South by Java Head. Alistair MacLean
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off by islands of the archipelago. They couldn’t have entered the heart of the typhoon at a worse time.
And they couldn’t have done it at a better time. If anyone lived on the Kerry Dancer conditions for rescue would never be more favourable than this. If anyone lived—and from what they could see of her in the light of their canal searchlights and the port signalling lamp as they bore slowly down on her, it seemed unlikely. More, it seemed impossible. In the harsh glare of the searchlights she seemed more forlorn, more abandoned than ever, so deep now by the head that the for’ard well deck had vanished, and the fo’c’sle, like some lonely rock, now awash, now buried deep as the big seas rolled it under—the wind had gone, the rain had gone, but the seas were almost as high as ever, and even more confused.
Captain Findhorn gazed out silently at the Kerry Dancer his eyes bleak. Caught in a cone of light, broached to and broadside on to the waves, she was rolling sluggishly in the troughs, her centre of gravity pulled right down by the weight of hundreds of tons of water. Dead, he thought to himself, dead if ever a ship was dead but she just won’t go. Dead, and that’s her ghost, he thought inconsequentially, and ghost-like she seemed, eerie and foreboding with the searchlights shining through the twisted rectangular gaps in her burnt-out upper-works. She reminded him vaguely, tantalisingly, of something, then all of a sudden he had it—the Death Ship of the Ancient Mariner, with the red, barred sun shining through the skeleton of her timbers. No deader than this one here, he thought grimly. Nothing could have been emptier of life than this. … He became aware that the chief officer was standing just behind his shoulder.
“Well, there she is, Johnny,” he murmured “Candidate-elect for the Sargasso Sea, or wherever dead ships go. It’s been a nice trip. Let’s be getting back.”
“Yes, sir.” Nicolson didn’t seem to have heard him. “Permission to take a boat across, sir.”
“No.” Findhorn’s refusal was flat, emphatic. “We’ve seen all we want to see.”
“We’ve come back a long way for this.” There was no particular inflection in Nicolson’s voice. “Vannier, the bo’sun, Ferris, myself and a couple of others. We could make it.”
“Maybe you could.” Bracing himself against the heavy rolling of the Viroma, Findhorn made his way to the outer edge of the port wing and stared down at the sea. Even in the lee of the ship, there were still ten or fifteen feet between troughs and wavecrests, the short, steep seas confused and treacherous. “And maybe you couldn’t. I don’t propose to risk anyone’s life just to find that out.”
Nicolson said nothing. Seconds passed, then Findhorn turned to him again, the faintest edge of irritation in his voice.
“Well, what’s the matter. Still feeling—what do you call it?—fey? Is that it?” He flung out an impatient arm in the direction of the Kerry Dancer. “Damn it all, man, she’s obviously abandoned. Burnt-out and hammered till she looks like a floating colander. Do you honestly think there would be any survivors after she had been through that little lot? And even if there were, they’re bound to see our lights. Why aren’t they all dancing about the upper deck—if there’s any deck left—waving their shirts above their heads? Can you tell me that?” Captain Findhorn was being heavily sarcastic.
“No idea, sir, though I should imagine a badly-wounded soldier—McKinnon said there were a few stretcher cases aboard—would find it difficult, far too difficult, even to get out of bed and take his shirt off, far less wave it all over the upper deck,” Nicolson said dryly. “A favour, sir. Switch our searchlights off and on, a few 12-pounder ack-ack shots, half-a-dozen rockets. If there’s anyone left alive, that’ll attract their attention.”
Findhorn considered for a moment, then nodded his head. “It’s the least I can do, and I don’t suppose there’s a Jap within fifty miles. Go ahead, Mr. Nicolson.”
But the flicking on and off of the searchlights, the flat, sharp crack of the 12-pounder echoing emptily over the sea had no effect, just no effect at all. The Kerry Dancer looked even more lifeless than before, a floating, burnt-out skeleton, deeper than ever in the water, the fo’c’sle only awash now in the deepest troughs. And then came the rockets, seven or eight of them, dazzling white in the pitchy darkness, curving away in shallow arcs to the west; one of them landed on the poop of the Kerry Dancer, lay there for long seconds bathing the heaving deck in a fierce white glare, then sputtering to extinction. And still nothing moved aboard the Kerry Dancer, no sign of life at all.
“Well, that’s it.” Captain Findhorn sounded a little weary: even with no hope in the first place he was still disappointed, more than he would have cared to admit. “Satisfied, Mr. Nicolson?”
“Captain, sir!” It was Vannier speaking before Nicolson could answer, his voice high-pitched, excited. “Over there, sir. Look!”
Findhorn had steadied himself on the handrail and had his night glasses to his eyes before Vannier had finished talking. For a few seconds he stood motionless, then he swore softly, lowered his glasses and turned to Nicolson. Nicolson forestalled him.
“I can see it, sir. Breakers. Less than a mile south, of the Kerry Dancer—she’ll pile up there in twenty minutes, half an hour. Metsana, it must be—it’s not just a reef.”
“Metsana it is,” Findhorn growled. “Good God, I never dreamed we were so close! That settles it. Cut the lights. Full ahead, hard a starboard and keep her 090—biggest possible offing in the shortest possible time. We’re about due to move out of the eye of the typhoon any minute now and heaven only knows how the wind is going to break—what the devil!”
Nicolson’s hand was on his upper arm, the lean fingers digging hard into his flesh. His left arm was stretched out, finger pointing towards the stern of the sinking ship.
“I saw a light just now—just after ours went out.” His voice was very quiet, almost hushed. “A very faint light—a candle, or maybe even a match. The porthole nearest the well-deck.”
Findhorn looked at him, stared out at the dark, tenebrous silhouette of the steamer, then shook his head.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Nicolson. Some optical trick, nothing else. The retina can hold some queer after-images, or maybe it was just the scuttle reflecting the dying glow from one of our——”
“I don’t make mistakes of that kind,” Nicolson interrupted flatly.
A few seconds passed, seconds of complete silence, then Findhorn spoke again: “Anybody else see that light?” The voice was calm, impersonal enough, the faint edge of anger just showing through.
Again the silence, longer this time, then Findhorn turned abruptly on his heel. “Full ahead, quartermaster, and—Mr. Nicolson! What are you doing?”
Nicolson replaced the phone he had been using without any sign of haste. “Just asking for a little light on the subject,” he murmured laconically. He turned his back to the captain and gazed out over the sea.
Findhorn’s mouth tightened; he took a few quick steps forward but slowed up suddenly as the port light switched on, wavered uncertainly, then settled on the aftercastle of the Kerry Dancer. More slowly still the captain came alongside Nicolson, shoulder to shoulder, both hands reaching up for the dodger rail to steady himself: but seeking balance alone could not have accounted for the strength of his grip on the rail, a grip that tightened and tightened until the straining knuckles were burnished ivory in the washback of light from the beam pinned on the Kerry Dancer.
The Kerry Dancer was barely three hundred yards away now, and there could be no doubt about it, none at all. Everybody saw it, clearly—the narrow scuttle swinging in, then the long, bare arm stretching out and frantically waving a white towel or sheet, an arm that withdrew suddenly, thrust out a flaming bundle either of paper or rags, held on to it until the flames began to lick and twist around the wrist, then dropped it hissing and smoking, into the sea.
Captain Findhorn sighed, a long, heavy sigh, and unclamped his aching fingers from