gummed-up eyes, nose and ears, the young soldier lying motionless along the starboard side bench, Vannier and Miss Drachmann working over him with strips torn from Vannier's shirt.
The passage back to the Viroma was not dangerous, just very brief and very rough indeed, with almost all the passengers so seasick and so weak that they had to be helped out of the boat when they finally came alongside the tanker. Within fifteen minutes of his jump into the water with the young soldier Nicolson had the lifeboat safely heaved home on her housing on the patent gravity davits, the last of the gripes in position and had turned for a final look at the Kerry Dancer. But there was no sign of her anywhere, she had vanished as if she had never been; she had filled up, slid off the reef and gone to the bottom. For a moment or two Nicolson stood staring out over the dark waters, then turned to the ladder at his side and climbed slowly up to the bridge.
CHAPTER FIVE
HALF AN hour later the Viroma was rolling steadily to the south-west under maximum power, the long, low blur of Metsana falling away off the starboard quarter and vanishing into the gloom. Strangely, the typhoon still held off, the hurricane winds had not returned. It could only be that they were moving with the track of the storm: but they had to move out, to break through it sometime.
Nicolson, showered, violently scrubbed and almost free from oil, was standing by the screen window on the bridge, talking quietly to the second mate when Captain Findhorn joined them. He tapped Nicolson lightly on the shoulder.
"A word with you in my cabin, if you please, Mr. Nicolson. You'll be all right, Mr. Barrett?"
"Yes, sir, of course. I'll call you if anything happens?" It was half-question, half-statement, and thoroughly typical of Barrett. A good many years older than NJcolson, stolid and unimaginative, Barrett was reliable enough but had no taste at all for responsibility, which was why he was still only a second officer.
"Do that." Findhorn led the way through the chartroom to his day cabin -- it was on the same deck as the bridge-closed the door, checked that the blackout scuttles were shut, switched on the light and waved Nicolson to a settee. He stooped to open a cupboard, and when he stood up he had a couple of glasses and an unopened bottle of Standfast in his hand. He broke the seal, poured three fingers into each glass, and pushed one across to Nicolson.
"Help yourself to water, Johnny. Lord only knows you've earned it -- and a few hours' sleep. Just as soon as you leave here."
"Delighted," Nicolson murmured, "Just as soon as you wake up, I'll be off to my bunk. You didn't leave the bridge all last night. Remember?"
"All right, all right." Findhom held up a hand in mock defence. "We'll argue later." He drank some whisky, then looked thoughtfully at Nicolson over the rim of his glass. "Well, Johnny, what did you make of her?"
"The Kerry Dancer!"
Findhorn nodded, waiting,
"A slaver,'' Nicolson said quietly. "Remember that Arabian steamer the Navy stopped off Ras al Hadd last year?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Identical, as near as makes no difference. Steel doors all over the shop, main and upper decks. Most of them could only be opened from one side. Eight-inch scuttles -- where there were scuttles. Ring-bolts beside every bunk. Based on the islands, I suppose, and no lack of trade up round Amoy and Macao,"
"The twentieth century, eh?" Findhorn said softly. "Buying and selling in human lives."
"Yes," Nicolson said dryly, "But at least they keep 'em alive. Wait till they catch up with the civilised nations of the west and start on the wholesale stuff -- poison gas, concentration camps, the bombing of open cities and what have you. Give 'em time. They're only amateurs yet," "Cynicism, young man, cynicism." Findhorn shook his head reprovingly. "Anyway, what you say about the Kerry Dancer bears out Brigadier Farnholme's statements."
"So you've been talking to his Lordship."
The passage back to the Viroma was not dangerous, just very brief and very rough indeed, with almost all the passengers so seasick and so weak that they had to be helped out of the boat when they finally came alongside the tanker. Within fifteen minutes of his jump into the water with the young soldier Nicolson had the lifeboat safely heaved home on her housing on the patent gravity davits, the last of the gripes in position and had turned for a final look at the Kerry Dancer. But there was no sign of her anywhere, she had vanished as if she had never been; she had filled up, slid off the reef and gone to the bottom. For a moment or two Nicolson stood staring out over the dark waters, then turned to the ladder at his side and climbed slowly up to the bridge.
CHAPTER FIVE
HALF AN hour later the Viroma was rolling steadily to the south-west under maximum power, the long, low blur of Metsana falling away off the starboard quarter and vanishing into the gloom. Strangely, the typhoon still held off, the hurricane winds had not returned. It could only be that they were moving with the track of the storm: but they had to move out, to break through it sometime.
Nicolson, showered, violently scrubbed and almost free from oil, was standing by the screen window on the bridge, talking quietly to the second mate when Captain Findhorn joined them. He tapped Nicolson lightly on the shoulder.
"A word with you in my cabin, if you please, Mr. Nicolson. You'll be all right, Mr. Barrett?"
"Yes, sir, of course. I'll call you if anything happens?" It was half-question, half-statement, and thoroughly typical of Barrett. A good many years older than NJcolson, stolid and unimaginative, Barrett was reliable enough but had no taste at all for responsibility, which was why he was still only a second officer.
"Do that." Findhorn led the way through the chartroom to his day cabin -- it was on the same deck as the bridge-closed the door, checked that the blackout scuttles were shut, switched on the light and waved Nicolson to a settee. He stooped to open a cupboard, and when he stood up he had a couple of glasses and an unopened bottle of Standfast in his hand. He broke the seal, poured three fingers into each glass, and pushed one across to Nicolson.
"Help yourself to water, Johnny. Lord only knows you've earned it -- and a few hours' sleep. Just as soon as you leave here."
"Delighted," Nicolson murmured, "Just as soon as you wake up, I'll be off to my bunk. You didn't leave the bridge all last night. Remember?"
"All right, all right." Findhom held up a hand in mock defence. "We'll argue later." He drank some whisky, then looked thoughtfully at Nicolson over the rim of his glass. "Well, Johnny, what did you make of her?"
"The Kerry Dancer!"
Findhorn nodded, waiting,
"A slaver,'' Nicolson said quietly. "Remember that Arabian steamer the Navy stopped off Ras al Hadd last year?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Identical, as near as makes no difference. Steel doors all over the shop, main and upper decks. Most of them could only be opened from one side. Eight-inch scuttles -- where there were scuttles. Ring-bolts beside every bunk. Based on the islands, I suppose, and no lack of trade up round Amoy and Macao,"
"The twentieth century, eh?" Findhorn said softly. "Buying and selling in human lives."
"Yes," Nicolson said dryly, "But at least they keep 'em alive. Wait till they catch up with the civilised nations of the west and start on the wholesale stuff -- poison gas, concentration camps, the bombing of open cities and what have you. Give 'em time. They're only amateurs yet," "Cynicism, young man, cynicism." Findhorn shook his head reprovingly. "Anyway, what you say about the Kerry Dancer bears out Brigadier Farnholme's statements."
"So you've been talking to his Lordship."
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