THURSDAY'S ORCHID (20 page)

They had never seen a ship loom
ing so large. They were in awe of us; and probably afraid as well, and for good reason, for not so many years ago they had been a stone-age people in a stone-age land.

There was a whirring sound behind me. I turned and walked back along the deck to find the crew removing the hatch covers from the forward holds. I hoped to hell that nothing had happened to the cargo, my cargo. If the water got into our bales the sacking would rot and in no time the bales would start to break open, revealing the plastic inner bags; just like in the nightmare I
’d had the night before we left Adelaide. If that happened I might as well dive on to the reef, head first.

The hatch-boards were soon removed and resting on their cradles. I wandered over and gazed down into the main hold. There was nothing to see but hundreds of bales of wool, packed so tightly that I could only see the top layer.

The bosun was standing a few feet away and I turned to him, hoping to find out what they were up to. I wanted the wool handled as little as possible. There was less chance of a bale bursting.

“What are they going to do?” I asked.

He looked at me, still with the surliness he had worn since the day I had first come on board, and muttered: “Checking the holds for damage.”

It was the same with all of them. Ask a question and you got a one line answer, nothing more.

“Well,” I asked again, putting more friendliness into my voice. “Are they going to empty the wool over the side, or what?”

I had a sudden vision of Flint ordering the cargo thrown over the side to lighten the ship. The bosun flicked the butt of his cigarette overboard, spat on the deck and replied: “No, just letting some light in.”

“How are they going to get down into the bottom of the hold?” I asked.

He pointed to the ladder-well
leading down into the ship, just forward of the hatch-coaming. I had forgotten it. The series of ladders went down through the intermediate decks to the bottom of the hold. It would be pitch black. I have always had a fear of the dark, even before my foray into the paint locker. I wondered if my mysterious friend had already been down into the hold to check on the bales.

The captain and the chief engineer came around the side of the winch-house, both carrying large torches; Flint dressed in a boiler suit. I had never seen the chief in anything else.

Flint beckoned the bosun across. “Bosun, you can come down with us, but stay at the second level. If we’re not back within five minutes, or if we haven’t called to say we’re okay, then get somebody down to us in a hurry.”

We crowded around the well as they slowly descended, their voices echoing up the tunnel. After the first level, we lost sight of the torches and then the voices faded into the distance until finally were heard no more, the wool absorbing all sound.

We stood and waited, the crew lounging against the hatch-coaming, the officers walking about the deck, hands locked behind their backs.

Twenty minutes later the three of them appeared back on deck, the captain and the chief engineer both awash with perspiration – the stale smell of last night’s whisky overpowering, but nobody seemed to notice. Flint was a
s dirty as the chief.

“What’s the situation?” I asked. “Is there any sign of water?” I held my breath, my knees shaking, waiting for the answer that could spell my doom. I was certain they could hear the tremor in my voice.

“No,” Flint replied. “So far it’s all clear. We couldn’t get into all four corners, but the two we could get into were dry. The main thing is, though, that it smells dry. It smells of bloody wool and not seawater or oil.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, and then asked: “Why oil?”

“We’ve holed at least one of the fuel tanks,” he replied. “Take a look over the side.”

I walked acr
oss to the bulwark and looked down at the black oily calmness stretching away across the reef.

Flint called to the first officer. “First, get some of the crew on to sounding all the tanks. Take a reading on each one and then do it again in an hour.”

He noticed my puzzled expression.

“Mr. Rider, the level in a
holed tank will either rise with the incoming tide, or fall as the oil leaks out. If there’s no leak, the level will remain constant, and we’ll know which tanks are holed. Simple.”

He had made me look a fool and the crew didn’t bother to conceal their grins. His point made, Flint strode off after the chief towards the next hold, the one containing some of the general cargo. They took just as long as they had with the wool; returning with another look of relief.

“So far, so good,” the chief grinned. “Two more to go.”

The steward brought them both a drink of water. The captain held his glass out for a refill, gulped it down even faster than the first and then said: “Okay, let’s see what the sugar’s like.”

And with that the crowd moved towards the bow, to the hold just aft of the forecastle where the bagged sugar had been loaded. It was only minutes later that Flint emerged; face grim, jaw locked tight.

“Who supervised the loading of that damned cargo?” he yelled. “It’s bloody soaked two-thirds of the way up the stack!” He was madder than I had ever seen him, practically frothing at the mouth. “Who the hell was it?” he screamed.

Nobody wanted to answer him. Finally, the second officer spoke up.

“Owner’s superintendent, sir,” he said in a small, quiet, frightened voice.

“Jesus bloody Christ!”

Before I could ask what a hole in the ship had to do with supervising the loading of cargo, Flint turned to me.

“Mr. Rider,” he said in a silence in which you could have heard a pin drop. “You aren’t the only poor bugger who doesn’t know much about ships. The moron who supervised the loading of that sugar was too bloody stupid to have the deck boards put back in. Do you know what
they
are?” I shook my head. “Well, I’ll tell you. Each hold isn’t just a bloody big opening going down to the bottom of the ship. Those holds are divided up into decks like the rest of the ship. This bow hold has three decks, three separate levels; or they would be separate if the stupid bastard had ordered the deck boards put back in after each level was filled up. But no, this bastard wasn’t used to separate levels. He’s only used to pulling a lever and loading thousands of tonnes of bulk sugar into the one great bloody hold!”

I shrugged my shoulders. It had nothing to do with me.

“You still haven’t got it, have you?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not exactly.”

“If the boards had been put back in as they’re supposed to, there would’ve been a separate space between each level. The salt water would have contaminated only the lowest level. But the bloody seawater has soaked up through the layers of bags into the second level. It will be up into the top level before we can do anything about it. The whole consignment is ruined. Stuffed! And it’s my bloody ship! I’m the bastard that’s responsible!”

He stormed off and I chased after him.

“What about the other holds?” I called out. “Are the boards in place in those?”

“Yes, yes. I supervised all of those, but I was on shore when the bloody sugar was being loaded.”

I followed him down to the aft hold. The process was repeated, but this time with good results. Out of the four holds, only one had been damaged – the one with the sugar.

The reports from the officers checking the tanks started to come in. The forepeak and two of the double-bottom tanks were common to the sea, flooded. It wasn’t good; but it could have been worse.

“Well, Captain,” I asked. “Do you think we’ll get off?”

“We’ll give it
a try,” he replied. He turned to the chief engineer. “Chief, get the bilge pumps working on that forward hold. See if you can make an impression on it, then you might have a go at those two double-bottoms and the forepeak as well.”

With that, he walked away – a dejected man.

There was nothing to do but wait until the tide rose, which by then wasn’t all that far off. It was expected to peak at a few minutes before one o’clock in the afternoon.

I strolled up to the bow and looked down. The natives were still there, but they hadn’t come any closer, and
there seemed to be a lot more of them: a few women and children, but mainly men. They weren’t fishing or walking about on the reef, just sitting in their canoes and staring up at us.

Right on midday the ship started to vibrate once more as the main engines started up. The bridge would be the scene of all the action, so I raced up the stairs, hoping that Flint wouldn’t kick me out. The door was open, so I sidled in and stood quietly to one side.

Twelve

“Quarter astern and hold it there!” I heard Flint order.

The second officer was at the telegraph. I watched as he moved to the captain’s order, swinging the brass lever backwards and forwards across the face of the telegraph, and bringing it to a halt at the black arrow. A minute later I felt the slow build-up in the vibration of the hull.

The first officer stood far out on the bridge wing, a walkie-talkie in one hand. I looked down at the deck and saw the third officer up on the bow, also with a radio. There was a helmsman on the wheel: one of the crew.

Nobody moved.

The vibration continued: a low soft tremor. Down below in the engine room the chief would be checking his cooling-water pumps, his pressure gauges, issuing orders, watching, listening to the sounds of his engines, waiting.

Then, twenty minutes later: “Half astern!”

The telegraph was moved and the signal received below. The vibration increased; the ship starting to hum.

“Any movement, First?” Flint called out to the bridge wing.

There were a few words spoken into the radio and then a shake of the head. “Nothing, sir.”

“How much sand and coral are we kicking up?” And again the officer addressed the radio. The fourth officer was down at the stern, watching the propellor.

“Hardly any at all, sir.”

The vibration continued at a constant rumble for the next ten minutes. The captain looked across at the first officer again, his ear still tight to the radio as he shook his head to the unspoken question.

“Three-quarters astern!”

Nobody spoke; just nods and shakes of the head as the entire ship pulsated.

Another ten minutes went by.

“Full astern!”

Perspiration beaded on Flint’s upper lip, strain showing clearly on his face as the vibration built into a shudder. There was nothing from the first officer, not even a shake of the head. Then a shout.

“There’s a great cloud of coral and sand being blasted on to the reef, sir, but no movement!”

“Full port rudder!”

The wheel was swung and held. Again the glance towards the first officer. Again the shake of his head.

We waited.

“Full starboard rudder!”

The helmsman was quick to reply, anticipating the order.

The ship pulsated and throbbed. The bridge was silent, nobody spoke.

“Rudder midships!”

And finally: “Emergency astern!”

And then, two minutes later: “Stand by telegraph!”

The orders were followed in an instant, the men staring at one another, their faces drawn, breaths held.

The shuddering grew to an awesome scream, the ship twisting and rending herself upon the reef; in her death throes trying to break free to deep water; the pitch of the engines a nightmare of screeching machinery.

“Full port rudder!”

The officers paled. They knew the ship, knew what she could take. It had gone past that point. The third officer shook his head, whether in answer to the captain’s silent prayer, or in condemnation – it wasn’t clear.

“Full starboard rudder!”

The screaming and twisting had grown even further in intensity, if that were possible. The engines were being wrenched from their mountings, and surely must explode at any moment.

Then, almost a whisper: “Close down engines.”

The sound of defeat.

They had been waiting on his words. The telegraph moved as the captain opened his lips. The scream became a rumble and then a silence as the mighty engines were put to their rest.

The reef had won.

Here we were, and here we would stay.

It was two days since the engines had been pushed to fever pitch, had fought, and been defeated.

We sat on the reef with nothing to do. But we weren’t alone. The natives still came out at dawn and stayed till dusk, squatting in their dugouts, gazing up at us. I wondered if they were waiting for us to break apart so they could help themselves to whatever washed ashore, believing that the long-ago promises made by the cargo cult had finally come true. Or were they there simply to help us, but not knowing how?

The owners had been notified soon after we had gone on the reef, and Flint was in constant contact by radio.
Everything on the ship still worked. It was a peculiar feeling of normality, with the bridge still manned; three meals a day; videos in the officers lounge; and the sound of the auxiliaries humming away.

The owner’s instructions were to stay on board and await assistance, and to keep the ship and her cargo safe from the weather and other dangers – which probably referred to the locals waiting patiently in their canoes. It was all very well for them to give orders – sitting comfortably in some office a couple of thousand kilometres away, with their whisky and their cigars. They weren’t stuck here, bored out of their minds, sitting on a semi-submerged reef, hoping like hell the weather didn’t break.

If only I had missed the boat in Cairns. If only Pete and I both had.

It was around noon on the fifth day that we saw the second vessel far out on the horizon. The first one had passed to the east some twenty kilometres away on the second morning. Flint had picked her up on the radar.

But this other vessel, smaller than the first, was heading directly towards us. I went looking for Flint and found him at his favourite spot – the bridge deck; sitting in the shade and smoking a cigarette as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

He turned his head as I came bursting through the door, took the cigarette from his mouth and looked at me with a resigned expression. “Yes, Mr. Rider. I know. It’s the salvage tug. Head office sent a message two days ago to say she was on her way. I expected her late this afternoon. She’s made good time.” He stood and walked to the gunwale, and looked aft at the slowly approaching vessel. “Better get he
r on the radio, I suppose.”

Nobody bothered to mention that a tug was on its way to drag us off this damn reef. The officers must have known, and probably the crew as well. I followed him as he walked off towards the radio room.

“Captain,” I asked. “Does this mean we might be off this bloody reef soon?”

“Perhaps,” he replied.

“What do you mean,
perhaps
?”

“Exactly what I said. Perhaps! I’m not the bloody salvage master! You’ll have to ask him after he’s inspected us, after he’s checked the amount of damage to the hull and cargo, and after he’s figured out what the chances are of getting her off, and what he thinks the value might be after he’s got her off. Then his bosses will gather together and decide whether or not we’re a rich enough prize to be hauled off the reef.
Two hundred years ago they’d have been bloody buccaneers.” He spat out a few strands of tobacco and continued. “Then, if they decide that we are worth their while, the owners, the salvage company and the insurers will argue among themselves for a couple of days trying to fix the price of the salvage.”

“But,” I asked. “Does that mean they might not even try to get us off? That the cost might be too great?”

“Don’t panic, Mr. Rider. There’s very little chance of them agreeing on a fixed price; but they’ll spend a few days arguing about it in any case. If the salvors reckon they can make money out of the job, then they’ll have a go at it, fixed price or no fixed price. But it’s not going to happen overnight, so don’t go packing your suitcase just yet.”

My hopes of a quick rescue were getting dimmer by the minute.

“Anyway,” he added. “We’re stuck good and proper, and it may take more than that tug to get us off!”

I left him mumbling to himself as he continued along to the radio room. I went down to the lounge and helped myself to a stiff whisky.

I wondered what was happening in Singapore; and back in Adelaide as well. I tried to imagine the conversations that would be flying between Nick and Tek. Nick would be wetting his pants with worry. Tek would be working out the next move to make. He had insisted on a tight schedule, presumably with a vessel or two chartered to take most of the shipment out of Singapore as soon as the random sampling proved itself. He would have to make other arrangements to cope with the delay, and keep his customers swinging while the salvors tried to get us off the reef.

Tek couldn’t tell them about the wreck. He couldn’t even tell them where the grass was coming from, or how it was coming; but I knew that somehow he would produce a convincing story to explain the delay.

Delay! It wasn’t the delay that worried me. It was non-delivery that had me in a panic.

I took my second scotch down to the stern and mingled with the offices and crew – all eagerly awaiting the tug’s arrival.

She came up to us during mid-afternoon and took up a position astern, using her engine to keep on station while a small boat was put over the side.

The size of the tug was a disappointment. From the distance she had appeared to be a fair enough size, but up close it was obvious that she would be far too inadequate for the task. She was so much smaller than
Syrius
– tiny by comparison.

The small rubber inflatable boat came alongside in the swell and hung out from our stern quarter while the Jacob’s ladder was thrown down to them. The rope ladder twisted and jerked, the lowest wooden rung catching in the sea and being swept along the side of the hull until the slack was hauled up, leaving only the knotted rope ends touching the crests of the waves.

The swell sweeping down the length of
Syrius
could now be seen for what it was: a rolling wall of water, rising three metres from crest to trough.

The seaman driving the inflatable swung
in close to the ship’s side, twenty metres astern of the ladder, setting up a pattern to deliver each of his passengers to
Syrius
. He waited for the largest of a set of waves and then rode one of them in, throwing the motor into reverse five metres before reaching the ladder. The momentum carried him past, but slowly, and as the rubber boat went by, one of the men on board lunged for the ladder, grabbed the ropes and struggled up the first few rungs before the stern of the inflatable knocked against the ladder, threatening to sweep him away as it roared off to deep water again.

Three times they repeated it, and three times my heart was in my mouth as I visualized
the men falling and being smashed on to the reef.

Flint was there to meet each one as he reached the top of the ladder and was helped over the bulwark. I moved forwards. Flint looked at me, his eyes warning me off. I continued, but he blocked my approach
, turning his back on me, not letting me in. The last man on board; white-bearded but with top lip clean-shaven, pale-blue towelling hat rammed on his head, glasses perched above a practiced smile, introduced himself as the salvage-master.

“Well, gentlemen,” I heard Flint say. “If you would care to come up to the chart room, I’ll give you the details of the general situation.” He turned his head to me, said nothing, and moved away.

All I had been able to gather from listening to the brief introductions was that they were a Dutch company based in the Solomons. The tug was the
M T Pacific Ranger
. The pale-blue emblem on the port side of the funnel was too far away for me to make out. They were closeted with the captain and the chief engineer for at least an hour.

Once back on the main deck, the inspections started all over again. Two of the salvors, armed with torches they had brought with them, climbed down into the holds. The third went around to every tank, sounding each one with the assistance of the first officer, and recording the readings.

It didn’t seem to matter that all of this had been done before. Perhaps the captain’s word wasn’t good enough, or perhaps they were just making certain there hadn’t been any fresh inflow of water. Whatever else they might have been looking for, they took much longer than the captain; and got just as filthy.

The engine room and the lower decks were next; with notes taken all the time; checked and double-checked.

Whilst all this activity was taking place on
Syrius
, the tug had steamed down along the western side of the reef and through the passage I had noticed some days previously, and was now at anchor in the lagoon. The outriggers made their way across and were all around her in the calm water, but made no attempt to board.

The rubber boat returned – bouncing out through the swell and around to our starboard side, sheltered from the wind. This time there were two divers and their gear on board. They checked their tanks and then back-flipped into the water and disappeared from sight. The rubber boat went astern, where it idled, running in a slow circle out of range of the curling waves.

Now and then bubbles rose to the surface, but of the divers there was no other sign. Nobody had seen any sharks since we had been there, but you could never tell. It was black down there, and the oily slick could hide any manner of horrible creature. I had been used to diving in the crystal-clear waters of the Great Barrier Reef, full of friendly fish and only the occasional timid small reef shark.