Deck Boy, page 38
They stood waiting. Beyond the hatch, the deck officers’ cabins were illuminated. The radio room was in the same accommodation. I could see a figure moving about inside. There was a deafening, staccato burst of machine gun fire, then a second burst. Gunsmoke drifted from the window. There was a noise of smashing, splintering, a shower of electric sparks. It continued for some time. The radio room was being comprehensively destroyed.
It ceased and the figure went from sight. Shortly afterwards, Ka’tang emerged from the officers’ entrance. He was followed by the mate and Ka’tang’s son, his pistol still in hand. Ka’tang approached the assembled crew. Lightly he patted the barrel of his Kalashnikov and found it too hot to sling across his shoulders.
“Good evening. Do please sit down.”
I was startled. The crew did as he suggested.
“I’m sorry to disturb your evening like this but we won’t keep you long. If everyone does exactly what he’s told, nobody will be hurt and you can all be back in your beds or getting on with the engine repair in,” he glanced at his watch, “say three hours. If you don’t … Well, let’s not think about that.”
“What about all them blitzed out?” said one of the engineers.
“It depends how greedy they were. Six hours, twelve, it shouldn’t last much longer.” He looked around the listening faces. “I don’t see the boy I met in Wellington. Stuffed full of chocolate, I suppose. Snoring his head off.
“Now, why the engines broke down. Why I’m here, in fact. What we’re looking for is stowed away down there.” He glanced at the hatch cover. “Strong room in number three hold. Boxes of currency and registered mail. I want none of your personal possessions. My men feel differently, I’m afraid, they’re very fond of watches and tape recorders, that sort of thing; I leave that to them. But first things first. The hatch needs to be opened, and if my copy of the cargo plan is accurate, twenty tons of wool have to be hauled out to give us access to the strong room. That’s where you come in. Once we get down there,” he turned to the mate, “I hope one of the officers might be persuaded to hand over the keys.”
The crowd on deck were silent.
“Right. Gilolo.” Ka’tang addressed an older man whom I took to be his second-in-command. They exchanged a few words and Gilolo took over. He had little English but made up for it by gestures and violence.
“Come! You work!” He brandished a thick end of rope. “You! Yes, you.”
The chocks were knocked from the hatch coaming, the canvases were pulled back, the hatch boards were dragged aside. Beneath lay the trunk, a non-refrigerated shaft that led down to the hold. It was packed with bales of wool. They were large and heavy, wrapped in sackcloth and strapped with metal bands. Two pirates went off with the bosun and returned with ropes and hooks. One jumped into the trunk and jammed hooks behind the metal bands. Three men to a rope, the crew hauled the bales up on deck and tumbled them aside.
They had come from their bunks and the engine room. Some wore pyjamas, some their underwear, some their boiler suits. Fat and thin, young and middle-aged, they heaved on the ropes. A few of Ka’tang’s men, eager to get the job finished, lent a hand.
“Aah! Aah!” A metal band sliced Tony’s fingers. He clenched his fist and slowly opened it. I saw his palm red.
Gilolo shouted and lashed him with his end of rope. Angrily he made pulling motions. Tony shouted back and showed him his hand. Gilolo beat him about the head. He raised the butt of his rifle. Tony resumed heaving.
There was no need to empty the whole trunk, just the for’ard end which gave access to the strong room. Steadily they burrowed down. On all sides, like building blocks discarded by a petulant giant, enormous bales of New Zealand wool littered the deck.
It was at this moment something occurred that was to give me nightmares for a long time. One of the engineers, the fair-haired junior who had gone through the crossing-the-line ceremony with me, tried to make a run for it. Where he expected to hide on a ship, I have no idea. Perhaps in the engine room there was some locker or store with strong metal doors. Whatever his thoughts may have been, he did not get far. Before he reached the corner, the pirate with yellow hair threw up his rifle, took quick aim and fired. The bullet hit the engineer squarely in the back and kicked him forward. He gave a gasping cry, flung up both arms and crashed headlong among the bales of wool. I could just see him, a red stain appearing through the cotton of his boiler suit.
He was dead, of that I had no doubt. All in a couple of seconds. There was a stunned silence.
The man who had fired the shot made his leisurely way across the deck. As he reached the young engineer he worked the bolt of his rifle, lowered the muzzle and shot him again.
Just to make sure.
The Black Ishtar
THE BANG, shockingly loud, echoed in my head for weeks.
Ka’tang said something. The yellow-haired man put down his rifle and dragged the body to the rail. With a little grunt he heaved it over. I heard the heavy splash as it hit the water. The young engineer, who had become something of a friend, was gone.
His killer, twitchy and half smiling, touched his hair, cracked his neck, plucked at his clothes, blew his nose on his fingers. He pulled something from a pocket, unscrewed a cap and tapped it onto the back of his hand. He sniffed it up.
Ka’tang sighed. “I did warn you,” he said to the crew. “Why do you not listen? Let me say it again. Do exactly what you are told and no one will be hurt.”
Gilolo lashed Michael across the back. The work continued.
As the men in the trunk burrowed down, clearing the for’ard end only, the bales of wool at the after end rose above them like a ragged cliff. I feared it might collapse and bury them, but it didn’t and after a long time the top of the door to the strong room appeared.
“Sulu!” Ka’tang summoned his son.
They spoke briefly. Sulu checked the safety catch on his pistol. Ka’tang, followed by the mate with Sulu bringing up the rear, mounted the steps to the bridge.
The guards sat smoking, rifles on their knees. After the fate of the young engineer, no one seemed likely to make a break for freedom.
A score of bales still needed to be shifted. Chippy, drunk from the start, had no strength left; an hour’s heaving had reduced his arms and legs to rubber As he tried to pull again, his knees gave way and he collapsed, clinging to the rope for support. One of the engineers, a tubby bald man, was nearly in the same state. Michael, standing up to it better than most, looked down at his hands.
Up on the bridge, meanwhile, Philip lay motionless. Light spilled from the door of the wheelhouse. From my position on the funnel deck I could see shadows and occasionally movement within the wheelhouse and chartroom. It was impossible to tell who this was but presumably Ka’tang, Sulu and the mate. They moved in unhurried fashion, there seemed no urgency, then all at once there were shots: Crack! Crack – crack! Sulu’s pistol, I guessed, not loud enough for a rifle. I saw the flashes. What was happening? Had the mate been killed?
He had not, for a moment later he emerged, followed by Ka’tang, and they stood talking by the wheelhouse door. What about, I wondered; was the mate bargaining for our safety? No one working round the hatch took any notice and I realised the two on the bridge could not be seen from the deck below. The mate looked away from his captor. This seemed to enrage Ka’tang for his drew back his fist and hit him on the side of the face. It was a wicked blow and the mate dropped from sight. Ka’tang drew the dagger at his chest, a heavier weapon than he had carried in Wellington, and leaned forward. I froze, was he about to cut the mate’s throat? Seconds later he rose, wiped the blade between thumb and forefinger, and returned the dagger to its sheath.
What had he done? What had taken place up there on the bridge, just out of my field of vision? I could see a section of deck and stared at it, dreading to see a slow tide of blood.
But killing the mate had not been Ka’tang’s intention. He stooped again and this time, by some perverse quirk of humanity, he appeared to be helping him to his feet. Perhaps he felt he had been punished enough. The mate was doubled up and clung to the wheelhouse door for support. When he had recovered sufficiently, he limped painfully past Philip and began to descend the bridge steps. At his back came Ka’tang. Then Sulu, carrying a large cloth bag which I learned later contained the contents of the ship’s safe.
They reached the cluttered deck and the mate sank onto a bale of wool. He looked dazed and lifted a hand to his injured face. His arrogance was gone. The front of his shirt was red.
Ka’tang crossed to the open hatch and tossed something down. I saw a glint of silver. They were the keys to the strong room.
Sulu handed his bag to a pirate who carried it away aft. With the muzzle of his pistol he motioned Michael, Smoky and one of the engineers to step over the hatch coaming and climb down the unstable wall of wool to join those at the bottom. Two pirates, armed with rifle and machete, followed at their heels. It was strange to think that back in Westport the alarming Sulu would be in his first or second year at high school.
By this time the entrance to the strong room had been cleared. The locks were complex: first the top, then the bottom with a different key, then the top again. The heavy metal door swung wide. The locker was packed to the roof.
Discharging resumed, only now the cargo was sealed mail bags, red and buff, with the word REGISTERED stencilled on the side in big black capitals. One and two at a time, they skidded up the trunk. Among them were sturdy cardboard boxes whose lettering I could not make out. Ka’tang sliced one open. He pulled aside the packing paper and rooted beneath. A thick wad of banknotes appeared in his hand. Laughing, he held it high to show his followers. With shouts they ran across. One fired a volley of shots into the air. Ka’tang ripped off a paper band and tossed the notes high overhead. The wad disintegrated, fluttering in the breeze like autumn leaves. Some blew over the side, some into the hold. The pirates scrambled to gather them up and tucked them away into ragged pockets.
The discharging had ground to a halt. Gilolo shouted and laid about him with the end of rope.
Ka’tang slit open one of the mailbags and pulled out a padded envelope. He tore it open and tipped the contents into his palm. A fiery necklace glittered in the deck lights. He held it up, diamond and ruby, and smiled with satisfaction. A second envelope contained documents: bonds, deeds, certificates, I could not tell. A third was full of money. A box contained an exquisite ornament. Ka’tang thrust them back and handed the mailbag to the youth with yellow hair.
In under an hour the locker was emptied and the men down the hold were summoned back on deck. Twelve-year-old Sulu, shouting and brandishing his pistol, forced the mate to join them. In a long file, guarded like slaves or convicts, the crew carried the booty aft. I backed out of my hiding place and ran barefoot to the after rail of the funnel deck.
For the first time I saw the pirate vessel, a two-masted cutter with brown sails and a strongly raked bow, illuminated by our floodlights. Fifty feet long and built for speed with, I guessed, a very powerful engine, an engine capable of thirty knots or more. She was black with dark masts and superstructure, a bit shabby-looking. In a vessel like that, Ka’tang could tie up at some remote berth without attracting attention, lie innocently at anchor, or slip away in the night unnoticed. The name painted on her bow, whether permanently or just for a few hours, was Ishtar.
She was lashed to the starboard quarter. Our crew, negotiating the steep metal steps with difficulty, deposited their burdens on the afterdeck of Pacific Trader. Ka’tang’s men passed them from one ship to the other. Smoky stumbled and dropped his load. Before he could rise, the flat of a machete struck him on the back, a foot thudded into his ribs. The pirate shouted, threatened.
“All right! All right! I only tripped.” Smoky picked up his mailbag and continued. “Dear, oh dear.”
It took several journeys.
The last box, the last bag, were handed aboard the black cutter and carried below. Then all our crew, those who had been working, were herded to the port quarter opposite the Ishtar, and made to sit on deck. Ka’tang and Sulu, weapons in their laps, sat on the canvas of number six hatch to guard them.
It was the moment the pirate crew had been waiting for. With whoops and shouts and a slap of feet they ran through the ship. Stereos and leather jackets, wallets and binoculars, gold chains and credit cards, sextants and chronometers were gathered into personal heaps on deck and carried aboard the Ishtar. I saw, or thought I saw, Aaron’s cassette player. Certainly it was gone when he returned to the cabin. They seemed fated.
Two of the pirates went among the crew on deck, relieving them of watches and neck chains. Those who lay unconscious elsewhere in the ship were robbed as they slept. One had a gold ring torn from his ear. Another, for some reason, was hacked in the upper arm and nearly died from loss of blood. Captain Bell’s cabin was ransacked while he and his wife lay sleeping in chairs; her jewellery box, which had been locked in the safe, was gone.
At last they were finished. The ship had been stripped of its personal possessions and most valuable items of cargo. The radio room and transmitters in the lifeboats had been destroyed; the radar had been shot and imploded; the navigation equipment had been stolen; the distress flares were gone; pipes and chains and cables in the engine room and on the bridge had been chopped through. The pirates had got what they came for and now they could leave, secure in the knowledge that for several hours, at least, we could neither report them nor weigh anchor.
Their work was not quite finished however:
Several had been drinking and carried bottles. Gilolo, an angry and violent man at the best of times, kicked a path through the crew and dragged Tony to his feet. Tony resisted, then allowed himself to be led forward. Looking down from my vantage point, I wondered why he had been singled out. Did Ka’tang know of him? As a friend of Ryland, did he expect to be treated differently from the rest of us? Whatever he may have presumed, that was not what happened. As they reached the open deck, Gilolo thrust him towards a group who knocked him down and bound him hand and foot. Tony struggled but it was futile. A fist struck him on the ear. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “Let go of me! You’ve got it wrong, I’m the one that – ” A ball of rag was thrust into his mouth, a gag tied across. His eyes rolled. His body bucked. Two of the pirates dragged him across the hatch to the starboard rail. What were they going to do? Drop him over the side? Let the sharks, gathering for the engineer, have him too? But no, swinging Tony like a sack, they flung him down to the deck of the Ishtar.
Another of the pirates, bare-chested and with a flower in his hair, had been sent back through the ship. He reappeared above the swimming pool. He was grinning, white teeth in the brown face. Over his shoulder was slung the unconscious body of Trish.
Michael jumped to his feet. “No! No!” He rushed towards Ka’tang. Two men blocked his way.
“You do well but she will come to no harm.” Ka’tang raised a reassuring hand. “We are not savages, we take her for ransom, that is all.” He glanced towards the mate. “She will be safe.”
“That’s what you say.” Michael was reckless. “Him,” he pointed to the yellow-haired raider, “he just shot a man. I don’t believe you.”
“Listen to me,” Ka’tang said quietly. “The man, that was different. The girl, I tell you she will be unharmed. Now, I am being very patient. Sit down please.”
Michael retreated.
“She’s my wife,” the mate said belatedly.
“Yes, I know. And …?”
“How much money do you think I’ve got?”
Ka’tang smiled. “Well, perhaps her parents.”
The pirate carried Trish aboard the Ishtar.
“And the boy,” Ka’tang said, “that very unpleasant boy, we take him for ransom too. My sources tell me his father is rich: big house, land, Rolls Royce. Tell him five million. Dollars US.”
“Five million,” Smoky was unsympathetic. “Give you five million to keep him more like.”
Ka’tang shrugged. “His father won’t pay, we sell him to work in the mines.”
I had been unobserved for so long and strained so hard to hear that I became careless. My head emerged from my hiding place. The floodlights on the mainmast caught my sun-bleached hair. Although three decks above them I was spotted, not by the pirates but by the bosun. At once he betrayed me:
“There’s somebody up there.”
Flight
“THERE’S SOMEBODY up there.”
Ka’tang swung round. “Where?”
“Up on the funnel deck.” The bosun pointed, unshaven, squinting in the floodlights.
I had ducked back but it was too late. Beneath me there was a hubbub of voices. Shouts. Commands. Running feet.
Dressed only in the T-shirt and underpants I’d worn for sleeping, I raced past the lifeboats and engine-room ventilators and slid down the ladder to the boat deck. Bales of wool were heaped around me. I clambered through them. My hand was sticky – the engineer’s blood. I reached the steps that led to the bridge and ran up them. My feet were bare. One foot slipped and I wrenched the nail of my big toe. Behind me there was a shout, the crack of a rifle. A wooden rail exploded into splinters. I ran into the wheelhouse. Broken radar screen crunched underfoot. The second mate lay dead or unconscious on the chartroom floor. The rifles Philip had told me about were gone. Where now? A door stood open. I raced through, slammed it behind me and leaped down the stairs to the officers’ cabins. Where could I hide? Which cabin? More stairs descended to the officers’ dining room and galley. I ran on down. Somewhere behind me there were voices. Shouting. Not English. Vaguely I was aware I had done something terrible to my toenail. The dining room and galley were locked. I sped through a fire door. The alleyway branched. Directly in front of me lay the stewards’ alleyway. A man with a machete was heading towards me. I cut past the petty officers’ cabins into the deck-crew alleyway. It was deserted. I sprinted aft. The man with the machete had not yet turned the corner. Ahead lay the open crew deck with Ka’tang and his cutthroats immediately below on the afterdeck and the Ishtar tied up alongside. The cabin I shared with Aaron was right beside me. I pushed through the curtain. Aaron lay drugged and unconscious. Since the swimming-pool incident he had slept in the bottom bunk. His plastered arm trailed on the edge. I heard footsteps. Seconds later I had leaped to the top bunk and pulled the sheet to my throat.
