scientist nor weapon was aboard. Intensive would be a poor word to
describe that search; every square foot between the chain locker and
steering compartment was searched and searched again. Captain Bullen
had radioed the federal authorities and then forgotten about it, or
would have forgotten about it were it not that twice in the following
two nights our radarscope had shown a mysterious vessel, without
navigation lights, closing up from astern, then vanishing before dawn.
And then we arrived at our most southerly port of call, Kingston, in
Jamaica. And in Kingston the blow had fallen. We had no sooner arrived
than the harbour authorities had come on board requesting that a search
party from the American destroyer lying almost alongside be allowed to
examine the Campari. Our friend on the radarscope, without a doubt.
The search party, about forty of them, was already lined up on the deck
of the destroyer. They were still there four hours later. Captain
Bullen, in a few simple, well-chosen words that had carried far and
clear over the sunlit waters of Kingston harbour, had told the
authorities that if the United States Navy proposed, in broad daylight,
to board a British mercantile marine vessel in a British harbour, then
they were welcome to try. They were also welcome, he had added, to
suffer, apart from the injuries and the loss of blood they would incur
in the process, the very heavy penalties which would be imposed by an
international court of maritime law arising from charges ranging from
assault, through piracy, to an act of war, which maritime court, captain
Bullen had added pointedly, had its seat, not in Washington, D.C., but
in the Hague, Holland. This stopped them cold. The authorities
withdrew to consult with the Americans. Coded cables, we learnt later,
were exchanged with Washington and London. Captain Bullen remained
adamant. Our passengers, 90 per cent of them Americans, gave him their
enthusiastic support. Messages were received from both the company head
office and the Ministry of Transport requiring captain Bullen to
co-operate with the United States Navy. Pressure was being brought to
bear. Bullen tore the messages up, seized the offer of the local
marconi agent to give the radio equipment an overdue checkup as a
heaven-sent excuse to take the wireless officers off watch, and told the
quartermaster at the gangway to accept no more messages. And so it had
continued for all of thirty hours. And, because troubles never come
singley, it was onh the morning following our arrival that the Harrisons
and Curtises, related families who occupied the forward two suites on
“a” deck, received cables with the shocking news that members of both
families had been fatally involved in a car crash and left that
afternoon. Black gloom hung heavy over the Campari. Towards evening
the deadlock was broken by the skipper of the American destroyer, a
diplomatic, courteous, and thoroughly embarrassed commander by the name
of Marsi. He had been allowed aboard the Campari, been gruffly asked
into Bullen’s day cabin, accepted a drink, been very apologetic and
respectful, and suggested a way out of the dilemma. He said he knew how
intolerable it must be for a senior captain to have doubt thrown not
only on his word but his ability to carry out a proper search; for his
own part of it, he was thoroughly disgusted with the whole assignment.
He had, Commander Marsi had pointed out almost despairingly, to carry
out his orders, but how would it be if he and captain Bullen put their
own interpretation on those orders? how would it be if the search were
carried out, not by his own men, but by British customs officials in the
regular course of their duty, with his men present solely in the
capacity of observers and under the strictest instructions not to touch
anything? captain Bullen, after much outraged humming and hawing, had
finally agreed. Not only did this suggestion save face and salvage
honour to a certain degree, but he was in an impossible position anyway,
and he knew it. Until the search was completed, the Kingston
authorities refused medical clearance, and until he had this clearance,
it would be impossible to unload the six hundred tons of food and
machinery he had for delivery there. And the port officials could also
make things very difficult indeed by refusing clearance papers to sail.
And so what seemed like every customs official in Jamaica was routed out
and the search began at 9 P.M. It lasted until 2 A.M. The following
morning. Captain Bullen fumed as steadily and sulphurously as a volcano
about to erupt. The passengers fumed, partly because of having to
suffer the indignity of having their cabins so meticulously searched,
partly because of being kept out of their beds until the early hours of
the morning. And, above all, the crew fumed because, on this occasion,
even the normally tolerant customs were forced to take note of the
hundreds of bottles of liquor and thousands of cigarettes uncovered by
their search. Nothing else, of course, was found. Apologies were
offered and ignored. Medical clearance was given and unloading began:
we left Kingston late that night. For all of the following twenty-four
hours captain Bullen had brooded over the recent happenings, then had
sent off a couple of cablegrams, one to the head office in London, the
other to the Ministry of Transport, telling them what he, captain
Bullen, thought of them. I had seen the cables and they really had been
something: not very wise, perhaps, but better than having the threatened
apoplectic seizure. And now, it seemed, they in turn had told captain
Bullen what they thought of him. I could understand his feelings about
Dr. Slingsby Caroline, who was probably in China by this time. A
high-pitched shout of warning brought us both sharply to the present and
what was going on around us. One of the two chain slings round the big
crate now poised exactly over the hatchway to number four hold had
suddenly come adrift, one end of the crate dropping down through an
angle of 600 and bringing up with a jerking jolt that made even the big
jumbo derrick shake and quiver with the strain. The chances were good
that the crate would now slip through the remaining sling and crash down
on to the floor of the hold far below, which is probably what would have
happened if two of the crew holding on to a corner guiding rope hadn’t
been quick-witted enough to throw all their weight on to it and so
prevent the crane from tilting over at too steep an angle and sliding
free. But even as it was it was still touch and go. The crate swung
back towards the side of the ship, the two men on the guide rope still
hanging on desperately. I caught a glimpse of the stevedores on the
quayside below, their faces twisted into expressions of frozen panic: in
the new people’s democracy, where all men were free and equal, the
penalty for this sort of carelessness was probably the firing squad;
nothing else could have accounted for their otherwise inexplicably
genuine terror. The crate began to swing back over the hold. I yelled
to the men beneath to run clear and simultaneously gave the signal for
emergency lowering. The winchman, fortunately, was as quick-witted as
he was experienced, and as the wildly careening crate swung jerkily back
to dead centre he lowered away at two or three times the normal speed,
braking just seconds before the lowermost corner of the crate crunched
and splintered against the floor of the hold. Moments later the entire
length of the crate was resting on the bottom. Captain Bullen fished a
handkerchief from his drills, removed his gold-braided cap, and slowly
mopped his sandy hair and sweating brow. He appeared to be communing
with himself. “This,” he said finally, “is the bloody end. Captain
Bullen in the doghouse. The crew sore as hell. The passengers hopping
mad. Two days behind schedule. Searched by the Americans from truck to
keelson like a contraband runner. Now probably carrying contraband. No
sign of the latest bunch of passengers. Got to clear the harbour bar by
six. And now this band of madmen trying to send us to the bottom. A
man can stand so much, First, just so much.” he replaced his cap.
“Shakespeare had something to say about this, First.”
“A sea of troubles, sir?”
“No, something else. But apt enough.” he sighed. “Get the second
officer to relieve you. Third’s checking stores. Get the fourth o, not
that blithering nincompoop get the bo’sun-he talks spanish like a native
anyway to take over on the shore side. Any objections and that’s the
last piece of cargo we load. Then you and I are having lunch, First.”
“I told Miss Beresford that I wouldn’t “if you think,” captain
Bullen interrupted heavily, “that i’m going to listen to that bunch