Read Online The Doomed Oasis by Hammond; Innes - Free Book Online Page B

the Suez Canal, the life of the ship, the sun’s increasing warmth, the sight of places all dreamed about and now suddenly come to life absorbed him completely, each day bringing the promise of Arabia twenty-four steaming hours nearer. But when they entered the Red Sea, with the water flat like a mirror and the desert hills of the Hejaz shimmering to port, he knew they were getting close to Aden. And at Aden the police might be waiting for him.
    It was night when the anchor was let go off Steamer Point, and as he stood on the foredeck directing a stream of water on to the hawsehole, he could see the lights of Crater and the black shape of the volcanic hills behind towering against the stars. His first Arabian port. It touched his nostrils with a breath of sun-hot oil waste. But instead of excitement, all he felt was fear.
    Customs and Immigration came aboard. He stood by the rail, in the shadow of one of the boats, and watched them climb the side from a launch. His work was done and he’d nothing to think about how but the possibility of arrest. A subdued murmur came to him from the town, strange Arab cries drifting across the water. Another launch glided to the ship’s side. The agent this time. And later two of the passengers were climbing down into it, followed by their baggage. The officials were leaving, too, and he watched the launches curve away from the ship, two ghostly arrow-tips puttering into the night. He breathed gently again, savouring the warm, strange-scented air … and then the steward called his name. “Captain want you in cabin.”
    Slowly he went for’ard to the bridge-deck housing. Captain Griffiths was seated in the leather armchair, his face a little flushed, his eyes bright, a tumbler of whisky at his elbow. “Well, young fellow, it appears that you’re in the clear. Nobody is in the least bit interested in you here.” And he added: “Doubtless you have Mr. Grant to thank for that. I’m sorry I can’t send him a message; the man must be half out of his mind, considering the chance he took.”
    â€œI’ll write to him as soon as I can,” David murmured.
    The Captain nodded. “Time enough for that when you’re safely ashore. But it’s only fair to tell you that if I fail to contact your father, then you’ll complete the voyage and be paid off at Cardiff.” And having delivered this warning, he went on: “I’ll be going ashore in the morning and I’ll cable Colonel Whitaker care of GODCO—that’s the Gulfoman Oilfields Development Company. It may reach him, it may not. Depends where your father is, you see; he’s not an easy man to contact. Meantime, I am instructing Mr. Evans to give you work that will keep you out of sight of the passengers. We have two oil men with us on the voyage up the coast, also an official from the PRPG’s office—that’s the Political Resident Persian Gulf. See to it that you keep out of their way. If you do get ashore, then I don’t want anybody saying afterwards that they saw you on board my ship.” And with that David found himself dismissed.
    He saw Captain Griffiths go ashore next morning in the agent’s launch. All day they were working cargo, the winches clattering as they unloaded Number One hold into the lighter dhows alongside and filled it again with a fresh cargo. In the evening four passengers came aboard, all white, and a dhow-load of Arabs bound for Mukalla who strewed themselves and their belongings about the deck. And then the anchor was hauled up and the ship shifted to the bunkering wharf. The Emerald Isle sailed at midnight, steaming east-northeast along the southern coast of Arabia, the coast of myrrh and frankincense, of Mocha coffee and Sheba’s queen.
    It was a voyage to thrill the heart of any youngster, but David saw little of it, for he was confined to the bowels of the ship, chipping and painting, and all he saw of