Cuttlefish (17 page)

Someone said something in Spanish, and the cool-voiced man replied in the same tongue, not sounding quite so cool.

Tim shouted insults at him. He'd learned some fine swear words on the submarine. He pulled up on the bars to have a look at man.

But he had gone.

For a little while Tim just stared out at the alley, and then he lowered himself down and tried to work out just how to get out of his small prison. He knew he had to, and he had at least learned that his jailer had gone to town.

The rusty iron bars were not very thick. Still, even with his whole weight on them, they didn't break or even bend. So he set about trying to dig them out of the wall. The wall seemed to be nothing more than hard mud, and he had a spoon that had come with the bean-and-corn mush.

He hadn't meant to whistle while he worked, but he had been doing so. It was a habit he had been trying to break on the boat, but when he was doing something boring, it just happened.

And then, out of the darkness, she whispered his name.

“Clara?” he gasped, not quite believing his ears.

“Shh. I've come to help you break out. I've got a file and a hacksaw. Which do you want?” she asked.

“Um. Hacksaw, I think. What do you think you're doing here, you crazy girl? You'd better go!”

“I'm thinking I'm helping you escape, if you can stop talking and take the saw,” she said.

So he did, and then put some spit on his fingers to try and keep the noise down. Fortunately the blade bit into the soft iron easily. She worked at the second bar with the file. It didn't take very long to cut through two bars and bend them out of the way. And then with a pull-up, a squeeze, a wiggle, and a tearing of his shirt, he was out.

And not, it would seem, a moment too soon. There were lights coming down the road…and a vehicle pulled up, partly blocking the alley that was their obvious exit to the road. A door slammed. “I think we should run now,” whispered Clara.

Clara wished, now, that she hadn't changed into the long dress. It was a little too long for her, and would be impossible to run in. They rushed to the mouth of the alley…and quickly ducked back again. A second car had driven up, the lights bright in the dust of the first. And someone was shouting from inside the jail in English with an accent straight out of an American biorama. “He's cut the bars!”

And then they realised that the other end of the smelly little alley wasn't going to help them escape either. It ended in a high wall. The beam from a powerful electric torch shone down the alley. Clara grabbed Tim and pinned him against the wall. Wrapped her shawl around both of them. The light shone around, and quite deliberately, she kissed him. Very noisily. Just like in the biorama. Not at all like her mother kissing her good night. She'd never kissed a boy before, and she was sure they weren't doing it quite right. But it was no time to get lessons first.

The light shone on them. “It's a couple of kids making out,” said the American-accented voice, sounding amused. “Hey,
señorita
, your mama is going to be mad with you. You'd better get home.”

Clara, to her pride, answered him with the Spanish phrase from the biorama that their teacher had been so horrified at the girls learning.

That made the uniformed man laugh…and shine his torch on the back wall, and leave. “He's not here,” he said.

“He'll be long gone. We'd better get onto Commodore Watson.”

“We should check out that road to the river quays. This road only goes there.”

Moments later the two cars roared off. “You kissed me!” He sounded almost as if he didn't believe it.

“They'd have caught us, otherwise,” she said, pushing him away.

“Uh. I suppose so,” said Tim. “It was…just a bit of a surprise.…We'd better get out of here before they come back. What did you say to him?”

Even in the dark, she was sure he could see her blush. “I don't know.”

“Worked better than my try,” he said as they sloped off out of the alley. “The local bobby just got mad at me.” The main street of
the hamlet was already anything but quiet. Everyone was coming out to see what had happened. As they were all peering at the lights disappearing into the dark down the track to the river, Tim and Clara walked the other way—away from where they needed to go. Just outside the village they followed a path that took them down to some trees next to a field of corn. They crawled into one of the rows, and sat down.

“Just what are you actually doing here?” asked Tim, now that they could talk.

“I'd have thought that was obvious, then,” said Clara, feeling cross and underappreciated. “I've come to get you out of the jail. They were just going to leave you there!”

“I'm…I'm really grateful to you,” he said, awkwardly. “But I really wish you hadn't come!”

That stunned her. “Is it back you'd like to go?” she said, even more crossly. “I'm sure I can help you climb back into your cell.”

“N-no…,” he stammered. “I'm really, really grateful, like I said. It's just that you're in terrible danger. They offered me ten thousand pounds to bring you out of the smuggler's house so that they could catch you!”

“What!”

So Tim explained. “See, this man knew that I came off the submarine. He knew you're staying in the smuggler's house. He knew his name and everything.”

“The captain took us back aboard, and moved the sub,” said Clara.

“Good for the captain! At least the boat should be safe…or safer, at least. He's a wily old bird, is Captain Malkis. But, but…they must have someone on the boat spying.”

The idea was really nasty. How could he even think that? “Why? I mean it could be one of the smuggler's men. They looked a right bunch of ruffians.”

“Um. The man…knew you were a friend of mine. Um…Well,
how would a smuggler have known about that? We've got to get you back there, where it is safe, and tell the captain,” said Tim.

“I don't think he's going to be terribly pleased with me,” said Clara, in a small voice. Captain Malkis, she had a feeling, now that they were going back, was not a good person to make angry.

“We'll worry about that when we get to the sub,” said Tim. “Hope he hasn't moved her again.”

That idea hadn't occurred to her. It was terrifyingly likely. “Well, we'd better head back to the river. Um. I suppose we could always get hold of the smuggler guy. He must have a Marconi wireless set or something.”

“We could just walk along the edge of the field here, rather than back on the road,” said Tim, warily. “Those motorcars haven't come back yet.”

“Wonder what they're doing?” asked Clara as they began picking their way along the field edge. The corn was nearly head high, so they were not very visible, but the moonlight did make it easy to find their way. They could see the little village lamps, and would have seen the motoring-cars, or at least their lights.

They walked on, over a stile and then along another muddy track, more or less parallel to the “road.” “If I'm not in enough trouble with my mother, I'll be in more about this dress,” said Clara, ruefully.

“She's very strict, your mother,” said Tim.

For a moment Clara was actually quite affronted. “She's…well, my father always said she was just like my
oma
—my grandmother. She was from Prussia. But mother's not really. She was always a bit serious, though. It just got bad when my father got arrested. He…he could always make her laugh. He could make anyone laugh.” Despite being in dire trouble, and sort of lost in the middle of a half-jungle place in Central America, it still made her choke up, every time she thought of him. “I've never understood why my mother divorced him,” she said, to her own surprise. She never talked about it. Not to anyone. “She just…buried herself in her work after that. In her work and in me.”

“My da got killed in the anti-foreigner riots,” said Tim in the moonlit darkness, as they balanced over stepping stones across a small stream. “He came from Jamaica when he was about five years old. Lived in East London all his life. But they killed him because he was…foreign. Black. I know, it's not much help. But at least you knew your dad. I can't even remember mine.”

“I miss him. I used to write to him every month. He won't even know what has happened to us. I…I used to dream of breaking him out of prison too.” Only, she did not say,
I was ashamed of him. Ashamed because he was a rebel
. And suddenly she remembered: she wasn't anymore.

“What's that!?” A boom and a flare of flame lit up the sky ahead of them. There were shots too. Clara and Tim dived down and waited. There were no more explosions, at least. A few gunshots, though.

“It can't be the sub blowing up, surely?” Tim's voice sounded close to panic.

Clara peered toward where the noise came from. “I…don't think so. That was quite close. What…what should we do?”

“Well, I suppose the sensible thing would be to run away or just to find somewhere to lie low…but that won't get us back to the boat,” said Tim, obviously gathering himself, managing not to slip into panic. “Suppose we walk so we cut down to the river a little upstream, instead of where they're shooting. It's not much of a river.”

Clara turned her head, listening. “I suppose we have to. The shooting has stopped.”

So they went on. Cautiously.

“I think all that shooting must have happened at the smuggler's place. Those Americans…Shh,” hissed Clara. There was definitely someone coming.

“Quick, into the field,” said Tim, pulling her.

They dived in among the stubby cornstalks. Lay still, listening.

And then Tim exhaled in relief. “Hello,
Cuttlefish
,” he called out, recognising the gravelly voice of Thorne.

A shot whizzed over their heads just as Tim was about to stand up. He fell flat. “Hold your fire, you idiots,” said Lieutenant Ambrose. “Who is that?”

“Us,” said Clara.

“Ah. Our prodigal. You're in deep trouble, miss. We really didn't expect to find you. Who is that with you?”

“Barnabas, sir,” said Tim. “Miss Calland got me out of jail.”

“What!” His tone said to Clara that her running off had been very bad, but that actually having succeeded was worse. “Well,” said the lieutenant, as Clara watched Tim getting slapped on the back by the men from the crew. “We set off for one prodigal and got two.”

Thorne coughed. “Should we let the other parties know, sir?”

“Yes, and then we'll need to run. Are you two fit to run?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Tim.

“Good,” said the lieutenant. “Because there is trouble out there. Gunfire and an explosion.”

“I think it was the Americans. They nearly caught us, sir,” said Tim.

“Well, no matter what or who it was, we need to leg it. The flare will draw some unwanted attention.” He drew a Very pistol from his belt and inserted a cartridge. “Green. Let them know that we've got you. Your mother will be very relieved, Miss Calland. She's with Lieutenant Willis's group.”

Just
, thought Clara,
when you thought it couldn't get much worse, it did
.

The run back to the submarine's inflatable cylinder-boat was quick and uneventful, even if the two of them ended up being carried. And then they were ferried across to the submarine, where Captain Malkis was waiting.

“I think, young lady,” he said in a voice as cold as the Arctic
ocean, “that you need to go to your cabin and remain there until I order you to leave it. You are lucky I don't confine you to the brig.” Then he paused, seeing Tim. “Good gracious! Barnabas!”

“Miss Calland got me out, sir. Just in time, sir,” said Tim, stoutly. “She's a heroine. At least to me, sir.”

“She's a young woman in a lot of trouble,” said the captain, but his tone moderated a great deal as he said it. “You seem to have lost some blood, and some clothing and got very muddy, Barnabas. Are you all right?”

“Just a scratch from the bars, Sir. I'm fine…just hungry, sir,” said Tim.

The captain actually managed a twitch of smile. “You always are, I suspect. Right, get yourself washed, and go to the mess and get yourself some food before reporting to bridge. We're glad to have you back.”

“I wouldn't be here without Miss Calland, sir,” said Tim, sticking to his guns. “She's as brave as a lion.”

“That may be. But—”

The captain was interrupted in his lecture about what he thought of lions that endangered his boat and his crew by the clattering descent of someone down the stairwell. Clara's mother, her face as white as chalk, burst in. She grabbed Clara, hugged her, and then started yelling at her.

The captain pushed the two of them along, gently. “To your cabin, ladies. Now.”

Clara could think of nowhere she wanted less to go to, but she went.

Down the corridor, she could hear Tim whistling again.

“I
think,” mused Duke Malcolm, “that if we ever do catch this submarine captain alive, I should offer him the post of First Sea Lord in exchange for his loyalty. He's made a fool of your officers, my Lord Admiral.”

“He's certainly out-thought them,” said Lesseps. “Nicaragua, eh. The truth is, Your Grace, it would take a lot of force to take the forts on the St. Juan. We could, of course. But mining the channel should be reasonably effective, especially as it seems your target will be relying on the Americans for an escape route. If they take her overland, we have no chance of preventing it, my Lord Duke.”

“It does put us on a different footing with the Americans, and the Canadian conflict,” said Prince Albert. “We may as well throw our full might behind the Canadians.”

Duke Malcolm nodded. “It's by no means certain that our agents won't get to her first, although the Americans, and what passes for a local government, are very busy trying to suppress information about their canal. If that fails, however, speed is of the essence. No matter what the importance of this method of Dr. Calland's, it will take a while to get it up to mass production. We need to be in as strong a position as possible.”

“Excuse me, sir. There is a Marconi telegraph message from our operative in Nicaragua just arrived from decoding.”

“I think we can trust the first lord of the Admiralty, Bowen,” said Duke Malcolm, tapping his long cigarette holder and sending a cascade of ash to the Turkey carpets on his floor. “Read them.”

“‘Attempted to subvert submarine crew member. Information incorrect, was not receptive. Raid on smuggler compound with local operatives interrupted by US agents and marines. Presume C is now in US custody. Legation under surveillance. Advise next action.' Ends,” said the aide, his voice deadpan.

Duke Malcolm, Prince Albert, and the Lord Admiral looked at each other in silence. “Begin drafting a letter of demand, Albert. We want into…and then out of this war as fast as possible,” said Duke Malcolm. “Bowen. I'll want the St. Lawrence dossiers. They are too large to come up the message chute from records. See them brought up immediately. I need to check on certain aspects contained in them.”

The aide saluted, and left them to their planning.

A little later he came back. “Pardon me interrupting, Your Grace, but there is another message in from our agent-in-chief in Rivas.

The duke nodded. “Read it.”

“‘Advise Americans do not have C. Full-scale search is under way. The target of raid was us, not her.'”

The duke turned to his half-brother, smiled savagely. “A good thing that you were being so fussy about the wording of that letter of demand, Albert. We will have to hold off on this war until we have some certainty of what is actually happening.”