T
he sun burned down on the dhow where it lay at anchor off the Island of the Dogs, yet a steady breeze came down the narrow waterway between the mangroves and plucked at the furled sail on the boom.
With a rope sling under his armpits, they lifted Flynn from the canoe and swung him, legs dangling, over the bulwark. Sebastian was ready to receive him and lower him gently to the deck.
âGet that goddamn sail up, and let's get the hell out of the river,' gasped Flynn.
âI must tend to your leg.'
âThat can wait. We've got to get out into the open sea. The Germans have got a steam launch. They'll be looking for us. We can expect them to drop in on us at any minute.'
âThey can't touch us â we're under the protection of the flag,' Sebastian protested.
âListen, you stupid, bloody limey,' Flynn's voice was a squawk of pain and impatience. âThat murdering Hun will give us a rope dance with or without the flag. Don't argue, get that sail up!'
They laid him on a blanket in the shadow of the high poop before Sebastian hurried forward to release the Arab crew from the hold. They came up shiny with sweat and blinking in the dazzle of the sun. It took perhaps fifteen seconds for Mohammed to explain to them the urgency of the situation, and this invoked a few seconds of paralysed horror before they scattered to their stations. Four of them were hauling ineffectively at the anchor rope, but the great lump of coral was buried in the gluey mud of the bottom. Sebastian pushed them aside impatiently and with one knife stroke, severed the rope.
The crew, with the enthusiastic assistance of Flynn's bearers and gun-boys, ran up the faded and patched old sail. The wind caught it and bellied it. The deck canted slightly and two Arabs ran back to the tiller. From under the bows came the faint giggle of water, and from the stern spread a wide oily wake. With a cluster of the Arabs and bearers calling directions in the bows to the steersman at the rudder, the ancient dhow pointed downstream and ambled towards the sea.
When Sebastian went back to Flynn, he found old Mohammed squatting anxiously beside him and watching, as Flynn drank from the square bottle. Already a quarter of its contents had disappeared.
Flynn lowered the gin bottle, and breathed heavily through his mouth. âTastes like honey,' he gasped.
âLet's look at that leg.' Sebastian stooped over Flynn's naked, mud-besmeared body. âMy God, what a mess! Mohammed, get a basin of water and try and find some clean cloth.'
W
ith the coming of evening, the breeze gathered strength, kicking up a chop on the widening water-ways of the delta. All afternoon the little dhow had butted against the run of the tide, but now began the ebb and it helped push her down towards the sea.
âWith any luck we'll reach the mouth before sunset.' Sebastian was sitting beside Flynn's blanket-wrapped form under the poop. Flynn grunted. He was weak with pain, and groggy with gin. âIf we don't, we'll have to moor somewhere for the night. Can't risk the channel in the dark.' He received no reply from Flynn and himself fell silent.
Except for the gurgle of the bow-wave and the singsong chant of the pilot, a lazy silence blanketed the dhow. Most of the crew and the bearers were strewn in sleep about the deck, although two of them worked quietly over the open galley as they prepared the evening meal.
The heavy miasma of the swamps blended poorly with the stench of the bilges and the cargo of green ivory in the holds. It seemed to act as a drug, increasing Sebastian's fatigue. His head sagged forward on his chest and his hands slipped from the rifle in his lap. He slept.
The magpie chatter of the crew, and Mohammed's urgent hands on his shoulder, shook him awake. He came to his feet and gazed blearily around him. âWhat is it? What is the trouble, Mohammed?
For answer, Mohammed shouted the crew into silence, and turned back to Sebastian. âListen, master.'
Sebastian shook the remnants of sleep from his head, then cocked it slightly. âI can't hear â¦' He stopped, an expression of uncertainty on his face.
Very faintly in the still of the evening he heard it, a faint
huffing rhythm, as though a train passed in the distance. âYes,' he said, still uncertain. âWhat is it?'
âThe toot-toot boat, she comes.'
Sebastian stared at him without comprehension.
âThe Allemand. The Germans.' Mohammed's hands fluttered with agitation. âThey follow us. They chase. They catch. They â¦' He clutched his own throat with both hands and rolled his eyes. His tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth.
Flynn's entire retinue was gathered in a mob around Sebastian, and at Mohammed's graphic little charade, they burst once more into a frightened chorus. Every eye was on Sebastian, waiting for his lead, and he felt confused, uncertain. Instinctively he turned to Flynn. Flynn lay on his back, his mouth open, snoring. Quickly Sebastian knelt beside him. âFlynn! Flynn!' Flynn opened his eyes but they were focused beyond Sebastian's face. âThe Germans are coming.'
âThe Campbells are coming. Hurrah! Hurrah!' muttered Flynn and closed his eyes again. His usually red face was flushed hot-scarlet with fever.
âWhat must I do?' pleaded Sebastian.
âDrink it!' advised Flynn. âNever hesitate. Drink it!' his eyes still closed, his voice slurred.
âPlease, Flynn. Please tell me.'
âTell you?' muttered Flynn in delirium. âSure! Have you heard the one about the camel and the missionary?'
Sebastian jumped to his feet and looked wildly about him. The sun was low, perhaps another two hours to nightfall.
If only we can hold them off until then.
âMohammed. Get the gun-boys up into the stern,' he snapped, and Mohammed, recognizing the new crispness in his voice, turned on the mob about him to relay the order.
The ten gun-boys scattered to gather their weapons and
then crowded up on to the poop. Sebastian followed them, gazing anxiously back along the channel. He could see two thousand yards to the bend behind them and the channel was empty, but he was sure the sound of the steam engine was louder.
âSpread them along the rail,' he ordered Mohammed. He was thinking hard now; always a difficult task for Sebastian. Stubborn as a mule, his mind began to sulk as soon as he flogged it. He wrinkled his high scholar's forehead and his next thought emerged slowly. âA barricade,' he said. The thin planking of the bulwark would offer little protection against the high-powered Mousers. âMohammed, get the others to carry up everything they can find, and pile it here to shield the steersmen and the gun-boys. Bring everything â water barrels, the sacks of coconuts, those old fishing-nets.'
While they hurried to obey the order, Sebastian stood in frowning concentration, prodding the mass within his skull and finding it as responsive as a lump of freshly kneaded dough. He tried to estimate the relative speeds of the dhow and a modern steam launch. Perhaps they were moving at half the speed of their pursuers. With a sliding sensation, he decided that even in this wind, sail could not hope to outrun a propeller-driven craft.
The word
propeller
, and the chance that at that moment he was forced to move aside to allow four of the men to drag an untidy bundle of old fishing-nets past, eased the next idea to the surface of his mind.
Humbled by the brilliance of his idea, he clung to it desperately, lest it somehow sink once more below the surface to be lost. âMohammed â¦' he stammered in his excitement. âMohammed, those nets â¦' He looked back again along the wide channel, and saw it still empty. He looked ahead and saw the next bend coming towards them; already the helmsman was chanting the orders preparatory
to tacking the dhow. âThose nets. I want to lay them across the channel.'
Mohammed stared at him aghast, his wizened face crinkling deeper in disbelief.
âCut off the corks. Leave every fourth one.' Sebastian grabbed his shoulders and shook him in agitation. âI want the net to sag. I don't want them to spot it too soon.'
They were almost up to the bend now, and Sebastian pointed ahead. âWe'll lay it just around the corner.'
âWhy, master?' pleaded Mohammed. âWe must run. They are close now.'
âThe propeller,' Sebastian shouted in his face. He made a churning motion with his hands. âI want to snag the propeller.'
A moment longer Mohammed stared at him, then he began to grin, exposing his bald gums.
Â
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While they worked in frantic haste the muffled engine beat from upstream grew steadily louder, more insistent.
The dhow wallowed and balked at the efforts of the helmsman to work her across the channel. Her head kept falling away before the wind, threatening to snarl the net in her own rudder, but slowly the line of bobbing corks spread from the mangroves on one side towards the far bank, while in grim concentration Sebastian and a group led by Mohammed paid the net out over the stern. Every few minutes they lifted their faces to glance at the bend upstream, expecting to see the German launch appear and hear the crackle of Mauser fire.
Gradually the dhow edged in towards the north bank, sowing the row of corks behind her, and abruptly Sebastian realized that the net was too short â too short by fifty yards. There would be a gap in their defence. If the launch cut the bend fine, hugging the bank as it came, then they were lost.
Already the note of its engine was so close that he could hear the metallic whine of the drive shaft.
Now also there was a new problem. How to anchor the loose end of the net? To let it float free would allow the current to wash it away, and open the gap still further.
âMohammed. Fetch one of the tusks. The biggest one you can find. Quickly. Go quickly.'
Mohammed scampered away and returned immediately, the two bearers with him staggering under the weight of the long curved shaft of ivory.
His hands clumsy with haste, Sebastian lashed the end rope of the net to the tusk. Then grunting with the effort, he and Mohammed hoisted it to the side rail, and pushed it overboard. As it splashed, Sebastian shouted at the helmsman, âGo!' and pointed downstream. Thankfully the Arab wrenched the tiller across. The dhow spun on her heel and pointed once more towards the sea.
Silently, anxiously, Sebastian and his gun-boys lined the stern and gazed back at the bend of the channel. In the fists of each of them were clutched the short-barrelled elephant rifles, and their faces were set intently.
The chug of the steam engine rose louder and still louder.
âShout as soon as it shows,' Sebastian ordered. âShoot as fast as you can. Keep them looking at us, so they don't see the net.'
And the launch came around the bend; flying a ribbon of grey smoke from its single stack and the bold red, yellow and black flag of the Empire at its bows. A neat little craft, forty-footer, low in the waist, small deckhouse aft, gleaming white in the sunlight, and the white moustache of the bow wave curled about her bows.
âShoot!' bellowed Sebastian as he saw the Askari clustered on the foredeck. âShoot!' and his voice was lost in the concerted blast of the heavy-calibre rifles around him. One of the Askari was flung backwards against the deckhouse,
his arms spread wide as he hung there a moment in the attitude of crucifixion before subsiding gently on to the deck. His comrades scattered and dropped into cover behind the steel bulwark. A single figure was left alone on the deck; a massive figure in the light grey uniform of the German colonial service, with his wide-brimmed slouch hat, and gold gleaming at the shoulders of his tunic.
Sebastian took him in the notch of his rear sight, held the bead on his chest, and jerked the trigger. The rifle jumped joyously against his shoulder, and he saw a fountain of spray leap from the surface of the river a hundred yards beyond the launch. Sebastian fired again, closing his eyes in anticipation of the savage recoil of the rifle. When he opened them, the German officer was still on his feet, shooting back at Sebastian with a pistol in his outstretched right hand. He was making better practice than Sebastian. The fluting hum of his fire whipped about Sebastian's head, or smacked into the planking of the dhow.
Hastily Sebastian ducked behind the water barrel and clawed a pair of cartridges from his belt. Sharper, higher than the dull booming of the elephant rifles, climbed the brittle crackle of the Mauser fire as the Askari joined in.
Cautiously Sebastian lifted his eyes above the water barrel. The launch was cutting the bend fine, and with a sudden swoop of dismay, he knew it was going to clear the fishnet by twenty feet. He dropped his rifle on to the deck and jumped to his feet. A Mauser bullet missed his ear by so little that it nearly burst his eardrum. Instinctively he ducked, then checked the movement and instead ran to the helmsman. âGet out of the way!' he yelled in his excitement and his fear. Roughly he shoved the man aside and, grasping the tiller, pushed it across. Perilously close to the jibe, the dhow veered across the channel, opening the angle between it and the launch. Looking back Sebastian saw the fat German officer turn and shout an order towards the wheelhouse.
Almost immediately the bows of the launch swung, following the dhow's manoeuvre, and Sebastian felt triumph flare in his chest. Now directly in the path of the launch lay the line of tiny black dots that marked the net.
His deep-drawn breath trapped in his lungs, Sebastian watched the launch sweep over the net. His grip on the tiller tightened until his knuckles threatened to push out through the skin, and then he expelled his breath in a howl of joy and relief.
For the line of corks was suddenly plucked below the surface, leaving the small disturbance of ripples where each had stood. For ten seconds the launch sped on, then abruptly the even sound of her passage altered, a harsh clattering intruded, and her bows swung suddenly as she slowed.
The gap between the two craft widened. Sebastian saw the German officer drag a frightened Askari from the wheelhouse and club him unmercifully about the head, but the squeals of Teutonic fury were muted by the swiftly increasing distance, and then drowned by the tumultuous clamour of his own crew, as they pranced and danced about the deck.
The Arab helmsman hopped up on to the water barrel and hoisted the skirts of his dirty grey robe to expose his naked posterior at the launch in calculated mockery.