Golden Eagles by Robert Mitchell

Author:Robert Mitchell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sunken treasure, Scuba-diving, Wartime shipwreck, Pirates hijacking, Contemporary fiction
Publisher: ROBERT MITCHELL
Published: 2019-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Twelve

The road itself wasn’t wide; just wide enough for two cars to pass one another. But it wasn’t the surface for close calls: gravel and crushed coral – great for skids; murder on vehicles, and passengers!

I didn’t have long to wait – ten minutes at most, and heard it coming a kilometre away before it finally roared into view around the bend: a beat-up old Citroen, covered in dust. It gave me a shock as it lurched down the road towards me – a passenger but no driver! Sonia’s parting words came back: “Don’t forget what side of the road to drive on!” Of course – left hand drive!

He pulled up in a shower of gravel and stuck his head out the window.

“Bonjour,” he said, the thin moustache twitching. “Ca va?”

Just my luck to pick a Frenchman. I couldn’t speak a word of the language. I pointed towards the town, only a few kilometres down the road.

“I want to go to Santo!” I yelled, slowly and clearly.

“Santo?” he asked, the question hanging in the air. “Ici Santo!” he continued, shoulders lifted and hands raised. “Ille de Espiritu Santo.”

He moved his left hand around, pointing out the land on both sides of the road, ahead and behind. I didn’t have a clue what he was on about. I pitched my voice an octave higher and yelled again.

“Town! Down there! Shops!” And then the brilliance hit me. “Burns Philp! Can you take me to Burns Philp?”

“Ah, bon. Vous allez Luganville!” he said, a grin spreading across his face. It hit me then. The town itself was called Luganville, but everybody referred to it as Santo, even though Santo was the name of the whole island. He had picked me for a stranger and was having fun at my expense.

“Yes, Luganville,” I replied. “You give me ride?”

I pointed to the passenger seat. He nodded and leant across, opening the door. I raced around to the other side and jumped in. We were away; gravel spurting out behind us; no seatbelts; full speed; trust in the Lord.

“Vous etes un plongeur?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders and said: “Sorry. I don’t understand. I can’t speak French.”

He pointed out to the sea, back over his shoulder towards where he had picked me up, and went on babbling, running all his words together. I let him go on and kept shrugging my shoulders. It seemed the only thing I could do. It didn’t stop him though. He was obviously enjoying the conversation.

It was only a matter of minutes before we turned the last corner and rolled down into the small town. The total population would have been only three or four thousand – a far cry from the tens of thousands of troops that had occupied the island during one stage of the war.

He dropped me outside Burns Philp, gesticulating towards the glass-fronted store as we drew to a halt. I climbed out, shaking from the careering rush into town, and thanked him for his courtesy. He

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