South by Java Head. Alistair MacLean

in God’s name did you ever come here?” the colonel demanded bitterly. “Of all places, of all times, you had to come to Singapore now. And how in the world did you manage to get here anyway?”

      “Boat from Banjermasin,” Farnholme replied briefly. “The Kerry Dancer—the most dilapidated floating death-trap that was ever refused a certificate of seaworthiness. Operated by a smooth, dangerous character by the name of Siran. Hard to say, but I’d almost swear he was a renegade Englishman of some kind, and on more than nodding terms with the Japs. He stated he was heading for Kota Bharu—lord knows why—but he changed his mind and came here.”

      “He changed his mind?”

      “I paid him well. Not my money, so I could afford it. I thought Singapore would be safe enough. I was in North Borneo when I heard on my own receiver that Hong Kong and Guam and Wake had fallen, but I had to move in a considerable hurry. A long time passed before I heard the next item of news, and that was on board the Kerry Dancer. We waited ten days in Banjermasin before Siran condescended to sail,” Farnholme went on bitterly. “The only respectable piece of equipment and the only respectable man on that ship were both to be found in the radio room—Siran must have considered them both necessary for his nefarious activities—and I was in the radio room with this lad Loon on our second day aboard the ship—29th January, it was, when we picked up this B.B.C. broadcast that Ipoh was being bombarded, so, naturally, I thought the Japs were advancing very slowly and that we’d plenty of time to go to Singapore and pick up a ‘plane.”

      The colonel nodded in understanding. “I heard that communiqué, too. Heaven only knows who was responsible for that appalling claptrap. Ipoh had actually fallen to the Japs more than a month before that, sir. The Japs were only a few miles north of the causeway at the time. My God, what a damnable mess!” He shook his head slowly. “A damnable, damnable mess!”

      “You put things very mildly,” Farnholme agreed. “How long have we got?”

      “We’re surrendering tomorrow.” The colonel stared down at his hands.

      “Tomorrow!”

      “We’re all washed up, sir. Nothing more we can do. And we’ve no water left. When we blew up the causeway we blew up the only water-pipe from the mainland.”

      “Very clever, far-seeing chaps who designed our defences here,” Farnholme muttered. “And thirty million quid spent on it. Impregnable fortress. Bigger and better than Gib. Blah, blah, blah. God, it all makes you sick!” He snorted in disgust, rose to his feet and sighed. “Ah, well, nothing else for it. Back to the dear old Kerry Dancer. God help Australia!”

      “The Kerry Dancer!” The colonel was astonished. “She’ll be gone an hour after dawn, sir. I tell you, the Straits are swarming with Japanese ‘planes.”

      “What alternative can you offer?” Farnholme asked wearily.

      “I know, I know. But even if you are lucky, what guarantee have you that the captain will go where you want him to?”

      “None,” Farnholme admitted. “But there’s a rather handy Dutchman aboard, by the name of Van Effen. Together we may be able to persuade our worthy captain where the path of duty lies.”

      “Perhaps.” A sudden thought occurred to the colonel. “Besides, what guarantee have you that he’ll even be waiting when you get back down to the waterfront?”

      “Here it is.” Farnholme prodded the shabby valise lying by his feet. “My guarantee and insurance policy—I hope. Siran thinks this thing’s stuffed full of diamonds—I used some of them to bribe him to come here—and he’s not so far out. Just so long as he thinks there’s a chance of separating me from these, he’ll hang on to me like a blood brother.”

      “He—he doesn’t suspect——”

      “Not a chance. He thinks I’m a drunken old reprobate on the run with ill-gotten gains. I have been at some pains to—ah—maintain the impersonation.”

      “I see, sir.” The colonel came to a decision and reached out for a bell. When the sergeant appeared, he said, “Ask Captain Bryceland to come here.”

      Farnholme lifted an eyebrow in silent interrogation.

      “It’s the least I can do, sir,” the colonel explained, “I can’t provide a plane. I can’t guarantee you won’t all be sunk before noon tomorrow. But I can guarantee that the captain of the Kerry Dancer will follow your instructions implicitly. I’m going to detail a subaltern and a couple of dozen men from a Highland regiment to accompany you on the Kerry Dancer.” He smiled. “They’re a tough bunch at the best of times, but they’re in an especially savage mood just now. I don’t think Captain Siran will give you very much trouble.”

      “I’m sure he won’t. Damned grateful to you. Colonel. It should help a lot.” He buttoned his shirt, picked up his gladstone and extended his hand. “Thanks for everything, Colonel. It sounds silly knowing a concentration camp is awaiting you—but, well, all the best.”

      “Thank you, sir. And all the luck to you—God knows you’re going to need it.” He glanced down in the region of the concealed belt that held the photostats, then finished sombrely. “We’ve at least got a chance.”

      The smoke was slowly clearing when Brigadier Farnholme went out again into the darkness of the night, but the air still held that curious, unpleasant amalgam of cordite and death and corruption that the old soldier knows so well. A subaltern and a company of men were lined up outside waiting for him.

      Musketry and machine-gun fire had increased now, visibility was far better, but the shell-fire had ceased altogether—probably the Japanese saw no sense in inflicting too much damage on a city which would be theirs on the following day anyway. Farnholme and his escort moved quickly through the deserted streets through the now gently falling rain, the sound of gunfire in their ears all the time, and had reached the waterfront within a few minutes. Here the smoke, lifted by a gentle breeze from the east, was almost entirely gone.

      The smoke was gone, and almost at once Farnholme realised something that made him clutch the handle of the gladstone until his knuckles shone white and his forearms ached with the strain. The small lifeboat from the Kerry Dancer, which he had left rubbing gently against the wharf, was gone also, and the sick apprehension that at once flooded through his mind made him lift his head swiftly and stare out into the roads but there was nothing there for him to see. The Kerry Dancer was gone as if she had never existed. There was only the falling rain, the gentle breeze in his face and, away to his left, the quiet, heart-broken sobs of a little boy crying alone in the darkness.

      TWO

      The subaltern in charge of the soldiers touched Farnholme on the arm and nodded out to sea. “The boat, sir—she’s gone!”

      Farnholme restrained himself with an effort. His voice, when he spoke, was as calm and as matter-of-fact as ever.

      “So it would appear, Lieutenant. In the words of the old song, they’ve left us standing on the shore. Deuced inconvenient, to say the least of it.”

      “Yes, sir.” Farnholme’s reaction to the urgency of the situation, Lieutenant Parker felt, was hardly impressive. “What’s to be done now, sir?”

      “You may well ask, my boy.” Farnholme stood still for several moments, a hand rubbing his chin, an abstracted expression on his face. “Do you hear a child crying there, along the waterfront?” he asked suddenly.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Have one of your men bring him here. Preferably,” Farnholme added, “a kindly, fatherly type that won’t scare the living daylights out of him.”

      “Bring him here, sir?” The subaltern was astonished. “But there are hundreds of these little street Arabs——” He broke off suddenly as Farnholme towered over him, his eyes cold and still beneath the jutting brows.