'It's a signal gun,' I said tersely.
Minnaar had seen the flag, too. 'It's a sort of snake, it looks like, against a plain yellow background…' He started to spell out: 'D-o-n-t-t-r-e-a-d-o-n-m-e.'
'Don't tread on me!'
It came into my lenses. The snake stretched from corner to corner of the flag and the motto was underneath. 'Looks like a sidewinder to me.'
'More like a rattlesnake.' said Minnaar.
'What do you make of it?'
'I don't like it any more than the sight of that flippin' island — and I've seen enough of that from the wreck to last me all my life.'
'Let go forrad,' I ordered.
The anchor went overside with a crash and we were at rest a couple of cable-lengths away from Mercury. There was not a plant, a tree, greenery or shelter, natural or artificial, among the reflecting rocks, except a black encrustation of marine growths at high-water mark. On a flat stretch of rock stood two prefabs, dingy, grey, streaked with salt, anchored by heavy stay-wires like an Antarctic hutment. Two men stood at the old brass signal cannon, — the only other movement was the flapping of the strange yellow flag.
The place repelled, chilled, rejected me. It wasn't only Captain Morrell who had commented on the desolate, necrogenic air of the island. Like a thread through the records of the guano islands the sinister comment on Mercury recurs: 'the mind recoils with horror at this ocean death-cell'; again, 'it is dead, but behold it liveth' (from an old Quaker skipper's log). It was odd, too, that there was no sign of the guano, the 'white gold' I had seen the zombies scraping at Sinclair.
'Here comes the reception committee,' remarked Minnaar.
From one of the prefabs seven men emerged at a run. They split neatly into two files at the jetty and then, to our astonishment, swung themselves under it.
'Is this a circus?' exclaimed Minnaar.
I recognized it: Shelborne's windjammer welcome, an island tradition rigidly adhered to for the arrival of strangers — the flag, the gun, the trot to the boat, the bos'n's pipe shrilling. That was the ceremony, but what of our personal meeting? Shelborne must have seen me through his glasses. The boat broke from under the jetty, six oars pulling like clockwork, making effortlessly for the Praying Mantis.
That's smart, damn' smart seamanship,' conceded Minnaar.
I told him about Shelborne and his master's ticket in sail.
'Is that him at the tiller?'
'Yes. I wouldn't know what the hell he is wearing, though.'
We didn't look so good ourselves: unshaven, red-eyed from the long night's vigil, Minnaar in an old British battledress top, myself in a roll-top sweater and windcheater.
With an ease born of long practice the boat's oars went astern together under our lee. A big roller brought both craft together. Shelborne leaped nimbly, grabbed the foremast stays lightly with one hand, and dropped easily to the deck.
'He's over seventy, remember,' I told Minnaar.
'At thirty-five I couldn't do it that easy,' he replied.
My Coloured crew stared, a little awe-struck, as the big man came quickly towards the bridge ladder, making no sound on the planking. He wore moccasins and a black suit of shining sealskin, the collar framing his face in which the lines from the base of the long straight nose were more severely etched than I remembered; above the right cheekbone was a little dune of flesh, as if the wind had banked it up there.
'So you came to see for yourself?' His tone was not hostile, not friendly, but calculating, distant, as if he were out of my reach — a strange, disquieting aura of strength.
'Minnaar,' the mate introduced himself.
Shelborne jerked his head towards Sudhuk. The Cape Cross?'
It seemed the Praying Mantis was not alone in the bay, for in addition to the Cape Cross wreck, a small guano coaster rode apparently at anchor off the solitary beach.
Shelborne followed my glance. 'She's dead, you know, dead as the Cape Cross next door. Been there for thirty years.'
The wreck had the same life-in-death impact on me as Mercury itself. I shuddered. The way Shelborne spoke, he might have been the ascetic introducing the novice to the hairshirt and the whip.
'I told you; Mercury has a bad name.'
Minnaar growled, 'Why in hell's name didn't you come and take us off the Cape Cross? I walked all the way to Luderitz and damn' near died on a dune outside the place.'
'I tried for three days. You saw the sea. You had set off for Luderitz by the time I managed to get the flatboom in close. The crew were in the rigging still, but they were all dead…'
'Flatboom?' I asked. I wanted to stay on neutral ground.
He gestured at the boat which had brought him. 'It's a specialized craft which the New Bedford whalers left behind them here.'
'New Bedford?… I didn't know…'
He smiled, and I could not help being drawn to him. 'About a hundred years ago there were 250 ships at anchor off Mercury — the first big guano strike, you know. There was a rebellion among the crews humping the stuff aboard. They sent a British man-o'-war squadron. They came in the same channel as you did, firing grape — canister double-loaded above the round-shot.
You can still see some of the wrecks, although they're high in the dunes now — the coast changes quite a bit.'
The shore was an odd dun colour, relieved in the north-eastern corner of the bay by a rough T-shaped patch of pure white, which stood out like a pock-mark. I spotted another, and then another — a curious line of fan-shaped markers running inland out of sight.
'Is that where your flag came from — "don't tread on me"?'I asked.
'Not from those wrecks. Mine's an old American Revolution flag — Carolina's — in which they wrapped a true-blue skipper for burial on Mercury. Someone thought they were wasting a good flag and salvaged it. They called it the Rattlesnake Flag. I fly it for the benefit of my rare visitors.'
Thank you for the bos'n's pipe,' I added. 'It was good enough for the rights and authority of our Judge.'
His voice became harsh, bitter. 'Rights and authority! Take a look, will you! It's sixty miles by sea to the nearest police post from Mercury! Try the land and walk it — well, ask our friend here what that's like. It's the Namib, man, don't you understand…' He pulled up short. It looked as if my survey wasn't going to be a bed of roses. He went on quietly: 'Rights and authority? — I'm the headman here, and I have wide powers to protect the birds and seals. I won't have you disturb them in any way.'
I said placatingly, 'I'm not aiming to disturb the birds or seals. I'm using a special electronic surveying instrument which will make the minimum interference with them. But I must rig a couple of what we call "slave" transmitters ashore to operate it. For other readings I'll float some drums with small automatic transmitters in the bay — there'll be none of the old-fashioned business of putting up beacons, climbing rocks for vantage points, or the rest of it.'
'Where's Rhennin?' he asked.
'At Angras Juntas.' I told him about the Mazy Zed and Mary's job aboard her, following her mother's death. Shelborne was very silent, his eyes straying across the bay as if seeking something — I had no idea what it was — amidst the gaunt desolation.
It was so long until he spoke that Minnaar and I began to feel uncomfortable. 'It was good of you to get her the job. The Mazy Zed…' He tailed off. The strange eyes fixed me.
Then he glanced at his watch. His anger over Oranjemund, his detachment, seemed to vanish when I told him about Mary. There was now almost a schoolboyish, conspiratorial air about him. 'Perhaps you two would like to come ashore at six bells this afternoon? — I'll show you a sight you'll never forget. I'll send the flatboom for you.'
'Where's the Gquma — you've still got her, I hope?' I asked.
He was pleased. 'Of course. Her permanent mooring is in a sea-cave a mile or two up the coast. It's too exposed here — I'd lose her in a blow. At six bells, then?'