Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 16
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"I say-" gasped Gareth, and she covered the mouthpiece and smiled at
him. "It's so sweet of you." Then she listened to the manager's
voice. "Oh dear," she said. "Well, if that's the only room you have
vacant, it will just have to do then, I am sure the major has
experienced more uncomfortable billets." When Gareth saw the room that
was now his, he tried honestly to remember humbler and less comfortable
billets.
The Chinese prison in Mukden had been cooler and not placed directly
over the boisterous uproar of the public bar, and the front line dugout
during the winter of 1917 at Arras had been more spacious and better
furnished.
The next three days Gareth Swales spent at the harbour, drinking tea
and whisky in the office of the harbour master, riding out with the
pilot to meet every new vessel as it crossed the bar, jogging in a
ricksha along the wharf to speak with the skippers of dhows and
Tuggers, rusty old coal-burners and neater, newer oil, burners, or
rowing about the harbour in a hired ferry to hail the vessels that lay
at anchor in the roads.
His evenings he spent plying Victoria Camberwell with charm,
flattery and vintage champagne for all of which she seemed to have an
insatiable appetite and complete immunity. She listened to him,
laughed with him and drank his champagne, and at midnight excused
herself prettily, and nimbly side-stepped his efforts to press her to
his snowy shirt-front or get a foot in the door of the royal suite.
By the morning of the fourth day, Gareth was understandably becoming a
little discouraged. He thought of taking a bucket of Tusker out to
Jake's camp and cheering himself up with a little of the American's
genial company.
However, he did not relish having to admit failure to Jake, SO he
fought off the temptation and took his usual ricksha ride down to the
harbour.
During the night a new vessel had anchored in the outer roads and
Gareth examined her through his binoculars. She was salt-fir ned and
dirty, (Id and scarred with a dark nondescript hull and a ragged
crew,
but Gareth saw that her rigging was sound and that although she was
schooner rigged with masts which could spread a mass of canvas, yet she
had propeller drive at the stern probably she had been converted to
take a diesel engine under the high poop. She looked the most likely
prospect he had yet seen in the harbour and Gareth ran down the steps
to the ferry and exuberantly tipped the oarsman a shilling over his
usual fare.
At closer range the vessel seemed even more disreputable than she had
at a distance. The paintwork proved to be a mottled patchwork of layer
peeling from layer, and it was clear what the sanitary arrangements
were aboard. The sides were zebra-striped with human excrement.
Yet closer still, Gareth noticed that the planking was tight and sound
beneath the execrable paint cover, and her bottom, seen through the
clear water, was clean copper and free of the usual fuzzy green beard
of weed. Also her rigging was well set up and all sheets had the
bright yellow colour and resilient took of new hemp. The name on her
stern was in Arabic and French, HirondeUe, and she was Seychelles
registered.
Gareth wondered at her purpose, for she was certainly a ringer,
a thoroughbred masquerading as a cart horse. That big bronze propeller
would drive her handily, and the hull itself looked fast and
sea-kindly.
Then as he came alongside he smelled her, and knew precisely what she
was. He had smelled that peculiar odour of polluted bilges and
suffering humanity before in the China Sea. He had heard it said that
it was an odour that could never be scoured from a hull, not even sheep
dip and boiling salt water would cleanse it. They said that on a dark
night, the patrol boats could smell a slaver from over the horizon.
A man who made his daily bread buying and selling slaves would be
unlikely to baulk at a mere trifle like gun running decided Gareth, and
hailed her.
"Ahoy, HirondeLle!" The response was hostile, the closed dark faces of
the ragged crew stared down at the ferry. They were a mixed batch,
Arab, Indian, Chinese, Negro and there was no answer to his hail.
Standing in the ferry, Gareth cupped his hands to his mouth and,
with the Englishman's unconscious arrogance that assumes all the world
speaks English, called again.
"I want to speak to your captain." Now there was a stir under the poop
and a white man came to the rail. He was swarthy, darkly sunburned and
so short that his head barely showed above the gunwale.
"What you want? You police, hey?" Gareth guessed he was Greek or
Armenian. he wore a dark patch over one eye, and the effect was
theatrical. The good eye was bright and stony as water-washed agate.
"No police!" Gareth assured him. "No trouble," and produced the
whisky bottle from his coat pocket and waved it airily.
The Captain leaned out over the rail and peered closely at Gareth.
Perhaps he recognized the twinkle in the eye and the jaunty piratical
smile that Gareth flashed up at him. It often takes one to know one.
Anyway, he seemed to reach a decision and he snapped an order in
Arabic. A rope ladder tumbled down the side.
"Come," invited the Captain. He had nothing to hide.
On this leg of his voyage he carried only a cargo of baled cotton goods
from Bombay. He would discharge this here at Dares Salaam before
continuing northwards to make a nocturnal landfall on the great horn of
Africa, there to take on his more lucrative cargo of human wares.
As long as the merchants of Arabia, India and the East still offered
huge sums for the slender black girls of the Danakil and Galla,
men like this would brave the British warships and patrol boats to
supply them.
"I thought we might drink a little whisky together and talk about
money," Gareth greeted the Captain. "My name is Swales. Major
Swales." The Captain had trained his oiled black hair into a queue
that hung down his back. He seemed to cultivate the buccaneer image.
"My name is Papadopoulos." He grinned for the first time.
"And the talk of money is sweet like music." He held out his hand.
Gareth and Vicky Camberwell came to Jake's camp in the mahogany forest,
bearing gifts.
"This is a surprise," Jake greeted them sardonically as he straightened
up from the welding set with the torch still flaring in his hand. "I
thought you two had eloped."
"Business first, pleasure later." Gareth handed Vicky down from the
ricksha. "No, my dear Jake, we have been working hard." J can see
that. You look really worn out with your labours." Jake doused the
welding torch and accepted the bucket of Tusker beer. He broached two
bottles -immediately, handing one to Greg and lifting the other to his
own lips. He wore only a pair of greasy khaki shorts.
When he lowered it, he grinned. "But, what the hell, I was dying of
thirst and so I forgive you."
"You have saved our lives, Major
Swales and Miss Camberwell," agreed Greg, and saluted them with the de
wed bottle.
"What on earth is this?" Gareth turned to inspect the massive
construction on which Jake and Greg had been working, and Jake patted
it proudly.
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