshot eyes shining balefully.

It was only then, when he had gone, that I became aware of the sound of engines and turned my gaze to the open end of the tank deck. The bows of the RPL were just coming into view. She was less than two cables off and already turning, a slab-sided, ugly, flat-iron of a vessel streaked with rust. No chance now of getting rid of those crates, everybody watching as she manoeuvred to come in bows-on to us, looming larger and uglier every minute until she was hanging motionless off the end of the tank deck, her bow ramp coming down to drop with a hollow clang on our own ramp.

They had two light trucks and some motorcycles on board, and over their loudhailer a voice boomed in English, ‘I see you’re all ready for us. Get the crates across fast. We may not be able to hold our position long. Move, Teopas! Move!’

Holland shouted something, but the crew were already galvanised into action, grabbing at the crates and man-handling them across the grinding steel ramps. He scrambled down the ladder, pushed past the men and walked quickly on to the open deck of the lighter, heading for the squat wheelhouse aft. Perenna followed him, but more slowly. I watched her as she climbed down the ladder and walked slowly, almost reluctantly, out through the open bows on to the deck of the other ship. There she stopped suddenly, standing very still as though rooted to the spot. And then I saw him, red hair like hers, standing at the starb’d rail by the wheelhouse door of the RPL, talking to Jona Holland; a short, energetic man in white shirt and shorts, his body leaning forward, his sunglasses catching the light as he turned and stared at her down the length of the ship.

The way they faced each other, both of them quite still, both of them staring; even from that distance I was conscious of something — lust, hate, I don’t know what — sensing it only as a current running between them. They were like that for what seemed a long, breathless minute, and then he had turned abruptly to question her brother, and she was moving resolutely between the trucks, climbing in slow motion up the ladder to the bridge deck. They didn’t shake hands, the three of them standing there, talking heatedly, and a man watching them from the wheelhouse, a black man, wrinkled face framed in one of the windows. Hans Holland jerked his head, a peremptory gesture of command, and they went inside.

I had only once seen an RPL, and that from a distance. I had never been on one. I walked along the catwalk to the for’ard ladder and climbed down into the tank deck. Two crates had already been shifted on to the lighter as I crossed the ramps. It was much smaller than an LCT, less than a third of the length, the bows square, everything very basic — a utilitarian motorised barge. The original grey showed through patches of different coloured paint, the flat steel sides of the cargo deck flaked and pitted by long years of work in the salt and heat of equatorial islands. The motorcycles roped to the sides were Japanese Hondas, four of them and all brand new. But the two small trucks were old American Dodges. It was very hot enclosed in those steel walls, the ramps grinding and the velvet-black backs of the men labouring over the crates glistening with sweat.

Perenna appeared on the bridge ladder, climbed down and walked past me without a word, a blank, set look on her face. She was like a person in a trance; I don’t think she even saw me. After watching her cross the ramps, still walking slowly, still locked in her thoughts, I turned back to the trucks, squeezing between them with the intention of seeing what they carried.

‘You there. Who are you?’ The voice, an Australian accent, came from above me. ‘What are you doing there?’

I came out from behind the truck, looking up to see him standing at the top of the ladder, his red hair bright against the flaking white paint of the wheel-house. ‘Hans Holland?’ I asked.

He came down the ladder at a run, squeezing past the first truck to stand facing me, the sunglasses hiding his eyes, but his mouth a hard line in a hard, tough face. ‘Who are you?’ he asked again. I gave him my name, and he said, ‘The name doesn’t matter. What’s your job? What are you doing on that ship?’

‘Passenger, acting as first officer.’

‘Passenger? I wasn’t told of any passenger.’ He was worried, and he didn’t believe me. ‘What the hell would a passenger know about running an LCT?’ I started to explain, but he cut me short. ‘Get off this ship. You’ve no business-’ He checked himself. ‘No, you wait there.’ And he raced back up the ladder, shouting for Jona.

I stayed there, wondering what he would do now that he knew I was witness to the contents of those crates. Somebody was shouting from across the ramps. The RPL was slewing, Teopas calling for more power, the plates vibrating against the soles of my feet as the engine revs increased. Then he was back, smiling now and more relaxed. ‘So you’re a trained LCT officer and looking for a job out here. That right?’ I nodded. ‘Stick around, then. I’ll see you later, on Bougainville.’ He tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Maybe I could use a trained landing craft man. Not easy to find now.’

I was conscious of him watching for my reaction behind his sunglasses. ‘What sort of a job?’ I asked.

‘We’ll talk about it later. But I promise you this, it will be a ship of your own. You think about it, eh?’ He stared at me for a moment, then switched his gaze for’ard. ‘Better get back now. Looks like that’s the last crate coming across. Just keep your mouth shut when you get ashore. Understand?’

He left me then, hurrying back up the ladder to the wheelhouse.

The two vessels were slewed almost at right angles, the ramps barely touching as I crossed to the LCT. The last crate was shifted across. I waited in the bow door opening for Jona Holland. He only just made it, jumping a gap that was opening up between the ramps. ‘Well?’ I asked him. ‘Did he tell you the destination of those guns?’

He didn’t answer me, only shook his head as he turned aft, moving quickly as though to avoid further questions. The RPL was backing off, the flat steel square of the bow door rising. Somebody shouted to stand clear, and then our own ramp was lifting, the bows closing. By the time I reached the bridge the deck was throbbing under my feet again and we were heading east to turn the end of Shortland Island. The rain had passed seaward, visibility good, and away to port the massive forest-clad bulk of Bougainville showed bright green in the slanting sunlight.