We Saw The Sea (16 page)

“You’ve got to get the right idea about this journal business, Bowles,” he said. “It’s not just another thing thought up by Their Lordships to make your life more of a misery. There’s a definite purpose behind it. Sooner or later every officer, if he wants to get on in the service, has got to learn how to
notice
things, with an enquiring mind. He’s also got to learn how to express himself clearly and distinctly on paper. It grieves me to say it, but in peacetime one of the few ways an officer can make his name is in the quality and quantity of his paperwork. You’ve only got to look at some of the dreadful
jargon
you read in a lot of the ‘Orders’ and official letters which are being pushed around the place now to see the results of muddled and stereotyped thinking and hence muddled and stereotyped writing. Quite apart from all that, if you write up your journal properly it’ll give you an enormous amount of amusement in years to come. I often look through mine and howl with laughter at myself. The Commander was telling me only the other night that he’s still got his journal because it’s got two things in it which he’s always finding useful, the complete words of ‘The Ball of Kerriemuir’ and a recipe for paint to put on ships’ boats that’s better than anything else he’s seen. See what I mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now let’s have a look at yours. See, this is what I mean. Thursday, 19th. 0900, anchored. Where? You know, and I know, that it was off New Guinea but put it in all the same. Here again, ‘sent away seaboat’. It doesn’t say what for. For all your journal tells us we stopped one day, lowered a seaboat just for laughs and steamed on our way rejoicing. There’s a lot of things which have happened this commission which you don’t even mention at all. You might have described the way we rigged the motor-cutter for diving when the Commander went down to find Lady C.-in-C.’s engagement ring. And what courses we steered to keep clear of that typhoon. The Captain didn’t just pick a course with a pin, you know. There’s a quadrant in every typhoon configuration which you steer for to keep out of trouble. There’s lots of things. I could go on and on. The concert party. The banyans. The dinner party we gave for the chief who offered to shrink the Chief Steward’s head free of charge. You’ve hardly mentioned Miranda and that island that appeared. There’s plenty of learned gentlemen in the Royal Society who would have given their right arms for your grandstand view of that. Got the idea?”

“Yes, I think so, sir.”

“Good. Now sketches. This one of the weather forecast areas of the British Isles is all
right
but we’re not in the British Isles, we’re in the Far East. And this one of pipe markings is O.K. but it’s not very original, is it? I can get a dozen much better ones from the Senior Engineer any day of the week. You must try and cultivate a newspaperman’s outlook about this. Try and make your sketches relevant, up to date, interesting and informative. Even a map of Hong Kong showing the bars and their prices would fill all four functions, although I don’t suppose the Captain would go much on it. See what you can do anyway, Bowles.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

With Soapy Waffard, The Bodger had a different approach. The Bodger thought Master Waffard too clever by half.

“Hm. What’s this?”

“It’s a map of Hong Kong, sir. It’s got the name at the bottom, sir.”

“Yes.”

It was a very good map, The Bodger was forced to concede. It was complete with contours, streets, even soundings in the harbour; every street was named and every mooring buoy marked. It was indeed a superlative map but The Bodger was careful not to show approval; a little praise went a long way with Master Waffard.

“Looks like an elephant’s turd. What’s this next one that looks like a dissected sheep’s heart?”

“It’s an isometric drawing of a boiler feed regulator, sir. You remember we did our engineering time last month, sir.”

“Of course I remember.”

Actually, the fact had escaped The Bodger’s mind completely. The Bodger wished he could remember what “isometric” meant. He studied the drawing. Again, it was well done; The Bodger had no doubt that Ginger would say that it was as good as any of the ship’s drawings. The Bodger turned to the text.

“Writing could be improved a bit.” Waffard’s writing, The Bodger reflected, was probably the most legible in the ship; it was almost mechanically legible.

“Too many adjectives.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“It’s not too bad, though. Still a long way to go before it’s any good. Try and remember you’re writing a journal, not an Admiralty Fleet Order.”

“Yes, sir. Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Could you tell me anything about Dhon Phon Huang, where we’re going next week, sir? I can’t find anything about it anywhere, sir.”

“Ask the Navigating Officer. That’s his part of ship.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

After Soapy Waffard had gone (probably, The Bodger suspected, to read up his Seamanship Manual), it occurred to The Bodger that he himself knew nothing of Dhon Phon Fluang either. The Bodger brushed the dust off the wardroom encyclopedias and in the volume entitled “Deodorant--Frier,” between
Dholgore
and
Dhrualagiri
, he found
Dhon Phon Huang
.

“Dhon Phon Huang,” The Bodger read, “a native principality on the lower southern edge of the Indochinese Peninsula. Pop: 250,367 (1826). Exports: opium, hashish, slaves. A backward and barbaric port on the delta of the Houdun River believed to have been first founded by stragglers from the armies of Genghis Khan. Governed since the earliest times by a hereditary chieftain known as The Huang, who is hostile to foreigners. Huang the Terrible (1818-1895), who begat 453 bastards, one for each day of the Dhonese Year, was responsible for the massacre of forty missionaries in 1863. The missionaries were cooked and eaten in the palace amidst scenes of extravagant excitement.”

“Name of a name,” said The Bodger admiringly. “This Huang must be quite a player! “ He went to ask the Navigating Officer for more information.

The Navigating Officer was in the chart-house, poring over a chart and looking disgruntled.

“Bodger, you’re about the fourteenth person who’s asked me about that
damned
place this morning. I tell you I don’t
know
yet. I’ve got to read it up. All the Far East Pilot says is ‘Not recommended for ships above 5,000 tons. The Dhonese are expert smugglers and armed guards should be posted day and night’. I’ve only just got the chart of the place from Droggy.”

“Let’s see. Is this what Captain Cook saw from the horizon in 17-something or other?”

“Oh no, it’s the latest. Not that it’s much help. The place hasn’t been surveyed.”

The Bodger was impressed. “That’s pretty efficient of Droggy,” he said. (The Bodger had often noticed that, when a ship was isolated at the end of the earth and all normal mail had come to a stop, bills still arrived from Gieves Ltd and charts from the Hydrographer of the Navy.)

“What exactly is this shindig we’re going to?”

“It’s the Dhonese New Year. It’s like our New Year’s Eve, the Fourth of July and Mardi Gras all rolled into one. It lasts a week. Apparently the Communists have got their eye on Huang and his merry men and someone in Honkers thought it would be a good idea for the R.N. to be represented there. Nobody’s ever been there before. Just look at this passage up to the city. There’s a bloody great kink half-way up, like Bechers Brook. . . .”

“The Canal Turn, you mean.”

“The Canal Turn then. There doesn’t seem to be a leading mark or a buoy the whole way and the greatest depth of water, marked that is, is six fathoms. It may be much shallower for all we know. I only hope to Christ there’s a pilot.”

There was certainly a Pilot. He was rowed from shore by forty oarsmen in a ceremonial silver barge. The barge was sixty feet in length and was a magnificent craft. The rubbing strakes were of burnished silver and jewels shone in the canopy over the Pilot’s head. The oarsmen dipped their oars to the time of a silver horn, blown by a man standing in the sternsheets. Above all flew the Pilot’s flag of rich red cloth and silver thread.

“Here’s your pilot,” the Captain said to the Navigating Officer. “Looks like something out of ‘Anna and the King of Siam’.”

The Dhonese Pilot was the most bizarre figure ever seen on
Carousel
’s bridge. His face was the shade of sun-soaked teak and was carved in planes of strength. He stood only about five foot in height but he had tremendous thighs and shoulders. His cap was flat and red, like a cardinal’s, with silver designs worked on it. He wore a short red sarong and a red cape which hung open to reveal his mighty brown chest. His feet were bare but his mouth was determined and his eye commanding. The Captain recognized an equal.

The Pilot was accompanied by three other men, one very short and the other two very tall, with shaved heads and long polished swords.

The Pilot bowed. The Captain and the Navigating Officer bowed. The very short man bowed and, pointing to himself, said: “Interpreter”.

The Captain pointed at the two men with swords.

“Who are they?”

“Huang executioner.” The Interpreter made an expressive downwards sweep of his arm. “Slow sailor--
zut!
“

The Captain thought about the swords. He was sure he had read something somewhere about the implications of naked weapons on the bridge of H.M. Ships and Vessels.

“Well, I suppose we’d better get on with it,” he said. He nodded. The Dhonese Pilot mounted the bridge parapet and stood with his legs apart and his arms folded. The Navigating Officer took up his position by the voice pipe and the two executioners placed themselves behind him. The Captain grinned.

“Watch it, Pilot,” he said. “Slow sailor--zut! “

The Navigating: Officer allowed a thin smile to cross his face.

“Half ahead together, one hundred revolutions.”

Carousel
began to move ahead. Suddenly, the Dhonese Pilot shot out his right arm. The Navigating Officer hesitated. The executioners shifted their grips on their swords.

“Come to starboard, Pilot,” the Captain said quietly.

“Starboard fifteen.”

The ship’s head swung. The Dhonese Pilot pointed ahead.

“Midships.”

After several alterations, one of them through ninety degrees, the Navigating Officer realized that the Dhonese Pilot’s hand signals were not directional but were intended as helm orders. The Navigating Officer was forced to admit to himself that this exotic-looking pilot had a very accurate grasp of a cruiser’s handling qualities in confined waters. Again and again, the arm gestured at the exact moment when the Navigating Officer himself would have ordered a helm movement. Between them, the Navigating Officer and the Dhonese Pilot navigated very successfully. The executioners relaxed their grips.

At the mouth of the estuary the shoreline had been low-lying swamp and mudbanks but farther inland the ground began to rise and the banks closed in. A range of hills lay ahead and
Carousel
was steering directly towards them. The Dhonese Pilot shifted his stance. His hand signals were smaller and more frequent.

Presently
Carousel
passed into a narrow gorge cut into a hillside. The fairway was not more than a cable across and the bottom was shallow. The Navigating Officer wondered how so small an outlet could convey the water volume of a river, which by the size of its estuary, must be at least the size of the Thames; then he realized that they must have chosen only one of the many faults in the hill formation, almost certainly the most navigable. The Navigating Officer began to have more confidence in their outlandish Pilot.

The Navigating Officer looked up and saw that
Carousel
was apparently steering into a solid hillside of rock. It must be the Canal Turn.

“Very bad place,” explained the Interpreter.

The Navigating Officer privately agreed. The hillside loomed closer so that the men on
Carousel
’s bridge could see the individual boulders in its face and the bushes near its summit. The Dhonese Pilot seemed unconcerned, although
Carousel
with her complement of eight hundred souls was steaming at six knots towards sudden and final ruin. At the last moment, before
Carousel
must have dashed herself on the rocks, a clear channel appeared to port. Still the Dhonese Pilot made no movement. The Navigating Officer looked questioningly at the Captain but the Captain shook his head and nodded at the Dhonese Pilot. The Navigating Officer tightened his lips; this, he said to himself, will separate the men from the boys.

At last, the Dhonese Pilot extended his left hand and
Carousel
wheeled swiftly into the channel. The Dhonese Pilot took off port wheel before a layman would have expected him to and ordered starboard wheel.
Carousel
slid on a straight course with ten of starboard wheel on. A new respect came into the Navigating Officer’s eyes.

“Clever chaps, these Chinese,” he muttered. “This bastard’s even heard of canal effect.”

The Navigating Officer caught the Dhonese Pilot’s eye and was astounded to see him grinning. The truth flashed on the Navigating Officer. In the Dhonese Pilot’s eyes it was he, the
Navigating Officer
, who was the beginner, not to be trusted in pilotage waters! The Navigating Officer’s temper rose. This man comes on board, looking like something escaped from the Chelsea Arts Ball, with his Chu Chin Chow henchmen, and then gives him, the Navigating Officer, a graduate of H.M.S.
Dryad
, and a professional seaman whom the Admiralty had passed as competent to handle their biggest ships, an object lesson in ship handling. The Navigating Officer now understood the meticulous hand signals and the exaggerated movements to indicate changes of speed. It occurred to the Navigating Officer that he might have been in real danger from the executioners.

Meanwhile, the Captain could not prevent himself feeling a strong rush of relief. He had summed up the Dhonese Pilot and, ignoring the ancient rule of “Pilot’s advice but Captain’s orders” he had decided that the Dhonese Pilot was the best man to guide the ship. But, when the Captain remembered that hairpin bend, he was heartily glad that fortune favoured the brave.