THURSDAY'S ORCHID (27 page)

But the salvors were moving early and it was evident they weren’t suffering from the doldrums as
we were. They had boarded whilst we were still at breakfast, and when I heard the great pumps start up I gulped my coffee down. As I came on deck the smell of diesel carried out by the offshore breeze reached my nostrils and I looked down on a sea already covered with thick black bunker oil, thrown up by the bilge pumps as they began to clear the flooded double-bottom and forepeak tanks. The remaining oil was being rinsed out with the salt water that had poured in through the splits in the hull. And then they stopped. The bilge pumps had been put through their paces, tested, proven.

The crew still slouched and grumbled.
Nothing seemed sufficient to give them hope; not the activity on deck, nor the water gushing from the flooded tanks; not even when the big salvage pumps were started up and the level in the main hold started dropping again, the ship becoming lighter, grinding on the reef once more.

At noon the tug hauled up the end of the wire cable and steamed slowly out to its station. The divers went down, checking for kinks and turns in the cable. This was no trial run; this time the main hold would be emptied and the bilge pumps would be run at full force. This would be the day!

The main hold was no
w only a third full and still the pumps belched forth their grimy stream – the dirt and dust of a thousand cargoes. The bilge pumps cut in, and then the oil transfer pump; and more black water poured out from the ship to darken the sea. The forepeak was pumped dry and then the sound double-bottom tanks.
Syrius
was rocking with the swell, and the faint crunch of grinding coral could be heard below deck.

I could see the smoke start from
Pacific Ranger’s
funnels. It was strange, being able to see so clearly through the binoculars and yet not able to hear the roar of the tug’s engines, nor the shouts of the men on board, the wind taking it all away. The only sound was the racket of the salvage pumps and the splashing of water gushing from the ship and cascading into the sea.

The strain
was taken up and the wires rose out of the sea like some awakening serpent.

We waited whilst the tide rose, centimetre by centimetre. The colour of the smoke from the funnels darkened from white to grey and then
to a dull grey. The water in the main hold now almost gone, the salvage pumps were manhandled forward to the hold that had held the sodden sugar. The bilge pumps kept up their relentless task, fighting against the inflow of the sea to the holed tanks.

Syrius
rolled ponderously, but still would not break free. The single wire cable was stretched so tight that water was wrung back into the sea. Then the rumbling started: our main engines. It was eerie to feel the vibration through the hull after the weeks of quietness.

Pacific Ranger
slewed from side to side, pulling first to the east, then south-east and then straight out to sea. Time and again the procedure was repeated as she tried to rock us free.

Knowing the action would be on the bridge I raced there to become a part of it. Once again all positions were manned as they had been that first day on the reef
, but this time the Dutchman was in command. It seemed like only yesterday that I had stood there and watched as the ship tried to tear her insides out, as the engines roared and screamed in that first futile attempt to break free.

The order was given:
half astern
and then
full astern
. The faces were silent; the commands monosyllabic; the vibration of the plating mingling with the grinding of coral beneath the hull.

We didn’t move.

Full tide was almost an hour away.

Backwards and forwards went the tug, to and fro, slewing and jerking. For two hours it pulled and for two hours we held our breaths, and prayed.

But still we didn’t move.

And then the order was given:
close down the mains!

“We’ll do it on tomorrow’s tide,” I heard the Dutchman say. “All we need are a few more centimetres of water under the keel.”

I could see from Flint’s face that he didn’t believe him.

We were trapped on this bastard of a reef and here we would stay. My fortune would go to the bottom, and me with it.

The previous evening had been a picnic compared to the atmosphere now pervading the ship
. Nobody spoke. Nobody bothered to move about. Meals weren’t eaten. The steward swore at Flint, and he didn’t even bother to reply.

We hadn’t moved a centimetre, not a single solitary centimetre! Would we ever move
? Nobody seemed to think so.

I should have eaten, but there didn’t seem to be any point. Half a bottle of whisky would bring sleep, and sleep might stop me worrying about the rolling of the ship; but it wouldn’t stop the nightmares. We were without ballast, apart from a
couple of hundred tonnes of seawater the fire pumps had managed to put back into the main hold.

We were grinding like some gigantic pestle, with the reef as its mortar.

I cried that night.

Morning.

We were still in one piece. The ship hadn’t split apart.

My head throbbed. Coffee was all I could face.

Again we gathered on the deck, with some at the stern and some amidships, but nobody really taking an interest. We stood silent, waiting for the salvors to give up their feeble attempts so that we could pack our personal belongings and desert, leaving the ship to beat herself to death.

We waited, not really caring; watching, with nothing better to do. I moved up to the bridge.

The ground tackle was checked.

The tug took up the strain.

The wire was wrung taut, the tug oozing dark grey smoke, water dripping from the wire cable; everything the same as yesterday.

Then I looked again.

It wasn’t water dripping from the wire now. It was grease!

Sixteen

Black smoke was
pouring from the tug’s funnels: thick billowing smoke; darkening the sky. This was different. This hadn’t happened before, not black.

The pumps burst into life, spurting water back into the sea.

The mains trembled, a promise of power still to come. The hull began its rhythmic vibration and the tremor increased.

Half astern!

Full astern!

The tug slewed from side to side, still belching its blackness.

Backwards and forwards.

The grease dripped.

Emergency astern!

The hull hammered and thundered, the engines seeming to scream as they had never screamed before. I had been terrified that first time, but now I thrilled to the sound, the adrenalin coursing through my body.

“Roar, you bastards, roar!” I screamed to the wind. “Tear yourself free!”

Nobody heard above the sounds of the ship.

“She moved!” the captain yelled. “She moved!” The officers scrambled to look. I stared across at the island. It had moved; but it wasn’t the island that had moved, it was us. We had pivoted a few degrees across the reef and then back the other way.

To and fro.

Roaring.

The holding of fifty breaths.

Then, with a graceful slide, as the swell raised her stern and raced along underneath, we slid towards the tug. The ship thumped once on the reef and then fell away into deeper water, drawn backwards by the mighty main engines, over the top of the salvage anchor lying far below.

The engines were shut down to an idle, the vibration dropping to a quiet murmur as our momentum swept us on towards the tug tethered to the end of the cable, bearing down on her like some rolling mountain. There was a flash of light from the back deck of the tug as an
oxy-torch cut through the cable and the tug raced free, scuttling away from our swooping stern.

We drifted; afloat once more, the cable slipping back through the blocks until all eight turns had gone and we were finally free.

There was no roar from the crew; no shout of cheers; all of them unable even to speak. Some had tears of joy streaming down their cheeks; others grinning from ear to ear. My hand was shaken many times. I looked across the wheelhouse to the captain, white-faced, smiling.

We were safe!

We were free!

Our
momentum carried us on and out to deeper water. The tug circled around us, taking a line thrown from our foredeck, and towed us about a kilometre out to sea.

The divers went down and checked our propellor. The blades were clear. Flint and the salvage master spent an urgent hour inspecting the holds, the engine room and all the lower spaces of the ship. There had been no new inflow of water. We were afloat. We were a ship again.

We anchored in the lee of the island that evening, with the site of our stranding blocked from view by the mountain. We lay there with the tug strapped up to us for the night, like a mother with its child.

We had sailed around under our own steam.

It was peaceful and quiet. Gone was the noise of the breakers and the grinding coral; the twisting of the hull a thing of the past; now just a simple light rolling motion, easy and comforting.

We were all late to bed that night, with celebrations on board both vessels going on until the early hours. A watch was kept, of sorts. Our crew was beyond discipline for the moment, but the watch from the tug made regular turns around the ship.

Morning was late arriving and heads were heavy, but the jubilation hadn’t faded. The divers went below again, this time making a detailed report. The bow was badly stove in, but apart from this, and a few splits in the hull plating, we were in fairly good condition, all things considered, and sound enough to proceed under our own power.

The
salvors decided to deliver us to Lae, New Guinea, as the nearest safe port. Once there, we would be checked by the Lloyds’ surveyors to see whether temporary repairs would be necessary before we should be allowed to proceed to Singapore.

The voyage to Lae took a lo
ng three days as we ran along at a reduced speed of ten knots instead of the normal sixteen. The tug steamed with us in case we ran into any problems.

The wool had been re-stowed in the main h
old before we had left, all hands working with a vigour previously unseen.

We were an orderly ship once again; maybe not as trim, and perhaps higher out of the water than we had been. We had ditched a lot of ca
rgo, although the water sloshing about in the forward hold made up for some of it.

We steamed along
through the Solomon Sea, around the tip of New Guinea, and up through the waters of which the captain had spoken weeks before.

New Guinea. The marijuana
, or the greater part of it, had now gone in a full circle. I didn’t know from what part of New Guinea Nick had obtained those tonnes, and I didn’t want to know. But it was a queer twist of fate just the same.

There was no further trouble with the navigation equipment. I knew there wouldn’t be, but I couldn’t tell that to Flint. He had three
men on the bridge at all times: a helmsman and two officers.

Lae:
hot and steamy, like the rest of New Guinea; luxuriant, surrounded by mountains covered in thick, damp jungle. It’s difficult to believe that not so many years ago it was the scene of bloody battles between the Australians and the Japanese. The mountainside scars have long since been covered by the ever-encroaching trees and vines. All that remains of those violent days are a few rusting wrecks lying in the shallower parts of the harbour.

No sooner had we tied up to the wharf than we were boarded by a cluster of officials: marine surveyors, customs officers, shipping agents, and representatives from various government departments.

The authorities wouldn’t allow us off the ship, claiming that if we started to leak oil again, we would have to put out to sea without delay. The prohibition didn’t apply to me. As far as they were concerned I wasn’t a member of the crew. But Flint made the position quite clear, stating that if I went ashore enjoying myself whilst the rest of the crew stayed behind and seethed, I could pack my gear and find my own way to Singapore.

He couldn’t have done it, of course. Singapore would have seen to that. But I had no desire to visit Lae, even though I had never been there before. I had been to Port Moresby. You can’t walk the streets at night
in Moresby, and it can be pretty rough even during the day; and if Lae was anything like Moresby then I preferred to stay on the ship.

I would have liked to have gone ashore for maybe half an hour, just long enough to put a call through to Nick, but I couldn’t think of an excuse that would allow me to make a quick visit. A telephone line had been linked up to the ship, but all calls were monitored through the radio room and I didn’t like taking the risk.

A few quiet beers ashore and some western faces to look at and talk to would have been a welcome respite, but I had got this far and a couple more weeks of the same morbid company wouldn’t be too much of a sacrifice; and Mee Ling would be waiting.

The two marine surveyors provided a welcome diversion. They spent a few hours on the ship; checking everything that the salvors had gone over, and finding nothing that hadn’t already been found. One of them, a short, rotund Englishman, answered most of my questions.

“Who pays for the salvage?” I asked.

“Ah, that’s an
easy one,” he replied, tripping over a broken deck-plate as he turned around. “It’s either the insurance company if the vessel is insured; or the owners if it isn’t. In this instance it was the insurers who signed the Lloyds Open Form.”

He moved on through the engine room, flashing his torch beneath machinery, looking for damage that the salvors might have missed.

“What’s a Lloyds Open Form?” I asked.

He straightened up and switched off the torch. “It’s the standard form of salvage contract
.”

He turned the torch back on and began to poke around underneath one of the bilge pumps. “The salvors undertake to do their best to save the vessel and cargo
,” he continued. “If they succeed, they get paid. If not, they get nothing.”

“What about expenses?” I queried, knowing that it must have cost an arm and a leg to bring the tug all the way from the Solomons and to keep it working for s
o long.

“Not a single shilling,” he replied. “If
they hadn’t got you off, they wouldn’t have been paid anything; not for fuel, wages, lost or broken gear; nothing.”

It was obvious now why they had been so persistent; why they had strained the gear to such an extent; why they had taken such risks.

“What sort of fee have they agreed for the job?” I asked.

“There hasn’t been a fee set. That’ll be
left up to an arbitrator in London to decide.”

“Okay, then,” I said, trying to think how best I could put the question. “What can they expect to be paid for saving
Syrius
?”

He thought for a few seconds before answering. “Depends on two things. It depends on the value of the ship and cargo which has
been saved; not the value it had before the grounding, but the value it has when it reaches a safe port. And it depends on the value of their services in salvaging the vessel and cargo; the degree of danger their ships, equipment and personnel were put into during the operation. How difficult was the salvage? Was the ship high and dry, or was she nearly floating? Was the weather fine, or was it blowing a gale for most of the time? It’s all taken into consideration.” He paused. “If the salvors and owners can’t agree on a figure, then it’s up to the arbitrator in London. In the meantime, the owners of the ship and the cargo put up a series of bonds and the ship and cargo are released to go on their way; provided the vessel is still seaworthy, that is.”

“What sort of an award do you think wi
ll be made in this case?”

“It’s not
for me to say. Some awards have gone as high as fifty percent of the salved value. Others have been down around ten per cent.”

“You mentioned a bond,” I persisted. “Does that mean we won’
t be leaving until a bond has been put up by the ship-owners?”

“That’s right, and the cargo owners as well, don’t forget. It wasn’t just the ship that was saved. The insurers or owners of each single consignment of cargo will have to lodge bonds. I
f they don’t lodge a bond they run the risk of having their consignment unloaded here in Lae and impounded until the salvage award has been made.”

My heart stopped as I thought of all that wool being dumped and rolled about on the wharf.

I decided to leave him to his inspection and retire to the lounge to lower the level in a bottle.

A pair of divers went down early next morning armed with cameras and torches. The water in the harbour was filthy. It must have been raining up in the mountains, but then it’s always raining in the mountains of New Guinea, with the run-off washing tonnes of mud and silt down to the sea.

They were under for just on an hour, coming up once to change tanks. I followed their bubbles around the ship.

The crew sat around doing nothing in particular. A few of them tried their hands at fishing, but there wasn’t much to catch. Nothing was cleaned, nothing painted, nothing repaired. They didn’t know whether the ship would be released
, or tied up for the next six months. Morale was slipping back to the days on the reef.

The surveyors came back on board shortly before noon and spent about an hour with the captain in his cabin. When they emerged it was obvious that they had been into the bottle: three red faces – but at least they were three smiling red faces.

I waited for Flint to come down for lunch.

“Captain,” I said. “When do you think we’ll get the green light?”

He finished chewing and looked up from his plate. “What green light? They’ve finished their report, if that’s what you want to know. Everything’s checked out okay. It’s exactly as the salvors described it. I don’t know why we bother with surveyors at all. You should have seen the photos their divers took. Christ, you could hardly see a bloody thing!”

“Does that mean we can leave?” I queried.

Conversation around us stopped.

“I’m afraid not.” You could feel the hopes of the room deflate. “Oh, the ship’s in sound condition as far as steaming to Singapore is concerned, but we can’t get a damn release. The owners and the insurance companies and the bloody salvors are still arguing about the size of the security bonds.”

He went back to his steak and kidney pie; stirring it around his plate, losing interest in the food. He looked up again and added: “They’d better get a move on. The New Guinea government is starting to ask questions about pollution. Some bright spark suggested that maybe we should be paying compensation for the oil we spilled.”

It didn’t sound promising. Island governments can be difficult at the best of times, and the argument could go on for years.