"MacLean, Alistair - The Golden Rendezvous" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)

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