A Twist Of Sand

"Hendriks," I said slowly in Afrikaans, "Jou verdomde halfnaatjie." ("Hendriks, you damned half-caste.") In these parts the word "halfnaatjie" embodies all the white man's revulsion for the half-caste; bastard is a neutral, unbelligerent term by comparison.

Hendriks's grin changed to a snarl. In a flash he came at me at a shambling run. Caution, caution bred of long dealings with his kind, tore my eyes from his face to the hand which flashed into his belt. The knife was raised and plunged at the moment the danger telegraphed itself to my mind. I stepped forward a pace and caught the upraised wrist with my left hand and, in the same movement, slipped my right arm under Hendriks's armpit. Our bodies clashed and the harsh, ammoniacal smell of the coloured man's body made me feel sick. My right arm curled round and gripped my own wrist and locked the plunging downstroke. For a moment I thought the impetus of the stroke would tear his hand free, but the wicked South American grip held. I could feel his arm taut as a steel bar; slowly I applied the savage pressure which gives the grip its notoriety among the back streets of Montevideo and Buenos Aires.

Someone in the throng of passengers shouted hoarsely, but the duel between Hendriks and myself was silent. My wristlock tightened and I saw the sweat and fear start out in his face. The savage beauty of the grip is that a man cannot use his left hand either. Ruthlessly I threw in all the strength I had. I heard the muscles of his shoulder start to tear. I gave a final twist and his shoulder gave, just as one rips the leg off a Christmas turkey. Hendriks never uttered a sound, but hung from his shoulder in my grip in a dead faint. I slipped free and he fell, an untidy bundle of rags, at my feet. I kicked the knife away.

When I looked up Mark was standing there, his face white with concern.

"Good God, Geoffrey," he burst out. "He would have killed you!"

"Not a man who can look after himself like that," grinned a husky Afrikaaner farmer who had been on the bus. "Man 111 give you fifty pounds to teach me that grip."

I felt sick and angry with myself when I saw the pathetic bundle of rags on the pavement.

"Get a doctor," I said harshly. "Tell him he'll find the shoulder muscles torn and ligaments probably damaged. Send me the bill."

"Nonsense," said the farmer, "If a man puns a knife he's got all that's coming to him."

My revulsion welled up and I turned upon the farmer. But I checked myself.

"Mark" I said, "let's get out of here. I need a drink and a bath."

A voice stopped me as we turned away.

"Captain Macdonald," it said smoothly. "As well as congratulating you on your sailoring, may I add that a hold like that is the acquisition of a very determined-or a very desperate man."

It was Stein. The ugly jaw was smiling. For a moment I felt like putting the hold on him.

"At least," I rejoined as calmly as I could, "it will prevent your friend for a while from taking you for joy-rides out to sea to smash up my trawl."

Stein continued to smile.

At the bar after a quick bath, Mark having brought me a whisky-and-soda, I could not shake off the sense of foreboding and depression which the unpleasant incident Hendriks had occasioned. I felt no qualms at having disabled Hendriks, although I was prepared to admit that I had been more savage than I need have been. Still there was Stein. Subconsciously I felt that it was he who was behind something that I could not fathom. No, he could not have known about me, it was all too long ago. Had he penetrated my facade, I would have seen it when he first came to the ship. How could he suspect anything? But, the thought followed quickly, who is Stein anyway? He might be anything from an insurance broker to a civil servant. That cruel mouth was the clue. I really couldn't imagine Stein docilely sitting behind a desk in the South West African Administration.

My eyes roved round the bottle labels as I turned the problem over in my mind. My gaze fell upon the eel in the case between the bottles. I grinned to myself. It was Mark's boast that the old stuffed eel was the finest weather prophet on the coast. A grey metallic colour normally, Mark averred it turned a steel-blue when the winter north-westerly gales were due, and a peculiar shade of dun when the summer south-westers came. He had another gunmetal shade for fog — the joke of it was that he often seemed right. I walked over to have a closer look at the weather-eel when four Germans came in.