South by Java Head

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gently, carefully, Nicolson caught the captain by tne shoulders, eased his back off the bulkhead and turned to look for the bo'sun. But McKinnon was already kneeling by his side, and one glance at McKinnon's studiously expressionless face told Nicolson that the stain on the captain's shirt-front must be spreading. Quickly, without any word from Nicolson, McKinnon had his knife out and the back of the captain's shirt slit open in one neat movement, then he closed the knife, caught the edges of the cut cloth in his hands and ripped the shirt apart. For a moment he scanned the captain's back, then, he closed the tear together, looked up at Nicolson and shook his head. As carefully as before Nicolson eased the captain back against the bulkhead.

"No success, gentlemen, eh?" Findhorn's voice was only a husky, strained murmur, a fight against the blood welling up in his throat.

"It's bad enough, not all that bad though." Nicolson picked his words with care. "Does it hurt much, sir?"

"No." Findhorn closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "Please answer my question. Did it go right through?"

Nicolson's voice was detached, almost clinical. "No, sir. Must have nicked the lung, I think, and lodged in the ribs at the back. We'll have to dig for it, sir."

"Thank you." 'Nicked' was a flagrant meiosis and only a fully equipped hospital theatre could hope to cope with surgery within the chest wall, but if Findhorn appreciated these things he gave no sign by either tone or expression. He coughed painfully, then tried to smile. "The excavations will have to wait. How is the ship, Mr. Nicolson?"

"Going," Nicolson said bluntly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You can see the flames, sir. Fifteen minutes if we're lucky. Permission to go below, sir?"

"Of course, of course! What am I thinking of?" Findhorn struggled to rise to his feet, but McKinnon held him down, talking to him in his soft Highland voice, looking at Nicolson for guidance. But the guidance came not from Nicolson but in the shape of a crescendoing roar of an aircraft engine, the triphammer thudding of aircraft cannon and a shell that screamed through the smashed window above their heads and blasted the top of the chartroom door off its hinges. Findhorn ceased to struggle and leaned back tiredly against the bulkhead, looking up at McKinnon and half smiling. Then he turned to speak to Nicolson, but Nicolson was already gone, the chartroom door half closing behind him, swinging crazily on its shattered hinges.

Nicolson dropped down the-centre ladder, turned for'ard and went in the starboard door of the dining-saloon. Van Effen was sitting on the deck by the door as he went in, his gun in his hand, unhurt. He looked up as the door opened.

"A great deal of noise indeed, Mr. Nicolson. Finished?"

"More or less. I'm afraid the ship is. Still two or three Zeros outside, looking for the last drop of blood. Any trouble?"

"With them?" Van Effen waved a contemptuous pistol barrel at the crew of the Kerry Dancer: five of them lay huddled fearfully on the deck at the foot of the for'ard settees, two more were prostrate under the tables. "Too worried about their own precious skins."

"Anyone hurt?"

Van Effen shook his head regretfully. "The devil is good to his own kind, Mr. Nicolson."

"Pity." Nicolson was already on his way across to the port door of the dining-saloon. "The ship's going. We haven't long. Herd our little friends up to the deck above ― keep 'em in the passageway for the time being. Don't open the screen doors――-" Nicolson broke off suddenly, halted in mid-stride. The wooden serving hatch into the pantry was riddled and smashed in a dozen places. From the other side he could hear the thin, quavering sobbing of a little child..

Within three seconds Nicolson was out in the passage, wrestling with the handle of the pantry door. The handle turned, but the door refused to open ― locked, perhaps, more probably jammed and buckled. A providential fire axe hung on the bulkhead outside the fifth engineer's cabin and Nicolson swung it viciously against the lock of the pantry door. On the third blow the lock sprang open and the door crashed back on its hinges.

Nicolson's first confused impressions were of smoke, burning, a sea of smashed crockery and an almost overpowering reek of whisky. Then the rush of fresh air quickly cleared the air and he could see the two nurses sitting on the deck, almost at his feet, Lena, the young Malayan girl, with her dark, sooty eyes wide and shadowed with terror, and Miss Drachmann beside her, her face pale and strained but calm. Nicolson dropped on his knees beside her.

"The little boy?" he asked harshly.

"Do not worry. Little Peter is safe." She smiled at him gravely, eased back the heavy metal door of the hot press, already ajar. The child was inside, snugly wrapped in a heavy blanket, staring out at him with wide, fearful eyes. Nicolson reached in a hand, gently ruffled the blond hair, then rose abruptly to his feet and let his breath go in a long sigh.

"Thank God for that, anyway." He smiled down at the girl. "And thank you, too, Miss Drachmann. Damned clever idea. Take him outside in the passage, will you? It's stifling in here." He swung round, then halted and stared down in disbelief at the tableau at his feet. The young soldier, Alex, and the priest were stretched out on the deck, side by side, both obviously unconscious ― at least. Farnholme was just straightening up from examining the priest's head. The smell of whisky from him was so powerful that his clothes might have been saturated in it.

"What the hell's been going on here?" Nicolson demanded icily. "Can't you keep off the bottle for even five minutes, Farnholme?"

"You're a headstrong young man, young man." The voice came from the far corner of the pantry. "You mustn't jump to conclusions, especially wrong conclusions."

Nicolson peered through the gloom. With the dynamos and lighting gone the windowless pantry was half-shrouded in darkness. He could barely distinguish the slight form of Miss Plenderleith sitting straight-backed against the ice-box. Her head was bent over her hands and the busy click-click, click-click of needles seemed unnaturally loud. Nicolson stared at her in utter disbelief.

"What are you doing, Miss Plenderleith?" Even to himself, Nicolson's voice sounded strained, incredulous.

"Knitting, of course. Have you never seen anyone knitting before?"

"Knitting!" Nicolson murmured in awe. "Knitting, of ùcourse! Two lumps or three, vicar." Nicolson shook his head in wonder. "If the Japs knew this they'd demand an armistice tomorrow."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Miss Plenderleith demanded crisply. "Don't tell me that you've lost your senses, too."

"Too?"

"This unfortunate young man here." She pointed at the young soldier. "We jammed some trays against the serving hatch when we came in ― it's only wood, you know. The Brigadier thought it might give protection from bullets." Miss Plenderleith was talking very rapidly, very concisely, her knitting now laid aside. "When the first bombs hit, this young man tried to get out. The Brigadier locked the door ― and very quick he was about it, too. Then he started to pull the trays down ― going to go out the hatch, I suppose. The ― ah ― priest here was trying to pull him back when the bullets came through the hatch."

Nicolson turned away quickly, looked at Farnholme and then nodded down at the Muslim priest. "My apologies, Brigadier. Is he dead?"

"Thank God, no." Farnholme straightened on his knees, his Sandhurst drawl temporarily in abeyance. "Creased, concussed, that's all." He looked down at the young soldier and shook his head in anger. "Bloody young fool!"

"And what's the matter with him?"

"Laid him out with a whisky bottle," Farnholme said succinctly. "Bottle broke. Must have been flawed. Shockin' waste, shockin'."

"Get him outside, will you? The rest of you outside, too." Nicolson turned round as someone entered the door behind him. "Walters! I'd forgotten all about you. Are you all right?"

"All right, sir. Wireless room's a bit of a shambles, I'm afraid." Walters looked pale and sick, but purposeful as ever.

"Doesn't matter now." Nicolson was grateful for Walters's presence, his solidity and competence. "Get these people up to the boat-deck ― in the passage, better still in your office or cabin. Don't let 'em out on deck. If there's anything they want to get from their cabins, give 'em a couple of minutes." Walters smiled wryly. "We're taking a little trip, sir?" "Very shortly. Just to be on the safe side." It would hardly benefit the morale of the passengers, Nicolson reflected, by adding what Walters himself must have been aware of ― that the only alternatives were cremation or disintegration when the ship went up. He went out the door quickly, then staggered and almost fell as a tremendous detonation, right aft, seemed to lift the stern of the Viroma out of the water and sent a shuddering, convulsive shock through her every plate and rivet. Instinctively Nicolson reached out and caught the lintel of the door, caught and held Miss Drachmann and Peter as the nurse fell against him, steadied her and turned quickly to Walters.

"Belay that last order. No one to go to their cabins. Just get 'em up there and see that they stay there." In four strides he was at the after screen door, opening it cautiously. Seconds later he was outside on deck, standing at the top of the iron ladder that led down to the main deck, and staring aft.

The heat struck at him almost with the physical impact of a blow and brought tears of pain to his eyes. No complaints that he couldn't see this fire, he thought grimly. Billowing, convoluted clouds of oily black smoke stretched up hundreds of feet into the sky, reaching higher and higher with the passing of every second, not tailing off to a peak but spreading out at the top in a great, black anvil-head, spreading over the ship like, a pall: at the base, however, just at deck level, there was hardly any smoke at all, only a solid wall of name perhaps sixty feet in diameter, a wall that rose forty feet, then broke into a dozen separate pillars of fire; fiery, twisting tongues of flame that reached hungrily upwards, their flickering points swallowed up in the rolling darkness of the smoke. In spite of the intense heat, Nicolson's first reaction was to cover not his face but his ears: even at a hundred and fifty feet the roaring of the flames was all but intolerable.

Another miscalculation on the part of the Japs, he thought grimly. A bomb meant for the engine-room had exploded in the diesel oil bunkers, blowing aft through the engine-room bulkhead and for'ard clear through both walls of the cofferdam into number one cargo tank. And it was almost certainly number one tank that was on fire, its quarter of a million gallons of fuel oil ignited and fanned by the fierce down-draught of air through the wrecked cofferdam. Even if they had had firefighting apparatus left, and the men to man the apparatus, tackling that inferno, an inferno that would have engulfed and destroyed any man before he could have come within fifty feet of it, would only have been the suicidal gesture of an imbecile. And then, above the deep, steady roar of the flames, Nicolson heard another, more deadly sound, the high-pitched, snarling howl of an aero engine under maximum boost, caught a momentary glimpse of a Zero arrowing in off the starboard beam, at mast-top height, flung himself convulsively backward through the open door behind him as cannon-shells struck and exploded where he had been only two seconds before.

Cursing himself for his forgetfulness, Nicolson pushed himself to his feet, clipped the door shut and looked around him. Already both pantry and passage were quite empty ― Walters was not a man to waste time. Quickly Nicolson made his way along the passage, through the dining-saloon to the foot of the companionway leading up to the boat deck. Farn holme was there, struggling to carry the young soldier up the stairs. Nicolson helped him in silence, and at the top Walters met him and relieved him of his share of the burden. Nicolson glanced along the passage towards the wireless office. "All safely corralled, Sparks?"

"Yes, sir. The Arab Johnny's just coming to and Miss Plenderleith's packing her bag as if she were off to Bournemouth for a fortnight."

"Yes, I've noticed. The worrying kind." Nicolson looked along to the for'ard end of the passage. Siran and his men were huddled round the ladder that led up to the chartroom, fearful and unhappy. All, that is, except Siran himself. Despite its cuts and bruises, the brown face still held its expressionless calm. Nicolson looked sharply at Walters. "Where's Van Effen?"

"No idea, sir. Haven't seen him." Nicolson walked to face Siran. "Where's Van Effen?" Siran shrugged his shoulders, twisted his lips into a smile and said nothing. Nicolson jammed a pistol into Siran's solar plexus, and the smile faded from the brown face. "I'd just as soon you died," Nicolson said pleasantly.

"He went above." Siran nodded at the ladder. "A minute ago."

Nicolson swung round. "Got a gun, Sparks?"

"In the office, sir."

"Get it. Van Effen had no right to leave this lot." He waited till Walters returned. "No reasons required for shooting this bunch. Any flimsy excuse will do."

He went up the stairs three at a time, passed through the chartroom and into the wheelhouse. Vannier was conscious now, still shaking his head to free it from muzziness, but recovered enough to help Evans bind his arm. McKinnon and the captain were still together.

"Seen Van Effen, Bo'sun?"

"Here a minute ago, sir. He's gone up top."

"Up top? What in heaven's name――-" Nicolson checked

himself. Time was too short as it was. "How do you feel, Evans?"

"Bloody well mad, sir," Evans said, and looked it. "If I could get my hands on those murderin'―――"

"All right, all right." Nicolson smiled briefly. "I can see you'll live. Stay here with the captain. How are you, Fourth?"

"O.K. now, sir." Vannier was very pale. "Just a crack on the head."

"Good. Take the bo'sun with you and check the boats. Just numbers one and two ― three and four are finished." He broke off and looked at the captain. "You said something, sir?"

"Yes." Findhorn's voice was still weak, but clearer than it had been. "Three and four gone?"

"Bombed to bits and then burnt to a cinder," Nicolson said without bitterness. "A very thorough job. Number one tank's on fire, sir."

Findhorn shook his head. "What hope, boy?"

"None, just none at all." Nicolson turned back to Vannier. "If they're both serviceable we'll take them both." He glanced at Findhorn, raised eyebrows seeking confirmation. "We don't want Siran and his cut-throat pals in the same open boat as us when night falls."

Findhorn nodded silently, and Nicolson went on: "As many spare blankets, food, water, arms and ammunition as you can find. And first-aid.kits. All these in the better boat ― ours. That clear, Fourth?" "All clear, sir."

"One other thing. When you're finished, a strap stretcher for the captain. Don't get yourselves shot full of cannon holes ― they nearly got me a couple of minutes ago. And for God's sake hurry! Five minutes for the lot."

Nicolson moved just outside the wheelhouse starboard door and stood there for two or three seconds, taking stock. The blast of fiery heat struck at him, fore and aft, like the scorching incalescence of an opened furnace door, but he ignored it. The heat wouldn't kill him, not yet, but the Zeros would if they were given any chance at all: but the Zeros were half a mile away, line ahead and port wings dipped as they circled the Virotna, watching and waiting.

Five steps, running, took him to the foot of the wheel-house top ladder. He took the first three steps in a stride, then checked so abruptly that only a swiftly bent arm cushioned the shock as he fell forward against the rungs. Van Effen, face and shirt streaked with blood, was just beginning to descend, half supporting, half carrying Corporal Fraser. The soldier was in a very bad way, a man obviously willing himself to hang on to the last shreds of consciousness. Beneath the dark tan the pain-twisted face was drained of blood, and with his right arm he supported what was left of his left forearm, torn and shredded and horribly maimed ― only an exploding cannon shell could have worked that savage injury. He seemed to be losing only a little blood: Van Effen had knotted a tourniquet just above the elbow.

Nicolson met them half-way up the ladder, caught the soldier and took some of the almost dead weight off Van Effen. And then, before he realised what was happening, he had all the weight and Van Effen was on his way back up to the wheelhouse top.

"Where are you going, man?" Nicolson had to shout to make himself heard over the roar of the flames. "Damn all anybody can do up there now. We're abandoning ship. Come on!"

"Must see if there's anyone else alive," Van Effen yelled. He shouted something else and Nicolson thought he heard him mention guns, but couldn't be sure. His voice didn't carry too well above the roar of the two great fires and Nicolson's attention was already elsewhere. The Zeros ― there were only three of them ― were no longer circling the ship but banking steeply, altering formation to line abreast and heading straight for the midships superstructure. It needed no imagination at all to realise what tempting and completely exposed targets they must be, perched high on top of the ship. Nicolson tightened his hold on Corporal Fraser and pointed urgently out to sea with his free hand.

"You haven't a chance, you cra2y fool!" he shouted. Van Effen was now at the top of the ladder. "Are you blind or mad?"

"Look to yourself, my friend," Van Effen called, and was gone. Nicolson waited no longer, he would have to look to himself, and with a vengeance. Only a few steps, only a few seconds to the door of the wheelhouse, but Fraser was now only a limp, powerless weight in his arms, and it would take a Zero perhaps six seconds, no more, to cover the intervening distance. Already he could hear the thin, high snarl of the engines, muted but menacing over the steady roar of the flames, but he didn't dare look, he knew where they were anyway, two hundred yards away and with the gunsights lined up on his unprotected back. The wheelhouse sliding door was jammed, he could get only a minimal purchase on it with his left hand, then it was suddenly jerked open, the bo'sun was dragging Corporal Fraser inside and Nicolson was catapulting himself forward on to the deck, wincing involuntarily as he waited for the numbing shock of cannon shells smashing into his back. And then he had rolled and twisted his way into shelter and safety, there was a brief, crescendoing thunder of, sound and the planes had swept by only feet above the wheel-house. Not a gun had been fired.

Nicolson shook his head in dazed incredulity and rose slowly to his feet. Maybe the smoke and the flame had blinded the pilots, perhaps even they had exhausted their ammunition ― the number of cannon shells a fighter could carry was limited. Not that it mattered anyway, not any more. Farnholme was on the bridge now, Nicolson saw, helping McKinnon to carry the soldier below. Vannier was gone, but Evans was still there with the captain. Then the chartroom door swung open on its shattered hinges, and once again Nicolson's face tightened in disbelief.

The man who stood before him was almost naked, clad only in the charred tatters of what had been a pair of blue trousers: they were still smoking, smouldering at the edges. Eyebrows and hair were singed and frizzled and the chest and arms red and scorched: the chest rose and fell very quickly in small shallow breaths, like a man whose lungs have been so long starved of air that he cannot find time to breathe deeply. His face was very pale.

"Jenkins!" Nicolson had advanced, seized the man by the shoulders then dropped his hands quickly as the other winced with pain. "How on earth ― I saw the 'planes――-"

"Somebody trapped, sir!" Jenkins interrupted. "For'ard pump-room." He spoke hurriedly, urgently but jerkily, only a word or two for every breath. "Dived off the catwalk ― landed on the hatch. Heard knocking, sir."

"So you got the hell out of it? Is that it?" Nicolson asked softly.

"No, sir. Clips jammed." Jenkins shook his head tiredly. "Couldn't open them, sir."

"There's a pipe clipped to the hatch," Nicolson said savagely. "You know that as well as I do."

Jenkins said nothing, turned his palms up for inspection. Nicolson winced. There was no skin left, none at all, just red, raw flesh and the gleam of white bone.

"Good God!" Nicolson stared at the hands for a moment, then looked up at the pain-filled eyes. "My apologies, Jenkins. Go below. Wait outside the wireless office." He turned round quickly as someone touched him on the shoulder. "Van Effen. I suppose you know that apart from being a bloody fool you're the luckiest man alive?"

The tall Dutchman dropped two rifles, an automatic carbine and ammunition on the deck and straightened up. "You were right," he said quietly. "I was wasting my time. All dead." He nodded at Jenkins's retreating back. "I heard him. That's the small deckhouse just for'ard of the bridge, isn't it? I'll go."

Nicolson looked at the calm grey eyes for a moment, then nodded. "Come with me if you like. Might need help to get him out, whoever he is."

In the passage below they bumped into Vannier, staggering under the weight of an armful of blankets. "How are the boats, Fourth?" Nicolson asked quickly.

"Remarkable, sir. They're hardly scratched. You'd think the Japs had left them alone on purpose."

"Both of them?" Nicolson asked in astonishment.

"Yes, sir,"

"Gift horses," Nicolson muttered. "Carry on, Fourth. Don't forget the stretcher for the captain."

Down on the main deck the heat was almost suffocating, and both men were gasping for oxygen before ten seconds had passed. The petrol fire in the cargo holds was twice, three times as fierce as it had been five minutes ago, and dimly, through the roar of the flames, they could hear an almost continuous rumble of explosions as the metal fuel barrels ruptured and burst in the intense heat. But Nicolson noticed these things with only a corner of his mind. He was standing by the water-tight steel door of the entrance house to the hatch, rapping on the surface with the end of the two-foot length of pipe that served as clip levers for these doors. As he waited for a reply, bent low over the hatch, he could see the sweat from his forehead dripping on to^the hatch in an almost continuous trickle. The air was so dry and parched, the metal so hot ― they could feel the heat of the deck even through the soles of their shoes ― that the drips of perspiration evaporated and vanished almost as they touched the deck… And then, so suddenly that both men started in spite of their tense expectation, there came an answering rap from inside, very faint but quite unmistakable, and Nicolson waited no longer. The clips were very stiff indeed ― some explosive shock must have warped or shifted the metal ― and it took a dozen powerful strokes from the sledge he carried to free the two jammed clips: the last retaining clip sheered at the first blow.

A gust of hot, fetid air swept up from the gloomy depths of the pump-room, but Nicolson and Van Effen ignored it and peered into the darkness. Then Van Effen had switched on his torch and they could clearly see the oil-streaked grey hair of a man climbing up towards the top of the ladder. And then two long arms reached down and, a moment later, the man was standing on deck beside him, a forearm flung up in reflex instinct to shield himself from the heat of the flames. He was drenched in oil from head to foot, the whites of his eyes almost comically prominent in the black, smeared face.

Nicolson peered at him for a moment, and then said in astonishment: "Willy!"

"Even so," Willoughby intoned. "None other. Good old Willy. Golden lads and lasses must, etc., but not superannuated second engineers. No ordinary mortals we." He wiped some oil from his face. "Sing no sad songs for Willoughby."

"But what the hell were you doing? ― never mind. It can wait. Come on, Willy. No time to lose. We're leaving."

Willoughby panted for air as they climbed up to the bridge. "Dived in for shelter, my boy. Almost cut off in my prime. Where are we going?"

"As far away from this ship as possible," Nicolson said grimly. "She's due to go up any moment now."

Willoughby turned round, shielding his eyes with his hand. "Only a petrol fire, Johnny. Always a chance that it'll burn itself out."

"Number one cargo tank's gone up."

"The boats, and with all speed," Willoughby said hastily. "Old Willy would live and fight another day."

Within five minutes both boats had been provisioned and lowered for embarkation. All the survivors, including the wounded, were gathered together, waiting. Nicolson looked at the captain.

"Ready when you give the word, sir."

Findhorn smiled faintly: even that seemed an effort, for the smile ended in a grimace of pain. "A late hour for this modesty, Mr. Nicolson, You're in charge, my boy." He coughed, screwed shut his eyes, then looked up thoughtfully. "The 'planes, Mr. Nicolson. They could cut us to ribbons when we're lowering into the water."

"Why should they bother when they can have a far better go at us once we're in the water?" Nicolson shrugged his shoulders. "We've no option, sir."

"Of course. Forgive a foolish objection." Findhorn leaned back and closed his eyes.

"There will be no trouble from the 'planes." It was Van Effen speaking, and he seemed oddly sure of himself. He smiled at Nicolson. "You and I could have been dead twice over: they either cannot fire or do not wish to fire. There are other reasons, too, but time is short, Mr. Nicolson."

"Time is short." Nicolson nodded, then clenched his fists as a deep, rumbling roar reverberated throughout the ship. A heavy, prolonged shudder ran through the superstructure of the Viroma, a shudder that culminated in a sudden, sickening lurch as the deck dropped away under their feet, towards the stern. Nicolson smiled faintly at Van Effen. "Time is indeed short, Van Effen. Must you illustrate your points quite so thoroughly?" He raised his voice. "Right, everybody, into the boats."

The need for speed had been urgent before: it was desperate now. The bulkheads of number two tank had ruptured, and one of the tanks, possibly both, were open to the sea: the Viroma was already settling by the stern. But speed was a double-edged weapon and Nicolson only too clearly realised that undue haste and pressure would only drive the untrained passengers into panic, or, at best ― and equally delaying ― confusion. McKinnon and Van Effen were invaluable, shepherding the passengers to their positions, carrying the wounded and laying them down between the thwarts, talking quietly, encouragingly all the time. Inside, that is ― outside they had to shout to make themselves heard above the sound of the flames ― a weird, terrifying noise compounded of a thin, high-pitched hissing noise that set teeth and nerves on edge and a deep, continuous tearing sound like the ripping of calico, only magnified a thousand times.

The heat was no longer uncomfortable. It was intense, and the two great curtains of flame were beginning to sweep irresistibly together ― the pale-blue transparent gauze, shimmering and unreal, of the petrol fire from the bows, and the blood-red, smoke-shot flames from the stern. Breathing became a rasping, throat-tearing agony, and Jenkins, especially, suffered terribly as the super-heated air laid agonising fingers on his scorched skin and raw, bleeding hands. Of them all, young Peter Tallon suffered the least discomfort: McKinnon had dipped a large, fleecy blanket in the pantry sink and wrapped it round the little boy, covering him from head to toe.

Within three minutes of giving the order both boats were in the water. The port lifeboat, manned only by Siran and his six men, was first away ― with fewer men, and none of these injured, it had taken less time to embark them, but, from the glimpse Nicolson had of them before he ran back to the starboard lifeboat, it was going to take them a long time to get clear of the burning ship. They were having difficulty in clearing the falls, although Nicolson had given instructions about the patent release gear, two of them were swinging fear-maddened blows at one another and all of them gesticulating and shouting at the tops of their voices. Nicolson turned away, heedless, indifferent. Let them sort it out themselves and if they failed the world would be the better for their failure. He.had given them what they had denied the little boy ― a chance to live.

Less than a minute later Nicolson, the last man to leave, was sliding down the knotted lifeline into the waterborne number one lifeboat. He could see the lifeboat beneath him, jammed with passengers and equipment, and realised how difficult it would be to ship the oars and pull away, especially with only three or four people fit or able to use an oar, but even as his feet touched a thwart the engine coughed, sputtered, coughed again, caught and settled down to a gentle murmur he could barely hear above the flames.

Within a minute they were well away from the Viroma's side, circling anti-clockwise round the bows. Abreast the fo'c'sle, with two hundred feet of intervening sea, the heat from the flames still stung their eyes and caught at their throats but Nicolson still held the lifeboat in, rounding the bows as closely as they dared. And then, all at once, the long length of the port side of the Viroma opened up and they could see number two lifeboat. Three minutes, at least, had passed since she had been launched: she was still less than twenty yards from the side of the ship. Siran had finally succeeded in restoring order with the lash of his tongue and the heavy and indiscriminate use of the boathook, but, with two men lying groaning on the bottom-boards and a third nursing a numbed and, for the moment, useless arm, Siran had only three men left to man the heavy sweeps. On board number one boat Nicolson compressed his lips and looked at Findhorn. The captain interpreted the look correctly and nodded heavily and reluctantly.

Half a minute later McKinnon sent a coil of rope snaking expertly over the water. Siran himself caught it and made it fast to the mast thwart, and almost at once the motorboat took up the slack and started towing Siran and his men clear of the ship's side. This time Nicolson made no attempt to circle the ship but moved straight out to sea intent on putting the maximum possible distance between themselves and the Viroma in the least possible time.

Five minutes and five hundred yards passed and still nothing happened. The motorboat, with the other lifeboat in tow, was making a top speed of perhaps three and a half knots, but every foot covered was a foot nearer safety. The fighters still cruised overhead, but aimlessly: they, had made no move to attack since the embarkation had begun and obviously had no intention of making any now.

Two more minutes passed, and the Viroma was burning more fiercely than ever. The flames from the fo'c'sle were now clearly visible, no longer swallowed up by the brilliance of the sunlight: the dense pall of smoke from the two after cargo tanks now spread over half a square mile of sea and not even the fierce tropical sun could penetrate its black intensity. Under this dark canopy the two great pillars of flame swept more and more closely together, remorseless, majestic in the splendour of their inexorable progress. The tips of the two great fires leaned in towards one another ― some curious freak of the superheated atmosphere ― and Findhorn, twisted round in his seat and watched his ship die, knew with sudden certainty that when these two flames touched the end would come. And so it was.

After the barbaric magnificence of the dying, the death was strangely subdued and unspectacular. A column of white flame streaked upwards just abaft the bridge, climbing two, three, four hundred feet, then vanishing as suddenly as it had come. Even as it vanished a low, deep, prolonged rumble came at them across the stillness of the sea; by and by the echoes vanished away in the empty distance and there was only then the silence. The end came quietly and without any fuss, even with a certain grace and dignity, the Viroma slipping gently under the surface of the sea on an even steady keel, a tired and dreadfully wounded ship that had taken all it could and was glad to go to rest. The watchers in the lifeboats could hear the gentle hissing, quickly extinguished, of water pouring into red-hot holds, could see the tips of the two slender masts sliding down vertically into the sea, then a few bubbles and then nothing at all, no floating wood or flotsam on the oily waters, just nothing at all. It was as if the Viroma had never been.

Captain Findhorn turned to Nicolson, his face like a stone, his eyes drained and empty of all expression. Almost everybody in the lifeboat was looking at him, openly or covertly, but he seemed completely unaware of it, a man sunk in a vast and heedless indifference.

"Unaltered course, Mr. Nicolson, if you please." His voice was low and husky, but only from weakness and blood. "200, as I remember. Our objective remains. We should reach the Macclesfield Channel in twelve hours."