Cocos Gold Page 2

  After that I took the dinghy across the estuary regularly. Kean didn’t seem to mind. The third time I went he must have seen me rowing across from one of the portholes of the saloon. But all he said when I got back was: “Nice boat, Johnny, isn’t she?” His voice was toneless, and his eyes drifted back to the red glow of the stove. “I wonder if it would have been worth it,” he muttered. “Irwin said he left a log of everything that had happened to us.” He stroked the cat thoughtfully with his long fingers. “If I could have come back with that, it would have cleared me.

  But what’s the good?” He shrugged his shoulders and stared into the stove again.

  I had been a week on “The Bridge of Orchy” when the gale came and with it the thing that was to pitchfork me into the whole incredible adventure. The wind came up out of the sou’west and the old boat rocked at her moorings, straining at the warps that held her to the rotting piles of the wharf. Next day, standing in the wind on the coast road, I watched the Selsey lifeboat bring in the survivors of the Italian schooner, “Santa Maria.”

  Gray scuds were driving low over the salt flats and the wind whipped the smoke from the nearby works out over Brighton in a thin, trailing smudge. The lifeboat berthed at a little quay almost directly below me. The crew’s oilskins were white with salt, and the huddle of derelict humanity that came ashore were small, dark men, sallow with the cold. All except one. He was broad and stocky and his face cracked in a grin as he jumped on to the quay. “Thanks for the trip, mate,” he called up to the coxs’n of the lifeboat. Then he shouldered a bundle he had with him and came rolling up the slope of the quay toward me, pushing his way through the crowd of Italians as though he despised the lot of them. His face was gray and dirty under the stubble of his unshaven beard and his little black eyes were bloodshot. Despite his circumstances, there was something truculent in the way he walked and he sniffed at the air like a terrier scenting a rabbit.

  He hesitated at the top of the quay, looking about him as though to get his bearings. Then he saw me. “Hey, sonny, where’s Tower Quay?”

  “Past the boat yards up there,” I told him. And then, because I wanted to know what had happened to the “Santa Maria,” I said, “I’m going there now. I’ll show you.”

  His black eyes narrowed, giving his face a monkeyish look. “Going there, are you?” he said. “Then perhaps you can tell me if there’s a boat moored there called ‘The Bridge of Orchy’—party by the name of Kean?”

  I was so surprised I think I just gaped at him.

  “Well? Lost yer voice or something?”

  “No,” I said, pulling myself together. “I was surprised, that’s all. I’m living on board ‘The Bridge of Orchy’ with Mr. Kean.”

  He burst out laughing then, a queer laugh that somehow sent a cold shiver down my spine. “Well, if that ain’t fate. Here I come all the way from Italy to see Kean, get shipwrecked, and not only does the lifeboat bring me right to within a few yards of me destination, but the first person I mentions the matter to lives on ‘The Bridge of Orchy.’ If that don’t beat everything! Come on, sonny. Let’s go and talk to your Mister Kean. He a relative of yours or something?” he asked as we started off down the road.

  “No,” I replied. “He was at Dartmouth with my guardian.” And I told him why I’d come down to live on “The Bridge of Orchy.”

  “You don’t look ill,” he said, eyeing me closely out of the corner of his eye. “Fact is you look remarkably healthy.” His voice sounded suspicious.

  “What happened to the schooner?” I asked quickly.

  “The gear was rotten and the I-tyes scared,” he answered shortly. “She’ll pile up somewhere along by the Seven Sisters, I shouldn’t wonder.” He didn’t add anything more and somehow I didn’t like to break the silence.

  We turned in at the entrance to the wharf. He squinted at the boats and then stopped. “Which is ‘The Bridge of Orchy?’ ” he demanded.

  I pointed it out to him and he swore under his breath. “That?” he snarled. His gnarled, dirt-stained hand seized hold of my arm. “That’s not the boat I want,” he hissed savagely. “I’m looking for an ex-Admiralty boat, an HD-ML.”

  “What number?” I asked. But I think I knew in my heart what the number would be.

  “ ‘ML 615,’ ” he said. He must have seen by my face that I knew the boat, for his grip tightened on my arm. “Where is she?” he demanded savagely. “Come on, me lad, where is she?”

  I pointed across the estuary. “There,” I said.

  He dropped my arm then and gazed across the strip of muddy water. The outlines of the boat were blurred by a rain squall, but he could see the rust on her hull, for he said, “Looks kind of derelict, don’t she?” Then he turned to me. “You been over her?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Then what’s she like?” he enquired eagerly. “Any engines?”

  “The engines are all right,” I told him.

  “And instruments?”

  I nodded.

  “Good!” He was grinning again. “Now we’ll go and have a word with Kean. Things ain’t looking so bad after all.”

  I led the way up the gangplank. But when we reached the deck he seized hold of me. “I’ll go first,” he hissed in my ear. “I ain’t having you warn him. This is going to be a surprise.” He showed his broken teeth in a grin. “You watch him jump when he sees me. And don’t you make a sound—understand?”

  He reached over to the door of the companion and eased it open. Then he crept down the companionway. He moved as silently as a cat and I hardly dared to breathe as I followed close behind him. At the bottom he paused, listening. His right hand went to the pocket of his jacket. Then he turned the handle and kicked open the door.

  From halfway up the companionway I could see over his shoulder into the saloon. Kean was seated in the wicker chair by the stove, the cat on his knees. He had turned at the sound of the opening door and his whole body suddenly stiffened. His mouth opened as though to cry out and his eyes dilated with fear. Then he had leaped to his feet and had the saloon table between him and the door as though for protection. “Who are you? What do you want?” His voice was high-pitched and scared.

  “Come off it, Kean. You know who I am.”

  “Spike Edwards.” Kean breathed the name as though the man was an apparition.

  Spike threw his bundle on to my bunk and went across toward the stove. “Come on, man. Pull yourself together. Relax. I ain’t no ghost.” He had his hand out of his jacket pocket now and he leaned on the table, laughing in Kean’s face. “Thought we was all dead, didn’t you, mate? Well, we ain’t, see. We got took off by a Costa Rican patrol boat and dumped down at Puntarenas. All except Garrod and Irwin. They—” He grinned. “They succumbed to the rigors of the climate, as you might say.”

  Kean swallowed quickly. “How did you find out where I was?” he asked in a jerky voice.

  “Shorty. He saw you here—wrote me from London.”

  “And the others?”

  Spike Edwards cocked his bullethead to one side. “You mean The Rigger?” he said with an ugly grin. “Nat’s in Germany.” He turned abruptly to warm himself at the stove. “We didn’t like it in Costa Rica. They wasn’t friendly. Somebody’d blabbed and the British consul had ’em on their toes looking for us.” He stared hard at Kean. “So we scattered. Shorty got a passage to England. Mike went to America. I took a world tour in a freighter and landed up in Italy. Mike’s here in England now. He and Shorty got it all worked out.” He turned and saw me standing in the open doorway. “You take yourself off now, sonny. Me and the Number One’s going to have a little talk.”

  I looked at Kean. He nodded. “Go for a walk, Johnny,” he said. “Edwards and I have some business to discuss.” His face was white.

  I hesitated. I was agog with curiosity. But Spike Edwards gave me a threatening look. “Go on. Via! That’s I-tye for ‘Get out.’ ” He glared at me. As I slipped out of the door, I heard him say, “Now what
about some grub, eh? Fair starving, I am.”

  It was cold up on deck. I paused at the top of the gangplank. There was a skylight that looked down on to the saloon. But I had a feeling that the man might think of that and I continued down on to the-wharf. It was as well that I did, for J had hardly slipped behind one of the fishermen’s sheds before he was up on deck peering all round the ship to make certain I’d really gone ashore.

  I waited a few minutes and then slipped quietly back on board. But when I’d climbed on to the deckhouse and reached the skylight I was little the wiser. Lying flat on the wet leading of the roof I looked down on to the saloon table. I could see the top of Spike Edwards’ round head with its close-cropped, iron-gray hair. He was sitting at the table wolfing down biscuits and cheese and pickled onions. The cat was curled up in the wicker chair. Kean paced agitatedly up and down the saloon. They were talking. I could hear the murmur of their voices. But I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  I got out my penknife and prized at the top of the skylight. It was bitterly cold up there in the wind and the rain. And the wretched thing seemed jammed. I broke the blade of my knife. But with the broken half I at last managed to lever the skylight up. And suddenly I heard Kean say, “I tell you, I won’t do it.”

  “You ain’t got no choice, mate,” Spike answered, his words barely intelligible through a mouthful of food. “It’s like it was before. You navigate. We crew. I tell you, it’s like getting money for old rope.” He suddenly put his hand to the top of his head. “Rain’s coming in,” he said and looked straight up at me.

  I dropped the skylight and was off the roof in a flash.

  I don’t think he actually saw me. It was getting pretty dark by then. But I dived into one of the sheds and waited, trembling with cold and my own fears, for what seemed hours. When at last I went back to the ship Kean was alone. He barely looked up as I came in. He was sitting, staring into the fire, and seemed entirely lost in his own thoughts.

  “What did that man want?” I asked, for I thought it better to act as though I had really been for a walk.

  “Nothing,” he answered. And there was such utter hopelessness in his voice that I didn’t dare question him further.

  The next morning he was up early and went ashore. But though I hung about “The Bridge of Orchy” all day I didn’t see him again until late in the evening. He was drunk then and very morose. He slumped down on the chair in front of the stove and fell asleep, snoring loudly.

  He must have slept in that chair all night, for when I woke in the morning he was still there, the cat on his lap. The cabin smelled stale and unpleasant. I got myself some breakfast and then put my sweater on. It was bright and sunny out, and I thought I’d take a trip in the dinghy across the estuary.

  But as I quietly opened the door, he jerked awake. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Over to the ML,” I answered. “It’s a nice fine morning.”

  “Come here, Johnny,” he said. His voice was thick and blurred, but there was something unusually compelling in the way he spoke. “From now on you’re not to go near the ML—understand?”

  “But why?” I asked him. “It’s quite safe. And there’s no harm in it. Commander Gurling, I’m sure, would approve of my getting to know my way about a warship. And anyway, she’s only a derelict.”

  “Only a derelict!” He gave a mirthless laugh. “My God! If only she were!” Then he seized me by the arm. “I’ve never given you an order before, Johnny, have I?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, this is an order. Keep clear of the ML. Find something else to amuse yourself with.” He got up. “I shall be late back again tonight. I’ve got a lot to see to.” His voice had lost its commanding tone. He was back inside himself, scared and worried.

  So the dinghy bobbed up and down alongside, unused, and I kept to the shore line. But always with an eye on the further bank of the estuary where the “ML 615” lay grounded on the salt flats. And often I’d see a dinghy with an outboard motor going out to her. Sometimes the dinghy would lie moored to her stem all day. I longed to row across and see what was happening on board. But I had been strictly brought up and an order was an order. I saw little of Kean now. He’d be up about eight, have a quick breakfast, and then leave. Often it would be past eleven at night before he returned. He’d go straight to his bunk without a word. He wasn’t drunk—just tired. His mood was a queer mixture of fear and suppressed excitement. Once I followed him when he left in the morning. He went to a boat yard higher up the estuary. And once I saw him in Brighton, coming out of a pub with a little, bandy-legged man in a checked suit and a hat pulled low over his eyes. But though I kept my eyes open for him, I never saw a sign of the man who called himself Spike Edwards.

  About a week after the lifeboat had brought in the survivors of the “Santa Maria,” the postman delivered a letter addressed to Kean in my guardian’s handwriting. I handed it to him, and when he had read it, he cursed softly. “What does the commander say?” I asked as he stood staring out of the porthole, the letter crumpled in his hand.

  He looked at me slowly. “I wrote asking him to take you away from here,” he said. “Instead of doing what I asked, he writes that he has given up his flat and is leaving the Admiralty tomorrow. He’s posted to the Home Fleet. He insists that you remain here until the beginning of the next term. How long is that?”

  “We go back on the twentieth of next month,” I told him.

  “Five weeks.” He sighed. “Well, you’ll just have to fend for yourself.” He looked down at the cat curled up in the wicker chair. “At least you’ll have somebody to look after you, Nick.” And his voice was flat as though he feared some calamity.

  The next two weeks passed slowly. I found an old pair of glasses in a locker and spent hours leaning on the rail, watching the ML. I could see men moving about on her decks. But the glasses were poor and I could not see them clearly. Every day the dinghy lay moored to the vessel’s stern. Occasionally at dusk it would slip away up the estuary and I’d follow it through the glasses. And always it made for the boat yard where I had seen Kean go.

  I began to haunt this yard in the hope that the dinghy would come during the daytime and I’d see who were in it. But it never came until darkness fell. The yard was a small one and the owner, a sharp-faced rat of a man, became suspicious and ordered me out. One evening I got into conversation with one of the men who worked there, as he came off duty. But when I began to question him about the work being done on “ML 615,” he gave me a sharp look and shut up like a clam.

  And now I come to the night when it all started. By this time, what with Kean’s daily absence, the activity on the “ML 615,” and the air of secrecy at the yard, my curiosity knew no bounds. That night Kean returned much earlier than usual, about six o’clock. He went straight over to the stove and cooked himself some supper. He never spoke much, but on this occasion he was more than usually silent. He seemed entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. Several times he stopped and stroked the cat. He seemed less tensed up than usual, as though he were resigned to something. I watched his every movement with a feeling of intense excitement that I couldn’t explain.

  When he’d finished his supper, he went over to his bunk and began to pack his things into a battered old traveling grip. When it was full, he got out oilskins and sea boots and a duffel coat and stuffed them into a kit bag. While he was doing this, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll be away a night or two, Johnny. You and Nick will be all right, won’t you?”

  He spoke casually. Too casually, I thought. “Yes, we’ll be all right,” I answered. And then, because I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer, I asked, “Where are you going?”

  He straightened up and gazed out through the porthole at the dusk gathering over the estuary. “I don’t know,” he said. He spoke slowly as though answering aloud a question he had asked himself. He turned suddenly and looked at me. I suppose he must have seen that I was a little too intere
sted, for he said, “I’m doing a spot of navigating for someone. A man has to earn a living, you know, Johnny.” His cheerfulness was a little forced and I remembered what I had overheard Spike Edwards say from the skylight: “You navigate. We crew.”

  He went over to the wicker chair and said good-by to the cat. His fingers lingered lovingly in the soft fur behind its ears. Then he seemed to brace himself, for he turned quickly and said, “You’ll find some money in the drawer under my bunk. There’s some papers there, too. Private papers. Don’t look at them unless you have to. I’ll see you in two or three days’ time.” He pulled on an old peaked cap and with a nod left the saloon.

  I stood quite still, listening to his footsteps cross the deck and go down the gangplank on to the wharf and wondering what he had meant about the papers when he’d said: “Don’t look at them unless you have to.” The saloon seemed strangely empty. I was used to being there by myself. But this time it was different. It was as though he had gone for good. And then Nick, who had been watching the door, got down from the chair and went over to it, mewing dismally.

  I got the glasses and went up on deck. Night was closing down on the estuary. The lights of Brighton glowed in the sky behind me. I searched the spot where I knew the ML lay. I could just see the outline of her. There was no dinghy tied to the stem. Soon darkness hid her from view. But I stayed up on deck, listening for the sound of the dinghy’s outboard. About half an hour later I heard it. The peculiar stutter of its engine was unmistakable. It came from the boat yard higher up the estuary and I followed the sound of it across to the further bank. When it reached the ML’s position, the engine coughed and died.