Nadler and Haget got lost on the way to the village and had to return to the beach to reset their bearings. They took two hours to locate the village, only arriving at dawn. They found the girl, no older than sixteen, cooking breakfast in the village square, aided by two older women. Nadler, putting on a charming front, sidled up to her. She screamed. He took a pound note from his pocket and offered it to her. The girl refused and ran to a hut. Her screams roused three men, who had been asleep. They tumbled out of a hut, one with a parang. Haget began trying to calm them down, but with the girl’s shrieking and the native men yelling, he had no hope. Soon another three native men appeared.
Instead of sex, Haget now tried to negotiate a safe departure. He offered a pound. The natives snatched it, and gabbled among themselves. They made threatening moves. The parang was waved at him. He gave them another pound note. Nadler began backing away to the track. Suddenly the man with the parang swung it hard at Haget. It sheared through his neck, decapitating him. Nadler ran away as fast as his wobbly, part-intoxicated legs would carry him.
The natives, stunned by their own act, watched Haget’s body twist and fall. The head went through several contortions before, bloated and spurting blood, it came to a rest, with spectacles still attached. The women were all screaming now, and for several minutes they forgot about Nadler, who had scampered down the track near the river to its mouth. He yelled for the others—Bolt and his crew of three, and Wallis in the second boat with Tait and Grout—to move out.
‘Where’s Gil?’ Wallis asked.
‘He’s dead!’ Nadler said, his face pale and his eyes wide with fear, as he hauled himself into the second boat, nearly overturning it.
‘What?’
‘They cut his head off!’
The two boats, with four men in each paddling and rowing furiously, eased through the shallows towards the sea. Just as they reached the surf, about a dozen natives appeared back on the shore. They were gesticulating wildly.
‘I’d say … we nicked … their … sea-craft,’ Farrow said between breaths. The two boats were making heavy weather of their attempted escape. The natives waded into the water. One swam, holding his parang high.
‘Gun!’ Bolt said to Burroughs, who handed him the revolver. Bolt waited until the boat slapped down before being lifted by the surf, and took aim at the native only 25 yards away. He fired. The native was hit in the hand. He gave a yelp and dropped the parang. He stayed where he was until the other natives reached him. Everyone examined the wound. Bolt asked for another bullet, reloaded and fired again. The bullet skimmed over the water like a well-directed stone a few feet from the natives. They retreated to the beach.
The two boats, staying within a few yards of each other, reached the open sea with difficulty.
‘Look at that!’ Bright yelled. All eyes turned to a shape in the water. A shark of about 10 feet in length was circling the area where the native’s blood had spilled.
‘Shit!’ Grout said. ‘We didn’t see any the other night.’
‘The oil kept them away,’ Bolt called. ‘It’s concentrated sludge now. The sharks will move in for the bodies in the clear water.’
The sobering thought silenced everyone as they watched the shark moving close to the natives. They waded in towards the shark waving their parangs, but backed to the sand as it moved swiftly near them, unconcerned about their weapons.
Bolt handed the revolver to Burroughs, who returned it to his pack.
‘You’re a good shot, man!’
‘A fluke. I aimed at his head. The first bullet did the job. The second kept them from being brave and coming after us.’
‘You wanted to kill him?’
‘I wanted to stop him. They would have reached us. We’d all be mincemeat.’
Burroughs nodded his agreement.
‘You wouldn’t have done that, Edgar?’
Burroughs shook his head. ‘Ain’t never killed a man.’ He paused, scrutinised Bolt and asked, ‘Have you?’
Bright, who was sitting on the front seat with Farrow, looked around at Bolt, who did not reply.
‘I guess I would have used it,’ Burroughs said, wrestling with his own conscience, ‘if they’d gotten to us.’
‘That’s what the gun’s for, mate,’ Farrow remarked.
‘I guess,’ Burroughs repeated in a whisper.
Bolt thought of the irony of a powerful, gifted boxer who had KO’d every opponent in the ring, and possibly damaged a few brains, but who was hesitant about using another kind of weapon. One was used in sport; the other in war.
Bolt rested an oar and patted Burroughs on the back.
‘You’d have done it, all right,’ Bolt said sympathetically. ‘Now, I’m guessing you are a good Christian?’
‘I am. Are you?’
‘I am Christian, but I’ve lapsed.’
‘It’s a good time to believe again, Dan.’
‘I like your positivity. You believe we’ll get out of this mess?’
‘I’ve been prayin’ for it, believe me!’
The ocean was flat further out. They raised their sails but there was no wind. They drifted vaguely parallel to the coast and about 500 yards from the shore. They were all depressed to pass bodies, and body parts, some floating facedown; others just below the surface. They were also disconcerted to see more fins 50 yards away.
One larger shark swam close. Red Lead was sitting next to Bolt. She seemed mesmerised by the 8-foot creature, which was about half the length of the boat. The shark would have been a monster to her. It circled at a distance and looked as if it was going to charge Bolt’s boat. Everyone sat stunned and let go a few shocked expletives. The shark bumped the boat. Red Lead moved close to the boat’s port side. Before Bolt noticed her, she sat on her hind legs and swiped a tiny paw at the shark as it bumped along the boat’s side. Red Lead overbalanced. She bashed her head on the side of the boat but regained her feet, unperturbed and more concerned with the whereabouts of the menacing shark. It moved away. But not far enough for anyone on either boat to relax.
After another two minutes of circling, it zoomed off until it was out of sight. Even still, all the sailors watched the clear water, looking for another furtive torpedo-like attack.
‘Did you see bloody Red Lead?’ Farrow said. ‘She wanted to take it on!’
‘Frightened it off, I reckon,’ Grout called from the other boat. They all laughed. Even the now morbid Nadler managed a wince. It eased the heart-in-mouth tension, although not enough to stop their vigil on the ocean, looking for telltale fins scything at them from any direction.
‘Time for a wank and a biscuit,’ Tait said. ‘Rum, anyone?’
Burroughs, keen to understand Australian vernacular, asked Bolt what Tait meant.
‘Just a stupid sailor’s nothing phrase for someone filling in time,’ he said with a laugh, ‘one takes off weight, the other puts it on again.’
Burroughs repeated the phrase and committed it to memory.
‘Goddamn!’ he chortled.
Mugs with several nips of rum were passed from boat to boat. It calmed everyone’s nerves, which had been shaken by the threats to their lives in and out of the water. Tait asked about his good mate Haget. Nadler shook his head. He didn’t want to discuss it.
‘They cut his head off,’ he finally uttered, almost to himself, his voice unsteady. ‘Worse thing I’ve ever seen.’
The eight men were distracted by the sound of bombs being dropped on Japanese ships which were still unloading troops on Java. Not long after that, a Japanese destroyer appeared on the horizon.
‘Pull up the rain covers,’ Bolt ordered. Within minutes both boats were shrouded in black veils. The destroyer mowed through the ocean, stirring up undulating waves that held up the two fishing boats. Through slits in the rain covers the eight survivors could see Japanese sailors lining the deck, peering down silently. Some scrutinised them with binoculars. The destroyer picked up speed and moved further out to sea.
The men eased down the rain covers. It was 8 a.m. and their white skin was beginning to show signs of torment from the sun.
They were far enough out from the beach now to appreciate the coast of Java, with its intermittent rock-faces that had changing colours of purple, green and blue. The green vegetation, palm trees and yellow beaches would have been inviting had the men not had such unfortunate experiences already.
The boats drifted apart some 60 yards. More rum was poured for the boat people led by Nadler, whose negativity caused the misery of the others—Tait, Grout and Wallis—to churn. At least Tait, when not rowing or paddling, had a positive distraction with wires, a battery and other parts he had salvaged from the small lifeboat and in his own backpack as he tried in vain to get a radio set to work. Grout’s fair skin was suffering in the heat the most, despite wearing a lifejacket and conical hat he had picked up on the beach. Wallis boiled more from within. He was a naturally angry person. Nadler’s demeanour caused them all to snap at each other, if they spoke at all.
By contrast, the attitude of Bolt and Burroughs, who already had a kind of kinship, imbued the swimmers’ boat with their relaxed manner. They were also less nervous. Even with sharks about they were confident of once again swimming to shore should they be forced into the water.
Red Lead meowed a few times, as if engrossed in her own daydreams. Bolt gave her fresh water, and the bits of pumpkin she loved. She spent a good hour cleaning herself. Her dark brown swirls of fur were beginning to outshine the hideous black muck that had given her a different, thinner, far less attractive appearance.
The rain covers were partially returned, allowing some shade, which the men and the cat took it in turns to share. Red Lead curled up in Bolt’s lap as he rowed. She seemed to be enjoying the ride more than her experience on Perth.
They drifted on through the day. At just about evening, a rainstorm hit and drove them close to shore. It roughed up the ocean, but it was not blustery and both boats were able to stay afloat.
They only had a vague idea where they were, although they agreed they had travelled about 30 miles during the daylight hours, due to strong currents that bounced them along past the landmark coastal village of Anjer. Tait had a scrappy school map, which he had carried with him in the
Perth radio room. He consulted it like a true mariner despite it being from a 1932 classroom.
The question now was whether or not they should pull into land for the night, or sail on, taking turns to lie flat in the boat and attempt sleep. They took a vote. Six wanted to stay on the boat, the argument being that the moonlight would warn them of any problems. There was also a fear that the angry Javanese natives who had murdered Haget might somehow track them by road on Java, although no one had seen a vehicle in the village area. They had seen a bicycle, but just one.
They had one moment of mirth when Red Lead seemed to copy the humans by letting her rear-end, tail straight as an arrow, hang over the port side for a deposit. Everyone except Nadler clapped her effort.
‘I love that cat!’ Grout shouted.