Saying, ‘We must stop here, Katu. I will tell Bwana M’kubwa of this.’ Morrow repeated to Barratt what the African had said.
Barratt wiped the sweat from beneath his eyes with moist fingers. ‘Right. We’ll separate now. You go ahead with Katu to the huts. Don’t show yourself there unless he gives you the okay. When he’s learnt what he can, rejoin us at the casuarinas not later than 0400. We’re due back on the beach by 0430. That gives you an hour and a half. Should be enough.’
Morrow said it was, adding, ‘If you’re not here when we get back, sir, do we wait for you?’ The Captain’s sweat-streaked, blackened face struck the Sub-Lieutenant as particularly villainous in the moonlight.
‘Not long after 0400. Say five minutes. Same drill for us. If you’re not here by then we’ll carry on down to the beach.’
Morrow spoke to Katu. The two men moved away through the undergrowth and were soon lost to sight.
Though they had reached the top of the hill, Barratt and McLean found that the thickly wooded summit shut out any view of the creek. According to Katu it lay directly below them. Eager for a sight of it the two men moved through the trees in a direction away from the ravine. Before long they reached a clearing where an outcrop of rock thrust upwards to almost the height of the trees. They climbed it and for the first time saw the creek; a long stretch of water, silver in the moonlight, its mouth on the north-western side of the island leading to narrows into which poked a rocky bluff. Beyond the bluff the narrows ended and the creek opened out into an oval basin. From their vantage point they saw that Maji was shaped like a horseshoe, its open end the entrance to the creek. The slopes of the hills enfolding it were densely wooded and on the eastern side a beach led to a clearing where native huts were fringed by palm trees. The dark hulls of catamarans were drawn up on the northern end of the beach.
To Barratt the anti-climax was like a kick in the stomach; nowhere in the moonlit scene was there a submarine. The entire creek, its most distant point little more than a thousand yards from them, lay open to inspection and clearly it had no exciting secrets to hide. If the submarine had been there it had gone. If it had been there? ‘Nothing here,’ he said to McLean in a subdued voice. ‘So much for the big whale. All that bloody effort for nothing.’
Sensing the Captain’s thoughts the signalman said, ‘Ah, weel, sir. It was worth the try. It’s a bonny creek but there’s nary a place for a submarine to hide. Too easy for Catalinas to have seen it.’
Barratt was pondering this truth when the sound of an outboard engine reached them. Moments later its source was apparent. A catamaran with mast and outrigger, but no sail, was travelling at a fair pace down the narrows, its outboard engine throwing up a plume of foam, white in the moonlight.
Surprised and puzzled, they watched it. During the last forty-eight hours they’d seen many catamarans in and around the islands, but never one with an outboard engine. It was heading for the bank on the western side of the creek, some distance north of the bluff. The note of the engine dropped and it ran its bows against the fringe of mangroves lining the shore. Two dark shapes came from the shadows and stood on the bank facing the catamaran. A minute or so later it had backed away, turned and headed down the narrows. It had not gone far when the performance was repeated, this time at the foot of the bluff where a single dark shape left the treeline and moved towards the water. When close to the catamaran the dark shape knelt, evidently talking to its occupants though nothing could be heard at that distance. Once again the catamaran backed out. This time it made for the shore on the opposite side of the creek. Fascinated, they watched the frail little craft’s progress. The first stop on the eastern side was in front of the huts where its bows were run up on to the beach. Two shadowy figures went down to it. It was apparent that they were talking to the men in the catamaran. Barratt and McLean, both watching through binoculars, muttered a simultaneous ‘See that?’
For Barratt, what they had seen was like a shot of adrenalin. The distant figures which had gone down to the beach had rifles slung over their shoulders.
In a low voice McLean said, ‘There’s something funny going on there, sir.’
‘There certainly is.’ Barratt’s matter-of-fact tone concealed excitement. ‘But just what, it’s difficult to make out. Let’s hope Morrow and Katu have the answer.’
‘They’ll surely have heard the outboard,’ said McLean. The two men kept watch as the catamaran continued its journey. Having pulled out from the beach, it motored a short distance down it until, at the southern end, it again stopped; a man came to the water’s edge. He, too, was carrying a rifle.
Once more what looked like a brief discussion took place. The catamaran’s outboard engine burst noisily into life and it made its way across the creek to the opposite side. There it was lost to Barratt’s eyes in the shadows cast by the trees lining the bank.
‘See anything?’ he asked the signalman.
Without lowering his binoculars McLean replied, ‘Aye, sir. It’s gone alongside the bank. There’s two other catamarans there. Moored next to each other.’
Barratt strained at the binocular eyepieces. He wasn’t sure but thought he might have seen the dim outline of catamarans. ‘I can’t really make out anything,’ he admitted. ‘Keep watching. Let me know what’s happening.’
Soon afterwards McLean said, ‘One man has already stepped on shore. Now — another’s beginning to follow. The third man’s standing in the sternsheets.’
Barratt, tense, waiting for more, could hear nothing but McLean’s deep breathing.
‘Aye, sir. He’s on shore now,’ came from the signalman at last. ‘They’re moving into the trees. Three of them, walking in single file.’ Shortly afterwards he added, ‘I see the faint glow of a fire. It’s reflected in the tops of trees somewhere up the slope from where they landed.’
‘A camp fire, d’you think?’
‘Could be that, sir.’
Barratt put a hand to his forehead. ‘Just let me think about this for a moment, McLean.’ He muttered something to himself, then said, ‘I can’t make it out… unless. The sentence was left unfinished.
‘And what is that, sir?’ prodded McLean.
‘Unless they were sentries. The other people — the men in the catamaran — could be checking to see that all is well. But the question remains, who are they? Surely African fishermen don’t post armed sentries? Katu may have the answer when he gets back. The point is, if the lot we’ve been watching aren’t fishermen who the hell are they? Portuguese officials? Police? Fishery control? Recruiting agents for the mines and plantations? Something like that?’ Barratt answered the rhetorical questions. ‘Highly improbable, I think. So we’re left with the sixty-four dollar question. Who the devil are those people?’
McLean was thoughtful. ‘Maybe survivors, sir,’ he said.
‘Survivors? What sort of survivors, McLean?’
‘Japanese, sir. Perhaps that submarine — the big whale — didn’t make it into here. Maybe the crew did. In inflatables. Could be they’ve a camp in the trees.’
‘I wonder if you’re right, McLean.’ Barratt paused. ‘You may well be. They’d have seen the Catalinas. If they are Japanese they’ll be afraid they may be pulled in by the Portuguese.’ He relapsed into silence. Quite suddenly, in a voice that had risen, he said, ‘Know what? Katu’s yodelling chum, the one fishing offshore tonight. Remember, he couldn’t understand why he’d not seen any Maji fishermen recently.’ Barratt dropped his voice again. ‘That would fit with Japanese sentries wouldn’t it?’