Slowly he went for’ard to the bridge deck housing. Captain Griffiths was seated in the leather armchair, his face a little flushed, his eyes bright, a tumbler of whisky at his elbow. ‘Well, young fellow, it appears that you’re in the clear. Nobody is in the least bit interested in you here.’ And he added, ‘Doubtless you have Mr Grant to thank for that. I’m sorry I can’t send him a message; the man must be half out of his mind considering the chance he took.’
‘I’ll write to him as soon as I can,’ David murmured.
The Captain nodded. ‘Time enough for that when you’re safely ashore. But it’s only fair to tell you that if I fail to contact your father, then you’ll complete the voyage and be paid off at Cardiff.’ And having delivered this warning, he went on, ‘I’ll be going ashore in the morning and I’ll cable Colonel Whitaker care of GODCO — that’s the Gulfoman Oilfields Development Company. It may reach him, it may not. Depends where your father is, you see; he’s not an easy man to contact. Meantime, I am instructing Mr Evans to give you work that will keep you out of sight of the passengers. We have two oil men with us on the voyage up the coast, also an official from the PRPG’s office — that’s the Political Resident Persian Gulf. See to it that you keep out of their way. If you do get ashore, then I don’t want anybody saying afterwards that they saw you on board my ship.’ And with that David found himself dismissed.
He saw Captain Griffiths go ashore next morning in the agent’s launch. All day they were working cargo, the winches clattering as they unloaded No. 1 hold into the lighter dhows alongside and filled it again with a fresh cargo. In the evening four passengers came aboard, all white, and a dhow-load of Arabs bound for Mukalla who strewed themselves and their belongings about the deck. And then the anchor was hauled up and they shifted to the bunkering wharf. The Emerald Isle sailed at midnight, steaming east-north-east along the southern coast of Arabia, the coast of myrrh and frankincense, of Mocha coffee and Sheba’s queen.
It was a voyage to thrill the heart of any youngster, but David saw little of it, for he was confined to the bowels of the ship, chipping and painting, and all he saw of Mukalla, that gateway to the Hadhramaut, was a glimpse through a scuttle — a huddle of terraced Arab houses, so white in the sunlight that it looked like an ivory chess set laid out at the root of the arid mountains. Only at night was he allowed on deck, and he spent hours, motionless in the bows of the ship, drinking in the beauty and the mystery of the Arabian Sea, for the water was alive with phosphorescence. From his vantage point he could look down at the bow wave, at the water rushing away from the ship in two great swathes is. bright as moonlight, and ahead, in the inky blackness of the sea, great whorls of light like nebulae were shattered into a thousand phosphorescent fragments as the ship’s massage broke up the shoals of fish — and like outriders the sharks flashed torpedo-tracks of light as they ploughed their voracious way through the depths. And every now and then a tanker passed them, decks almost awash, with oil from Kuwait, Bahrain and Dahran.
They passed inside the Kuria Muria islands at night, and to get a better view of them he ignored his orders and crept up to the boat deck. He was standing there close beside one of the boats when the door of the passenger accommodation opened and two figures emerged, momentarily outlined against the yellow light. They came aft, two voices talking earnestly, as he shrank into the shadow of the boat, bending down as though to adjust the falls.
‘ … the last time I was at the Bahrain office. But even in Abu Dhabi, we’ve heard rumours.’ The accent was North Country.
‘Well, that’s the situation. Thought I’d warn you. Wouldn’t like you to back the wrong horse and find yourself out on your ear just because you didn’t know what was going on.’
‘Aye; well, thanks. But the Great Gorde. … It takes a bit of getting used to, you must admit. He’s been the Company out here for so long.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, old man. I’m new out here and as far as I’m concerned Erkhard is the man.’
The voices were no more than a whisper in the night. The two oilmen were leaning over the rail at the other end of the boat and David was just going to creep away when he heard the name of his father mentioned. ‘Is it true Colonel Whitaker’s the cause of the trouble? That’s the rumour.’ He froze into immobility, listening fascinated as the other man gave a short laugh. ‘Well, yes, in a way; the Bloody Bedouin’s got too big for his boots. And that theory of his, a lot of damned nonsense. He’s not thinking of the Company, only of his Arab friends.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The Company owes him a lot.’
‘Concessions, yes — and a string of dry wells. The man’s a dangerous amateur. I’m warning you, Entwhistle — you talk like that when Erkhard visits you at Abu Dhabi and you’ll be out so damn’ quick-’
‘It’s Gorde I deal with.’
‘Okay. But you can take my word for it that it’ll be Erkhard who does the next tour of inspection of the development sites. And unless you’ve got something to show him-’
The voices faded as the two men moved away, walking slowly and in step back towards the deck housing. David moved quickly, slipping down the ladder to the main deck, back to his position in the bows. He wanted to be alone, for that brief overheard conversation had given him a strange glimpse of the world on which he had set his heart.
The ship stopped at Nasira Island with stores for the RAF and then on again, rounding Ras al Hadd at night and ploughing north-west into the Gulf of Oman.
On the afternoon of the seventh day out from Aden she anchored at Muscat, in a cove so narrow and rocky that David could scarcely believe his eyes; it might have been the Pembrokeshire coast of Wales except that it was a white, sun-drenched Arab town that stood close by the water’s edge at the head of the inlet. On the other side the rocks bore the name of visiting ships with dates going back to the 1800s, all painted in foot-high letters. Long, double-ended boats of palm wood, their broad planks sewn together with thongs, swarmed round the ship, paddled by Arabs whose faces shone black in the sun.
They were there twenty-four hours and in the night David thought more than once of diving over the side. The shore was so near. But once ashore, what hope had he? There was nowhere for him to go. In a halting conversation with one of the crew, a coast Arab from a fishing village to the north called Khor al Fakhan, he learned that Muscat was backed by volcanic mountains of indescribable brutality. They were almost fifty miles deep with every route through guarded by watch towers; and beyond the mountains was the desert of the Rub al Khali — the Empty Quarter. He knew it was hopeless, and so he stayed on board, and the next afternoon they sailed.
He was having his evening meal when he was told to report to the bridge. Captain Griffiths was there, seated on his wooden stool, staring out over the bows to the starlit sea ahead. The only other man on the bridge was the Arab helmsman standing immobile, his eyes fixed on the lit compass card in its binnacles, only his hands moving as he made small adjustments to the wheel. ‘Ah, there you are.’ Griffiths had turned his head. ‘When I went ashore at Muscat last night there was a slave from Saraifa waiting for me with a message from your father. You’ll doubtless be relieved to know that he’s willing to take you off my hands.’