South by Java Head. Alistair MacLean

The Dutchman spoke perfect, colloquial English, with a scarcely discoverable trace of accent. “Our worthy captain changed his mind about waiting for you, and had actually got under way before I persuaded him to change his mind.”

      “But—but how do you know the Kerry Dancer won’t sail before you get back? Good God, Van Effen, you should have sent someone else. You can’t trust that devil an inch.”

      “I know.” Hand steady on the tiller, Van Effen was edging in towards the stonework. “If she sails, she sails without her master. He’s sitting in the bottom of the boat here, hands tied and with my gun in his back. Captain Siran is not very happy, I think.”

      Farnholme peered down along the beam of the torch. It was impossible to tell whether Captain Siran was happy or not, but it was undoubtedly Captain Siran. His smooth, brown face was as expressionless as ever.

      “And just to make certain,” Van Effen continued, “I’ve got the two engineers tied in Miss Plenderleith’s room—tied hand and foot by myself, I may say. They won’t get away. The door’s locked, and Miss Plenderleith’s in there with them, with a gun in her hand. She’s never fired a gun in her life, but she’s perfectly willing to try, she says. She’s a wonderful old lady, Farnholme.”

      “You think of everything,” Farnholme said admiringly. “If only——”

      “All right, that’ll do! Stand aside, Farnholme.” Parker was by his side, a powerful torch shining down on to the upturned faces below. “Don’t be a bloody fool!” he said sharply, as Van Effen made to bring up his pistol. “Put that thing away—there’s a dozen machine-guns and rifles lined up on you.”

      Slowly Van Effen lowered his gun and looked up bleakly at Farnholme.

      “That was beautifully done, Farnholme,” he said slowly. “Captain Siran here would have been proud to claim such a masterpiece of treachery.”

      “It wasn’t treachery,” Farnholme protested. “They’re British troops, our friends, but I’d no option. I can explain——”

      “Shut up!” Parker cut in brusquely. “You can do all your explaining later.” He looked down at Van Effen. “We’re coming with you, whether you like it or not. That’s a motor lifeboat you have there. Why were you using your oars?”

      “For silence. Obviously. Much good it did us,” Van Effen added bitterly.

      “Start the motor,” Parker ordered.

      “I’ll be damned if I will!”

      “Perhaps. You’ll probably be dead if you don’t,” Parker said coldly. “You look an intelligent man, Van Effen. You’ve got eyes and ears and should realise we’re desperate men. What’s to be gained by childish obstinacy at this stage?”

      Van Effen looked at him for a long moment in silence, nodded, jammed his gun hard into Siran’s ribs and gave an order. Within a minute the engine had come to life and was putt-putting evenly away as the first of the wounded soldiers was lowered on to the thwarts. Within half an hour the last of the men and women who had been standing on the dockside were safely aboard the Kerry Dancer. It had taken two trips, but short ones: Corporal Fraser had been about right in his estimate of distance, and the ship was anchored just outside the three-fathom shoal line of the Pagar Spit.

      The Kerry Dancer got under way just before half-past two in the morning, the last ship out of the city of Singapore before she fell into the hands of the Japanese later on that same day of 15th February, 1942. The wind had dropped away now, the rain fined to a gentle drizzle and a brooding hush lay over the darkened city as it faded swiftly into the gloom of the night. There were no fires to be seen now, no lights at all, and even the crackle of desultory gunfire had died away completely. Everything was unnaturally, uncannily silent, silent as death itself, but the storm would break when the first light of day touched the rooftops of Singapore.

      Farnholme was in the bleak, damp aftercastle of the Kerry Dancer, helping two of the nurses and Miss Plenderleith to attend to the bandaging and care of the wounded soldiers, when a knock came to the door—the only door, the one that led out into the deep after well. He switched out the light, stepped outside and closed the door carefully behind him. He turned to look at the shadowy figure standing in the gloom.

      “Lieutenant Parker?”

      “Yes.” Parker gestured in the darkness. “Perhaps we’d better go up on the poop-deck here—we can’t be overheard there.”

      Together they climbed the iron ladder and walked right aft to the taffrail. The rain had quite stopped now, and the sea was very calm. Farnholme leaned over the rail, gazed down at the phosphorescence bubbling in the Kerry Dancer’s creaming wake and wished he could smoke. It was Parker who broke the silence.

      “I’ve a rather curious item of news for you, sir—sorry, no ‘sir’. Did the corporal tell you?”

      “He told me nothing. He only came into the aftercastle a couple of minutes ago. What is it?”

      “It appears that this wasn’t the only ship in the Singapore roads tonight. While we were coming out to the Kerry Dancer with the first boatload, it seems that another motor-boat came in and tied up less than a quarter of a mile away. A British crew.”

      “Well, I’ll be damned!” Farnholme whistled softly in the darkness. “Who were they? What the hell were they doing there anyway? And who saw them?”

      “Corporal Fraser and one of my own men. They heard the engine of the motor-boat—we never heard it, obviously, because the sound of our own drowned it—and went across to investigate. Only two men in it, both armed with rifles The only man who spoke was a Highlander—chap from the Western Isles, Fraser says, and he’d know. Very uncommunicative indeed, Fraser says, although he asked plenty of questions himself. Then Fraser heard the Kerry Dancer’s boat coming back, and they had to go. He thinks one of the men followed him, but he can’t be sure.”

      “‘Curious’ is hardly the word to describe it, Lieutenant.” Farnholme bit his lower lip thoughtfully and stared out to sea. “And Fraser has no idea where they came from, or what kind of ship they had or where they were going?”

      “He knows nothing,” Parker said positively. “They might have come straight from the moon for all Fraser knows.”

      They talked about it for a few minutes, then Farnholme dismissed the matter.

      “No good talking about it, Parker, so let’s forget it. It’s over and done with and no harm to anyone—we got clear away, which is all that matters.” Deliberately he changed the subject. “Got everything organised?”

      “Yes, more or less. Siran’s going to co-operate, no doubt about that—his own neck’s at stake just as much as ours and he’s fully aware of it. The bomb or torpedo that gets us isn’t very likely to miss him. I’ve a man watching him, one watching the quarter-master and one keeping an eye on the duty engineer. Most of the rest of my men are asleep in the fo’c’sle—and heaven knows they need all the sleep they can get. I’ve got four of them asleep in the midships cabin—very handy in emergency.”

      “Good, good.” Farnholme nodded his head in approval. “And the two Chinese nurses and the elderly Malayan one?”

      “Also in one of the midships cabins. They’re pretty sick and dazed, all three of them.”

      “And Van Effen?”

      “Asleep on deck, under a boat. Just outside the wheel-house, not ten feet from the captain.” Parker grinned. “He’s no longer mad at you, but his knife is still pretty deep in Siran. It seemed a good place to have Van Effen sleep. A reliable sort of chap.”

      “He’s all of that. How about food?”

      “Lousy, but plenty of it. Enough for a week or ten days.”

      “I hope we get the chance to eat it all,” Farnholme said grimly. “One