Uncharted Seas (42 page)

The hearts of all of them played a devil’s tattoo in their chests. Their nails were broken, the toes of their boots torn and their muscles aching excruciatingly, but by four o’clock, after an hour spent crossing the smooth, sharply tilted slabs, they had all reached the little plateau, three sides of which beetled over the abyss. There was room enough for the whole party to stretch at full length there, and, for some time, they lay almost comatose. Luvia had made an examination of their situation on his first journey to the plateau and he knew that there was no way of progressing further upward from it. A steep wall of rock, rising to the cliff-top forty feet above, which showed no break for hand or foothold, cut them off entirely, but for the moment they were content to rest.

For nearly two hours their every thought had been concentrated on the emergency of the moment and none of them had had any opportunity to wonder what had become of the rest of the rescue-party from Yonita’s island, but the sound of a shot, down in the valley, recalled its existence to them.

Eagerly they all scrambled to their knees, their fatigue forgotten, and peered down into the depths below. The fire in the native village had burnt itself out and showed only as heaps of smouldering embers scattered over a wide area. The bonfire about which the native warriors had danced had died down so that it gave little light, but beyond it intermittent flashes pierced the blackness and the rattle of musketry echoed clearly up the cliff.

‘Uncle Cornelius!’ Yonita cried. ‘Uncle Cornelius! At last, he has arrived with the others.’

Anxiously they watched the new battle raging in the valley. Deveril and his advance party had had the advantage of surprise
and the additional diversion caused by Li Foo firing the village at the moment of their arrival, but evidently the Negroes had sighted the main body of the whites almost as soon as they crossed the crest on the far side of the valley. They were fighting in the open, and, by the semi-circle of flashes from their arms, it looked as though they were partially surrounded.

As the moments sped the hearts of the watchers on the cliff-face sank. It was obvious that instead of gaining ground their friends were losing it. Uncle Cornelius’s men were gradually being driven towards the west. As they came opposite the Marriage House they seemed to rally, and, with a sudden movement, surged forward. The din of battle grew nearer. Flashes lit up the high palisade and soon it was clear that the whites had fought their way into the compound.

Another ten minutes and it became obvious that their intention was to hold it as occasional shots kept coming from various points along all four sides of the enclosure. Gradually these grew more infrequent; the blacks, weakened by their many losses sustained that night, had given up trying to storm the compound. The firing died away altogether and silence fell over the valley.

De Brissac and some of the others with him realised to the full the gravity of their situation. They could not ascend the cliff any farther and only darkness had nerved most of the party to the ascent. In daylight hysteria would almost certainly overcome many of them if they attempted to climb down and the only method of getting them back to the valley would be to lower them from stage to stage, until they could be received into friendly hands. All of them had counted upon Uncle Cornelius defeating their savage enemy and being able, at least, to help them in the last stages of their descent. Now, it seemed, his attack had failed and he was cut off there below them, surrounded and besieged, in the Marriage House compound. Even if they could have got down the cliff their weapons were of little use now they had run out of ammunition; they could give no assistance to Uncle Cornelius, or he to them and, worst of all, Deveril’s men had made their desperate gamble and lost, since there was no possibility of further help arriving from their island.

Every one of the little party on the plateau in the cliff-face was absolutely dropping with fatigue. The exertions of all of them for the last sixty hours had been prodigious, and even Sir Deveril’s people had been up merrymaking all the previous night in addition to having made their forced march from the shore, fought heroically and scaled three-quarters of the mountainous rampart that shut off the southern extremity of Satan’s Island from the low-lying land forming the bulk of it.

De Brissac knew that nothing further could be done for their own preservation, or to assist Uncle Cornelius’s besieged force in the valley, until daylight came. He urged the rest to sleep if they could, and, curling himself up in a little hollow, dropped off immediately. Yonita had already fallen into a heavy sleep with her head across Deveril’s knees, and very soon nearly all the others had followed their example, too utterly wearied for the hard rock on which they lay to prevent nature taking its toll of their tired bodies.

Only Juhani and Synolda, seated side by side with their backs against the cliff, remained awake; their minds still active with their own problem. Neither had had a chance to speak to the other during the stress of the girls’ escape and the events that followed, and if they had they would not have cared to do so in the presence of the others, but now the quiet, regular breathing which came from all sides of them, punctuated by an occasional snore, assured them that for all practical purposes they were utterly alone up there in their eyrie.

‘Not asleep yet?’ Juhani asked in a low voice as he heard Synolda ease her position.

‘No. A quarter of an hour ago I was dead beat, but now I’m too overtired to sleep, I think. Anyway, leaning against this rock is so damned uncomfortable.’

He stretched out a long arm and drew her towards him. ‘Lean on me. You’ll be better so.’

Without a word she snuggled up against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

‘Juhani,’ she whispered, after a moment, ‘what happened to Vicente?’

‘He’s dead. I had him locked in his cabin, same as I locked you, and the islanders did him in there, poor devil, when they sacked the ship. I’m afraid that’s bad news for you—isn’t it?’

‘I
am
sorry he’s dead, in one way,’ she murmured. ‘He wasn’t such a bad sort really but I never cared for him the way you thought I did.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly an extraordinary way of showing ordinary friendship—do you behave with all your men friends as you did with him?’

‘Of course I don’t!’ she whispered angrily. ‘But Vicente was a sort of legacy left over from my second husband.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t get you.’

‘It’s not easy to explain and it’s a long story.’

‘I don’t mind that if you don’t. I’m darn tired but I’m not sleepy.’

‘All right. I’ll tell you, I can hardly expect you to believe me, but I lived in Caracas for seven years, you know, and life’s pretty queer for lots of people who live in these little South American republics, like Venezuela. Particularly for a girl who’s good looking and happens to be married to a Venezuelan.

‘Piet Brendon, my first husband, took me to Caracas when I was quite young and he died when I was only twenty. Ortello was a rich man and quite attractive. I’ve never cared much for work, and, like a fool, I decided to marry him instead of going back to South Africa where I would have had to earn my own living.

‘In those days the tyrant Gomez was the dictator of Venezuela. He only died in 1935 and right up to that time he ruled just like any robber baron, only carrying on the business in a very big way. His army was simply a collection of legalised gangsters. They ran the whole country as though it was their private property. There was no law and no justice outside the old man’s will. People were shot, imprisoned or fined by the thousand without any sort of trial, and the old Catfish’s lieutenants were every bit as bloodthirsty and cruel as he was himself. Not a woman in the country, except the few Europeans in the Consulates and oilfields, was safe from them, and I should think you can
guess what the bad kind of Portuguese-South Americans can be like with women.

‘As Ortello’s wife I was a Venezuelan subject and to keep his business going he had to hobnob with a lot of these blackguards who ran the country. He managed to conceal me from them for the best part of eighteen months, but a Colonel Diaz came to the house on business unexpectedly one day and saw me. After that he resorted to all sorts of ruses to see me again, and, when he found that I wouldn’t have anything to do with him behind my husband’s back, he trumped up a charge of conspiracy against Ortello, who was immediately arrested and thrown into prison.

‘You can imagine what happened then. Diaz came to see me and gave me the choice of being pleasant to him or having my husband shot. There was no question of its being an empty threat because people were shot every day in Caracas at that time. Ortello had been kind to me so what else could I do.

‘If I’d known what was to happen afterwards I’d never’ve done it because that wasn’t the end of the wretched business—only a beginning. Diaz told his friends about me and I was forced to give way to them too during an awful six months while they kept Ortello in prison. But worst of all Ortello wasn’t worth it. Soon after they released him I found out that he’d been having a succession of mistresses ever since our marriage. In the blow-up that followed, I learned that he knew all about what had been happening to me but was tired of me anyway, so, instead of being grateful, he was brutally cynical about it.

‘I suppose I could have got to South Africa then, if I’d really made an effort. But that six-months’ experience with half a dozen different lovers, some of whom I liked and others whom I hated, but all of whom I’d been compelled to take by force of circumstances, hardened me in a way it may be difficult for you to understand.

‘I lived in every comfort. In fact I had all the luxuries any woman could have outside Europe or the States. In a way, it seemed to be cutting off my nose to spite my face, to throw it all up; particularly as by then I’d realised that physical relations don’t really mean much. It may sound awfully cynical but they’re soon forgotten unless there is love too.

‘I wouldn’t have anything more to do with Ortello himself but he wanted me to stay, and, while I was trying to make up my mind, I met a young Spanish official with whom I fell in love. Ortello was quite happy with his mistresses and encouraged me
to go ahead with my affair because my young lover could help him in his business by giving him big Government contracts.

‘The Spaniard was killed a year later in a mining accident and I was utterly heartbroken—until I discovered I was going to have a child. I told Ortello and offered to leave him. He said nobody would know the child wasn’t his so there was no reason why we should separate, and I thought, at the time, that he was behaving very generously.

‘Really he wasn’t being generous to me at all because he lost his Government contracts after my lover died, and he had suddenly realised my value to him as a financial asset. He wanted me to have the child, and become fond of it, so that he could use it as a lever for blackmail against me later on.

‘That’s just what happened. I adored my baby boy, and for a few months I was completely happy. Then Ortello introduced another Government official to me, and, very soon, I saw the wretched position in which I’d placed myself. Legally the child was Ortello’s, and in Venezuela a father still has absolute rights over his children. He told me, quite bluntly, that unless I was prepared to be complacent to his friends, which would enable him to get back his contracts, he’d take the boy away from me and send it to an orphanage where I should never see it again.’

Synolda paused, shrugging her shoulders with a weary little gesture. ‘Well—there you are. I’m not asking for pity. I’ve had some good times as well as bad and it wasn’t all quite so terrible as it sounds, just put baldly like that, but there were some pretty grim moments, and, towards the end, I got to hate Ortello more than I’d ever thought it possible to hate anybody. My affair with Vicente was forced upon me, like the others, a last link in my life with Ortello.’

‘You poor kid,’ said Juhani softly. ‘You’ve had one hell of a time. But he’s out of it now and you’ll never see Venezuela again.’

‘Oh, God!’ she groaned. ‘I’m tired—desperately tired.’

Juhani was nodding too and far too weary to seek for a more detailed explanation of her recent conduct. All that seemed to matter was that they were together again. In the hours of his desperate march across the island to rescue her he had realised that he loved her for herself, no matter what she might have done, and he had felt an actual physical ache to have his arms round her again. That desire, at least, was realised whatever morning might bring. Sleepily he turned her face up to his and
gave her a long, gentle kiss. Almost as their lips parted both of them fell asleep.

The whole party would probably have slept far into the morning if the sound of a loud explosion had not roused them. Staring about them sleepily they sat up, and, craning over the edge of the precipice, peered down into the valley.

Daylight had come and a glance at his watch showed De Brissac that it was nearly eight o’clock. The valley below them lay clear as a map in the sunlight. Little wisps of smoke still curled up from the native village to their front. To their left they could see a number of the white islanders, evidently perched on makeshift stands, manning the palisade of the Marriage House compound, but another group of whites had appeared from a big maize field on the opposite side of the open space which lay between the compound and the village. Round it were the larger hutments, the only ones which had not been destroyed in the previous night’s fire.

As those on the plateau high up on the cliff watched, one of the party by the maize field hurled something dark into the air. A second explosion followed and half of one of the hutments disappeared in a burst of flame and smoke.

The natives who had taken refuge in the buildings round the open space after the burning of their village were tumbling pellmell out of them to resist this new attack. Meanwhile the whites manning the stockade opened a brisk fire, shooting down into the mass of running savages.