"MacLean, Alistair - South by Java Head" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)

"Yes." The deep voice carried clearly through the falling rain. "Who's there?"

"Farnholme, of course." He could hear the man in the sternsheets giving an order, could see the rowers starting to pull strongly again. "Van Effen?"

"Yes, Van Effen."

"Good man!" There was no questioning the genuineness of the warmth in Farnholme's voice. "Never been so glad to see anyone in all my life. What happened?" The boat was only twenty feet away now, and they could talk in normal tones.

"Not much." The Dutchman spoke perfect, colloquial English, with a scarcely discoverable trace of accent. "Our worthy captain changed his mind about waiting for you, and had actually got under way before I persuaded him to change his mind."

"But -- but how do you know the Kerry Dancer won't sail before you get back? Good God, Van Effen, you should have sent someone else. You can't trust that devil an inch."

"I know." Hand steady on the tiller, Van Effen was edging in towards the stonework. "If she sails, she sails without her master. He's sitting in the bottom of the boat here, hands tied and with my gun in his back. Captain Siran is not very happy, I think."

Farnholme peered down along the beam of the torch. It was impossible to tell whether Captain Siran was happy or not, but it was undoubtedly Captain Siran. His smooth, brown face was as expressionless as ever.

"And just to make certain," Van Effen continued, "I've got the two engineers tied in Miss Plenderleith's room -- tied hand and foot by myself, I may say. They won't get away. The door's locked, and Miss Plenderleith's in there with them, with a gun in her hand. She's never fired a gun in her life, but she's perfectly willing to try, she says. She's a wonderful old lady, Farnholme."

"You think of everything," Farnholme said admiringly. "If only------"

"All right, that'll do! Stand aside, Farnholme." Parker was by his side, a powerful torch shining down on to the upturned faces below. "Don't be a bloody fool!" he said sharply, as Van Effen made to bring up his pistol. "Put that thing away -- there's a dozen machine-guns and rifles lined up on you."

Slowly Van Effen lowered his gun and looked up bleakly at Farnholme.

"That was beautifully done, Farnholme," he said slowly. "Captain Siran here would have been proud to claim such a masterpiece of treachery."

"It wasn't treachery," Farnholme protested. "They're British troops, our friends, but I'd no option. I can explain------"

"Shut up!" Parker cut in brusquely. "You can do all your explaining later." He looked down at Van Effen. "We're coming with you, whether you like it or not. That's a motor lifeboat you have there. Why were you using your oars?"

"For silence. Obviously. Much good it did us," Van Effen added bitterly.

"Start the motor," Parker ordered.

"I'll be damned if I will!"

"Perhaps. You'll probably be dead if you don't," Parker said coldly. "You look an intelligent man, Van Effen. You've got eyes and ears and should realise we're desperate men. What's to be gained by childish obstinacy at this stage?"

Van Effen looked at him for a long moment in silence, nodded, jammed his gun hard into Siran's ribs and gave an order. Within a minute the engine had come to life and was putt-putting evenly away as the first of the wounded soldiers was lowered on to the thwarts. Within half an hour the last of the men and women who had been standing on the dockside were safely aboard the Kerry Dancer. It had taken two trips, but short ones: Corporal Fraser had been about right in his estimate of distance, and the ship was anchored just outside the three-fathom shoal line of the Pagar Spit.

The Kerry Dancer got under way just before half-past two in the morning, the last ship out of the city of Singapore before she fell into the hands of the Japanese later on that same day of 15th February, 1942. The wind had dropped away now, the rain fined to a gentle drizzle and a brooding hush lay over the darkened city as it faded swiftly into the gloom of the night. There were no fires to be seen now, no lights at all, and even the crackle of desultory gunfire had died away completely. Everything was unnaturally, uncannily silent, silent as death itself, but the storm would break when the first light of day touched the rooftops of Singapore.

Farnholme was in the bleak, damp aftercastle of the Kerry Dancer, helping two of the nurses and Miss Plenderleith to attend to the bandaging and care of the wounded soldiers, when a knock came to the door -- the only door, the one that led out into the deep after well. He switched out the light, stepped outside and closed the door carefully behind him. He turned to look at the shadowy figure standing in the gloom.

"Lieutenant Parker?"

"Yes." Parker gestured in the darkness. "Perhaps we'd better go up on the poop-deck here -- we can't be overheard there."

Together they climbed the iron ladder and walked right aft to the taffrail. The rain had quite stopped now, and the sea was very calm. Farnholme leaned over the rail, gazed down at the phosphorescence bubbling in the Kerry Dancer's creaming wake and wished he could smoke. It was Parker who broke the silence.