South by Java Head

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nicolson rose slowly to his feet and drew his forearm across his forehead. It was already hot for the time of the day, but not that hot. His right arm hung loosely by his side, the butt of the Colt gripped tightly in his hand. He had no recollection of pulling it out of his belt. He gestured at the fallen priest.

"This man is dead." His quiet voice carried easily in the hushed silence. "He has a knife in his back. Someone in this boat murdered him."

"Dead! You said he was dead? A knife in his back?" Farnholme's face wasn't pleasant as he pushed for'ard and knelt at the priest's side. He was on his feet in a moment, his mouth a thin white line in the darkness of his face. "He's dead all right. Give me that gun, Nicolson. I know who did it."

"Leave that gun alone!" Nicolson held him off with a stiff arm, then went on: "Sorry, Brigadier. As long as the captain's unwell I am in charge of this boat. I can't let you take the law into your own hands. Who did it?"

"Siran, of course!" Farnholme was back on balance again, but there was no masking the cold rage in his eyes. "Look at the damn' murdering hound, sitting there smirking."

"'The smiler with the knife beneath the cloak'." It was Willoughby who spoke. His voice was weak and husky, but he was quiet and composed enough: the night's sleep seemed to have done him some good.

"It's not under anyone's cloak," Nicolson said matter-of-factly. "It's sticking in Ahmed's back ― and it's because of my damn' criminal carelessness that it is," he added in the bitterness of sudden recollection and understanding. "I forgot that there was a boat jack-knife as well as two hatchets in number two lifeboat… Why Siran, Brigadier?"

"Good God, man, of course it's Siran!" Farnholme pointed down at the priest. "We're looking for a cold-blooded murderer, aren't we? Who else, but Siran?"

Nicolson looked at 'him. "And what else, Brigadier?"

"What do you mean, 'what else '?"

"You know very well. I wouldn't shed any more tears than you if we had to shoot him, but let's have some little shred of evidence first."

"What more evidence do you want? Ahmed was facing aft, wasn't he? And he was stabbed in the back. So somebody in the front of the boat did it ― and there were only three people farther for'ard than Ahmed. Siran and his two killers."

"Our friend is overwrought." It was Siran who spoke, his voice as smooth and expressionless as his face. "Too many days in an open boat in tropical seas can do terrible things to a man."

Farnholme clenched his fists and started for'ard, but Nicolson and McKinnon caught him by the arms.

"Don't be a fool," Nicolson said roughly. "Violence won't help matters, and we can't have fighting in a small boat like this." He relased his grip on Farnholme's arm, and looked thoughtfully at the man in the bows. "You may be right, Brigadier. I did hear someone moving about the boat, up for'ard, last night, and I did hear something like a thud. Later on I heard a splash. But I checked where the priest had been sitting."

"His bag is gone, Nicolson. I wonder if you can guess where?"

"I saw his bag," Nicolson said quietly. "Canvas, and very light. It wouldn't sink."

"I'm afraid it would, sir." McKinnon nodded towards the bows. "The grapnel's gone."

"Weighted to the bottom, eh, Bo'sun? That would sink it all right."

"Well, there you are then," Farnholme said impatiently. "They killed him, took his bag and flung it over the side. You looked both times you heard a noise and both times you saw Ahmed sitting up. Somebody must have been holding him up ― probably by the handle of the knife stuck in his back. Whoever was holding him must have been sitting behind him ― in the bows of the boat. And there were only these three damned murderers sitting there." Farnholme was breathing heavily, his fists still white-knuckled, and his eyes not leaving Siran's face.

"It sounds as if you were right," Nicolson admitted. "How about the rest of it?"

"How about the rest of what?"

"You know quite well. They didn't kill him just for the exercise. What was their reason?"

"How the devil should I know why they killed him?"

Nicolson sighed. "Look Brigadier, we're not all morons. Of course you know. You suspected Siran immediately. You expected Ahmed's bag to be missing. And Ahmed was your friend."

Just for a moment something flickered far back in Farnholme's eyes, a faint shadow of expression that seemed to be reflected in the sudden tense tightening of Siran's mouth, almost as if the two men were exchanging a guarded look, maybe of understanding, maybe of anything. But the sun was not yet up, and Nicolson couldn't be sure that he wasn't imagining the exchange of glances, and, besides, any idea or suspicion of collusion between the two was preposterous. Give Farnholme a gun and Siran would be only a memory.

"I suppose you have a right to know.", Farnholme appeared to be holding himself tightly under control but his mind was racing furiously, fabricating a story that would bear examination. "It won't do any harm, not now, not any more." He looked away from Siran and stared down at the dead man at his feet, and his expression and tone softened. "Ahmed was my friend, you say. He was, but a very new friend, and only then because he desperately needed a friend. His name is Jan Bekker, a countryman of Van Effen's here. Lived in Borneo ― Dutch Borneo ― near Samarinda, for many years. Representative of a big Amsterdam firm and supervisor of a whole string of river rubber plantations. And a lot more besides."

He paused, and Nicolson prompted him: "Meaning?"

"I'm not quite certain. He was some kind of agent for the Dutch Government. All I know is that some weeks ago he broke up and exposed a well-organised Japanese Fifth Column in Eastern Borneo. Dozens of them arrested and shot out of hand ― and he also managed to get hold of their complete list of every Japanese agent and fifth-columnist in India, Burma, Malaya and the East Indies.

"He carried it in his bag, and it would have been worth a fortune to the allies. The Japs knew he had it, and they've put a fantastic price on his head ― dead or alive ― and offered a similar reward for the return or destruction of the lists. He told me all this himself. Somehow or other Siran knew of all this, and that's what he's been after. He's earned his money, but I swear before God he'll never live to collect."

"And that's why Bekker or whatever his name is was disguised?"

"It was my idea," Farnholme said heavily. "I thought I was being very, very clever, Muslim priests are as good as any other priests in the world: a renegade, whisky-drinking priest is an object of contempt and everybody shuns him. I tried as best I could to be the kind of dissolute drinking companion a man like that would have. We weren't clever enough. I don't think we could have been anyway. The alarm call was out for Bekker the length and breadth of the Indies."

"He was a very lucky man to have got even this far," Nicolson acknowledged. "That's why the Japs have been at such pains to get us?"

"Heavens above, man, surely it's all obvious enough now!" Farnholme shook his head impatiently, then looked again at Siran: there was no anger in his eyes now, only cold, implacable purpose. "I'd sooner have a king cobra loose in this boat than that murderous swine there. I don't want you to have any blood on your hands, Nicolson. Give me your gun."

"How very convenient," Siran murmured. Whatever he lacked, Nicolson thought, it wasn't courage. "Congratulations, Farnholme. I salute you."

Nicolson looked at him curiously, then at Farnholme. "What's he talking about?"

"How the devil should I know," Farnholme answered impatiently. "We're wasting time, Nicolson. Give me that gun!"

"No."

"For God's sake, why not? Don't be a fool, man. There's not one of our lives worth a snuff of a candle as long as this man's at large in the boat."

"Very likely," Nicolson agreed. "But suspicion, no matter how strong, is not proof. Even Siran is entitled to a trial."

"In the name of heaven!" Farnholme was completely exasperated. "Don't you know that there's a time and place for these quaint old Anglo-Saxon notions about fair play and justice. This is neither the time nor the place. This is a matter of survival."

Nicolson nodded. "I know it is. Siran wouldn't recognise a cricket bat if he saw one. Get back in your seat, Brigadier, please. I'm not completely indifferent to the safety of the others in the boat. Cut one of the heaving lines in three, bo'sun, and make a job on these characters. It doesn't matter if the knots are a bit tight."

"Indeed?" Siran raised his eyebrows. "And what if we refuse to subject ourselves to this treatment?"

"Suit yourselves," Nicolson said indifferently. "The brigadier can have the gun."

McKinnon made a very thorough job of immobilising Siran and his two men, and took a great deal of grim satisfaction in hauling the ropes tight. By the time he was finished the three men were trussed hand and foot and quite unable to move: as a further precaution he had secured the three rope ends to the ring-bolt in the for'ard apron. Farnholme had made no further protest. It was noticeable, however, that when he resumed his seat on the benches beside Miss Plenderleith, he changed his position so that he was between her and the stern, and from there he could watch both her and the bows of the boat at the same time: his carbine was lying on the seat beside him.

His work done, McKinnon came aft to the sternsheets and sat down beside Nicolson. He brought out dipper and graduated cup, ready to serve out the morning ration of water, then turned suddenly to Nicolson. Half-a-dozen people in the boat were talking ― the babble wouldn't last long after the sun cleared the horizon ― and his low pitched words could not have been heard two feet away.

"It's a desperate long way to Darwin, sir," he said obliquely.

Nicolson lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug and smiled: but his face was dark with worry. "You, too, Bo'sun? Maybe my judgment was wrong. I'm sure that Siran will never stand trial. But I can't kill him, not yet."

"He's just waiting his chance, sir." McKinnon was as worried as Nicolson. "A killer. You heard the Brigadier's story."

"That's the trouble. I did hear his story." Nicolson nodded heavily, looked at Farnholme, glanced at McKinnon and then stared down at his hands. "I didn't believe a damn' single Word he said. He was lying all the way."

The sun wheeled like a great burning ball above the eastern horizon. Inside an hour nearly all talk was stopped and people were crawling back into their shells of remote indifference, each alone with his own private hell of thirst and pain. Hour succeeded interminable hour, the sun climbed higher and higher into the empty washed-out blue of the windless sky, and the lifeboat remained as she had been for days on end now, motionless on the water. That they had moved many miles south in those days Nicolson was well aware, for the current set due south from Straat Banka to the Sunda Strait eleven months out of twelve: but there was no movement relative to the water surrounding them, nothing that the human eye could see.

Nobody moved aboard the boat any more than the boat moved on the surface of the sea. With the sun swinging high towards the zenith, the slightest effort brought exhaustion in its wake, a panting of breath that whistled shrilly through a bone-dry mouth and cracked and blistered lips. Now and again the little boy moved about and talked to himself in his own private language, but as the day lengthened and the hot and humid air became more and more oppressive and suffocating, his activities and his talk lessened and lessened until finally he was content to lie still on Gudrun's lap, gazing up thoughtfully into the clear blue eyes: but by and by his eyelids grew heavy and dropped, and he fell asleep. Arms outstretched in dumb show Nicolson offered to take him and give her a rest, but she just smiled and shook her head. It suddenly came home to Nicolson, with a sense of something like wonder, that she nearly always smiled when she spoke: not always, but he'd yet to hear his first complaint from her or see the first expression of discontent. He saw the girl looking at him, strangely, and he forced a smile on his face, then looked away.

Now and again a murmur of voices came from the side benches on the starboard side. What the brigadier and Miss Plenderleith found to talk about Nicolson couldn't even begin to guess, but find it they did, and plenty of it. In the gaps in their conversation they just sat and looked into one another's eyes, and the brigadier held her thin wasted hand in his all the time. Two or three days ago it had struck Nicolson as mildly humorous, and he had had visions of the brigadier in a bygone and gentler age, immaculately dressed in white tie and tails and carnation in his buttonhole, hair and moustache as jet black as they were now snowy white, his hansom cab ready while he himself stood at the stage door entrance, waiting. But he couldn't see anything funny in it, not any longer. It was all rather quiet and pathetic, a Darby and Joan waiting patiently for the end, but not at all afraid.

Slowly Nicolson's gaze travelled round the boat. There wasn't much change from yesterday that he could see, except that everybody seemed just that much weaker, that much more exhausted than they had been, with hardly the strength left to move into the few solitary scraps of shade that remained. They were very low. It didn't need any expert medical eye to see that the distance from listlessness to lifelessness was only a very short step indeed. Some were now so far through that it was only by a conscious effort that they could rouse themselves to accept their midday ration of water, and even then one or two found the greatest difficulty in swallowing. Forty-eight hours and most of them would be dead. Nicolson knew where they were, near enough, since he still had his sextant with him: in the vicinity of the Noordwachter light, perhaps fifty miles due east of the coast of Sumatra. If neither wind nor rain came within the next twenty-four hours, then it wouldn't matter after that whether it came or not.

On the credit side, the only cheering item was that of the captain's health. He had come out of his coma just after dawn and now, sitting on a cross seat and wedged between a thwart and bench, he seemed determined not to lose consciousness again. He could speak normally now ― as normally as any of them could speak with thirst choking in their throats ― and he no longer coughed blood, not at any time. He had lost a great deal of weight in the past week, but in spite of that looked stronger than he had done for days. For a man with a bullet lodged either in his lung or the chest wall to survive the rigours of the previous week, and at the same time be denied all medical attention or medicines was something Nicolson would have refused to believe unless he had seen it. Even now, he found Findhorn's recuperative powers ― Findhorn was almost at his retiring age ― difficult to credit. He knew, too, that Findhorn had really nothing to live for, no wife, no family, just nothing, which made his courage and recovery all the more astonishing. And all the more bitter for, with all the guts in the world, he was still a very sick man, and the end could not be very far away. Maybe it was just his sense of responsibility, but perhaps not. It was difficult to say, impossible to say, Nicolson realised that he himself was too tired, too uncaring to worry about it longer. It didn't matter, nothing mattered. He closed his eyes to rest them from the harsh, shimmering glare of the sea, and quietly dropped off to sleep in the noonday sun.

He awoke to the sound of someone drinking water, not the sound of a person drinking the tiny little rations of hot, brackish liquid that McKinnon doled out three times a day, but great, gasping mouthfuls at a time, gurgling and splashing as if he had a bucket to his head. At first Nicolson thought that someone must have broached the remaining supplies, but he saw immediately that it wasn't that. Sitting on a thwart up near the mast, Sinclair, the young soldier, had the baler to his head. It was an eight-inch baler, and it held a lot of water. His head was tilted right back, and he was just draining the last few drops from it.

Nicolson rose stiffly to his feet, carefully picked his way for'ard through the bodies sprawled over seats and benches and took the can from the boy's unresisting hand. He lifted the baler and let a couple of drops trickle slowly into his mouth. He grimaced at the prickly saltiness of the taste. Sea-water. Not that there had really been any doubt about it. The boy was staring up at him, his eyes wide and mad, pitiful defiance in his face. There were perhaps half a dozen men watching them, looking at them with a kind of listless indifference. They didn't care. Some of them at least must have seen Sinclair dipping the baler in the sea and then drink from it, but they hadn't bothered to stop him. They hadn't even bothered to call out. Maybe they even thought it was a good idea. Nicolson shook his head and looked down at the soldier. "That was sea-water, wasn't it, Sinclair?" The soldier said nothing. His mouth was twitching, as if he were forming words, but no sound came out. The insane eyes, wide and flat and empty, were fixed on Nicolson, and the lids didn't blink, not once.

"Did you drink all of it?" Nicolson persisted, and this time the boy did answer, a long, monotonous string of oaths in a high, cracked voice. For a few seconds Nicolson stared down at him without speaking, then shrugged his shoulders tiredly and turned away. Sinclair half rose from his thwart, clawed fingers reaching for the baler, but Nicolson easily pushed him away, and he sank back heavily on his seat, bent forward, cradled his face in his hands and shook his head slowly from side to side. Nicolson hesitated for a moment, then made his way back to the sternsheets.

Midday came and went, the sun crossed over its zenith and the heat grew even more intense. The boat now was as soundless as it was lifeless and even Farnholme's and Miss Plender-leith's murmurings had ceased and they had dropped off into an uneasy sleep. And then, just after three o'clock in the afternoon, when even to the most resolute it must have seemed that they were lost in an endless purgatory, came the sudden change.

Little enough in itself, the change was as dramatic as it was abrupt, but a change so slight that at first it failed to register or have its significance encompassed by exhausted minds. It was McKinnon who noticed it first, noticed it and knew what it meant, and he sat bolt upright in the sternsheets, blinking at first in the sea-mirrored glare of the sun, then searching the horizon from north to east. Seconds later he dug his fingers into Nicolson's arm and shook him awake.

"What is it, Bo'sun?" Nicolson asked quickly. "What's happened?" But McKinnon said nothing, just sat there looking at him, cracked, painful lips drawn back in a grin of sheer happiness. For a moment Nicolson stared at him, blankly in-comprehending, thinking only that at last McKinnon, too, had gone over the edge, then all at once he had it.

"Wind!" His voice was only a faint, cracked whisper, but his face, a face that could feel the first tentative stirrings of a breeze degrees cooler than the suffocating heat of only minutes previously, showed how he felt. Almost at once, exactly as McKinnon had done, he too stared away to the north and east and then, for the first and only time in his life, he thumped the grinning bo'sun on the back. "Wind, McKinnon! And cloud! Can you see it?" His pointing arm stretched away to the north-east: away in the far distance a bluish purple bar of cloud was just beginning to lift over the horizon.

"I can see it, sir. No doubt about it at all. Coming our way, all right."

"And that wind's strengthening all the time. Feel it?" He shook the sleeping nurse by the shoulder. "Gudrun! Wake up! Wake up!"

She stirred, opened her eyes and looked up at him. "What is it, Johnny?"

"Mr. Nicolson to you." He spoke with mock severity, but he was grinning with delight. "Want to see the most wonderful sight anyone ever saw?" He saw the shadow of distress cross the clear blue of her eyes, knew what she must be thinking, and smiled again. "A raincloud, you chump! A wonderful, wonderful rain-cloud. Give the captain a shake, will you?"

The effect on the entire boat's company was astonishing, the transformation almost beyond belief. Within two 'minutes everybody was wide awake, twisted round and staring eagerly towards the north-east, chattering excitedly to one another. Or not quite everybody ― Sinclair, the young soldier, paid no heed at all, just sat staring down at the bottom of the boat, lost in a vast indifference. But he was the solitary exception. For the rest, they might have been condemned men granted the right to live again, and that was almost literally true. Findhorn had ordered an extra ration of water all round. The long bar of clouds was perceptibly nearer. The wind was stronger and cool on their faces. Hope was with them again and life once more worth the living. Nicolson was dimly aware that this excitement, this physical activity, was purely nervous and psychological in origin, that, unknown to them, it must be draining their last reserves of strength, and that any disappointment, any reversal of this sudden fortune, would be the equivalent of a death penalty. But it didn't seem likely.

"How long, do you think, my boy?" It was Farnholme talking.

"Hard to say." Nicolson stared off to the north-east. "Hour and a half, perhaps, maybe less if the wind freshens." He looked at the captain. "What do you think, sir?"

"Less," Findhorn nodded. "Wind's definitely strengthening, I think."

"'I bring fresh showers for thirsting flowers'," the second engineer quoted solemnly. He rubbed his hands together. "For flowers substitute Willoughby. Rain, rain, glorious rain!"

"A bit early to start counting your chickens yet, Willy," Nicolson said warningly.

"What do you mean?" It was Farnholme who replied, his voice sharp.

"Just that rain-clouds don't necessarily mean rain, that's all." Nicolson spoke as soothingly as he could. "Not at first, that is."

"Do you mean to tell me, young man, that we'll be no better of than we were before?" There was only one person on the boat who addressed Nicolson as 'young man.'

"Of course not, Miss Plenderleith. These clouds look thick and heavy, and it'll mean shelter from the sun, for one thing. But what the captain and I are really interested in is the wind. If it picks up and holds we can reach the Sunda Straits sometime during the night."

"Then why haven't you let the sails rip?" Farnholme demanded.

"Because I think the chances are that we will have rain," Nicolson said patiently. "We've got to have something to funnel the water into cups or baler or whatever we use. And there's not enough wind yet to move us a couple of feet a minute."

For the better part of an hour after that nobody spoke. With the realisation that salvation wasn't as immediate as they had thought, some of the earlier listlessness had returned. But only some. The hope was there, and none of them had any intention of letting it go. No one closed his eyes or went to sleep again. The cloud was still there, off the starboard beam, getting bigger and darker all the time, and it had all their attention. Their gaze was on that and on nothing else and maybe that was why they didn't see Sinclair until it was too late.

It was Gudrun Drachmann who saw him first, and what she saw made her rise as quickly as she could and stumble for'ard towards the boy. His eyes upturned in his head so that his pupils had vanished and only the whites were visible, he was jerking convulsively in his seat, his teeth chattering violently like a man in an ague and his face was the colour of stone. Even as the girl reached him, calling his name softly, beseechingly, he pushed himself to his feet, struck at her so that she stumbled and fell against the brigadier, and then, before anyone had time to recover and do anything, tore off his shirt, flung it at the advancing Nicolson and jumped overboard, landing flat-faced with a splash that sent water spattering all over the boat.

For a few seconds no one moved. It had been all so swift and unexpected that they could have imagined it. But there was no imagination about the empty thwart in the boat, the spreading ripples on the glassy surface of the sea. Nicolson stood motionless, arrested in mid-step, the ragged shirt caught in one hand. The girl was still leaning against Farnholme, saying 'Alex', 'Alex', over and over again, meaninglessly. And then there came another splash from right aft, not so loud this time. The bo'sun had gone after him.

The second splash brought Nicolson back to life and action with a perceptible jerk. Stooping quickly, he caught hold of the boat-hook and turned quickly to the side of the boat, kneeling on the bench. Almost without thinking he had dragged his pistol from his belt and was holding it in his free hand. The boat-hook was for McKinnon, the pistol for the young soldier. The panic-stricken grip of a drowning man was bad enough: God only knew what that of a drowning madman might be like.

Sinclair was thrashing about the water about twenty feet from the boat and McKinnon, just surfaced, was splashing determinedly towards him ― like nearly all Islanders, swimming was not one of his better accomplishments ― when Nicolson caught sight of something that struck at him like an ice-cold chill. He swung the boat-hook in a wide curving arc that brought it crashing into the water only inches from McKin-non's shoulder. Instinctively the Bo'sun caught hold of it and twisted round, his dark face a mass of startled incomprehension.

"Back, man, back!" Nicolson shouted. Even in that moment of near-panic he could hear that his voice was hoarse and cracked. "For God's sake, hurry up!"

McKinnon started to move slowly towards the boat, but not of his own volition; he still held on to the boat-hook, and Nicolson was drawing it quickly inboard. McKinnon's face still had its almost comical expression of bewilderment. He looked over his shoulder to where Sinclair was still splashing aimlessly around, more than thirty feet away now, looked back again towards the boat, opened his mouth to speak and then shouted aloud with pain. A split second passed, he shouted again, and then, mysteriously galvanised into furious activity, splashed his way madly towards the boat. Five frantic strokes and he was alongside, half-a-dozen hands dragging him head-first into the boat. He landed face down on a cross-seat, and, just as his legs came inboard, a greyish, reptilian shape released its grip on his calf and slid back soundlessly into the water.

"What ― what on earth was that?" Gudrun had caught a glimpse of the vicious teeth, the evil snake's body. Her voice was shaking.

"Barracuda," Nicolson said tonelessly. He carefully avoided looking at her face.

"Barracuda!" The shocked whisper left no doubt but that she had heard all about them, the most voracious killers in the sea. "But Alex! Alex! He's out there! We must help him, quickly!"

"There's nothing we can do." He hadn't meant to speak so harshly, but the knowledge of his utter powerlessness affected him more than he knew. "There's nothing anyone can do for him now."

Even as he was speaking, Sinclair's agonised scream came at them across the water. It was a frightening sound, half-human, half-animal, and it came again and again, strident with some nameless terror, as he flung himself convulsively about, at times rising half-clear of the sea and arching so far back that his hair almost touched the water, his hands churning foam as he beat insanely at some invisible enemies. The Colt in Nicolson's hand crashed six times in rapid succession, kicking up gouts of flying water and spray around the soldier, quick, unsighted shots that could never have hoped to accomplish anything. Careless, almost, one might have called them, all except the first: there had been nothing careless about that shot, it had taken Sinclair cleanly through the head. Long before the smell of cordite and blue wisps of smoke had drifted away to the south, the water was calm again and Sinclair had vanished, lost to sight beneath the steel-blue mirror of the sea.

Twenty minutes later that sea was no longer blue but churned to a milky, frothing white as the sheets of driving torrential rain swept across it from horizon to horizon.

Close on three hours had passed, and it was about the time of sundown. It was impossible to see the sun, to know where it was, for the rain-squalls still marched successively south and in the failing light the sky was the same leaden grey at all points of the compass. The rain still fell, still swept across the unprotected boat, but nobody cared. Drenched to the skin, shivering often in the cold rain that moulded and plastered thin cottons to arms and bodies and legs, they were happy. In spite of the sudden, numbing shock the death of Sinclair had given them, in spite of the realisation of the tragic futility of his death with the life-giving rain so near at hand, in spite of these things they were happy. They were happy because the law of self-preservation still yielded place to none. They were happy because they had slaked their terrible thirsts and drunk their fill, and more than their fill, because the cold rain cooled down their burns and blistered skins, because they had managed to funnel over four gallons of fresh rain-water into one of the tanks. They were happy because the lifeboat, driven by the spanking breeze, had already covered many of the miles that stretched between where they had lain becalmed and the now steadily nearing coast of Western Java. And they were deliriously happy, happier than they had dreamed that they could ever be again, because salvation was at hand, because miracles still happened and their troubles were over at last.

It was, as ever, McKinnon that had seen it first, a long, low shape through a distant gap in the rain-squalls, just over two miles away. They had no reason to fear anything but the worst, the inevitable worst, and it had taken only seconds to lower the tattered lug and jib, knock the pin from the mast clamp, unship the mast itself and cower down in the bottom of the boat, so that it had become, even from a short distance, no more than an empty, drifting lifeboat, difficult to see in the mists of driving rain, possibly not worth investigating even if it had been seen. But they had been seen, the long grey shape had altered course to intercept their line of drift, and now they could only thank God that it had altered its course, bless the sharp-eyed lookouts who had impossibly picked out their little grey boat against its vast grey background.

It was Nicolson who had at first incredulously identified it, then Findhorn, McKinnon, Vannier, Evans and Walters had all recognised it too. This was not the first time they had seen one of them, and there could be no possible doubt about it. It was a U.S. Navy Torpedo Boat, and their torpedo boats couldn't be confused with anything afloat. The long, sweeping flare of the bows, the seventy-foot plywood shell driven by its three high-speed marine motors, its quadruple torpedo tubes and.50 calibre machine-guns were quite unmistakable. It was flying no flag at all, but, almost as if to remove any last doubts they might have about its nationality, a seaman aboard the torpedo boat broke out a large flag that streamed out stiffly in the wind of its passing: it was approaching at a speed of something better than thirty knots ― nowhere near its maximum ― and the white water was piled high at its bows. Even in the gathering gloom there was no more mistaking the flag than there was the torpedo boat: the Stars and Stripes is probably the most easily identifiable flag of all.

They were all sitting up in the lifeboat now, and one or two were standing, waving at the M.T.B, A couple of men on the M.T.B. waved back, one from the wheelhouse, the other standing by one of the for'ard turrets. Aboard the lifeboat, people were gathering their few pitiful possessions together, preparatory to boarding the American vessel, and Miss Plen-derleith was in the act of skewering her hat more firmly on to her head when the M.T.B. abruptly slowed down her big Packard motors, jammed them into reverse and came sliding smoothly alongside, only feet away, dwarfing the little lifeboat. Even before she stopped completely, a couple of heaving lines came sailing across the gap of water and smacked accurately fore and aft into the lifeboat. The co-ordinated precision, the handling of the boat clearly bespoke a highly-trained crew. And then both boats were rubbing alongside, Nicolson had his hand on the M.T.B.'s side, the other raised in greeting to the short, rather stocky figure that had just appeared from behind the wheelhouse.

"Hallo there!" Nicolson grinned widely, and stretched out a hand in greeting. "Brother, are we glad to see you!"

"Not half as glad as we are to see you." There was a gleam of white teeth in a sunburnt face, an almost imperceptible movement of the left hand, and the three sailors on deck were no longer interested bystanders but very alert, very attentive guards, with suddenly produced sub-machine-guns rock-steady in their hands. A pistol, too, had appeared in the speaker's right hand. "I fear, however, that your rejoicing may prove to be rather shorter-lived than ours. Please to keep very still indeed."

Nicolson felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. With a queer sort of detachment he saw that his hand was no longer resting loosely against the ship's side but was bar-taut, each separate tendon standing out rigidly from the back of his hand. In spite of all the water he had drunk, his mouth felt suddenly as dry as a kiln. But he managed to keep his voice steady enough.

"What kind of bad joke is this?"

"I agree." The other bowed slightly, and for the first time Nicolson could see the unmistakable slant, the tight-stretched skin at the corner of the eyes. "For you it is not funny at all. Look." He gestured with his free hand, and Nicolson looked. The Stars and Stripes was already gone and, even as he watched, the Rising Sun of Japan fluttered up and took its place.

"A regrettable stratagem, is it not?" the man continued. He seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly. "As is also the boat and, alas, the passably Anglo-Saxon appearance of my men and myself. Though specially chosen on account of this last, I can assure you we are not especially proud of it. All that, however, is by the way." His English was perfect, with a pronounced American accent, and he obviously took pleasure in airing it. "There has been much sunshine and storm in the past week. It is most considerate of you to have survived it all. We have been waiting a long time for you. You are very welcome."

He stopped suddenly, teeth bared, and lined up his pistol on the brigadier, who had spiling to his feet with a speed astonishing in a man of his years, an empty whisky bottle swinging in his hands. The Japanese officer's finger tightened involuntarily on the trigger, then slowly relaxed when he saw that the bottle had been intended not for him but for Van Effen, who had half-turned as he had sensed the approaching blow, but raised his arm too late. The heavy bottle caught him just above the ear and he collapsed over his thwart as if he had been shot. The Japanese officer stared at Farnholme.

"One more such move and you will die, old man. Are you mad?"

"No, but this man was, and we would all have died. He was reaching for a gun." Farnholme stared down angrily at the fallen man. "I have come too far to die like this, with three machine-guns lined on me."

"You are a wise old man," the officer purred. "Indeed, there is nothing you can do."

There was nothing they could do, Nicolson realised helplessly, nothing whatsoever. He was conscious of an overwhelming bitterness, a bitterness that he could taste in his mouth. That they should have come so far, that they should have overcome so much, overcome it impossibly and at the expense of five lives, and then that it should all come to this. He heard the murmur of Peter's voice behind him and when he turned round the little boy was standing up in the sternsheets, looking at the Japanese officer through the lattice screen of his crossed fingers, not particularly afraid, just shy and wondering, and again Nicolson felt the bitterness and the angry despair flood over him almost like a physical tide. Defeat one could accept, but Peter's presence made defeat intolerable.

The two nurses were sitting one on either side of him, Lena's dark, sooty eyes wide with terror, Gudrun's blue ones with a sadness and despair that all too accurately reflected his own feelings. He could see no fear in her face, but high on the temple, where the scar ran into the hairline, he could see a pulse beating very quickly. Slowly, involuntarily, Nicolson's gaze travelled all round the boat, and everywhere the expressions were the same, the fear, the despair, the stunned and heart-sickening defeat. Not quite everywhere. Siran's face was expressionless as ever. McKinnon's eyes were flickering from side to side as he looked swiftly over the lifeboat, up at the M.T.B. and then down into the lifeboat again ― gauging, Nicolson guessed, their suicidal chances of resistance. And the brigadier seemed almost unnaturally unconcerned: his arm round Miss Plenderleith's thin shoulders, he was whispering something in her ear.

"A touching and pathetic scene, is it not?" The Japanese officer shook his head in mock sorrow. "Alas, gentlemen, alas for the frailty of human hopes. I look upon you and I am almost overcome myself. Almost, I said, but not quite. Further, it is about to rain, and rain heavily." He looked at the heavy bank of cloud bearing down from the north-east, at the thick curtain of rain, now less than half a mile away, sweeping across the darkening sea. "I have a rooted objection to being soaked by rain, especially when it is quite unnecessary. I suggest, therefore―――"

"Any more suggestions are superfluous. Do you expect me to remain in this damned boat all night?" Nicolson swung round as the deep, irate voice boomed out behind him. He swung round to see Farnholme standing upright, one hand grasping the handle of the heavy Gladstone bag.

"What ― what are you doing?" Nicolson demanded.

Farnholme looked at him, but said nothing. Instead he smiled, the curve of the upper lip below the white moustache a masterpiece of slow contempt, looked up at the officer standing above them and jerked a thumb in Nicolson's direction.

"If this fool attempts to do anything silly or restrain me in any way, shoot him down."

Nicolson stared at him in sheer incredulity, then glanced up at the Japanese officer. No incredulity there, no surprise even, just a grin of satisfaction. He started to speak rapidly in some language quite unintelligible to Nicolson, and Farnholme answered him, readily and fluently, in the same tongue. And then, before Nicolson had quite realised what was happening, Farnholme had thrust a hand into his bag, brought out a gun and was making for the side of the boat, bag in one hand, gun in the other.

"This gentleman said we were welcome." Farnholme smiled down at Nicolson. "I fear that he referred only to myself. A welcome and, as you can see, honoured guest." He turned to the Japanese. "You have done splendidly. Your reward shall be great." Then he broke once more into the foreign language ― Japanese, it must be, Nicolson was sure ― and the conversation lasted for almost two minutes. Once more he looked down at Nicolson. The first heavy drops of the next rain-squall were beginning to patter on the decks of the M.T.B.

"My friend here suggests that you come aboard as prisoners. However, I have convinced him that you are too dangerous and that you should be shot out of hand. We are going below to consider in comfort the exact methods of your disposal." He turned to the Japanese. "Tie their boat aft. They are desperate men ― it is most inadvisable to have them alongside. Come, my friend, let us go below. But one moment ― I forget my manners. The departing guest must thank his hosts." He bowed ironically. "Captain Findhorn, Mr. Nicolson, my compliments. Thank you for the lift. Thank you for your courtesy and skill in rendezvousing so accurately with my very good friends."

"You damned traitor!" Nicolson spoke with slow savagery.

"There speaks the youthful voice of unthinking nationalism." Farnholme shook his head sadly. "It's a harsh and cruel world, my boy. One has to earn a living somehow." He waved a negligent, mocking hand. "Au revoir. It's been very pleasant."

A moment later he was lost to sight and the rain swept down in blinding sheets.