Passage by Night

JACK HIGGINS

1

The Grace Abounding

Manning came awake quickly from a deep and dreamless sleep. It was as if he had come into existence at the moment his eyes opened and he lay there staring at the cabin roof, conscious of the sweat on his body.

He was stripped to the waist and wore a pair of blue denims much faded by the sun and salt water. He glanced at his watch and then swung his legs to the floor and sat there looking down at his bare feet, conscious of a nagging pain behind his right eye. After a moment, a step sounded on the companionway.

The man who entered was a black man of indeterminate age, eyes bright and intelligent in a face seamed and wrinkled by years of the sea. He wore a battered peaked cap, a scarlet shirt and a pair of bright blue denims. Manning looked up and said solemnly, ‘Seth, who the hell am I?’

The seaman grinned. ‘One of those days, is it? Maybe you should lay off the rum for a while. I just made some fresh tea.’

‘Sounds fine. Where’s our client?’

‘Mr Morrison went spear fishing on the reef. Said I wasn’t to disturb you. I hope he has better luck than he did with that tuna. He sure ain’t no fisherman.’

‘For a hundred and fifty dollars a day he can be anything he likes as far as we’re concerned, and don’t you forget it,’ Manning said.

He followed Seth up the companionway and stood with one foot on the rail looking out into the gulf. He was a tall, powerful man with good shoulders. His brown hair was bleached by the sun and there was a two-day growth of beard on his chin. The sun-dried skin of his face was drawn tightly over the bones that framed calm and expressionless eyes.

A two-masted yacht passed a mile out in the gulf on the run down from Nassau, sails bellying in the North-West Trades and a small seaplane crossed to the north, sunlight gleaming on her silver and blue fuselage.

‘Jimmy Walker running tourists across to Eleuthera,’ Seth said as he arrived with the tea. ‘He’s been doing well this season.’

‘And spending it,’ Manning said. ‘Propping up the bar at the Caravel every night.’

‘I don’t think it’s the rum that’s the attraction,’ Seth said.

‘Sometimes I think you like to stir up trouble, Seth.’ Manning emptied over the side what was left in his cup. ‘Time I went looking for Morrison. We can’t afford to lose him. My reputation won’t stand it.’

‘You can say that again,’ Seth said sourly and helped Manning into his aqualung, buckling the straps securely in place.

‘What about a spear gun?’ Manning asked.

He shrugged. ‘You broke one last week, never got it fixed. Mr Morrison took the other.’

‘Probably put a shaft through his right foot by now.’

Manning pulled his diving mask over his face and vaulted over the side into the clear water. For a moment he paused to adjust his air supply and then swam down in a long sweeping curve.

The sensation of floating in space, alone in a silent world, had never lost its attraction. The sunlight, reflected by the waves, shimmered through gaudy seagrass which carpeted the bottom and shells and red starfish stood out clearly against the white sand in the clearings.

The reef was a forest of coral twisted into fantastic shapes, ugly, dangerous, nigger-heads rising towards the surface like ruined pillars. A few big striped silver perch chased each other through the coral shrubs. He paused, watching them for a moment, and then swam onwards with a powerful kick of his webbed feet, fish scattering to avoid him.

Beyond the coral, the bottom vanished from sight as he went over the edge. Down in the depths, shoals of rainbow fish filled the deep blue space, rising and falling in a shimmering cloud, changing colour with each movement.

They disintegrated in a silver cloud as several blue mackerel burst through them followed by a shark. Manning was brushed to one side by an invisible hand as the shark swerved by. He rested for a moment, holding onto the jagged edge of a crevasse in the face of the cliff and Morrison swam out of the green mist and started upwards.

In one hand he held his harpoon gun, in the other, the spear on which was impaled a silver perch. Manning swam towards him, and the American poised there in space and brandished the fish. Blood hung in a brown cloud above his right shoulder, drifting in long strings through the green water. As Manning approached, he saw that the upper arm had been badly lacerated by coral.

The American grinned and shrugged as if to say that it was nothing and, in the same moment, his eyes widened in alarm. As Manning started to turn, something grazed his back with stunning force, sending him bouncing against the cliff. He was aware of a blue and silver flash and turned to see an eight-foot barracuda vanish into the gloom.

Morrison dropped his harpoon gun in alarm and it drifted down into the green depths trailing the spear on its recovery line. Manning jackknifed and went after it, grabbing for the line, pulling the gun towards him. As he quickly reloaded, he could see Morrison vainly trying to squeeze into a narrow crevasse in the rocks.

At that moment the barracuda flashed from the mist and poised perhaps twenty feet away from the American. A second later it was joined by another.

The drifting brown cloud of blood grew even larger and Manning knew that within seconds it would attract more of the deadly fish. He drove upwards, firing at point-blank range into the white underbelly of the nearest one. It twisted in agony, jerking the gun from his hands and rolled over onto its back, tail threshing the water into a white cauldron, blood staining the sea.

Manning swam towards Morrison and pulled him from the crevasse. As they turned, the other barracuda swung in at its mate; lower jaw hanging to expose its murderous, overlapping teeth. The sea vibrated and it turned away, shreds of skin and bone hanging from its mouth. As other slim, silvery shapes darted from the gloom, Manning grabbed Morrison by the arm and pushed for the surface.

They swam through the shallows above the brilliant red and green coral and then the hull of the Grace Abounding appeared above them and they surfaced astern. Morrison went up the ladder first and Seth helped him over the rail. When Manning followed, he found the American collapsed on deck, shoulders heaving.

Seth looked up enquiringly as Manning pulled off his diving mask and unstrapped his aqualung. ‘Run into trouble?’

‘Mr Morrison grazed his shoulder and a couple of barracuda showed interest.’

Morrison sat up and Seth examined him, shaking his head. ‘I told you to watch out for those nigger-heads, Mr Morrison. A man can’t afford to draw blood spear fishing. Most of the big boys, they leave you alone, but not when they taste blood.’

‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Morrison said.

Manning helped him to his feet. ‘Let’s go below. I’ll fix that shoulder for you. Seth will see to the gear.’

Morrison sat on one of the bunks, a towel round his shoulders, shivering slightly. Manning took a bottle of rum from one of the cupboards, filled a glass and gave it to him. The American swallowed and smiled gratefully.

‘I thought this stuff about sharks and barracuda attacking skin divers was supposed to be all hogwash?’

‘Not when they taste blood,’ Manning said as he gently swabbed the deep cuts with merthiolate. ‘And another thing. Always reload your spear gun after using it. You never know when you might need it in a hurry.’

‘I don’t think I’m ever likely to forget that again,’ Morrison said wryly and Seth appeared in the doorway.

‘The Bonaventure, she coming in now, Cap’n.’

‘You take over here,’ Manning said and turned to Morrison. ‘An old friend I want a word with.’

He opened a drawer, took out a flat package and went up on deck.

‘The Bonaventure was an old deep-sea fishing boat, a fifty-footer in green and white, the paintwork peeling from her sides in great strips. The wheelhouse was a good ten feet above the deck and as the boat came round, she dipped alarmingly from side-to-side as though slightly top-heavy.

There were two deck hands, a young boy in canvas jeans, deeply bronzed by the sun, and a thin, balding man with a walleye. They both wielded boat hooks and as the fenders clashed, Manning jumped across.

In the well, three tuna and a couple of wahoo lay jumbled together, flies buzzing around their dead mouths in great clouds. Sanchez leaned out of the wheelhouse and grinned. ‘Come on up, amigo.’

He was at least sixty, but strong and wiry, his body dried to Spanish leather by the sea and sun. When Manning went up the ladder, he found him pouring gin into a couple of dirty glasses. He turned and offered one.

‘Your health,’ he said gravely in Spanish.

‘And yours,’ Manning replied fluently. ‘How are things in Havana?’

‘Much as usual.’ The old man turned and spat through the window. ‘Once we had hope, but now that America has promised not to invade …’

Manning swallowed his gin and said, ‘I’ll have a small bet with you. A hundred dollars American. A year from today, Castro will no longer rule Cuba?’

The old man laughed, spat on his hand and grasped Manning’s firmly. ‘How could I refuse such an offer?’ He raised his glass. ‘To Castro, may he rot in Hell.’

He took a box of thin cigars from a drawer and offered one. ‘Maria – she is well? Still on Spanish Cay singing at this club. What is it called – the Caravel?’

Manning nodded. He took the package from his waistband and dropped it onto the chart table. ‘There’s her usual letter. How’s her mother?’

Sanchez sighed. ‘Not too good, amigo. Don’t tell Maria. She has enough to worry about.’ He took a soiled envelope from his shirt pocket and passed it across. ‘A letter from the old woman. In it, she of course says that she is fine. This is what she wishes Maria to think.’

‘Still no chance of getting her out?’

Sanchez shook his head. ‘Impossible. In any case, her health would not permit it.’ He clapped Manning on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps next year things will be better, eh? Then you will all be able to come back. You to the business they stole from you, Maria to her home. Things will be as they were.’

Manning shook his head. ‘Nothing stays still, Sanchez. Everything changes.’

‘Perhaps you are right.’ Sanchez sighed and took Manning’s hand. ‘Go with God, amigo, and tell Maria to take care. Two of our people were killed in Honduras last week, shot down in the street. Fidel has a long arm.’

‘In Cuba he may be God incarnate – in Nassau, they’d probably certify him.’ Manning grinned and started down the ladder. ‘See you next month.’

As he stepped across to his own boat, Morrison appeared on deck, followed by Seth. The American paused to light a cigarette. As he came forward, The Bonaventure turned out to the sea exposing her name and port of registration on her stern.

‘Havana?’ he said in surprise. ‘I didn’t know Cuban boats came this far north?’

‘They have to if they want tuna or wahoo,’ Manning said. ‘Since the revolution they’ve had to rely completely on their own boats. No one from the islands would go within a mile of the place. They have a nasty habit of impounding anything they particularly fancy in the name of the re volution.’

‘Do I detect a slight edge of bitterness?’

‘You should. I have a salvage business in Havana. When the fidelistas arrived they took it over along with just about every other foreign-owned firm in town. I only managed to clear the harbour in the Grace Abounding by the skin of my teeth.’

‘You don’t care for friend Castro, then?’

Manning shrugged. ‘He’s smart enough. He had to be to promote an eighty-two-man invasion into a popular revolution, but the cracks are beginning to show. He can’t last much longer.’

‘You mean the Russian affair?’

‘Something a lot more important from his point of view. The guagiros – the dirt farmers. The land was supposed to be parcelled out amongst them. Unfortunately a lot of it’s turned out to be virgin jungle or mountain and scrub. You might say the natives are getting restless.’

‘So maybe you’ll get that salvage business of yours back sooner than you think?’

‘No harm in hoping.’ Manning glanced at his watch. ‘If we move now, we might make Johnstown before dark. You could buy me that drink you promised. Even if we didn’t get you a tuna, the afternoon had its moments.’

‘My pleasure,’ Morrison said.

As he went below, Seth was already winding in the anchor. Manning went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. A moment later, he opened the throttle and turned out into the gulf.

2

Spanish Cay

It was late evening when they came into Spanish Cay and the beach was a white line of surf fringed by palm trees etched against a vivid orange sky.

As the Grace Abounding rounded the point into Johnstown harbour, a deep-sea cruiser moved out into the channel and careless laughter drifted across the water, gay and transitory, blending into the darkness with the muted throb of the engine.

Manning reduced speed and took the boat in towards the crumbling stone jetty that formed the east side of the harbour. A tall, handsome black in the uniform of the colonial police sat on the wall and smoked a cigarette. He got to his feet and grabbed the line Seth threw to him.

Manning cut the engines, reached for his old reefer jacket and went out on deck where Morrison waited for him. When they climbed the rusty iron ladder to the jetty, the young policeman was sitting on the wall again.

He smiled, showing firm white teeth. ‘Any luck, Mr Manning?’

Manning shook his head. ‘Not a damned thing, Joe.’ He turned to Morrison. ‘Have you met Sergeant Howard yet? He stands for the Empire in these parts, or what’s left of it. Keeps us all strictly in line.’

Morrison nodded. ‘We ran across each other when I flew in yesterday. How about joining us for a drink, sergeant?’

‘A little too early. Maybe I’ll take you up on it later.’

‘You do that,’ Morrison said and they moved away along the jetty, leaving him talking to Seth.

They could hear the strange, pulsating rhythm of the goombay, the Nassavian version of the calypso, as they turned along the waterfront and approached the Caravel. It faced directly onto the harbour and the terrace at the front was shaded by sea-almond trees.

Originally a cheap waterfront hotel patronized by deep-sea fishermen, sponge divers and others whose source of income was considerably more dubious, the Caravel was haunted during the season by tourists in search of atmosphere. The tariff, along with the amenities, had altered accordingly, but most of the original clientele still frequented the place.

Except for the addition of a small casino, little of the original had been changed. Old-fashioned fans still revolved in the ceiling in preference to air conditioning and the walls contained long, illuminated tanks of tropical fish.

The small dance floor was ringed by tightly packed tables, most of which were already occupied, for in the out-islands it was customary to dine early. A calypso band played on a small dais in one corner beside an archway which was covered by a bead curtain; several couples were dancing.

Manning and Morrison pushed their way through the crowd and the American ordered gin slings. Jimmy Walker was sitting at the end of the bar, a half-empty glass in front of him. He wore an R.A.F. flying jacket with the insignia removed and his old uniform cap was tilted over the young, reckless face.

He grinned at Manning. ‘Saw you anchored off Cat Cay this afternoon. Any luck?’

Manning shook his head. ‘How’s business?’

‘Can’t complain. Brought in a full load from Nassau this afternoon.’

‘How you keep that old Walrus flying I’ll never know,’ Manning said. ‘What about another drink?’

Walker emptied his glass and shook his head. ‘Got to refuel at the wharf, I’m taking some people over to Nassau later on to connect with the midnight flight to Miami. Tell Maria I’m sorry to miss her number.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Manning said gravely.

‘I just bet you will.’ Walker grinned impudently and turned away through the crowd.

Manning offered Morrison a cigarette and the American said, ‘I’m not sure I care for that young man. Too cocky by half.’

‘A little young, that’s all,’ Manning said. ‘He thinks he’s in love.’

‘And isn’t he?’

‘Who knows? He’s at an age when you fall in love with every personable woman you meet.’

‘A phase I’ve never managed to grow out of, I’m happy to say.’ Morrison emptied his glass. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have a bath. What about joining me for dinner later?’

Manning shook his head. ‘Thanks all the same.’

‘Another time perhaps.’ Morrison opened his wallet and laid several banknotes on the bar. ‘A little something on account.’

Manning counted the money and frowned. ‘We agreed on one-fifty a day. There’s a hundred too much here.’

‘I figure I owe you a new harpoon gun at least.’ Morrison grinned. ‘What time in the morning? I’m still set on getting that tuna.’

‘No need to be too early. I’ll meet you on the jetty at eight.’

‘I’ll be looking forward to it.’

The American moved away through the crowd and Manning put the money in his hip pocket and ordered a large rum. As he lit another cigarette, the drum rolled and the dance floor cleared at once. The lights dimmed and a spot picked out the archway beside the band.

When Maria Salas stepped through the bead curtain, there was a sudden general sigh as if the crowd had caught its breath. She was wearing black leather riding pants, a white silk shirt knotted at her waist and a black Cordoban hat tilted at an angle, shading her face.

For a moment she stood there as if waiting for something and her fingers gently stroked the guitar and she started to sing.

She didn’t really have a voice and yet there was something there, a touch of the night perhaps, a dying fall that caught at the back of the throat. Probably no more than half a dozen people in the room understood what she was singing about, but it didn’t matter.

Manning remembered their first meeting that hot July afternoon. The fishing boat from Cuba packed with refugees, drifting helplessly in the gulf. It had been her tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost, in spite of the situation, that had first attracted him.

It was not that she was beautiful. Her skin was olive-hued, the blue-black hair tied with a scarlet ribbon and yet, in that dramatic costume, every other woman in the room faded into insignificance.

As her song died away, there was a moment of breathless stillness followed by a roar of applause. She took it like a torero in the plaza at Mexico City, hat extended in her right hand, feet together. As Manning ordered another rum, she launched into a flamenco, dancing as she sang, stamping her high-heeled Spanish boots. She finished on a harsh, strident note that was infinitely exciting.

This time the applause was prolonged. She vanished through the bead curtain and returned to stand stiffly, heels together, turning slowly, her gaze travelling over the whole crowd. As her eyes met Manning’s, he raised his glass and she nodded slightly. She gave them one more song and at the end danced out through the bead curtain still singing, her voice dying away into the distance.

The calypso band struck up another goombay and Manning pushed his way through the crowd and went into the casino. As yet it was early and business was slack. One or two people stood at the roulette table, but the blackjack dealer was playing patience to kill the time until the rush started.

Kurt Viner, the owner of the Caravel, was sitting at a desk in the far corner checking the previous night’s takings, his manager hovering at his shoulder. A thin, greying German of fifty or so, he wore his white dinner jacket with a touch of aristocratic elegance.

As Manning entered the room, he looked up and waved. ‘Harry, how goes it?’

Manning took the two hundred and fifty dollars Morrison had given him and dropped them on the desk. ‘A little something on account. I’ve been letting the tab run away with me lately.’

Viner got to his feet and nodded to the manager. ‘Credit Mr Manning’s account. If you want me I’ll be in the office.’ He turned to Manning. ‘Let’s have a drink, Harry. Away from the noise.’

He crossed the green baize door in the corner and Manning followed him through. The room was beautifully furnished in contemporary Swedish style, the walls of natural wood panels alternating with handmade silk paper. A small bar curved out from the corner beside the window and Manning sat on one of the stools while Viner went behind.

‘Morrison must be a good client. What’s he do for a living?’

‘Real estate or something like that,’ Manning said. ‘Does it matter? They’re all the same. Paunchy, middle-aged businessmen with too much money looking for excitement. The first thing they do when they get here is unpack, dress like something out of Hemingway, come down to the wharf and expect to have a tuna handed to them on a platter.’

‘For which they pay handsomely, remember,’ Viner said. ‘And in dollars. Such a useful currency these days.’

‘A fact of which I’m duly grateful.’

‘You don’t like Morrison, then?’

‘Thanks to him I lost a harpoon gun, but he insisted on paying for it and he knows I’m insured. I suppose he’s better than most.’