Mac said coldly: ' He tried to get at the skipper. That's enough for me. He'll talk-or else' He picked the man up under the armpits and half-pushed, half-threw him into one of the steel lockers. It had a latch, but no lock. It was the best we could do, with the guard already aboard.
I pocketed the Colt and went to the cabin. The naval party had grouped themselves with reversed arms round the coffin. The officer-in-charge frowned to see Mac and me still there. I packed quickly, leaving some of my things as security to be allowed back aboard. From my locker I took the cherished yachting cap I had worn with Peace on the Skeleton Coast. I decided to carry the old cap at the funeral as a token of sentiment, despite the fact that I would be in civilian clothes. A boat was summoned to take us ashore. Before it arrived, I went and stood at Peace's head. A long shaft of sun struck down over Morne Seychellois, enriching the sycamore panelling of the cabin. The curtains over the portholes shifted in the land breeze. It was all sunshine, softness and light: the
"bizarre grey coffin was as out of place as a Viking hand-axe on a silk cushion.
This was goodbye, yet I felt nothing. I would never look on Geoffrey Peace's face again. I tried to concentrate my thoughts on that square foot of rather dirty glass, but they kept wandering out across the gentle anchorage, listening to the sounds of the fleet, to the raucous note of a patrol-boat's loud-hailer keeping the curious at bay. I abandoned my silent farewell, telling myself that we'd looked death in the face together so often that now, when it had come in such common-place fashion, all I could do was to recognize the fact.
Ashore at the hotel, I traced the DNI easily, though the English receptionist had been a little stiff, saying merely that he lived in a cottage with a companion. She didn't elaborate. Now I walked beyond the town up a valley towards the mountains. They were striking the Union Jack at Signal
Hill, at the northern end of the red-soiled valley. It wasn't far. The high casuarina tree screen, with its tangled, lush undermat of plumbago, golden allamanda and hibiscus in which Creole negrillons played hide-and-seek, thinned to show me my objective. Here, indeed, were roses better than the DNI's in Kent, but there the resemblance ended. The cottage was topped by palm-leaf thatch and the slabs of pink coral of which it was built still held some of their underwater colour in the dying sun. My eye did not linger on its beauties. The object of the negrillons' interest was a Royal Navy petty officer with a sub-machine-gun at the gate. In the garden were more men with. 45 Smith and Wessons and a walkietalkie. The petty officer looked severely at me. ' Sorry, sir. No admittance. Orders.'
Tell the DNI it's John Garland-Commander Peace's friend. He'll understand.'
The man's voice held a new respect, but he remained adamant. Nothing I can do about it, sir. It isn't for the DNI to say who comes and goes. I have a list here-" he tapped his pocket-' and you aren't on it.'
Anger and frustration boiled inside me. ' What the devil is all this?' I demanded. The negrillons, sensing a diversion, crept closer, chattering like monkeys. ' What's going on that 24 an armed guard has to be thrown round the home of a harmless old man?'
' I wouldn't say that-'e's very spry still.' The petty officer gave a quick glance round and dropped his voice. Maybe she keeps 'im young, sir,' he leered.
What do you mean?'
Young lady in there.' He grinned. Now wot's 'e got that I ain't?'
My concept of the DNI was shaken.. Peace had spoken of the dedicated aesthete; here was a sailor leching over an old man and his trollop. In St Brandon the islanders will tell you how the women who come from the Seychelles have corrupted the men. And, certainly, to see a sega danced on neighbouring Agalega is to understand how easy it is to obtain a poultry-keeper '-trial bride or sleeping partner, as you wish. Agalega pioneered the system of a husband selecting from among his friends several to share his wife under a gentleman's agreement that the right man is at the right place on the right night. And Agalegans, who consider themselves moral, point accusing fingers at Seychelles women! No wonder the receptionist had been prim when I had asked about the DNI
He was likely to be useless in the present crisis. My wish to see him left me..' It's nothing important,' I said.
The petty officer reacted to my tone. We all 'eard about
Commander Peace-you was 'is mate, wasn't you?' Yes-yes, you could call it that.'
He went on: Did you 'ear the radio today, sir? BBC?
We aint s'posed t'listen except on our own wavelength, but we did-was 'e really like that, sir?'
An iron band seemed to constrict round my head. If I didn't break free of this publicity build-up and sloppy patriotism, I should. He was a brave, cruel, heartless, determined, ruthless bastard who killed more men than he could remember,' I grated. But if I had thought he would have had to endure this bloody rubbish when he died, I would have killed him long ago with my own hands.
The petty officer gave a gasp. I swung on my heel and stalked down towards the town. I found Mac and, in a savage mood, I rowed out to Bellatrix. I rode rough-shod over the officer of the guard and Mac and I went to the engine-room. He let out an oath at the sight of the empty locker. An open porthole told its own tale. Either the intruder had been foxing us, or he had come round sooner 25 than we had expected. Silent, angry, we returned to the port.
•., The morning of the funeral broke crystal clear, as had done a million other mornings in Limuria. I had been awake since first light due to the clump and clatter of the television crews moving out their equipment. I dressed and looked out.
From seawards 'came the heavy revving of British and
American jet carrier planes. Bellatrix looked forlorn, guarded only by a small naval launch. The prying small craft were missing. The reason was on the radio. The BBC said: ' Last night the body of Commander Peace, the British naval hero who is to be buried today with full honours at sea in the
Seychelles Islands, was conveyed aboard H.M.S. Amirante. As listeners already know, Commander Peace will be committed to his final resting-place by the unusual method of firing his coffin from a destroyer's depth-charge mortar.
Television cameramen have been stationed aboard the destroyer Amirante and, by courtesy of the Admiralty, viewers in many countries will be able to see' the actual moment of firing..
With an oath I switched off. Cap under my arm, I strode down to the pierhead to the launch taking me to Loch Ven- nachar. They hadn't expected me early and I had the bridge to myself. A few cables' length away was Amirante. Cameramen, reporters, news commentators and Tv crews clustered round the stern depth-charge throwers. Peace's coffin was lashed to one of them, shrouded by a tarpaulin. I tried to watch the fleet, but my eyes always went back to that.
Two hours later I still stood alone on the bridge wing, as chief mourner who couldn't mourn. I had been treated by the C-in-C's staff as a sort of pariah, set apart by being
Peace's friend, but without the status of a relative. The Defence Minister and naval officers stood together in reverent silence as the Fleet Chaplain intoned the well-known words into a microphone. Black cassock and white surplice blew in the wind, a foil to naval blue and gold braid and black formal coats. The fleet steamed slow ahead. For miles ahead and astern was a superb array of missile cruisers, aircraft carriers, fleet destroyers and corvettes. In the centre, near Loch Vennachar, were the tall sails or conning-towers of six nuclear submarines. This was Britain's crack Limuria
Squadron. Parallel, a mile distant, was the American Seventh Fleet-the same ships in line ahead, but instead of six submarines, they had ten. Keeping precision station almost under my feet was Amirante, with Peace's body lashed to her mortars.