Send a Gunboat (1960) (20 page)

Lane’s face was white with shock, and he clawed at Laker’s sleeve, trying to speak. When his voice came, it was almost a scream. “My trees! What have you done to my trees?” He stared wildly at Laker’s red-rimmed eyes, and he gripped his arm more tightly. “You’ve killed them! Oh God, my trees!” he sobbed. Melanie Lane looked from face to face, her mouth slack and pleading.

“
Your
trees? Damn your eyes, sir! They’re mine, d’you hear?” Laker swayed heavily. “I always knew you were cracked, you fool! Now get out! Go to hell if you like!” He brushed the man’s hand away and staggered up the steps of the house.

Vincent stepped forward. “Have you got a car, Mrs. Lane?”

She nodded dumbly towards one of the estate cars.

“Well, get on down to the harbour. At once, please,” he added curtly. “Can you drive?”

She nodded again, and pulled her husband’s arm. “Come on, Edgar,” she edged him to the car. “Try not to think about it!” She forced him into the seat, and ran round to the other door.
As the car moved away, Vincent saw Lane staring back at the growing fire. There were tears in his eyes.

Ursula slid behind the driving wheel, and they waited silently, until Laker reappeared, an oil lamp in his fist. As he stood looking back at the house, he suddenly hurled the lamp into the long room, where, half-an-hour earlier, Vincent had made love to his daughter. It exploded, as the burning oil splashed across the wooden floor in a fiery stream.

“Damn you!” shouted Laker at the house. “Burn away!” he fell in the back of the car, breathing heavily. Mrs. Laker edged away from him, making herself small in the corner.

As Ursula pressed the starter button, Vincent moved closer to her, keeping his voice low.

“Listen, Ursula! Whatever you see or hear, keep driving, got that?”

She whispered a quiet “Yes”, her face pale under her tan.

“There’s likely to be a bit of trouble before we get to the harbour. Everyone’s bound to have seen the smoke, and heard the explosion, and maybe they won’t like it much!” He set his lips in a tight line, and drew the pistol from its holster, feeling the metal warm against his leg.

The car swung on to the roadway, and gathered speed along the deserted estate, and through the wire gates. Vincent noticed that there were no guards this time.

Laker muttered and swore in a dreary monotone, and Vincent began to hate him. Blasted fool, didn’t he understand the instructions about leaving quietly? Ah well, it was too late now.

“The smoke seems to have blown right down here,” Ursula said jerkily, as the car dashed down the centre of the main road. Her eyes widened with fear, as Vincent answered her, his voice flat.

“That’s different smoke! It’s in front of us, around the next bend!”

Nobody answered him, but he saw the girl’s hands tighten on the wheel, and she hunched her shoulders defensively.

Still keeping to the centre of the road, the long American car swung round the wide bend, the dust spewing from under the wings in a choking cloud.

At first Vincent could only gape at the surging mass of people
who filled the road ahead, and then he choked back a gasp of horror, as he saw the blazing station wagon, crackling like a bonfire in their midst.

The roar of the fire, and the wild shrieks of the mob, deadened the sound of their car, and as they got nearer, Vincent saw the contorted face of Edgar Lane pinned against the flaming coachwork by a crude forked stick at his throat, while a forest of groping, frenzied hands clawed and battered at his twisting body.

Then the car was amongst them, and they got blurred impressions of gaping, snarling faces pressing in on them in a wall of savagery. The windscreen frosted over, as a heavy club swung across the bonnet, and Vincent heaved himself to his feet, his teeth bared, while he clung to the dashboard for support. He dimly realized that the car was stopping, and as he raised the heavy pistol, he heard Ursula cry out, as her door was jerked open, and two brawny arms seized her shoulder, ripping open her dress. She screamed again, her mouth slack with terror, as the man’s broken nails clawed her bare shoulder, dragging her relentlessly from her seat.

Vincent had never fired a shot in anger in his life, but without a second’s hesitation, he squeezed the trigger at point-blank range across Ursula’s back, and as if in a nightmare, he saw the man’s face dissolve into a scarlet blotch, and disappear beneath the car. The shot, its report magnified and distorted by the surrounding trees, made the men around the car fall back in surprise, cannoning into the press behind them.

In that instant, a sort of madness gripped Vincent, and he vaulted out of the car, kicking out savagely at the man nearest him, and firing again twice into the seething crowd of bodies. He felt no pain as a stick struck his arm, only a savage wave of exhilaration as the gun jumped in his hand, and he tasted the stench of cordite. Heedless of the screams, he ran to the burning vehicle, where Lane had fallen to his knees, his hair smouldering on a gleaming, raw scalp.

Vincent jerked him viciously to his feet, shutting out the man’s cry of agony, and trying not to stare at the body of Melanie Lane, which lay a few paces from the car. She must have suffered terribly at the hands of the mob, before someone had cut her throat.

“Get back you bastards!” He didn’t recognize his own voice, or realize that he had fired again, until he saw two men drop writhing at his feet. He only knew that the shining bodywork of Laker’s car represented a haven, and an only chance of escape.

The car moved towards him, the driving door still hanging open, and Ursula’s white face peering through a hole in the frosted windscreen.

“Get in, Lane!” He pushed the man clumsily into the car, seeing Mrs Laker on the floor, where her husband had thrust her, and watching Laker himself, a heavy tyre lever in his hand, thrashing out at the faces behind him.

“Quick, get going!” he choked, groping for the car with his foot, and then crying aloud with pain, as a hard head butted him in the back, and someone else grabbed at his ankle.

“Bastards!” he sobbed, the tears of agony blinding him, and as the car started to move from under him, he twisted sideways, feeling the foul breath in his face, and seeing the eyes filled with hate. The gun jumped in his hand, and he saw the man bare his teeth wildly, as if snapping at his last breath. The hammer clicked again on an empty cylinder, and he flung the useless weapon into the sea of heads around him. He clawed his way into the front of the car, his face brushing against Lane’s limp body, and his feet still dragging along the track. Ursula leaned over, groping for his tunic, her eyes on the weaving pattern of the road ahead.

With a final gasp, Vincent plummeted into the car, and somehow hauled himself upright, temporarily blinded by the sun’s reflection on the dented and scratched bonnet, and still deafened by the screams of the mob, although they were already out of earshot. As he lay against the girl, panting like a wild animal, he remembered Lane at his feet, and saw again in his mind the horribly mutilated body of his wife.

He lowered his head and retched, feeling the sour taste of vomit in his throat. Now that his blood was beginning to settle, a wave of weakness and shock swept over him.

Laker was leaning forward, mopping his face with his sleeve. “Well done, m’boy! Saved us all!”

Vincent swallowed in agony, and spoke through his clenched teeth. “For Christ’s sake shut your stupid mouth!” he ground.

He reached out shakily, and covered the girl’s hand on the wheel, squeezing until it hurt. “You were fine!” he croaked, and she darted a quick glance at his bruised face, her mouth quivering.

Her dress flapped in the breeze, the long scratches on her shoulder like the marks of a giant claw.

“David,” she faltered, “I thought we were done for! I never guessed this sort of thing could happen!”

Vincent wearily reached for his handkerchief, and turned his aching mind to the problem of Lane’s head. “It’s a thing I shall never forget!” he grated, fighting back at a fresh tide of nausea.

After what seemed like an age, they drew up on the harbour wall, several people pressing round, staring at their injuries, and the damage to the car. A whisper of uneasiness rippled through the ragged figures, and Vincent thought, that but for the presence of the soldiers, they would have been attacked again where they sat.

There was a jeep parked by the guard-hut, and the fat figure of Colonel Kyung eased itself from the small seat, and waddled over to them. In addition to his tight uniform, he was wearing a pair of long, shiny jackboots, which gleamed incongruously in the dusty road.

“You make a big fire, Mr. Laker?” His small eyes glittered like stones. “I think it very foolish to damage such a fine place!”

Laker stumbled from the car, his face mottled with anger, and the sudden necessity to cover up his fright.

“My land! Do what I damn well like with it!”

Vincent watched the fat colonel, noting the cruel scars on his cheeks. Go on, he prompted inwardly, hit the silly fool in the face. I shan’t help him! But the colonel merely smiled smugly.

“So long as the gallant Mr. Laker doesn’t waste the time of his Government, or mine, by asking for compensation at some later date!” He shrugged calmly. “If you had not behaved so recklessly, we could have come to some arrangement of course, but now . . .” He shrugged again, enjoying the expression of incredulous dismay which flooded Laker’s face. “However,” he continued in a brisk tone, “I will take your car for myself. I will commandeer, is that what you call it?”

Laker stepped forward, a vein bulging in his neck. “I’ll see
you in hell first! I—I’ll drive the thing into the sea before I let your damned body use it!”

Colonel Kyung rapped a sharp command and a handful of rifles rose menacingly. “I think it is time to say farewell,” he snapped. “I am told that most of your estate is unharmed, so we are not ungrateful for your services!”

“You, you,” spluttered Laker, staring round at the watching soldiers and the levelled rifles. “You’ll be sorry for this!”

The colonel grinned and spat on the sand between them.

Vincent stepped forward, trying to disguise the shaking in his legs. “We will go aboard now!” he said sharply. “I think you’ve done and said enough, sir!”

He felt a sigh of relief in his throat as he saw the motor-boat curving towards the jetty. Suddenly he wanted to be aboard the gunboat more than anything else in the world.

He helped the seamen carry Lane into the boat where he lay moaning softly, his bloody head in Mrs. Laker’s lap. Ursula sat in the tiny cabin, her forehead pressed against the seat, her hands balled into tight fists. He smiled at her, ignoring Laker completely.

“You can have a damn good bath when you get aboard and then get some sleep.”

She lowered her head but reached out for the comfort of his hand.

As the boat pushed off from the jetty he saw Colonel Kyung driving the car slowly along the wall, followed admiringly by his men.

* * * * *

Rolfe laid his binoculars down on the flag locker with slow, deliberate movements, his mouth set in a tight line. He was aware that Fallow was watching him fearfully, and that but for the soft commands from Herridge—who was supervising the removal of Lane’s body from the motor-boat—the ship had fallen unnaturally quiet. Not trusting himself to speak, he climbed down to the main deck, a fierce pang of anger twisting his inside into a knot.

Vincent was explaining to the stewards what he wanted done for the two limp women when he looked up and saw Rolfe approaching.

“Well?” Rolfe dropped the word coldly into the silence. “What exactly has been happening?”

Vincent swayed slightly and steadied himself by the guardrail at his back. “The fire, sir. They saw the fire and came after us!” He bit his lip and Rolfe saw the sickness in his face. “They knew we were getting out, and tried to stop us, to get their revenge!” he finished wildly.

Rolfe looked him up and down, noting the torn uniform, and bruised face. He had already guessed what had happened when the explosion of the reservoir blowing up had brought him running to the bridge. Even as he cursed himself for trusting Laker, he had watched the growing wall of smoke over the plateau.

“Why were you so long? Why didn’t you keep an eye on things more carefully?”

Vincent dropped his face, writhing under the Captain’s cold stare. “I did my best, sir, I couldn’t stop him!”

Rolfe turned slowly to Laker who was obviously getting irritated again at being discussed so openly by the officers, in front of the women and two or three watching seamen.

“Mr. Laker,” he began calmly, “is there anything you’d like to add?”

“There’s a hell of a lot I’ve got to add! Yes, indeed!” His grey hair bristled like a wire brush. “I’m not going to be spoken to by a damned jumped-up sailor in this manner!”

The seamen hissed expectantly and even Herridge was rooted to the deck, watching their faces and waiting for the storm to break. Rolfe eyed Laker for a few moments, giving no sign of the fury in his heart.

“When I came to Santu, Mr. Laker,” his tone was almost conversational, “you were reluctant to leave. You gave me certain views which as Acting Consul I was bound to listen to. Then, eventually, you realized the necessity for the evacuation and foolishly I thought you were going to be co-operative and help me with a quiet and efficient operation.” The grey eyes flashed with hidden fire. “But it appears that you decided to be heroic and tried to antagonize these wretched people, as if they haven’t got enough to contend with at the moment!”

Laker’s chin jutted forward, his mouth champing with temper.
“I see you’ve been listenin’ to that bloody Felton!” he was shouting now. “Damned Commie! Probably a conchie into the bargain!” he added, groping for some additional insult.

Rolfe stiffened, staring across the other man’s sweating head. “Doctor Felton, as it happens, was a fighter pilot,” he announced tonelessly. “Not that it has any bearing on this matter. But he did very well in the last war, now that we’re on the subject, and while you were sitting on your behind making money and enjoying the high-sounding name of Brigadier, he was fighting for something he believed was worth while!”