Free The Doomed Oasis by Hammond; Innes Page A

inlet. On either side the rocks bore the names of visiting ships with dates going back to the 1800’s, all painted in foot-high letters. Long, double-ended boats of palm wood, their broad planks sewn together with thongs, swarmed round the ship, paddled by Arabs whose faces shone black in the sun.
    They were there twenty-four hours, and in the night David thought more than once of diving over the side. The shore was so near. But, once ashore, what hope had he? There was nowhere for him to go. In a halting conversation with one of the crew, a coast Arab from a fishing village to the north called Khor al Fakhan, he learned that Muscat was backed by volcanic mountains of indescribable brutality. They were almost fifty miles deep, with every route through guarded by watch towers; and beyond the mountains was the desert of the Rub al Khali—the Empty Quarter. He knew it was hopeless, and so he stayed on board, and the next afternoon they sailed.
    He was having his evening meal when he was told to report to the bridge. Captain Griffiths was there, seated on his wooden stool, staring out over the bows to the starlit sea ahead. The only other man on the bridge was the Arab helmsman, standing immobile, his eyes fixed on the lit compass card in its binnacle, only his hands moving as he made small adjustments of the wheel.
    â€œAh, there you are.” Griffiths had turned his head. “When I went ashore at Muscat last night there was a slave from Saraifa waiting for me with a message from your father. You’ll doubtless be relieved to know that he’s willing to take you off my hands.” And as David mumbled his thanks, the lips smiled behind the beard. “I may say I’m just as relieved as you are.” And he added brusquely: “There’s an Arab sambuq waiting now off Ras al Khaima to pick you up. Tonight we shall pass through the Straits of Hormuz into the Persian Gulf. With luck we should sight the sambuq about an hour after dawn. Now, you speak Arabic, I’m told.”
    â€œA little,” David admitted. “But it’s not easy to make myself understood—it’s the different dialects, I think.”
    â€œWell, do you think you can pass yourself off as an Arab?” And without waiting for a reply, Griffiths added: “It’s the passengers, you see. They’ll talk if they see a white member of my crew being put aboard a dhow.” A few words of briefing and then the Captain’s hand gripped his arm. “Good luck now, man. And a word of advice before you go—tread warily. It’s no ordinary man you’ve got for a father, indeed it isn’t. He’s the devil of a temper when he’s roused. So go easy and watch your step.” And with that he dismissed him and turned again in his seat to stare through the glass at the lights of a ship coming up over the dark horizon.
    David left the bridge, dazed and almost reluctant, for now the future was upon him—unknown, a little frightening. At dawn he would leave the ship and the companionship of the men he’d lived with for the past few weeks, and that last link with the home he’d known all his life would steam away, leaving him alone in a strange country, amongst strange people. It surprised him that he felt no excitement, no exhilaration—only loneliness and a sense of desolation. He didn’t know it then, but it was in this moment that he said goodbye to his boyhood.
    The Mate found him sitting on his bunk, staring vacantly into space. “Here you are, Whitaker.” And he tossed a bundle of clothing down beside him. “Ali Mahommed sold them to me— kaffyah, agal , robe, sandals, the lot, even to an old brass khanjar knife. Three pounds ten, and I’ve deducted it from your pay.” He placed some East African notes and some silver on top of the clothes. “The Old Man told you what to do, did he? Okay, so long as you greet the naukhuda with a salaam