The Black Tide

The men on the dhow began shouting — something, I don’t know what. It was unintelligible. But they were beckoning and heaving on the rope. The man in the boat let go of the stanchion. Suddenly there was a gap opening up between the boat and the gangway and I saw Choffel’s face in the light of the torch, very pale and twisted in the expression of some strong emotion, his mouth open.

Then he had turned and was pounding up the gangway towards me.

I had no time to get out of his way. He came straight at me, and when he saw me he didn’t stop, merely flashed his torch on my face. ‘You!’ He clawed past me, and a moment, later I saw him standing precariously balanced on the rail capping, watching for the sway of the dhow as it thumped the side. And then he jumped, a shadowy outline flying in the darkness,

to finish up clasping his arms round the swaying mast and sliding down into the folds of the great furled sail.

No shouts from the bridge now, and everything dark again, the only light a hurricane lamp in the waist of the dhow. I felt rooted to the spot, standing there on the gangway peering down at the figures gathered on the dhow’s deck, their big-nosed, Semitic faces staring upwards. Then suddenly he was among them, standing with his gun in his hand, his cap cocked rakishly on the side of his head — I remember that distinctly, the fact that he was wearing a cap, and at an angle — and his torch stabbing here and there as he issued orders to the dim-seen, long-robed figures gathered around him.

One of them disappeared below. The engineer, I guessed, and Choffel followed him. I started down the gangway, my mind in a whirl, descending it quickly, wondering whether he would make it out to sea, what he would do with the crew, where he would head for.

I was halfway down when the dhow’s engine coughed behind me, then spluttered into life. And at that instant a torch flashed out from the deck above. Somebody shouted. I waved acknowledgment, pretending I understood and was trying to prevent the dhow’s escape. I was at the bottom of the gangway now, standing helpless, wondering whether I could swim for it, knowing I’d be swept away, and remembering the look of panic on the man’s face, the way his mouth had opened — ‘You!’ he had exclaimed, hurling himself past me. Only a man driven by fear

and desperation would have made that incredible jump for the mast.

And now — now there was no way I could stop him. I should have reacted quicker. I should have taken him on the gangway, the moment he recognized me, when he was off-balance, held there for a second by the shock of seeing me.

A shot sounded, but not from above. It came from the dhow, the stern of it growing bigger. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Instead of swinging out from the side of the tanker, it was falling back towards me. It cleared the gangway by inches, then the big hull closed in, grinding along the grating, slowly crushing it. Arab faces, pallid and jabbering with anger, peered down at me. Somewhere for’ard along the dhow’s deck a voice screamed — ‘Go! Go now!’ There was the sound of a shot, very loud, the crack of a bullet and the beam of a torch stabbing the gloom.

The waist was abreast of me, and without thinking I seized hold of a rope, pulled myself up and over the bulwarks, and as I dropped to the deck, the Arab crew were clawing their way over the side, tumbling down on to the gangway grating to lie there in a heap, bin Suleiman among them, his eyes rolling in the light of a powerful spotlight directed from high up on the bridge wing as bullets sang through the rigging, ploughing into the woodwork, sending splinters flying.

‘Insh’Albh!’ I think it was the naukhada’s voice, but whether it was his ship or his own life he was committing into the hands of God I don’t know, for Chottel was coming aft, running through the spatter

of bullets. He had let go the for’ard mooring line and the dhow was sliding back, its hull grating against the gangway and along the ship’s side. Then it was brought up short, still held on the stern mooring line so that it hung there for a moment, illumined by the spotlight, while the Arabs went scrambling up the gangway on to the tanker’s deck. There was no sign of Choffel. Crouched there by the bulwarks, I had a vague impression of his having leapt for the steps leading up to the poop.