C
aptain Arthur Joyce, R.N., was a happy man. He stooped over his cabin desk, his hands placed open and flat on either side of the spread Admiralty chart. He glowed with satisfaction as he looked down at the hand-drawn circle in crude blue pencil as though it were the signature of the President of the Bank of England on a cheque for a million sterling.
âGood!' he said. âOh, very good,' and he pursed his lips as though he were about to whistle âTipperary'. Instead he made a sucking sound, and smiled across at Sebastian. Behind his flattened nose and blue-ringed eyes, Sebastian smiled back at him.
âA damn good show, Oldsmith!' Joyce's expression changed, the little lights of recognition sparkled suddenly in his eyes. âOldsmith?' he repeated. âI say, didn't you open the bowling for Sussex in the 1911 cricket season?'
âThat's right, sir.'
âGood Lord!' Joyce beamed at him. âI'll never forget your opening over to Yorkshire in the first match of the season. You dismissed Graham and Penridge for two runs â two for two, hey?'
âTwo for two, it was.' Sebastian liked this man.
âFiery stuff! And then you made fifty-five runs?'
âSixty-five,' Sebastian corrected him. âA record ninth wicket partnership with Clifford Dumont of â one hundred and eighty-six!'
âYes! Yes! I remember it well. Fiery stuff! You were damned unlucky not to play for England.'
âOh, I don't know about that,' said Sebastian in modest agreement.
âYes, you were.' Joyce pursed his lips again. âDamned unlucky.'
Flynn O'Flynn had not understood a word of this. He was thrashing around in his chair like an old buffalo in a trap, bored to the point of pain. Rosa Oldsmith had understood no more than he had, but she was fascinated. It was clear that Captain Joyce knew of some outstanding accomplishment of Sebastian's, and if a man like Joyce knew of it â then Sebastian was famous. She felt pride swell in her chest and she smiled on Sebastian also.
âI didn't know, Sebastian. Why didn't you tell me?' She glowed warmly at him.
âSome other time,' Joyce interrupted quickly. âNow we must get on with this other business.' And he returned his attention to the chart on the desk.
âNow I want you to cast your mind back. Shut your eyes and try to see it again. Every detail you can remember, every little detail â it might be important. Did you see any signs of damaged?'
Obediently Sebastian closed his eyes, and was surprised at how vividly the acid of fear had engraved the picture of
Blücher
on his mind.
âYes,' he said. âThere were holes in her. Hundreds of holes, little black ones. And at the front end â the bows â there were trapezes hanging down on ropes, near the water. You know the kind that they use when they paint a high building â¦'
Joyce nodded at his secretary to record every word of it.
T
he single fan suspended over the table in the wardroom hummed quietly, the blades stirred the air that was moist and warm as the bedding of a malarial patient.
Except for the soft clink of cutlery on china, the only other sound was that of Commissioner Fleischer drinking his soup. It was thick, green pea soup, scalding hot, so that Fleischer found it necessary to blow heavily on each spoonful before ingesting it with a noise, not of the same volume, but with the delicate tonal quality, of a flushing water closet. During the pause while he crumbled a slice of black bread into his soup, Fleischer looked across the board at Lieutenant Kyller.
âSo you did not find the enemy flying-machine, then?'
âNo.' Kyller went on fiddling with his wine glass without looking up. For forty-eight hours he and his patrols had searched the swamps and channels and mangrove forests for the wreckage of the aircraft. He was exhausted and covered with insect bites.
âJa,' Fleischer nodded solemnly. âIt fell only a short way, but it did not hit the trees. I was sure of that. I have seen sand-grouse do the same thing sometimes when you shoot them with a shot-gun. Pow! They come tumbling down like this â¦' He fluttered his hand in the air, letting it fall towards his soup, â ⦠then suddenly they do this.' The hand took flight again in the direction of Commander (Engineering) Lochtkamper's rugged Neanderthal face. They all watched it.
âThe little bird flies away home. It was bad shooting from so close,' said Fleischer, and ended the demonstration by picking up his soup spoon, and the moist warm silence once more gripped the wardroom.
Commander Lochtkamper stoked his mouth as though it were one of his furnaces. The knuckles of both his hands were knocked raw by contact with steel plate and wire rope. Even when Fleischer's hand had flown into his face, he had not been distracted from his thoughts. His mind was wholly occupied with steel and machinery, weights and points of balance. He wanted to achieve twenty degrees of starboard list on
Blücher
, so that a greater area of her bottom would be exposed to his welders. This meant displacing one thousand tons of dead weight. It seemed an impossibility â unless we flood the port magazines, he thought, and take the guns from their turrets and move them. Then we could rig camels under her â¦
âIt was not bad shooting,' said the gunnery lieutenant. âShe was flying too close, the rate of track was â¦' He broke off, wiped the side of his long pointed nose with his forefinger, and regarded balefully the sweat that came away on it. This fat peasant would not understand, he would not waste energy in explaining the technicalities. He contented himself with repeating, âIt was not bad shooting.'
âI think we must accept that the enemy machine has returned safely to her base,' said Lieutenant Kyller. âTherefore we can expect the enemy to mount some form of offensive action against us in the very near future.' Kyller enjoyed a position of privilege in the wardroom. No other of the junior officers would have dared to express his opinions so freely. Yet none of them would have made as much sense as Kyller. When he spoke his senior officers listened, if not respectfully, at least attentively. Kyller had passed out sword of honour cadet from Bremerhaven Naval Academy in 1910. His father was a Baron, a personal friend of the Kaiser's, and an Admiral of the Imperial Fleet. Kyller was wardroom favourite, not only because of his dark good looks and courteous manner â but also because of his appetite for hard work, his meticulous attention to detail,
and his ready mind. He was a good officer to have aboard â a credit to the ship.
âWhat can the enemy do?' Fleischer asked with scorn. He did not share the general opinion of Ernst Kyller. âWe are safe here â what can he do?'
âA superficial study of naval history will reveal, sir, that the English can be expected to do what you least expect them to do. And that they will do it, quickly, efficiently and with iron purpose.' Kyller scratched the lumpy red insect bites behind his left ear.
âBah!' said Fleischer, and sprayed a little pea soup with the violence of his disgust. âThe English are fools and cowards â at the worst, they will skulk off the mouth of the river. They would not dare come in here after us.'
âI have no doubt that time will prove you correct, sir.' This was Kyller's phrase of violent disagreement with a senior officer, and from experience Captain von Kleine and his commanders recognized it. They smiled a little.
âThis soup is bitter,' said Fleischer, satisfied that he had carried the argument. âThe cook has used sea-water in it.'
The accusation was so outrageous, that even von Kleine looked up from his plate.
âPlease do not let our humble hospitality delay you, Herr Commissioner. You must be anxious to return up-river to your wood-cutting duties.'
And Fleischer subsided quickly, hunching over his food. Von Kleine transferred his gaze to Kyller.
âKyller, you will not be returning with the Herr Commissioner. I am sending Ensign Proust with him this trip. You will be in command of the first line of defence that I plan to place at the mouth of the delta, in readiness for the English attack. You will attend the conference in my cabin after this meal, please.'
âThank you, sir.' His voice was husky with gratitude for
the honour his captain was conferring upon him. Von Kleine looked from him to his gunnery lieutenant.
âYou also, please, Guns. I want to relieve you of your beloved upper deck pom-poms.'
âYou mean to take them off their mountings, sir?' the gunnery lieutenant asked, looking at von Kleine dolefully over his long doleful nose.
âI regret the necessity,' von Kleine told him sympathetically.
â
W
ell, Henry. We were right.
Blücher'
s there.' âUnfortunately, sir.' âTwo heavy cruisers tied up indefinitely on blockade service.'
Admiral Sir Percy thrust out his lower lip lugubriously as he regarded the plaques of
Renounce
and
Pegasus
on the Indian Ocean plot. âThere is work for them elsewhere.'
âThere is, at that,' agreed Henry Green.
âThat request of Joyce's for two motor torpedo-boats â¦'
âYes, sir?'
âWe must suppose he intends mounting a torpedo attack into the delta.'
âIt looks like it, sir.'
âIt might work â worth a try anyway. What can we scratch together for him?'
âThere is a full squadron at Bombay, and another at Aden, sir.'
For five seconds, Sir Percy Howe reviewed the meagre forces with which he was expected to guard two oceans. With this new submarine menace, he could not detach a single ship from the approaches to the Suez Canal â it
would have to be Bombay. âSend him an M. T. B. from the Bombay squadron.'
âHe asked for two, sir.'
âJoyce knows full well that I only let him have half of anything he requests. He always doubles up.'
âWhat about this recommendation for a decoration, sir?'
âThe fellow who spotted the
Blücher
?'
âYes, sir.'
âA bit tricky â Portuguese irregular and all that sort of thing.'
âHe's a British subject, sir.'
âThen he shouldn't be with the dagos,' said Sir Percy. âLeave it over until the operation is completed. We'll think about it after we've sunk the
Blücher
.'
T
he sunset was blood and roses, nude pink and tarnished gold as the British blockade squadron stood in towards the land.
Renounce
led with the commodore's penant flying at her masthead. In the smooth wide road of her wake,
Pegasus
slid over the water. Their silhouettes were crisp and black against the garish colours of the sunset. There was something prim and old-maidish about the lines of a heavy cruiser â none of the solid majesty of a battleship, nor the jaunty devil-may-care rake of a destroyer.
Close in under
Pegasus
's beam, screened by her hull from the land, like a cygnet swimming beside the swan, rode the motor torpedo-boat.
Even in this light surface chop she was taking in water. Each wave puffed up over her bows and then streamed back greenish and cream along her decks. The spray rattled against the thin canvas that screened the open bridge.
Flynn O'Flynn crouched behind the screen and cursed the vaunting ambition that had led him to volunteer as pilot for this expedition. He glanced across at Sebastian who stood in the open wing of the bridge, behind the canvas-shrouded batteries of Lewis guns. Sebastian was grinning as the warm spray flew back into his face and trickled down his cheeks.
Joyce had recommended Sebastian for a Distinguished Service Order. This was almost more than Flynn could bear. He wanted one also. He had decided to go along now for that reason alone. Therefore Sebastian was directly to blame for Flynn's present discomfort, and Flynn felt a small warmth of satisfaction as he looked at the flattened, almost negroid contours of Sebastian's new nose. The young bastard deserved it, and he found himself wishing further punishment on his son-in-law.
âDistinguished Service Order and all â¦' he grunted. âA half-trained chimpanzee could have done what he did. Yet who was it who found the wheels in the first place? No, Flynn Patrick, there just ain't no justice in this world, but we'll show the sons of bitches this time â¦'
His thoughts were interrupted by the small bustle of activity on the bridge around him. An Aldis lamp was winking from the high dark bulk of
Renounce
ahead of them.
The lieutenant commanding the torpedo-boat spelled the message aloud.
âFlag to YN2. D ⦠P departure point. Good luck.' He was a dumpy amorphous figure in his duffle coat with the collar turned up. âThanks a lot, old chap â and one up your pipe also. No, Signaller, don't make that.' He went on quickly, âYN2 to Flag. Acknowledged!' Then turning to the engine voice-pipe. âBoth engines stop,' he said.
The beat of her engines faded away, and she wallowed in the trough of the next wave.
Renounce
and
Pegasus
sailed
on sedately, leaving the tiny vessel rolling crazily in the turbulence of their wakes. A lonely speck five miles off the mouth of the Rufiji delta, too far off for the shorewatchers to see her in the fading evening light.