It was the Libyan freighter getting under way, the harbour tug pulling her bows clear and swinging them round, so that they were pointed straight towards me. At the same time, the harbour master's launch left the Estacion Maritima, accompanied by two other launches. I was standing by the red-flashing beacon again when they passed through the narrows, but I couldn't see who was on board the harbour launch. It was flanked by what looked like a harbour police launch and a customs launch. Only the harbour master's launch went alongside Medusa'sladder, and though somebody attempted to go on board, his way was blocked by a burly petty officer standing immovably halfway up it.
The little tableau remained motionless for some time, the man on the grating gesticulating very energetically and an officer, Sykes probably, on the deck above. I watched them arguing through the glasses until my attention was distracted by the increasing rumble of ships' engines. The freighter, with the tug leading it, was approaching the narrows. It was low in the water, not yet unloaded, so it could hardly be intending to leave port. And behind me, just visible beyond the rocks above Petra's landing place, I could see the bows of the small oil tanker lying in Cala Figuera beginning to swing as she fetched her anchor.
The tug was through the narrows by then and headed direct for Medusa.The beat of the freighter's engines slowed as she passed so close to me I could see that the Arabic letters of her name had been painted over some earlier name, the outline of which suggested that she had originally been Greek, possibly Russian, for the faint lettering appeared to be Cyrillic. The rusty plates slid by, the bridge housing at the stern seeming to tower over me.
In the distance I could just hear the tug exchanging words with the harbour launch over loudhailers, and at the same time Gareth appeared on the frigate's bridge wing. He had his hand to his mouth, holding a mike I think, because even at that distance I could hear his voice quite clearly, it was so powerfully amplified. He spoke in English, very simply: 7 have to warn you that any ship coming within two hundred metres of my anchorage will be regarded as having committed a hostile act.'He turned then and I think he must have given an order, for as Lieutenant Sykes hurried to his side and began repeating what he had said in Spanish, the turret of the two 4.5-inch guns slowly swivelled, the barrels no longer aimed at the heights above Gala Llonga, but being lowered, slowly and menacingly, to point directly at the freighter.
It flashed through my mind then what a chance he was taking — or was he bluffing? For a British warship to open fire on the ship of a country we were not at war with, however unfriendly that country might be, and to do it while anchored in the harbour of a Nato ally… It didn't bear thinking about and I almost held my breath as I waited to see what the freighter would do, wondering whether Gareth was acting on his own initiative or whether he was covered by explicit orders. I hoped, for his sake, that it was the latter.
Everything now was in slow motion. The launch had pulled away from Medusa'sside to join the others, the three' of them in a close huddle as though the vessels themselves were discussing the situation. The frigate's guns stayed implacably levelled at the approaching superstructure of the freighter, which was now barely moving. A sudden swirl of water at her stern and she was stationary, everything held motionless as in a still picture.
The sun had begun to set, a lovely golden glow lighting up the grey slab-plated side of the frigate. Time passed, nothing happening, but the tension seeming steadily to increase as the sunset glow deepened to red so that the I
villas above Cala Llonga and Gala Lladro were all aflame, the bare scrubland above taking fire.
The police launch was the first to break away, ploughing back through the narrows at full speed. At the same time the harbour launch went alongside the tug. It was there for several minutes, then it made across to the freighter, going alongside on the port hand where I couldn't see it. Meanwhile, the customs launch had passed astern of Medusaand disappeared in the direction of Cala Llonga, or perhaps further along the peninsula, by Lazareto Island. I couldn't follow its movements because it was hidden from me by the frigate.
By now lights had begun to appear along the Mahon waterfront and in the town above. The clouds had thickened, darkness closing in early. I could still just see the harbour launch. It paused briefly to turn and run parallel with the tanker, which was already approaching the narrows. Then, when it had resumed course for the Estacion Maritima, the tanker changed direction to pass out of my sight to the south of Bloody Island. At that moment Medusaleapt suddenly into fairy-like outline, her deck, upperworks and mast all picked out by strings of light bulbs — Gareth Lloyd Jones cocking a snook at the waiting ships and the shore. It was as if he was saying, 'Here I am, still anchored here and my guns ready. What are you going to do about it?'
After that I didn't stay much longer by the beacon. There was no point. It was already too dark to see what was going on ashore. The tug and the freighter had been joined by the tanker, all three of them anchored astern of the frigate and well beyond the two-hundred-metre protection zone Gareth had declared for himself. Stiff and tired, I went back to the camp, where I lit the pressure lamp, raided Petra's drink cupboard for a glass of brandy, and got the paraffin stove going to heat up one of her packets of instant food.
The sound of an engine sent me tumbling back to my lookout point by the red-flashing beacon. It was the harbour launch, back again, and I watched as the dim shape of it passed through the narrows, making straight for Medusa.The frigate had swung with the slight movement of the tide, so that through the glasses I had an even clearer view of the launch as it went alongside the ladder. One man only got off and was escorted to the bridge. It wasn't Romacho, and it certainly wasn't Fuxa. This was a much taller man wearing a seaman's cap and dark jersey.
A stone clinked behind me and I swung round as a voice spoke out of the darkness — 'Your grub's boiling over, mate.'
It was Lennie. He had rowed across in a borrowed dinghy from the little gut in the cliffs below Villa Carlos known as Gala Corb. 'I turned the stove off. Better eat it now, then if you wanter go ashore I'll take yer.' He was staggering off towards the dark bulk of the hospital ruins. 'They've kicked most of the prisoners out of the jail and locked up half a dozen senior officers of the Guardiaand the national police instead, including your friends Menendez and Molina. You'll be safe enough.' His voice was slurred and he moved with care for he had spent most of the day in the waterfront cafe-bars. No, he didn't know where Petra was, and he hadn't been near the chandlery nor seen anything of Soo. 'Wouldn't go near 'er, mate. I told yer. She fired me. Just like that. She can go to hell.' He was very drunk, holding himself stiff and erect.
His news, gathered at second hand in the waterfront cafe-bars, was that as yet the new regime controlled barely half the island. But they had the key points — La Mola and Punta de Santo Carlos to the south of the Mahon entrance, both airports, the radio and radar station on El 'For o, also the town of Alayor. But in the country south and west of Alayor there were rumours of fighting between local factions. They say the Russians are coming.' But he admitted that was just bar talk. 'They're full of talk over in the port, wild talk.'