The bosun was in his hammock. It smelled stuffy, with a stench of sweat and fear.
It was dark, and Tobiasson-Svartman had difficulty making out details. It was a considerable time before his eyes got used to the transition from light space to darkness.
Rake took off his gloves and leaned over the hammock. Rudin's face was glistening, his eyes flickering restlessly. He looked like a terrified, cornered animal.
'Where does it hurt?' Rake said.
Rudin folded back the blanket to reveal his nightshirt. He pulled it up over his chest. All three men leaned over the hammock. Rudin pointed to a spot to the right of his navel. Moving his hand made him grimace in pain.
'Has it been hurting for long?' Rake said.
'Since yesterday evening. We'd just left Stockholm when it started.'
'Constant or on and off?'
'On and off at first, but now all the time.'
'Have you had anything like this before?'
'I don't know.'
'Think. Think hard.'
Rudin lay still, thinking.
'No,' he said eventually. 'This is something new. I've never felt anything like it before.'
Rake lay his slender hand on the area Rudin had indicated. He pressed down, gently at first, then harder. Rudin pulled a face and groaned. Rake took his hand away.
'I think it's appendicitis.'
He straightened his back.
'You need an operation. It'll be OK.'
Rudin eyed his captain gratefully as he pulled the blanket up to his chin again. Despite lying down and being in pain, he saluted.
They returned to the upper deck. On the way Rake instructed Sundfeldt to tell the wireless operator to contact the
Thule,
one of the class 1 gunboats the
Svea
was due to meet east of the Sandsänkan lighthouse.
"They ought to be heading north, somewhere between Västervik and Häradskär,' Rake said. 'The gunboat must come and meet us as quickly as possible, take Rudin on board and transport him to Bråviken. There's a good hospital in Norrköping. I've no intention of losing one of my best bosuns unnecessarily.'
Lieutenant Sundfeldt saluted and made off. They returned to the captain's quarters without speaking. Rake offered him a cigarette. Tobiasson-Svartman declined. He had tried to start smoking when he embarked on his naval officer training. He was one of only three on the course who did not smoke. But he never managed it. Inhaling the smoke from a cigarette or cigar made him feel as if he were choking, and he was in danger of panicking.
Rake lit his cigar with great attention to detail. All the time he was listening to the vibrations in the ship's hull. Tobiasson-Svartman had noticed how older, more experienced sea dogs used to do this. They were always on the bridge in spirit, even when they were in their own quarters smoking a cigar. The vibrations were evidently transformed into images so that your experienced sailor always knew exactly what was what.
Then they talked about the war.
Rake told how the British Fleet had left Scapa Flow as early as 27 July, in great haste and a certain degree of disarray, even though war had not yet been declared. The Admiralty had made it clear they had no intention of allowing the German blue-water fleet the least opportunity to attack British warships trapped in their bases. The periscopes of German submarines had been spotted by the crews of British fishing boats at dawn on 27 July. Trawlers on the way through the Pentland Firth to Dogger Bank further out in the North Sea had sighted at least three submarines.
Tobiasson-Svartman could see the charts in his mind's eye. He had an almost photographic memory where sea charts were concerned. Scapa Flow, Pentland Firth, the British naval bases in the Orkney Islands: he could even recall the crucial details of depth soundings in the entry channels to the natural harbours.
'It's possible that the British Fleet is in for a surprise,' Rake said thoughtfully.
Tobiasson-Svartman waited for more, but nothing more came.
'What kind of a surprise?' he asked after measuring out an appropriate silence.
'That the German Navy is much better equipped than the arrogant English imagine.'
Rake's words carried a clear implication. Sweden was not yet involved in the war. The Swedish Navy was preparing itself for circumstances in which that would no longer be the case. If that did happen, there should be no doubt as to where the sympathy of the Swedish military lay. Even if the government and parliament had declared their country's neutrality.
The conversation died out.
Rake put down his cigar on a heavy green porphyry ashtray, stood up, produced a key attached to his watch chain, then knelt down in front of the large black safe screwed to the floor.
The secret instructions were in a plain, cloth-bound folder, tied with a thick blue-and-yellow silk ribbon. Rake handed over the folder, then returned to his cigar.
Tobiasson-Svartman opened the folder. Although he knew the general objective of his mission, he was not aware of the more detailed plans that had been drawn up by Naval Headquarters. He sat back comfortably in his chair, balanced the folder on his knee and started reading.
In the corner of his eye he could see Rake studying the course of the smoke from his cigar.
The ship was throbbing like a panting beast.
Tobiasson-Svartman often compared various types of ship with animals to be found in Sweden. Torpedo boats were like weasels or polecats, destroyers were falcons eager to pounce on their prey, cruisers hunted like packs of hungry wolves, the big battleships were solitary bears that did not like to be disturbed. Animals that were normally enemies could be persuaded, in their symbolic roles as warships, to cooperate and even to sacrifice themselves for one another.
He saw from the folder that the instructions were
Confidential and for the Eyes of Commander Lars Svartman Only.
Certain sections could be copied, but the original was to be handed back to Rake without ever having left his cabin.
As far as the Swedish Navy was concerned, his name had not been changed, despite the fact that he had informed his superiors the moment he heard from the Royal Patents and Registrations Office.
On board this vessel and as far as the Joint Staff of the Swedish Armed Forces was concerned, he was still Lars Svartman, that was all.
* * *
He read:
Your mission is to make depth soundings, without delay, of the dedicated and secret naval channels linking Kalmar Sound, southern section, with the northern, central and southern approaches to Stockholm. It is especially important to check the readings of the sounds, passages and other approaches made in 1898 and 1902 in relation to the deepest possible draught claimed for each type of vessel at Sandsänkan Lighthouse. Your base for these soundings will be the destroyer
Svea.
The vessel you will use for making the soundings will be the gunboat
Blenda,
which will supply the necessary launches and picket boats.
This introductory statement was followed by all the associated specific orders that were to be complied with.
He closed the file and retied the silk ribbon. Rake eyed him up and down.
'No notes?'
'I don't think I need any.
?
'You are still young,' said Rake with a smile. 'Old men never rely on their memories. Young men sometimes rely on theirs too much.'
Tobiasson-Svartman stood up and clicked his heels. It felt as if he were giving himself a kick. Rake pointed to the table, indicating where the file should go.
'It's going to be a long war,' Rake said. 'Lord Kitchener in the British high command has realised that. I'm afraid his German equivalent hasn't yet grasped that this war is going to be on a bigger scale than any previous one throughout the awful history of mankind.'
Rake paused, as if his thoughts had become too overwhelming for him to bear. Then he went on.
'Thousands of men are going to die. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions. In that respect this war is going to be bigger than any previous one. And it's going to be long and drawn-out. There are some who say it will be all over by Christmas. Personally, I'm convinced it will last for years. More ships are going to be sunk than in any other. The tonnage that's going to be blown up and sunk will have to be totted up in millions.'
Rake paused again. He fiddled absent-mindedly with the blue-and-yellow silk ribbon.
More people are going to be drowned than ever before, thought Tobiasson-Svartman. Officers and men will be burned to death in blazing infernos. The Baltic Sea and the North Sea, the Atlantic and perhaps other oceans as well will be filled with screams that slowly grow fainter and then cease altogether.
A thousand sailors weigh about sixty tonnes. War is not only about how many sailors die. It is also about how many living tonnes are transformed into dead tonnes. You talk about the deadweight of a vessel. Human beings can be reckoned in terms of deadweight as well.
He left the captain's cabin.
Jagged clouds were scudding across the October sky. He thought about the task ahead of him. He also wondered whether Rake was right. Would the war really be as terrible and long-drawn-out as he had predicted?
The ship suddenly lost speed and turned slowly so as to head into the wind. He realised this must be a heave-to manoeuvre in preparation for transferring Rudin on to the gunboat that would take him to Norrköping.
He went back to his cabin. He hung up his tunic, removed his shoes and stretched out on his bunk. Somebody had made up the bed while he had been with Rake.
He lay with his hands behind his head, feeling the vibrations that were throbbing through the ship, and thought about what was in store.
It was a sort of ritual.
A new mission did not necessarily have to be frightening just because it was secret. What he was going to do would be characterised by routines, not by sudden dramatic incidents.
He hated disorder and chaos. Charting the depths of the sea demanded total serenity, a virtually meditative calm.
Times of peace are used to prepare for new wars, he thought. Since the middle of the nineteenth century the Swedish Navy has sent out lots of expeditions to seek out alternative shipping routes along the Swedish coasts. Some of those expeditions have been badly organised and inadequately led, others have been successful.
The starting point was simple. An aggressor might set up blockades, often in the last ten years or so by laying mines, preventing use of the usual shipping lanes marked on the charts available to the public and used by various merchant navies. To counter this, there is a network of secret routes and channels used for military purposes. The fear that spies might get hold of information about these routes was both considerable and justified. An aggressor who had succeeded in uncovering these secret channels could cause a lot of damage. As the draught of modern ships was increasing all the time, the routes had to be constantly checked. Were there alternative routes that could accommodate ships with bigger draughts? Could shallows that restricted access be dredged in secret, without the changes being marked on publicly available navigational charts?
These were the questions he would have to answer. In addition, he would also have to consider the possible threat from submarines. There was no doubt that submarines presented a completely new danger with potentially limitless consequences. But how could they be stopped? If the channels were deep enough, a submarine could penetrate to the very centre of Stockholm.
He thought back to the years between 1909 and 1912 when he had been involved in redrawing secret naval routes through the archipelago between Landsort and Västervik. In the early days he had played a junior role, but later, from the spring of 1910 onwards, he had been promoted rapidly and placed in charge of the whole operation.
Those had been happy days. In just a few years a large number of his dreams had come true.
But he then realised that he had a quite different dream. It had been unexpected, but it was that dream he now hoped to be able to turn into reality.
The dream of discovering the greatest depth of all.
The vibrations faded away.
The ship was still.
The beast was holding its breath.
He put on his tunic again, went on deck and stood in the spot where he knew he was invisible. The gunboat
Thule,
with her three funnels, was drawing alongside to leeward. The sick rating had already been carried out on deck. When the
Thule
had completed the manoeuvre Rudin was lowered carefully down in a skilfully made sling. The smoke from the
Thule's
funnels swallowed him up. There was no sign of Captain Rake: the operation was being directed by Lieutenant Sundfeldt. As soon as Rudin was safely on board the gunboat, the empty sling was retrieved, the
Thule
backed away and then set off in a north-westerly direction towards Bråviken.
He stayed on deck and watched the
Thule
until she was out of sight. The smoke from her funnels blended into the scudding clouds.
Rudin was one sailor who had escaped from a terrifying trap, he thought. Swedish ships would be sunk even if Sweden managed to stay out of the war. The sailors most at risk would be in the merchant navy, but even the crews of warships would be torpedoed or blown up by mines. If Rudin did not return to his ship, he would not need to run the risk of being killed by an exploding boiler. Thanks to his inflamed appendix he might be one of the lucky sailors who would escape death.
Tobiasson-Svartman screwed up his eyes and searched for traces of the
Thule.
There was no sign of her now; she had disappeared into the grey coastline.
He went back to his cabin. The ship was turning back into the wind again.
He paused in the doorway and tried to imagine what his wife was doing at this particular moment. But he could not envisage her. He had no idea what she did when she was alone in the flat. He did not like that notion. It was like holding a chart in your hand and suddenly finding that all the writing, the outlines of the islands, the areas covered by the lighthouses, the buoyage, the depth contours had all been erased.
He wanted to know what routes his wife used when he was away.
I love her, he thought. But I do not really know what love is.
He sat down at the little table and unpacked his lead. The brass gleamed. For one brief moment he had the feeling that Kristina Tacker was standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder.
'Something is going to happen,' she whispered. 'There is a point where your lead will never reach the bottom. There comes a point where everything is found wanting, my darling husband.'