‘Yes. That’ll do fine. Pass the word to the TGM.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Last to come to the Captain’s cabin were Peter Morrow and Aba Said, the latter still goggle-eyed after a rambling inspection of the white man’s strange ship. Barratt’s formidable series of questions about Maji Island, the Japanese submarine, the routine of its crew, particularly that of the sentries, were put to the African by Morrow who relayed the answers to the Captain.
Do the Portuguese authorities come to the island? The last time was three years back when a police official came to make inquiries about a wanted man. Where is the nearest Native Commissioner? At Mocimboa da Praia. Do the Maji people go there to see him? Not much. Usually to report births and deaths, though sometimes this is long after the event. Do they pay taxes? No. We are too poor.
The interrogation finished, Barratt said, ‘Tell him I am very grateful for this information. Also that we will return him to Maji before daylight tomorrow. Tell him, also, that I may need his help against the Japanese tonight. If he gives it he’ll get the same reward as Katu did.’
Morrow told Aba Said what the Captain had said; the young African alternately frowned and grinned, the former whenever the Japanese were mentioned, the latter in a big way when Morrow got on to the subject of rewards. ‘He likes the idea of the loot, sir,’ explained the Sub-Lieutenant, ‘but he’s anti-Jap anyway. The fisherman they killed that first morning was his brother.’
The discussions at an end, they left the cabin about the time the shrill note of a boatswain’s call sounded over the ship’s broadcast to be followed by a disembodied voice announcing the time — ‘Ten hundred’.
Exhausted but relieved, decisions made and plans in hand, Barratt stretched out on the settee. With his mind at rest he fell asleep.
Twenty-four
An hour later than expected the motorboat returned to Restless in mid-morning and was hoisted inboard. Its Coxswain, Petty Officer Benham, reported to the First Lieutenant that Katu and his catamaran had got safely home.
‘Home?’ said the First Lieutenant. ‘I thought our contract was to deliver him to the fishing grounds off Tambuzi Island?’ ‘He lives on a little island a few miles beyond Tambuzi, sir. Mr Morrow told me that Katu was afraid he’d be in trouble with his wife for being absent without leave. When we got to the fishing grounds he kept pointing to this island we could see three or four miles ahead. I could tell from his antics that he was worried, wanted to get there quick. So I towed him to it. His old woman and some kids came running down to the beach. She was shouting at him before he got ashore. Like she wasn’t too pleased. Then when they helped haul the catamaran ashore, she saw what he had in it and she started laughing and patting him on the back.’
The First Lieutenant said, ‘Typical woman. You’ll have to take the motorboat away again shortly, Benham. Lieutenant Taylor and the TGM want it for some tests or other. Don’t ask me what they are because I haven’t a clue. Captain’s idea.’
To an audience of men off watch, not short of cheerful and ribald asides, the motorboat drew away from Restless and made for sheltered water in the lee of a low-lying islet south of the patrol line. Before leaving, it had been loaded under the supervision of the Torpedo Officer, the Coxswain and the TGM. Among the items lowered into it were a number of empty oil drums of various sizes, lengths of rope, shackles, and Senhouse slips; last of all was a heavy, rounded object concealed by a service blanket. There was much speculation and helpful advice from onlookers, including improvisations from Roll out the Barrel and Life on the Ocean Wave.
The Torpedo Officer pretended not to hear, while the Coxswain gave the audience a stony stare, easily interpreted as you lot just wait until I get back aboard. The TGM’s two finger gesture required no interpretation.
On Restless's bridge the officer-of-the-watch gave wheel and engine orders, turbines whirred and the destroyer gathered way, a tumbling swirl of foam at her stern.
Late that morning Hutchison drove Camilla to the Mombasa Club in his ancient Jeep. After a swim they sat talking in the shade of large, shiny-leafed, tropical trees, enjoying a pre-lunch drink.
‘You remember what Haddingham said about Barratt being wild, doing mad things? All that stuff?’
‘I do.’ Camilla’s calm blue eyes contemplating him over the rim of her glass mesmerized Hutchison. He looked at her with blank adoration.
‘Well,’ she prompted. ‘Go on.’
He sighed, pulled himself together. ‘Haddingham liked him. Regarded him as a good friend. He wouldn’t have said what he did about him unless he’d meant it.’
‘Where is this leading to, Hutch?’
‘Well, he’s presumably still capable of doing mad things. Particularly since he’s lost his wife. The Fort N business on top of it.’
‘I don’t think it necessarily follows, but go on,’ she said coolly.
‘We’ve both met Barratt briefly. I liked him. Don’t know about you, but to me he seemed a decent sort of chap.’
‘Oh, come on, Hutch. Get to the point.’
The Flight Lieutenant took a deep breath, looked away. ‘I thought he should be warned about CSO’s plan for tomorrow. Told that the Great and the Good are not amused by his Nelson act. If Captain (D) goes down there in the morning. He shrugged, tasted the Pimms. The consequences for Barratt could be extremely serious.’
‘So?’
Camilla’s level gaze again deflected his thoughts for a moment; sighing, he once more collected them. ‘I felt something ought to be done. I had a word with Peter Ward. Don Tuke is flying this afternoon’s Catalina to the south. Took off at noon. I thought…’
A burst of raucous laughter came from the nearby pool. Camilla put on sunglasses, looked across. ‘Charles Peaslake,’ she said. ‘Would be him, wouldn’t it.’ She turned back, sampled her Pimms once more. ‘What did you think?’
‘I’d like to get your reaction.’
‘Why mine?’
‘Because you spoke out in his defence the other day. And because you have a more than passing interest in Restless.’ ‘Have I?’ She was a picture of wide-eyed innocence.
‘Yes. Sandy Hamilton is Barratt’s Number One. If Barratt really is haywire, puts up a monster black, some of the mud may stick to Hamilton. Why didn’t he intervene, etcetera?’ ‘Mixed metaphors, Hutch. But I get the drift. I have worried about that — the mud, I mean. But I’m sure Barratt is intelligent enough to know the consequences of what he’s doing.’
Hutchison looked doubtful. ‘I wonder. People’s emotions often upset their judgement. He’s every reason to be emotionally mixed-up right now.’
She tapped the rim of her glass with well-manicured fingernails.
‘I wouldn’t do that, Camilla.’ He pushed her hand aside. ‘Every time the glass rings a sailor drowns at sea.’ ‘Rubbish,’ she said, but stopped tapping. ‘Look, Hutch. If something really helpful to Barratt is being done, I’m all for it. Let’s leave it at that.’
The motorboat headed for the break in the reef. Beyond it a strip of blue sea lay placid as a lake, the white margin of beach shimmering in the noonday sun. In the channel through the reef the sea was shallow, gnarled mounds of coral looming beneath the keel before falling away into the deeper waters of the lagoon.
The motorboat nosed slowly in, the bowman sounding with a leadline, calling the depths. At two and a half fathoms anchor was dropped. It took time after that to assemble the odd-looking contraption which quickly became known as The Rig. When it was ready it was lowered over the side, an operation accompanied by noisy exertion and muttered oaths from the TGM and the two torpedomen assisting him. The Torpedo Officer stood by with a stop-watch offering encouragement and advice. Midshipman Tripp, at his side, was responsible for entries in the notebook.