â
E
arly in the year for a bush fire,' Flynn muttered. He sat with an enamel mug cupped in his hands and blew steam from the hot coffee. His blanket had slid down to his waist.
Across the camp-fire from him Sebastian was also sitting in a muddle of bedding, and cooling his own pre-dawn mug of coffee. At Flynn's words he looked up from his labour, and out into the dark south.
False dawn had paled the sky just enough to define the hills below it as an undulating mass that seemed much closer than it was. That way lay Lalapanzi â and Rosa and Maria.
Without real interest Sebastian saw the radiated glow at one point along the spine of the ridge; a fan of pink light no larger than a thumb-nail.
âNot a very big one,' he said.
âNo,' agreed Flynn. âHope she doesn't spread though,' and he gulped noisily at his mug.
As Sebastian watched it idly, the glow diminished, shrinking into insignificance at the coming of the sun, and above it the stars paled out also.
âWe'd best get moving. It's a long day's march and we've wasted enough time on this trip already.'
âYou're a regular bloody fire-eater when it comes to getting your home comforts.' Flynn feigned disinterest, yet secretly the thought of returning to his grand-daughter had strong appeal. He hurried the coffee a little and scalded his tongue.
Sebastian was right. They had wasted a lot of time on the return trip from the Mahenge raid.
First, there was a detour to avoid a party of German Askari that one of the native headmen had warned them
was at M'topo's village. They had trekked upstream for three days before finding a safe crossing, and a village willing to hire canoes.
Then there was the brush with the hippo which had cost them almost a week. As was usual practice, the four hired canoes, loaded to within a few inches of freeboard with Flynn, Sebastian, their retinue and loot, had slipped across the Rovuma and were hugging the Portuguese bank as they headed downstream towards the landing opposite M'topo's village when the hippo had disputed their passage.
She was an old cow hippo who a few hours earlier had given birth to her calf in a tiny island of reeds, separated from the south bank by twenty feet of lily-padded water. When the four canoes entered this channel in line astern with the paddlers chanting happily, she took it as a direct threat to her offspring and she threw a tantrum.
Two tons of hippo in a tantrum has the destructive force of a localized hurricane. Surfacing violently from under the leading canoe, she had thrown Sebastian, two gun-boys, four paddlers, and all their equipment, ten feet in the air. The canoe, rotted with beetle, had snapped in half and sunk immediately.
The mother hippo had then treated the three following canoes with the same consideration, and within the space of a few minutes, the canal was clogged with floating debris, and struggling, panic-stricken men. Fortunately they were no more than ten feet from the bank. Sebastian was first ashore. None of them, however, was very far behind him, and they all took off like the start of a cross-country race over the veld, when the hippo emerged from the river and signified that, not satisfied with wrecking the flotilla, she intended chopping a few of them in half with her guillotine jaws.
A hundred yards later she abandoned the pursuit, and trotted back to the water, wiggling her little ears and
snorting in triumph. Half a mile farther on the survivors had stopped running.
They camped there that night without food, bedding or weapons, and the following morning, after a heated council of war, Sebastian was elected to return to the river and ascertain whether the hippo was still in control of the channel. He came back at high speed to report that she was.
Three more days they waited for the hippo and her calf to move away. During this time they suffered the miseries of cold nights and hungry days, but the greatest misery was inflicted on Flynn O'Flynn whose case of gin was under eight feet of water â and by the third morning he was threatening
delirium tremens
again. just before Sebastian set off for his morning reconnaissance of the channel, Flynn informed him agitatedly that there were three blue scorpions sitting on his head. After the initial alarm, Sebastian went through the motions of removing the imaginary scorpions and stamping them to death, and Flynn was satisfied.
Sebastian returned from the river with the news that the hippo and her calf had evacuated the island, and it was now possible to begin salvage operations.
Protesting mildly and talking about crocodiles, Sebastian was stripped naked and coaxed into the water. On his first dive, he retrieved the precious case of gin.
âBless you, my boy,' Flynn murmured fervently as he eased the cork out of a bottle.
By the following morning Sebastian had recovered nearly all their equipment and booty, without being eaten by crocodiles, and they set off for Lalapanzi on foot.
Now they were in their last camp before Lalapanzi, and Sebastian felt his impatience rising. He wanted to get home to Rosa and baby Maria. He should be home by evening.
âCome on, Flynn. Let's go.' He flicked the coffee grounds from his mug, threw aside his blanket, and shouted to
Mohammed and the bearers who were huddled around the other fire.
âSafari! Let us march.'
Nine hours later, with the daylight dying around him, he breasted the last rise and paused at the top.
All that day eagerness had lengthened his stride, and he had left Flynn and the column of heavily laden bearers far behind.
Now he stood alone, and stared without comprehension at the smoke-blackened ruins of Lalapanzi from which a few thin tendrils of smoke still drifted.
âRosa!' Her name was a harsh bellow of fear, and he ran wildly.
âRosa!' he shouted as he crossed the scorched and trampled lawns.
âRosa! Rosa! Rosa!' the echo from the kopje above the homestead shouted back.
âRosa!' He saw something amongst the bushes at the edge of the lawn, and he ran to it. Old Nanny lying dead with the blood dried black on the floral stuff of her night-gown.
âRosa!' He ran back towards the bungalow. The ash swirled in a warm mist around his legs as he crossed the stoep.
âRosa!' His voice rang hollowly through the roofless shell of the house, as he stumbled over the fallen beams that littered the main room. The reek of burned cloth and hair and wood almost choked him, so that his voice was husky as he called again.
âRosa!'
He found her in the burnt-out kitchen block and he thought she was dead. She was slumped against the cracked and blackened wall. Her night-gown was torn and scorched, and the snarled skeins of hair, that hid her face, were powdered with white wood ash.
âMy darling. Oh, my darling.' He knelt beside her, and timidly touched her shoulder. Her flesh was warm and alive beneath his fingers, and he felt relief leap up into his throat, blocking it so he could not speak again. Instead, he brushed the tangle of hair from her face and looked at it.
Beneath the charcoal smears of dirt her skin was pale as grey marble. Her eyes, tight closed, were heavily underscored with blue, and rimmed with crusty red.
He touched her lips with the tips of his fingers, and she opened her eyes, But they looked beyond him; unseeing, dead eyes. They frightened him. He did not want to look into them, and he drew her head towards his shoulder.
There was no resistance in her. She lay against him quietly, and he pressed his face into her hair. Her hair was impregnated with the smell of smoke.
âAre you hurt?' he asked her in a whisper, not wanting to hear the answer. But she made no answer, lying inert in his arms.
âTell me, Rosa. Speak to me. Where is Maria?'
At the mention of the child's name, she reacted for the first time. She began to tremble.
âWhere is she?' more urgency in his voice now.
She rolled her head against his shoulder and looked across the floor of the room. He followed the direction of her gaze.
Near the far wall an area of the floor had been swept clear of debris and ash. Rosa had done it with her bare hands while the ash was still hot. Her fingers were blistered and burned raw in places, and her arms were black to the elbows. Lying in the centre of this cleared space was a small, charred thing.
âMaria?' Sebastian whispered, and Rosa shuddered against him.
âOh, God,' he said, and lifted Rosa. Carrying her against his chest, he staggered from the ruins of the bungalow out
into the cool, sweet evening air, but in his nostrils lingered the smell of smoke and burned flesh. He wanted to escape from it. He ran blindly along the path and Rosa lay unresisting in his arms.
W
ith his hands clasped behind his back, and his chin thrust forward aggressively, Rear-Admiral Sir Percy Howe sucked in his lower lip and nibbled it reflectively. âWhat was our last substantiated sighting on
Blücher?'
he asked at last.
âA month ago, sir. Two days before the outbreak of war. Sighting reported by S.S.
Tygerberg.
Latitude 0°27”N. Longitude 52°16”E. Headed south-west; estimated speed, eighteen knots.'
âAnd a hell of a lot of good that does us,' Sir Percy interrupted his flag-captain and glared at the vast Admiralty plot of the Indian Ocean. âShe could be back in Bremer-haven by now.'
âShe could be, sir,' the flag-captain nodded, and Sir Percy glanced at him and permitted himself a wintry smile.
âBut you don't believe that, do you, Henry?'
âNo, sir, I don't. During the last thirty days, eight merchantmen have disappeared between Aden and Lourenço Marques. Nearly a quarter of a million tons of shipping. That's the
Blücher'
s work.'
âYes, it's the
Blücher,
all right,' agreed the Admiral, and reached across the plot to pick up the black counter labelled
âBlücher'
, that lay on the wide green expanse of the Indian Ocean.
A respectful silence held the personnel of the plotting room South Atlantic and Indian Oceans while they waited for the great man to reach his decision. It was a long time coming. He stood bouncing the
âBlücher'
in the palm of his right hand, his grey eyebrows erect like the spines of a
hedgehog's back, as his forehead creased in thought. A full minute they waited.
âRefresh my memory of her class and commission.' Like most successful men Sir Percy would not hurry a decision when there was time to think, and the duty lieutenant who had anticipated his request, stepped forward with the German Imperial Navy list open at the correct page.
â“
Blücher.
Commissioned August 16, 1905. âB' Class heavy cruiser. Main armament, eight nine-inch guns. Secondary armament, six six-inch guns.”'
The lieutenant finished his reading and waited quietly.
âWho is her captain?' Sir Percy asked, and the lieutenant consulted an addendum to the list.
â“Otto von Kleine (Count). Previously commanded the light cruiser Sturm
Vogel
.”'
âYes,' said Sir Percy. âI've heard of him,' and he replaced the counter on the plot, keeping his hand on it. âA dangerous man to have here, south of Suez,' and he pushed the counter up towards the Red Sea and the entrance to the canal, where the tiny red shipping lanes amalgamated into a thick artery, ââ or here,' and he pushed it down towards the Cape of Good Hope, around which were curved the same red threads that joined London to Australia and India. Sir Percy lifted his hand from the black counter and left it sitting menacingly upon the shipping lanes.
âWhat force have we deployed against him so far?' and in answer the flag-captain picked up a wooden pointer and touched in turn the red counters that were scattered about the Indian Ocean.
â
Pegasus
and
Renounce
in the north.
Eagle
and
Plunger
sweeping the southern waters, sir.'
âWhat further force can we spare, Henry?'
âWell, sir,
Orion
and
Bloodhound
are at Simonstown,' and he touched the nose of the African continent with the pointer.
â
Orion
â that's Manderson, isn't it?'
âYes, sir.'
âAnd who has
Bloodhound?'
âLittle, sir.'
âGood,' Sir Percy nodded with satisfaction. âA six-inch cruiser and a destroyer should be able to deal with
Blücher,'
and he smiled again. âEspecially with a hellion like Charles Little handling the
Bloodhound.
I played golf with him last summer â he damn nigh drove the sixteenth green at St Andrews!'
The flag-captain glanced at the Admiral and, on the strength of the destroyer captain's reputation, decided to permit himself an inanity. âThe young ladies of Cape Town will mourn his departure, sir.'
âWe must hope that Kapitan zur See Otto von Kleine will mourn his arrival,' chuckled Sir Percy.
Â
Â
âDaddy likes you very much.'
âYour father is a man of exquisite good taste,' Commander the Honourable Charles Little conceded gallantly, and rolled his head to smile at the young lady who lay beside him on a rug, in the dappled shade beneath the pine trees.
âCan't you ever be serious?'
âHelen, my sweet, at times I can be deadly serious.'
âOh, you!' and his companion blushed prettily as she remembered certain of Charles's recent actions, which would make her father hastily revise his judgement.
âI value your father's good opinion, but my chief concern is that you endorse it.'
The girl sat up slowly and while she stared at him her hands were busy, brushing the pine needles from the glorious tangle of her hair, readjusting the fastenings of her blouse, spreading the skirts of her riding-habit to cover sweet legs clad in dark, tall polished leather boots.
She stared at Charles Little and ached with the strength
of her want. It was not a sensual need she felt, but an overpowering obsession to have this man as her very own. To own him in the same way as she already owned diamonds, and furs, and silk, and horses, and peacocks, and other beautiful things.
His body sprawled out on the rug with all the unconscious grace of a reclining leopard. A secret little smile tugged at the corners of his lips and his eyelids drooped to mask the sparkle of his eyes. His recent exertions had dampened the hair that flopped forward onto his forehead.
There was something satanical about him, an air of wickedness, and Helen decided it was the slant of the eyebrows and the way his ears lay flat against his temples, but were pointed like those of a satyr, yet they were pink and smooth as those of an infant.
âI think you have devil's ears,' she said, and then she blushed again, and scrambled to her feet avoiding Charles's arm that reached out for her. âEnough of that!' she giggled and ran to the thoroughbred hunter that was tied near them in the forest. âCome on,' she called as she mounted.
Charles stood up lazily and stretched. He tucked the tail of his shirt into his breeches, folded the rug on which they had lain, and went to his own horse.
At the edge of the pine forest, they checked their mounts and sat looking down over the Constantia valley.
âIsn't it beautiful?' she said.
âIt is indeed,' he agreed.
âI meant the view.'
âAnd so did I.' Twice in the six days he had known her, she had led him up this mountain and subjected him to the temptation. Below them lay six thousand acres of the richest land in all of Africa.
âWhen my brother Hubert was killed there was no once left to carry it on. Just my sister and I â and we are only
girls. Poor Daddy isn't so well any more â he finds it such a strain.'
Charles let his eyes move lazily from the great squat buttress of Table Mountain on their left, across the lush basin of vineyards below them, and then on to where the glittering wedge of False Bay drove into the mountains.
âDoesn't the homestead look lovely from here?' Helen drew his attention to the massive Dutch-gabled residence, with its attendant outbuildings grouped in servility behind it.
âI am truly impressed by the magnificence of the stud fee,' Charles murmured, purposefully slurring the last two words, and the girl glanced at him in surprise, beginning to bridle.
âI beg your pardon?'
âIt is truly magnificent scenery,' he amended. Her persistent efforts at ensnaring him were beginning to bore Charles. He had teased and avoided more artful huntresses.
âCharles,' she whispered. âHow would you like to live here. I mean, forever?'
And Charles was shocked. This little provincial had no understanding whatsoever of the rules governing the game of flirtation. He was so shocked that he threw back his head and laughed.
When Charles laughed it sent shivers of delight through every woman within a hundred yards. It was a merry sound with underlying tones of sensuality. His teeth were very white against the sea-tan of his face, and the muscles of his chest and upper arms tensed into bold relief beneath the silk shirt he wore.
Helen was the only witness of this particular performance, and she was helpless as a sparrow in a hurricane. Eagerly she leaned across the space between their horses and touched his arm. âYou would like it, Charles. Wouldn't your
She did not know that Charles Little had a private income of twenty thousand pounds a year, that when his father died he would inherit the title Viscount Sutherton and the estates that went with it. She did not know that one of those estates would swallow her father's own three times over; nor did she know that Charles had passed by willing young ladies with twice her looks, ten times her fortune, and a hundred times her breeding.
âYou would, Charles. I know you would!'
So young, so vulnerable, that he stopped the flippant reply before it reached his lips.
âHelen,' he took her hand. âI am a sea creature. We move with the wind and the waves,' and he lifted her hand to his lips.
A while she sat, feeling the warm pressure of his lips upon her flesh, and the burn of tears behind her eyes. Then she snatched her hand away, and wheeled her horse. She lifted the leather riding-crop and slashed the glossy black shoulder between her knees. Startled, the stallion jumped forward into a dead run back along the road towards the Constantia valley.
Charles shook his head and grimaced with regret. He had not meant to hurt her. It had been an escapade, something to fill the waiting days while
Bloodhound
went through the final stages of her refit. But Charles had learned to harden himself to the ending of his adventures â to the tears and tragedy.
âShame on you, you heartless cad,' he said aloud, and touching his mount with his heels ambled in pursuit of the galloping stallion.
He caught up with the stallion in the stable yards. A groom was walking it, and there were darker sweat patches on its coat, and the barrel of its chest still heaved with laboured breathing.
Helen was nowhere in sight, but her father stood at the
stable gates â a big man, with a square-cut black beard picked out with grey.
âEnjoy your ride?'
âThank you, Mr Uys.' Charles was noncommittal, and the older man glanced significantly at the blown stallion before going on.
âThere's one of your sailors been waiting for you for an hour.'
âWhere is he?' Charles's manner altered abruptly, became instantly businesslike.
âHere, sir.' From the deep shade of the stable doorway, a young seaman stepped out into the bright sunlight.
âWhat is it, man?' Impatiently Charles acknowledged his salute.
âCaptain Manderson's compliments, sir, and you're to report aboard H.M.S.
Orion
with all possible speed. There's a motor car waiting to take you to the base, sir.'
âAn untimely summons, Commander.' Uys gave his opinion lounging against the worked stone gateway. âI fear we will see no more of you for a long time.'
But Charles was not listening. His body seemed to quiver with suppressed excitement, the way a good gundog reacts to the scent of the bird. âSailing orders,' he whispered, ââ at last. At last!'
Â
Â
There was a heavy south-east swell battering Cape Point, so the sea spray wreathed the beam of the lighthouse on the cliffs above. A flight of malgas came in so high towards the land that they caught the last of the sun, and glowed pink above the dark water.
Bloodhound
cleared Cape Hangklip and took the press of the South Atlantic on her shoulder, staggered from it with a welter of white water running waist-deep past her foredeck gun-turrets. Then in retaliation she hurled herself at the
next swell, and Charles Little on her bridge exulted at the vital movement of the deck beneath his feet.
âBring her round to oh-five-oh.'
âOh-five-oh, sir,' repeated his navigating lieutenant.
âRevolutions for seventeen knots, pilot.'
Almost immediately the beat of the engines changed, and her action through the water became more abandoned.
Charles crossed to the angle of the flimsy little bridge and looked back into the dark, mountain-lined maw of False Bay. Two miles astern the shape of H.M.S. Orion melted into the dying light.