Cuttlefish (9 page)

“That's got the captain in fair sweat too,” said Tim. “He thought we'd lost them at the Shetlands. And the
Invincible George
—the dreadnought—was steaming towards Bergen, so maybe we had. Anyway, I better run. Got to take those Faroes men up to the bridge, and bring more coffee. We've got a busy night ahead—got to get the rest of the coal dust on board and get gone.”

Tim found himself assigned to the loading crews as the submarine slipped back to where they'd left the barge. The captain had out-thought
the airship crew. In the narrow fiord, it seemed obvious that the submarine would flee for the open sea. So Captain Malkis had made it look like that…and then headed farther up the fiord, while the airship wasted its small stock of drop-mines on the mouth of the fiord.

Well…that had saved them. But the barge had no such options. And right now, when they surfaced, it wasn't there.

“Must have sunk her,” said the lieutenant, waiting with them to start the reloading. “Hell's teeth. We need that fuel!”

“Loading crew to the deck to look for survivors,” said the captain's voice through the speaker-tubes.

So Tim found himself up on deck scanning the dark water. The captain decided to even risk a spotlight, and that shone out across the water. Someone spied floating debris, towards the shoreline. The submarine turned in towards it. And someone flashed a light from the shore. The spotlight swung over, to show three men waving. They edged closer, with the two Faroese on the submarine calling out to the men onshore.

A small boat was pushed into the water, and they paddled out. The Faroese sailors hugged each other…well, two of them did. The third man was one of their own crew, who had been down on the barge, collecting the next sack. “They shot up the barge, Lieutenant. Holed her. The locals tried to run for the beach. They were still shooting at us, even if they were trying to chase the submarine down. They've killed one of the local lads and wounded another.”

“And the barge?” asked Lieutenant Willis.

“Ach, we had to abandon her,” explained Submariner Daniels. “Couldn't have been thirty yards from the beach, but the airship had tried to come back and was being blown over those mountains there. The airship dropped a few parachutes, up there.”

“They'll be lucky to get broken legs if not necks, landing up there in the dark,” said Lieutenant Willis.

The rescued submariner nodded. “From what Harald—he's their
captain, speaks a bit of English—says, they'll be lucky if the local fishermen don't get to them with gutting knives first.”

“Still, with us on the surface, the skipper needs that light off, and to be told about this. Jump to it, Daniels. To the bridge. And take this Harald with you. The rest of you, below, except the deck watch.”

Clara sneaked up to the bridge to find out just what was going on.

“She has a hole in her bow, ja. The fiord is steep sides, see. Even so close to the wall, it is deep water. Maybe…seven, eight fa'am,” said the Faroese man with a grizzled beard—an even bigger beard than the two men who had been trapped on the submarine. He shrugged fatalistically. “We troll with a gaff, we find her. But she is too heavy to pull out. It's our life-blood down there, ja. And they killed Thorvald.”

Captain Malkis sucked his teeth. “We've got divers aboard. We can try and patch her and refloat her. We need the coal.”

“Divers is goot. Maybe just take the coal out. Then we pull her out, ja.”

“The trouble is they have soldiers up there. And there is the garrison in Tórshavn,” said the mate.

The Faroese captain spat. “Them. Ha. They won't put to sea in the wind, ja. Like babies. So if they come it is overland, then over the Kollafiord. And then over the mountain. It could take…a day, maybe more. And, it will be going to rain soon.”

Captain Malkis nodded. “Very well. Can you take us as close as you can to where the vessel went down?” He looked up at the eavesdropping Clara. “And maybe our youngest diver can make herself useful by finding the divers for me, and telling them to report to the bridge.” As she left she heard the captain say, “Lieutenant Willis, I'll need two armed patrols on shore. As lookouts. The bad news is if we
have to run, they'll be left here, if they can't get back in time. So pick men we can somehow spare.” Trapped and left behind here? That was quite a terrifying idea, thought Clara. Captain Malkis's next words rubbed it in. “Responsible and reliable men…but that we could still run the boat without.”

Tim looked at the rifle and the issue cutlass. It was the first time he'd ever held one, so he practised a swing with it. “Easy. You'll cut your own fool head off,” said Smitty. “Don't know why they bother. We're no match for the king's soldiers.”

“Yes…but we have to be able to fight back!” said Tim.

“Stop waving that thing around, Barnabas. It's not a toy,” said Lieutenant Willis, coming up to them. “And stop that perpetual whistling too. Right. Bosun. You're in charge of this lot. Here's the Very pistol. You're to use the green flare if, or when, you sight them, and retreat with all speed. Fire a few shots in their general direction and run. The red flare means you're in trouble. We probably won't be able to help you. You've got a local with you as a guide, but Olaf doesn't speak much English.” The Faroe Islander grinned at them and waved a large hand. He was even bigger than Big Eddie.

They took the Faroes' men's small boat in to the shore. It was so small they needed to do it in two shifts. The other patrol, heading for the farther shore, took the submarine's own rubber inflated pontoon boat.

It was still before dawn, but the sky was definitely lighter, as Tim, Olaf, the bosun, and three other submariners walked away from the pebble beach and up towards a higher point. Olaf said there was something there, but he was not very good at explaining. It turned out to be the ruins of a house, just unmortared stone walls, half collapsed, and the last little corner of a sod roof. It was on the highest point, just before a little secondary valley, and the bigger mountain
beyond. They had a good view of the fiord, and out to sea, and some view up the steep slope. It was after dawn by now, but the sun would not be coming up onto them. The sky was heavy with cloud already clinging to the tops of the mountains. There were plenty of those. There actually wasn't a lot of the place that wasn't mountain, Tim thought. He was fairly warm from the slog up here, but there was an icy wind blowing and a drift of cold rain hazed everything briefly as they got to the ruin.

The warmth of the walk up soon went away. The rain came and went, the clouds getting heavier and lower. Below, in the small cove off the fiord, the submarine crew was working like busy little ants. Tim actually saw the barge come up, like a sort of big whale. The crew dragged it closer inshore with ropes. Tim wished he was down there. It looked like hard work, but it had to be warmer, and drier, than up here.

“You're supposed to be watching the mountain and the sea, Barnabas,” said the bosun.

“Someone is waving at us. Looks like Cookie,” said Tim.

“Bless his Westralian heart,” said the bosun, grinning. “Lieutenant said he'd organise some food for us. Run down, Tim. You can tuck that rifle into the dry here.”

So Tim put the rifle under the remains of the eave outside the ruin, and ran down the steep slope to the cove. Cookie was standing on the black sand with a sack. “Tucker and some hot brew, boyo,” he said with a grin. “They're coming on nicely here. I'm going to borrow the little boat and take some across to the other patrol.

So Tim set off up again, carrying the food sack. It was steep, and another of the waves of rain came hissing down on him, obscuring everything. Still, it wasn't complicated. Just up.

A few yards short of the ruin, Tim slipped on a muddy tussock and landed on his knees, dropping the canvas food sack.

He started to get up when he heard something that made him freeze. “You'll all keep dead still.”

It wasn't a voice he knew. It took him a few seconds and a cautious look up to realize that it wasn't addressed at him, either. It was being said inside the ruin.

Tim's first instinct, once he'd got over freezing, was to run. His second thought was that he couldn't. Just couldn't.

He still had the cutlass.

C
lara had quietly got herself up onto the deck at least. She knew well enough by now that they wouldn't let her help. Huh. She was as strong as…as Tim, anyway. She looked around to see if he was carrying sacks of dripping coal dust. The chief engineer was lamenting about how to get it dry, to get the salt out of it, and what the salt would do to his precious engines. She went on scanning the crew. No, he wasn't there. Could he be below? There were a few people not out working.

Then she realised: he must be one of the guards they'd posted. One of the ones that would be left behind if the submarine had to run. That made her mouth dry. She still had to talk to him, sometime, about what he'd said about her being proud of her dad. She was, now. Enormously. It was like some immense dam had broken inside her.

She wanted to talk about it. And she didn't dare talk to her mother about him. She was scared it would build the dam again. And, well, she didn't really know who else to talk to. She supposed…they were all rebels, trying to bring down the British Empire. Or at least outlaws. She and mother were that too, now. But she knew very little about it, about the struggle to be free, about the people who lived in hiding under London, about how it all fitted together, and she was too embarrassed to ask. They'd all know, and they would think her strange for not knowing. She'd had enough of being out, and being different. She wanted their acceptance, she realized.

She saw Tim come trotting down to the beach—a thin band of black sand—and collect the bag from Cookie and then begin running
up the hill again. Then it came on to rain: big, heavy drops. Maybe that would wash the chief engineer's coal a bit. So she went below and collected her sou'wester and oilskin jacket. She'd just come back on the deck when she heard something up the slope.

It sounded like a distant gunshot.

Tim had started to draw the cutlass from his belt. Then the bosun's words came back to him, “We're no match for the king's soldiers.” He knew, in his heart of hearts, that he couldn't fight anyone with it.

But his rifle was still under the eave. He crawled forward. He at least knew how to work the bolt and squeeze the trigger. He'd fired a whole three shots at the training range back in the tunnels. Even hit the target. He took the rifle down, carefully took the safety off, and crept to the door arch.

Inside were the submariners…and three Ulster Hussars, their red breeches and green pelisses no longer looking parade-ground smart.

Tim didn't notice their appearance. He was too scared. “Drop your weapons.” His voice cracked.

The one, startled, did. The other two looked at him. And the bigger of the two, the one with the sergeant's stripes, snorted. “Wee kiddie. Put it down, or I'll kill you.”

So Tim shot him.

Well, he tried to.

He'd only ever fired a rifle while lying down, as instructed. With the butt firmly pulled in against his shoulder. As instructed again. It had kicked him into bruises then. Standing up, not with an instructor making sure that the rifle was well against his shoulder, his shot never hit anything, but it knocked Tim half off his feet. He dropped the rifle in the process. The Hussar lunged at him—with a bayonetted rifle. Tim rolled, narrowly managing not to get impaled by the bayonet.
The moss-chinked wall was less lucky. The bayonet screeched on a piece of rock and slid its full length into the mossy crack…and a rock fell down onto the rifle. The Hussar tried to wrench it loose and failed. Frantically, Tim pulled at the cutlass in his belt as the man let go of his rifle and dived for Tim's dropped one. The cutlass came free, and Tim's desperate, wild swing got the Hussar across the hand. Tim had hit him with the back of the blade—not the sharp edge—in sheer panic. It didn't cut the Hussar's fingers off as it might have otherwise done. But it hit his hand hard enough to make him drop the rifle, as Tim staggered upright, pointing the cutlass at his chest, tip wavering. “Don't move.”

“I wouldn't, or I might shoot you,” said the bosun, pushing the muzzle of a rifle into the man's back. And the sergeant might have thought he could beat Tim, but the bosun's voice was grim and steady. The prisoner's hands came up slowly.

Tim looked at the rest of the scene now, feeling as if he might just faint. Olaf had the man who had dropped his weapon in a bear hug. The other Hussar was lying on the ground, his caubeen off and his head bleeding.

“See if there are any more of them, Tim-boy,” said the bosun. “And pick up your rifle!” He prodded the man with the rifle he was holding. “How many of you are there?”

“Hundreds,” said the Hussar sergeant sullenly. “If you surrender I'll be seeing you get fairly treated. And the boy too.”

The bosun chuckled. “Likely. I reckon you'd have to kill him, and your mates, to stop the story getting out.”

Tim peered into the rain. “Can't see anyone. Can't really see anything. It's bucketing down.”

“I reckon it'd be no use firing a Very light in this, except to tell his friends—if he has any—where he is. How's that one?” He jerked his head at the bleeding man. The submariners were busy tying up the man who Olaf had squeezed.

“He's not dead. You hit him hard with that rock,” said Jonas.

“Tie him up, and haul him under the roof,” said the bosun.

“Why?” asked Jonas.

“Because he's wet through and he'll probably die otherwise,” said the bosun.

“But, I mean, he would have killed us,” protested the submariner.

“He might have, but I'm no Hussar,” said the bosun. “Come on. I think we may as well leg it down until we can see the boat. No use signalling in this.”

“And the other two?” asked the other submariner.

“Bring 'em. That's for the captain to decide. Give me some more of that cord of yours, Sam.” He prodded the captive. “Roll over, you. I'll have nothing against shooting you if you try anything. Put a leash on that one's neck.”

So they tied the man's hands behind his back, and, after taking a careful look outside the half-fallen walls, where all they could see was rain, they retreated down the hill.

“Was that a shot?” Clara asked the mate.

“I do not think so, no,” he said in his guttural Dutch-accented voice.

Clara was sure that it had been, but wasn't sure what she could do next, except to listen. Listen really really hard, and stare into the rain.

She was sure it was a shot. But why just one?

Halfway down, Tim had to stop and be sick. The bosun stopped with him as he retched.

Tim stood up, wiping his mouth. “I made a proper mess of it, didn't I?”

The bosun chuckled. “Well, you saved our lives, and maybe the boat and probably the men on the barge. There were only three of them, but if they had got down, got into a good position, and started shooting, well, they'd have killed a few, and the skipper would have dived without us.”

“Oh. Leave us here?” Tim asked, trying to deal with the idea.

“If he had to. So you did good, lad. How was the loading coming on?”

“Dunno. I just took the food from Cookie…Cookie. I left the food and his bag up there. I've got to go back.” Tim turned.

The bosun grabbed him by shoulder, turned back him downhill. “No, you don't, you young chump.”

“But it's food!” protested Tim. Food in the tunnels under London was always a little tight, even at the best of times.

“And we've got more, and chances are you wouldn't find it, and the skipper is going to leave. You want to stay here?” asked the bosun.

“Um, no,” admitted Tim.

“Well, get a move along then,” said the bosun.

When they could just see the barge and the submarine, the bosun picked out a tumble of rocks. “Right. Take cover here. Sam you run down and find the duty officer and tell them we've got prisoners and that the Hussars might be close. Judging by the state of these we can hold them off if we have to.”

So they watched the hill. Tim made very sure to hold that rifle so that the butt was pulled in tight to his shoulder. He hoped that he wouldn't have to use it.

Clara spotted the man running down out of the rain. Too big for the cabin boy, and too pale-faced too. The lieutenant was over on the half-beached barge, helping load bags of coal dust. She couldn't
quite hear what the man panted out, but the word “Hussar” carried. Lieutenant Willis ran across the planks they'd been using to carry the coal across and down into the submarine.

Minutes later three of the crew went off with the man who had run down, and the coal loading got an extra boost of haste added. Then the three came back…with two extra men in very dirty and battered Ulster Hussar uniforms. They were hustled across to the submarine—but not before Clara had been told very sternly to go to her cabin and stay there. “It's important that they don't see you,” said Captain Malkis.