We set off towards Rose’s intermittent light on the hilltop. When Armatage stumbled, Nash told him to move sharp or he’d get a boot at his arse. I expected a barney, but Armatage grumbled at the slippery ground and went forward.
At the summit Nash took the torch and matched a similar beacon to the one at the beach, which was so dim that only his rear-gunner’s eyes could see it. ‘You can hump your share like the rest of us,’ he said to Rose. ‘It’ll keep you warm.’
When we picked up our loads he said: ‘Put the buggers down again. I haven’t run a building site for nothing. We need a few labourers from Lincolnshire on this stunt. If I promised a bonus they’d have this lot down the hill in ten minutes. See what I do, then follow me. We’ll adapt our tactics to the terrain. But be careful not to bust any of the boxes or there’ll be a few slit throats for the birds to fly into.’ He turned. ‘Eh, Skipper? If you feel inclined, Mr Bennett, you can join the party as well.’
‘I’ll stay with the boxes. They shouldn’t be left unguarded.’
‘As you say, sir, but Wilcox has the mid-upper guns trained on the beach in case of funny business.’ He took two boxes by their handles and, walking almost at ground level, like a truncated dwarf, slid them over the turf and set off downhill. The heavy metal moved as if on ice, not keeping a straight course, yet heading towards the lighted dinghy. Appleyard followed, then Armatage, brought up by Rose, and rearguarded by me, so that we had ten boxes in motion at the same time.
Not five yards apart, we were covered in mud. Curving around boulders created a splash-track that shot moss and black liquid up our arms – which met spray coming from boots dug in to prevent overturning. Halfway, we were close enough to hear Appleyard say: ‘On our next job I’ll bring a couple of mud-sledges, and fifty black huskies!’
Nash enjoyed being the foreman. ‘Your time-sheets are going to look pretty before the night’s out.’ Stooped and moving, only the hard work stopped it being comical. We were his dog-team, but didn’t mind because he also was in harness. Bennett sat on the hill to guard the fast diminishing cargo. Now that the gold was found he had lost interest. The quest was over – so we thought. All we had to do was depart from the place and collect our wages. Bennett had brought us here, but Nash, it seemed to me, would get us back.
7
If our energy came from the sight of the gold, we were spending freely. None stinted his basic resource, and in three hours the boxes were at the beach. While Nash and Bennett discussed the best way of getting the cargo on board, we ate what was left of the rations.
The flying boat rose and fell. Wind played in the aerials, moaning above the slop of water on the beach. There was a smell of seaweed, half burnt vegetables, bird droppings and fish, odours coming and going between prolonged alcoholic gusts of sweet air. The sense of adventure was almost carnal, a sentimental attachment which was nevertheless profound and lasting. Standing in the open, tired and splashed with mud, on an island in a part of the world which did not seem connected to any other, the feeling was wholly a part of me because the wind and the smells said so, as also did whatever hazards were brewing before the light of day came on.
Waves lapped their creamy phosphorus over black shingle, and our pale flying boat dominated the cove. I was as far from home and what had made me as it was possible to get and yet be on earth. It was where I had always wanted to be, though whether I would learn anything of the half of myself that had got me here was doubtful. I only knew that whenever I took one step to alter my life, Fate took two. Now it had taken three, and I was lost in more ways than one, and if I couldn’t make the effort to care it was because I did not think there was anything on earth that could do me harm.
We put out our cigarettes, and Rose who hammered his pipe against the heel of his boot swore as the stem flew away from the bowl. Being in the second boat, he could have sat for another ten minutes. ‘It was a present from my mother. I’ve a spare one in my kit, but I get nervous if I don’t have a reserve.’
‘Why not try to fix it?’ Appleyard, thinking it important that our navigator be consoled, found the two pieces. ‘I’ll have a go later.’
Nash shouted, as the icy water struck up to his waist. Armatage went head first, legs waving till Nash put a hand on his back. ‘Dive in, for God’s sake. It ain’t a concrete mixer. Do you think your mother’s going to come out of bed and pull you on board?’
He steadied the motions of the dinghy so that Bennett could get on. Armatage fixed the oars in the rowlocks, then caught hold of a spare oar and pushed from the shore into the calm water of the fjord. Nash’s voice carried over the water. ‘Hold the bloody thing still!’
Appleyard dragged boxes to the water’s edge so that they could be lifted as soon as Nash returned. A light from the flying boat was set to guide us. I was roused by the click of rowlocks and, down from my dream on the hilltop, ran into the water and caught the rope, pulling till I heard the hull scraping.
Four boxes made the boat unwieldy once we were on the water, but I pulled hard at the oars, spraying Nash at the tiller. Our eyes were used to the darkness, and the flying boat was close inshore. Craving sleep, I wished for the labour to be over. ‘I’ll take it on the next trip,’ Nash said. ‘Can you manage the tiller?’
I nodded. ‘The palms of my hands are giving me jip.’
‘Just keep on. We’ll beat ’em yet!’
Night and day had been pulled from the passage of time. There was neither. We were nowhere, attached only to the passing moments. ‘Do we look for Bull, or not?’
I had forgotten the question by the time he replied. ‘After this effort,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to have sleep. We’ll be no good without it. And to look for Bull we also need daylight, and fair weather. Then we’ll see what can be done. Go a bit to port. I’ll square it with the Skipper.’
The starboard float was suspended in the darkness and, feeling that the rig might fall, I rowed quickly under it. Nash told me to steady-on, and make for the hatchway. Water chopped against us, but we reached the side. Wilcox threw a rope. ‘Another mud-pie gang!’
We tied close, and I set a box up on my shoulder. Bennett looked out from the promised land of the flying boat, from which wafted the warm smell of fuel and stale food. I wanted nothing more than to get in and sleep. Any surface would do. ‘Keep it close, Mr Nash,’ the skipper called. ‘Keep that dinghy in. No space between.’
The weight came from my shoulder. Nash hoisted the second box. ‘Wakey-wakey, Sparks! Let’s have the third.’
I struggled to lift, but the box was pulled from me by Armatage when about to slip into the water. Nash told me it wasn’t necessary to heave them onto my shoulder. If I used both hands and levered as far as my knees, the handles could be reached from the hatchway. ‘It’s also safer. You won’t get a hernia.’
We pushed off to let Rose’s dinghy unload. Exhaustion had seemed so final that I was unprepared for a return of energy. After the first load it became, as Nash said, a piece of cake. Knowing the distance helped. Technique improved. He was right. At unloading I would bend my knee and ledge a box on it so that Armatage could reach from the more stable platform of the flying boat.
We dreaded a rough sea, the snapping of a rope, and the slipping of a heavy box into the dark sandwich of water between dinghy and fuselage. So I was careful. Every plunge of the oars while rowing was like dipping pens in ink to skim us through the shine of water. The blend of hurry and absolute attention carried us from the hatchway and around the rear of the port float which, looming above, served as a circuit marker, giving the second dinghy a clear way in.