We set off towards Rose’s intermittent light on the hilltop. When Armatage stumbled, Nash told him to move sharp or he’d get a boot at his arse. I expected a barney, but Armatage grumbled at the slippery ground and went forward.
At the summit Nash took the torch and matched a similar beacon to the one at the beach, which was so dim that only his rear-gunner’s eyes could see it. ‘You can hump your share like the rest of us,’ he said to Rose. ‘It’ll keep you warm.’
When we picked up our loads he said: ‘Put the buggers down again. I haven’t run a building site for nothing. We need a few labourers from Lincolnshire on this stunt. If I promised a bonus they’d have this lot down the hill in ten minutes. See what I do, then follow me. We’ll adapt our tactics to the terrain. But be careful not to bust any of the boxes or there’ll be a few slit throats for the birds to fly into.’ He turned. ‘Eh, Skipper? If you feel inclined, Mr Bennett, you can join the party as well.’
‘I’ll stay with the boxes. They shouldn’t be left unguarded.’
‘As you say, sir, but Wilcox has the mid-upper guns trained on the beach in case of funny business.’ He took two boxes by their handles and, walking almost at ground level, like a truncated dwarf, slid them over the turf and set off downhill. The heavy metal moved as if on ice, not keeping a straight course, yet heading towards the lighted dinghy. Appleyard followed, then Armatage, brought up by Rose, and rearguarded by me, so that we had ten boxes in motion at the same time.
Not five yards apart, we were covered in mud. Curving around boulders created a splash-track that shot moss and black liquid up our arms – which met spray coming from boots dug in to prevent overturning. Halfway, we were close enough to hear Appleyard say: ‘On our next job I’ll bring a couple of mud-sledges, and fifty black huskies!’
Nash enjoyed being the foreman. ‘Your time-sheets are going to look pretty before the night’s out.’ Stooped and moving, only the hard work stopped it being comical. We were his dog-team, but didn’t mind because he also was in harness. Bennett sat on the hill to guard the fast diminishing cargo. Now that the gold was found he had lost interest. The quest was over – so we thought. All we had to do was depart from the place and collect our wages. Bennett had brought us here, but Nash, it seemed to me, would get us back.
7
If our energy came from the sight of the gold, we were spending freely. None stinted his basic resource, and in three hours the boxes were at the beach. While Nash and Bennett discussed the best way of getting the cargo on board, we ate what was left of the rations.
The flying boat rose and fell. Wind played in the aerials, moaning above the slop of water on the beach. There was a smell of seaweed, half burnt vegetables, bird droppings and fish, odours coming and going between prolonged alcoholic gusts of sweet air. The sense of adventure was almost carnal, a sentimental attachment which was nevertheless profound and lasting. Standing in the open, tired and splashed with mud, on an island in a part of the world which did not seem connected to any other, the feeling was wholly a part of me because the wind and the smells said so, as also did whatever hazards were brewing before the light of day came on.
Waves lapped their creamy phosphorus over black shingle, and our pale flying boat dominated the cove. I was as far from home and what had made me as it was possible to get and yet be on earth. It was where I had always wanted to be, though whether I would learn anything of the half of myself that had got me here was doubtful. I only knew that whenever I took one step to alter my life, Fate took two. Now it had taken three, and I was lost in more ways than one, and if I couldn’t make the effort to care it was because I did not think there was anything on earth that could do me harm.
We put out our cigarettes, and Rose who hammered his pipe against the heel of his boot swore as the stem flew away from the bowl. Being in the second boat, he could have sat for another ten minutes. ‘It was a present from my mother. I’ve a spare one in my kit, but I get nervous if I don’t have a reserve.’
‘Why not try to fix it?’ Appleyard, thinking it important that our navigator be consoled, found the two pieces. ‘I’ll have a go later.’
Nash shouted, as the icy water struck up to his waist. Armatage went head first, legs waving till Nash put a hand on his back. ‘Dive in, for God’s sake. It ain’t a concrete mixer. Do you think your mother’s going to come out of bed and pull you on board?’
He steadied the motions of the dinghy so that Bennett could get on. Armatage fixed the oars in the rowlocks, then caught hold of a spare oar and pushed from the shore into the calm water of the fjord. Nash’s voice carried over the water. ‘Hold the bloody thing still!’
Appleyard dragged boxes to the water’s edge so that they could be lifted as soon as Nash returned. A light from the flying boat was set to guide us. I was roused by the click of rowlocks and, down from my dream on the hilltop, ran into the water and caught the rope, pulling till I heard the hull scraping.
Four boxes made the boat unwieldy once we were on the water, but I pulled hard at the oars, spraying Nash at the tiller. Our eyes were used to the darkness, and the flying boat was close inshore. Craving sleep, I wished for the labour to be over. ‘I’ll take it on the next trip,’ Nash said. ‘Can you manage the tiller?’
I nodded. ‘The palms of my hands are giving me jip.’
‘Just keep on. We’ll beat ’em yet!’
Night and day had been pulled from the passage of time. There was neither. We were nowhere, attached only to the passing moments. ‘Do we look for Bull, or not?’
I had forgotten the question by the time he replied. ‘After this effort,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to have sleep. We’ll be no good without it. And to look for Bull we also need daylight, and fair weather. Then we’ll see what can be done. Go a bit to port. I’ll square it with the Skipper.’
The starboard float was suspended in the darkness and, feeling that the rig might fall, I rowed quickly under it. Nash told me to steady-on, and make for the hatchway. Water chopped against us, but we reached the side. Wilcox threw a rope. ‘Another mud-pie gang!’
We tied close, and I set a box up on my shoulder. Bennett looked out from the promised land of the flying boat, from which wafted the warm smell of fuel and stale food. I wanted nothing more than to get in and sleep. Any surface would do. ‘Keep it close, Mr Nash,’ the skipper called. ‘Keep that dinghy in. No space between.’
The weight came from my shoulder. Nash hoisted the second box. ‘Wakey-wakey, Sparks! Let’s have the third.’
I struggled to lift, but the box was pulled from me by Armatage when about to slip into the water. Nash told me it wasn’t necessary to heave them onto my shoulder. If I used both hands and levered as far as my knees, the handles could be reached from the hatchway. ‘It’s also safer. You won’t get a hernia.’
We pushed off to let Rose’s dinghy unload. Exhaustion had seemed so final that I was unprepared for a return of energy. After the first load it became, as Nash said, a piece of cake. Knowing the distance helped. Technique improved. He was right. At unloading I would bend my knee and ledge a box on it so that Armatage could reach from the more stable platform of the flying boat.
We dreaded a rough sea, the snapping of a rope, and the slipping of a heavy box into the dark sandwich of water between dinghy and fuselage. So I was careful. Every plunge of the oars while rowing was like dipping pens in ink to skim us through the shine of water. The blend of hurry and absolute attention carried us from the hatchway and around the rear of the port float which, looming above, served as a circuit marker, giving the second dinghy a clear way in.
Nash worked the oars and I steered for the light on the beach. My back was to the flying boat, his view of it blocked by me as he moved us in unruffled transmission over the water. Out of a half dream came a yell and a splash which brought me back into consciousness. The responding shout from Appleyard caused me to wonder what had gone wrong, but I blocked speculation so as to make the run-in to shore. ‘Something’s happe
ned. Do we turn?’
‘Keep on. We’ve got work to do.’ His pace didn’t alter, but he was out of breath. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’ Distance muffled the noise of shouting as I leapt onto the beach with the rope in my hand.
The pile of boxes diminished. I set the last of our load in the boat, my feet swollen from wading. ‘We’ll take some getting dry.’
‘Sea water’s good, unless you swallow the stuff.’ He went ashore for his customary piss, and when the boxes lay like dominoes on the bottom of the dinghy I placed myself at the oars.
‘Push off.’ And felt the gentle lift as we were waterborne. ‘You’ll make a sailor yet.’
‘Does Davy Jones want me that badly?’
‘You’re lucky if somebody does. My wife left me when I went to jail, and none of my family would talk to me anymore. They loved me during the war. I’m best out of it.’ I rowed more quickly. ‘That’s the way of the world,’ he said. ‘But take it easy. You’ll get there, soon enough.’
‘They may need help.’
‘You’ll be no good if you knacker yourself.’
It was easier to hurry when exhausted. But our passage took longer than usual. We neared the float. ‘What’s wrong?’
Wilcox had gone overboard.
‘He slipped, and let go of the rope,’ Armatage shouted. ‘But the box was all right.’
‘You’d better give him a cup of the hot stuff,’ Nash called. ‘This water’s too cold for a midnight dip.’
‘And where’s Appleyard?’
‘In the drink, looking for Wilcox.’
My clothes felt like tissue paper in the wind. Rose’s dinghy came round by the nose. ‘We tried to get him out.’ There was an explosion of water from which a hand and head surfaced between the side and Rose’s boat. Nash leapt on board and stretched his arms out of the hatch, while I nudged the dinghy so as to push Appleyard close. While the rest looked on, silence during the actual lift was more awesome than any activity. The body seemed waterlogged, a dead weight. But he was alive, a hand moving across his marbled face as Nash rolled him like a carpet till there was no danger of him tipping back into the drink.
Bennett came out of his room. ‘Why have we stopped work?’
‘One man missing, believed drowned.’ Nash didn’t look up. ‘Wilcox, the flight engineer. Another man half dead searching for him. Appleyard, the gunner.’
Bennett looked as if such an event wasn’t worth his attention, the lines of his gaunt face set hard by the fact that, whatever it cost, nothing was going to stop him being rich. But in the dim light of the door his mouth was twisted by uncertainty – which a further touch of callousness put right. ‘I rely on you to keep everybody working.’
Neither the sea nor the basaltic lava of the mountainside would give up their dead. I stood in the dinghy, balancing to stay upright. Above were the birds, and below voracious fish. In between were castaways. ‘The wireless operator and Mr Rose will get the next lot in, sir.’ There was a wheedling in Nash’s tone, but from diplomacy rather than nature. ‘I’ll look after Appleyard. Armatage can unload the boat when it comes back.’
I waited for an order from one or the other.
‘Both boats are needed to finish the job.’
Nash’s tone, from being respectful, turned comradely. ‘Can’t do it, Skipper. We can’t afford to lose Appleyard. But I promise to get everything in before daylight.’
Rose and I would have to ferry another five loads, instead of three. It was easier said than done. ‘I’ll take care of him,’ Bennett said, ‘and stow the boxes when they come aboard.’
The raw wind blasted us. Even the cry of the birds would have been company. Nash looked up from his patient. ‘Oh yes, I know you will.’
His sarcasm made a clear picture of Bennett pushing the half-conscious man back into the water. I couldn’t believe it, but knew that Nash thought it more than likely.
In the lighted hatchway I saw Bennett’s revolver touching Nash’s temple. ‘Get back to your boat, or this will be the one trip you won’t come back from.’
The face that turned to him was green with a sickness that had nothing to do with fear of death. Confidence had been broken. The fight between sense and power was back, but Nash could not give in easily to either, though when he spoke his lips had become thinner. He tried to camouflage the revelation with a smile. ‘The sound of the shot will travel for miles, Skipper, and may be heard by those who are looking for us. If I go for a Burton, so may Appleyard. That’ll make four off the ration strength. You’ll be short-handed when trouble starts. I can’t believe you want that.’
I lacked the comforting hump of the Smith and Wesson under my jacket. If Nash was killed, the rest of the gold would stay ashore, buried by seaweed and birdshit till God Almighty claimed it for his own. I pulled the dinghy close, ready to leap aboard.
The gun was aimed at my face, and the chances were small that in the next few seconds I would continue to feel miserable and exhausted. I did not care whether I lived or died when Nash missed his chance to knock Bennett down.
‘I’ll tell you what’ – his voice was as friendly and familiar as during a discussion at the Driftwood Hotel – ‘I’ll get Appleyard on his feet, and when the boat comes back make up two crews again. We’ll finish stowing those boxes before you can turn round.’
Bennett nodded curtly, and walked to his room. Rose and I each took an oar so as to get away quickly. Beyond the float he moved to the tiller. ‘What did you make of that?’
I was pulling too hard to talk.
‘We’ll have to lock him up,’ he said.
‘Nash knows how to deal with him. If we go for Bennett, he’ll be on his side, believe you me.’
We landed, and began loading. ‘I’ll have cramp in my fingers forever,’ he said. ‘I might not be able to work my slide rule or sextant with sufficient dexterity to find our way.’
The oars seemed bigger with every trip. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be able to tap my morse key, either.’
‘Wilcox just slipped into the drink. Came up twice, and none of us could get him, though it looked easy enough. When he went down for the third time Appleyard dived in. The whole thing happened in slow motion. He was our copilot.’
I asked Rose if he could fly the plane.
‘Me? No more than you can. And I know you can’t.’
‘You’d better not think of doing anything to Bennett, then.’
‘That’s all very well, as far as it goes. But it might be our turn next.’
‘How is he going to get the kite back on his own?’
‘He’ll have Nash. Nash got his wings. He went right through to OTU, then was grounded for something or other. He remustered as a gunner.’
‘He never said anything to me about it.’
‘Why should he?’
Armatage was at the flying boat. ‘He’s as right as rain. Wants to get back on the job already, but Nash won’t let him.’
I lifted the first box. ‘And the skipper?’
He winked. ‘All jolly and bright.’
When we were empty Nash got into my boat. ‘I’ll row both ways, Sparks. Give you a break. I’m for finishing the job quick.’
So were we all. Zest was apparent, with the end in sight. The second dinghy was a few yards behind. Halfway to the shore he said: ‘If there’s any further argy-bargy between me and the skipper, you keep out of it, see?’
I nodded.
‘I’ll take care of him. I’ve known him a sight longer than you, and we’ve been through a fair bit together.’
‘If you want it that way.’
‘It’s the only way it’ll work’ With the mooring rope over his shoulder he leapt onto the beach. He worked quickly, passing the boxes to me, and we were away before the others landed. He rowed our last trip as well. We made the boat fast and, once on board, I stayed close to the hatchway, my dissociation from the world complete. But when Rose came I lifted the final boxes from Armatage, and while stacking them Bennet
t said: ‘I’ll see you get a campaign medal for this, Sparks – which is more than we poor aircrew got from the war!’
Appleyard volunteered for guard in the mid-upper, and Bennett sat on the flight deck. After a hot drink we slept – as they say – in our own footprints.
8
Easier said than done. Sometimes in sleep I go under and die, don’t remember dreams growing out of bedrock. I’d like to know what’s there, but my faculties have hooks that won’t grapple. I belong to another world so absolutely that during the time of contact I do not exist. What I endure while in that world is impossible to know. Or so I understand. I woke after an hour as if called up by radio even though the set was switched off.
Where Rose’s head pressed on the chart table, a tideline of sweat stained his pre-computed altitude curves. He breathed evenly and, without waking, though his eyes opened for a second, turned his head to lay the scarred cheek down. Perhaps he dreamed someone was trying to kill him. On the other hand, maybe while sleeping he was at peace.
Bennett, enthroned at the controls, sat up stiffly but fast asleep. Darkness beyond the canopy was thick with ground-level cloud in which anything could move without being seen. Whatever happened would be to our disadvantage. Appleyard slept in the mid-upper. The boat rocked unattended, hatches battened, tanks almost empty. Wilcox wouldn’t work his knobs and levers, or cough unspoken thoughts into the intercom – or play slot-machines anymore. We were also a gunner short, but did it matter with a ton of gold on board? The metal meant no more to me than a cargo of cement or wheat. Bennett was part-owner and skipper, but we were merely employees of the carriers.
The atmosphere was eerie. I put down the button of my radio and waited for the magic eye to dawn. Atmospherics drowned everything in the hour before daylight. Mountains closed in on the medium frequency and limited our range. Fragmentary weather reports on short wave bounced from too far to be of use. I switched off and stepped down the ladder, circumventing Armatage who was curled up like a baby. Nash snored in the bunk, bare toes pointing in the air. Mugs and plates were everywhere, tea towels spread, a box of apples going rotten. I lit the primus and put the huge kettle on. The smell of carbolic made me hungry when I used a handful of water to wash my face. I rifled the biscuit tin, and sat drinking coffee at the table.