Authors: Antony Trew
Rohrbach pointed to the Captain’s sleeping cabin—the key was on the outside. “We’ve locked them in. Told them it’s for their own good and not for long.”
Widmark looked at the door. “Any of them hurt?”
“No, Steve. All okay.”
The Germans had been watching them, but for Kuhn who, breathing deeply, slept. Then von Falkenhausen said: “As one naval officer to another, Lieutenant-Commander, may I ask what is the meaning of this in a neutral port?”
Widmark turned dark, sullen eyes upon him. “Same meaning as your drawing guns on my men. There’s a war on.”
“Yes, but Portugal’s not in it.”
“You and I are, von Falkenhausen.”
Lindemann said: “I suppose, Herr Commander, you realise the seriousness of what you are doing? You say you have killed my second officer? How do you imagine you are
going to explain this to the authorities? I think you should stop this dangerous game before it goes any further. It is one thing to try to get information, but when you force your way on board and kill men on a German merchant ship in a neutral——”
Widmark held up his hand. “Stop that! I’m not here to listen to your views on what’s right and what’s wrong. You’re in no position to moralise.”
He beckoned to Rohrbach. “Shove them into the
chain-locker
, David. Then get cracking on those shackles.” He looked at his watch: “It’s 2230. We’re astern of station. I’ll take a
shufti
in the engine-room and see how McFadden and Hans are getting on. If these people give any trouble, shoot them.” He looked at von Falkenhausen. “I mean that. By a happy coincidence somebody’s doing a bit of riveting tonight. In case you’re thinking of being brave, just remember that the shots that kill you won’t be heard, and that I’m not very fussy about German lives anyway.”
Von Falkenhausen knew he meant it.
Angus Duncan knocked on the door of Captain McRobert’s cabin, but with the riveting going on for’ard he knew it wouldn’t be heard, so he opened the door and went in.
The captain and the pilot, absorbed in their game of chess, had not heard him. Duncan tapped the captain on the shoulder. “It’s a bigger job than we thought, Captain—it’ll be the best part of thirty minutes before we get those plates tight.”
McRobert frowned, took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at it, then at the bulkhead clock, then at Angus Duncan, and finally at d’Almeida. “
Plates
,
ye say? I thought it was only the one of them?”
“The base plate must ha’ worked loose a time back—it’s affected the four plates around it—there’s a lot of loose rivets. Mighty slow job—should be done by the shore gang by rights, but we’ll manage.”
McRobert looked thoughtful. “What time d’ye reckon we can sail, Chief?”
Duncan scratched his chin and looked at the clock. “Safe enough if ye say 2330, Captain.”
“Guid, Chief. My compliments to the mate. Tell him to let the Port Captain’s Office know it’ll be 2330.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Angus Duncan left the cabin and McRobert looked at d’Almeida. “Sorry about the delay, Pilot. It’s one of those things we canna help.” He shrugged his shoulders. D’Almeida repeated the gesture, smiling, the even teeth white under the dark moustache. “Perhaps you will need the time, Captain, if you are to keep your Queen.”
McRobert sighed, puffing at his pipe. “Aye,” he said gloomily, “she’s in a rare fix.”
John Withers, chief officer of the
Clan
McPhilly
,
winked at Angus Duncan. “Okay, Chief. I’ll be letting the Port Captain’s Office know right away—guid luck with that riveting. It’s making a braw noise—hard to hear rightly what a man’s saying.”
He went up the companion ladder to the chart-house, picked up the radio telephone and called the Port Captain’s Office. The call was acknowledged and he passed his message: “
Confirming
that
Clan
McPhilly
will be sailing at 2300, repeat, 2300. Pilot d’Almeida on board. Over.”
The voice of the Portuguese operator, remote and
disembodied
, came back. “
Clan
McPhilly
sailing at 2300. Pilot d’Almcida on board. Okay. Good-night. Over and out.”
Withers put down the hand-set and sighed. “That’s the biggest bluidy lie I’ve told in a long time.”
Things were moving fast on board the
Hagenfels
.
Down in the engine-room Widmark found McFadden and Hans at work on the main diesels; assisting them was the
German greaser, a pale young man with crew-cut hair and a pinched-in face.
McFadden was checking the pressures on the starting compressors when Widmark reached him.
“How’s it going, Chiefy?”
McFadden looked up, shocked at Widmark’s appearance. “Fine. They’ll be ready to turn in ten minutes. But what’s happened to you, Steve boy? You don’t look too good.”
Widmark waved his hand irritably. “I’m okay. We’ve got the ship. Everything’s under control. Can’t find the steward though——” He paused, looked over to where the German greaser was working on the fuel valves. “Is that man okay? Aren’t you taking a chance?”
McFadden shook his head. “He’s fine, laddie! His English’s not too good but he understands well enough. Hans told him his pals are in the chain-locker, that we’ve taken over the ship, and that he’d better give us a hand or else——” McFadden tapped the cosh dangling from his wrist.
“That’d give their Lordships a twinge, Chiefy. I’m sure it’s a breach of some Geneva Convention or other——”
“Sure you’re all right, Steve boy?” McFadden couldn’t hide his concern.
Widmark nodded briefly and started towards the ladder. “We’ll be testing the telegraphs from the bridge soon. ’Bye now.”
Half-way along the fore well-deck, he saw a dark shape slide behind a ventilator ahead of him. He tightened his grip on the automatic and as he reached the ventilator called: “Tally-Ho?”
Back came Mike Kent’s voice. “Break out, sir!”
They exchanged news and Widmark said: “As soon as we’ve weighed, I’ll get someone to relieve you here. Then go along to the wireless cabin and get to know the gear. The R/T on the bridge is badly smashed, I’m afraid. I had a set-to with the second officer there.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The others had already told Kent that
Widmark had killed Moewe, and in the dim light he looked at Widmark’s face for signs of what they’d said. He could see now what they meant. It was odd. Maybe it was because the black stove-polish had streaked out, maybe the white rims to the eyes made them stare, gave Widmark that ferine look,
“We haven’t found the steward,” Widmark’s voice was hoarse. “Keep a sharp lookout for him.”
It was still raining, a humid drizzle. On the fo’c’sle
Widmark
found Rohrbach and the Newt busy with the anchor cables. In the blue light of a torch Rohrbach was at work on the shackle immediately abaft the port gypsy, picking out the lead pellet and withdrawing the steel wedge.
“We can knock the lug out any time now, Steve.”
Rohrbach
moved across to the starboard gypsy and got busy there, the Newt holding the torch.
Johan was struggling with a nine-inch manilla, hauling it up from a bin under the fo’c’sle. Widmark lent him a hand. It was hard work on a hot night, but they got one up on the port side before Rohrbach and the Newt came over.
Rohrbach said: “Starboard shackle’s all set now.”
“Well done, David. Did you have to use the hack-saw?”
“No. These Jerries keep their gear in good condition. Came free as sweet as a daisy.”
When both hawsers were laid out on the fo’c’sle ready for running, they secured the ends to the cables forward of the gypsies. When the word came from the bridge they would knock the lugs out of the shackles and run the cable ends off the gypsies, taking their weight with the manilla hawsers turned up on the windlass drums; then they’d lower the cables on to the bottom of the river as the
Hagenfels
moved ahead under her own power. Slipping the cables this way would be quick and comparatively noiseless, and when the hawsers had been run out to their bare ends on the windlass drums, they would be cast off and the ship would be clear of her anchors and free to manœuvre.
“Tested the windlass, David?”
“Yes. Juice is on.”
“Good. As soon as you’ve slipped the cables, get Johan to relieve Mike Kent. I’m off to the bridge now. Got the charts, Newt?”
In the darkness the Newt found the bathing bag where he’d put it near the windlass. “Okay, Steve.”
Widmark looked at his watch. “I wish we knew where that bloody steward was,” he grumbled. Then he and the Newt went down the fo’c’sle ladder on to the fore well-deck and made for the bridge.
Paul Müller, the officers’ steward, had been in the pantry washing glasses and plates and generally cleaning up when the sudden burst of firing sounded in the Captain’s cabin. Even with the noise of the riveting there was no mistaking what it was. A gentle, inoffensive young man, he got a severe fright as he glanced through the half-open door and heard a British voice say: “Put those hands up, quick!”
That was enough for Paul. If he lacked the aggressive spirit, he did not lack imagination. There was a war on, there was shooting in the Captain’s cabin, and the British seemed to have arrived and taken over the ship. What it all added up to he had no idea, but he was at that moment free and the most important thing seemed to be to remain so.
Before Moewe had had time to reach the pantry, Müller had slipped out of the door, through the alleyway and on to the boat-deck. Had he been ten seconds later he would have been seen by Widmark who would by then have been coming in through the starboard door. As it was, he was clear and safe—for the time being at any rate.
For a moment he stood on the boat-deck, uncertain,
wondering
where he could hide; eventually he decided on the foremost lifeboat on the port side. It was opposite him, just abaft the bridge ladder, and once under the canvas cover he would not only be securely hidden but when the riveting stopped he’d
have a good idea of what was going on—be able to hear much of what was said on the bridge. Slipping into the boat he lay on a bench-thwart, his eyes level with the gunwale, just able to see out if he lifted the edge of the cover which was held clear of his head by a wooden stretcher. His breath came in short gasps, and his heart pounded with excitement and from his exertions.
Breathlessly he waited—but not for long. Opposite him the port door of the deck-house opened and he saw Moewe come out, gun in hand. The second officer shut the door and went up the bridge ladder, passing within a few feet of him. Almost immediately afterwards the door opened again—this time Müller saw, outlined in the glow of light from the alleyway behind him, a man in plain clothes, his hair tousled, his face black. He looked tigerish, frightening, pistol in one hand, cosh in the other. For a moment he stood there undecided, then he, too, went up the bridge ladder. A few minutes later, Müller saw a shape coming down and held his breath. It was the man with the blackened face, who went back into the deck-house, still with a pistol in one hand and a cosh in the other.
Paul Müller lay there frightened, mystified, peeping from under the edge of the lifeboat cover. But nothing more happened and the noise of riveting drowned effectively any other sounds which might have come his way. In the dark he could not see the time, but later on, feeling cramped, he changed his position and sat crouching in the sternsheets. Now he could see nothing, but that did not stop him thinking.
It was slowly becoming apparent to him that he should be doing something more than just hiding: there was a war on, the
Hagenfels
was a German ship, and somehow or other the British were taking her by force of arms in a neutral port. If he were asked afterwards what he’d done, it wouldn’t sound too good if he said that he’d hidden in a lifeboat. Paul Müller had no pretensions to bravery, but his duty was beginning to take shape clearly and rather embarrassingly. Reluctantly, he
realised that he must
do
something. But what? He was unarmed.
Herr Moewe had gone on to the bridge, but he had been followed by the man with the black face and then a few minutes later it had been
that
man only who’d come down from the bridge. That gave Müller an idea.
He’d go up there and see what had happened. Taking off his shoes, his heart beating faster, he got out from under the boat cover and went up on to the bridge. The chart-room door was half open and the light inside shone out, spilling a bright pool of light on to the deck. Müller looked in through the door and saw Moewe’s dead eyes staring at him, his face smeared with blood. The steward’s insides knotted and he felt sick. He’d never seen such a terrible sight.
Whatever was happening was in deadly earnest. The Britishers were killing members of the crew—officers—he felt alone and frightened and unsure of himself; but his duty was plain, so he forced himself into the chart-house. There he saw the shattered radio-telephone and other signs of a struggle. There was nothing he could do, though; he couldn’t even try the radio-telephone—which he didn’t understand anyway—because it was obviously damaged beyond use. That made him think of the wireless cabin—if the Britishers were taking the ship, they would want to use the wireless once they got to sea. He knew nothing about wirelesses—but he had an idea. Then it occurred to him that there might be a Britisher in the wireless cabin already and that he would have to be careful—they were probably all over the ship—there was no means of hearing them because of the noise of the riveting, and on deck there was little light and much dark shadow and it was misty and wet.
Widmark got the Newt to help him move Moewe’s body from the chart-house to the after end of the bridge where they covered it with flags from the signal locker. Nothing was said while this was being done. The Newt felt faintly sick. Günther Moewe’s face was not a pleasant sight.
In the chart-house they took the charts and sailing directions out of the canvas bag and laid them on the table.
“They’re a bit bent and scruffy, but they’ll do,” said
Widmark
. Although at the Polana the Newt had pencilled on to the charts the courses to be steered and the distances from point to point, he was pleased to find parallel rulers and a pair of dividers on the chart-table, and in a drawer two recent British Admiralty charts of the Port of Lourenço Marques and its approaches. They were duplicates of those they’d taken out of the bag.
The Newt whistled through his teeth. “Needn’t have brought ours. They’ve got ’em already, Steve. Amended and up-to-date.”
“Like to know how they got them?”
“Probably wrote to the Admiralty Chart Depot and asked for them. You know how polite we always are to foreigners.”
On the port side of the chart-room they found the switches for the navigation lights, and in a bin recessed into the
chart-table
three chronometers keeping Greenwich Mean Time. Behind the chart-house door were two pairs of Zeiss night glasses which they took from their leather cases. Among the books above the chart-table were a nautical almanac and sets of navigational and azimuth tables.
Widmark looked at the radio-telephone. “Hope the port authorities don’t try and call us on that.”
“Had it in a big way, hasn’t it?” The Newt poked at the broken valves, smashed coils and transformers, wincing at the still wet bloodstains.
Widmark lit a cigarette. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Out on the bridge the rain still fell in a light drizzle, warm and clinging. Reflections from the anchor light fell dimly upon two glistening shapes standing by the windlass on the fo’c’sle.
There was a teak wheelhouse amidships, well provided with windows, and with doors which gave on to the open wings of the bridge. The Newt hooked back the doors and with his torch found the switches for the magnetic and gyro compasses and engine telegraph lights. To his surprise the gyro compass was already working. This could only mean that the Germans had kept the master-gyro running. More evidence, he reflected, that they were standing-by to make a break for the sea. Calling the engine-room on the voice-pipe, he was reassured by Andrew McFadden’s cheerful “Hallo there, Newt!”
“Okay down below, Chiefy?”
“Everything’s fine, laddie.”
“I’m going to test telegraphs. We’re about to weigh.”
“Okay, son. Go ahead.”
The Newt tested the engine-room telegraphs and reported to Widmark: “Telegraphs tested and okay, Steve.”
“Good! Ring stand-by.”
The bells of the telegraph rang, an evocative purposeful tinkle, and the Newt reported: “Engines on stand-by.”
Widmark went across to the port side of the bridge, leant over the canvas screen and aimed his torch at the fo’c’sle, showing a steady blue light.
There was an answering blue flash. He went to the
wheel-house
door. “Wheel amidships. Slow ahead.”
The Newt rang the telegraph and repeated: “Wheel
amidships
, slow ahead, sir.” The tagged-on “sir” was force of habit, inextricably tied to the patter of helm and engine orders.
The muffled explosive notes of the main diesels came from
the funnel abaft the bridge as the machinery started to turn, and the
Hagenfels
trembled and came alive. Widmark watched the line of lights along the shore and when the ship began to move slowly ahead he went to the foreside of the bridge and flashed his torch three times. Three answering flashes told him that the manilla hawsers on the windlass drums were manned, and above the noise of riveting he could hear faintly the clank of the cable links passing through the hawse-pipes.
“Stop engines!”
The Newt repeated the order, the engine-room telegraph jangled, and the vibrations ceased. More flashes of blue light came from the fo’c’sle and Widmark answered them—the cables had been slipped and the
Hagenfels
was free to manœuvre.
He went into the wheelhouse and saw from the clock there that it was 2253.
Rohrbach and Johan would now, he knew, be going round the ship switching off lights and securing dead-lights over
portholes
. Soon the ship would be darkened.
For the next few minutes, juggling with helm and engines, Widmark kept the
Hagenfels
’s
bows to the tide, more or less in her anchor berth but dropping slowly astern on the
Clan
McPhilly
.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was 2259, so he switched off the anchor light, ordered “Starboard thirty! Half speed ahead!” and went out on to the bridge.
Soon afterwards the ship’s head was paying off to starboard and the lights along the Gorjao Quay moved up the starboard side until they were almost ahead.
At that moment the riveting stopped and the sudden cessation of sound was as remarkable as its beginning, for it had become a part of the night, a silence of its own. Now a strange new silence fell upon the Espirito Santo and slowly other sounds, small and commonplace, obtruded.
Widmark stopped the main engines, ordered the wheel amidships, and then put the engines half-astern; the
Hagenfels
’s rate of turn quickened and before long she was heading
downstream
,
the lights of the
Clan
McPhilly
close ahead on the port bow.
“Amidships. Slow ahead. Steady as you go.” Widmark’s voice for the first time communicated some of the excitement he felt, and the Newt smiled. At least the Butcher was that much human. There was a chink in the imperturbability he had displayed since their arrival on the bridge. Widmark’s next order broke into his thoughts.
“Steer one-one-o.”
“Steer one-one-o,” repeated the Newt and then, a few seconds later, “Steady on one-one-o.”
Widmark went back into the wheelhouse and stood next to the Newt, watching the steering compass. The rain clung like fine muslin to the windows on the foreside of the bridge. Lifting them up to the horizontal, Widmark secured them with brass hooks hanging from the deck-head.
“That better?”
“Fine.”
The
Hagenfels
moved slowly, passing down the port side of the
Clan
McPhilly
.
As they came abreast of her, they saw a weak light flashing from under the bridge; it was spelling out a message in morse code, slowly and laboriously: “
G-O-O-D
-
L-U-C-K
.”
Widmark dared not reply because his signal might be read from the Gorjao Quay, but under his breath he whispered “Bless you, McRobert,” and he hoped that one day he’d see him again.
It was 2305 by his wrist-watch.
He went into the wheelhouse and switched on the navigation lights.
Ahead of them lay more ships at anchor and as the
Hagenfels
drew away from the Clan ship, course was altered to pass to starboard of them, so that they would mask the German ship from the quay.
The second of the two ships ahead was the
Tactician
and when they got up to her they heard the sound of her cables
coming in through the hawse-pipes, a cluster of dark shapes on her fo’c’sle busy at the windlass.
Widmark had just given new helm orders, when he heard someone running up the starboard bridge ladder; it was David Rohrbach, who reported: “Everything’s okay, Steve. We’ve darkened ship. Nothing showing except navigation lights. Johan’s on the fo’c’sle door, and Mike’s in the wireless cabin.”
“Good!” Widmark sounded curt and business-like but he was grinning in the darkness. “The big torch is on the
chart-table
. Grab it. We’ll be up with Ponta Vermelha soon.”
Rohrbach fetched the torch. The rain slackened and
Widmark
frowned—he would far rather it had come down heavily. But he was grateful for the clouded sky and the darkness which concealed everything but the lights of Lourenço Marques and the ships along the Gorjao Quay floodlit by the clusters on the crane gantries. Nearby the lights of the ships at anchor were so close that Widmark feared the
Hagenfels
might be identified in their reflection. But there were few lights on the Catembe side of the river, not enough to silhouette the German ship, and, as he had concluded on his reconnaissances, all that could be seen of the
Hagenfels
from the harbour were her navigation lights.
They had passed the fourth ship and were almost abeam of the flashing light marking the entrance to the boat harbour when Widmark, standing in the starboard wing of the bridge, heard Rohrbach’s urgent “My God!”
He turned quickly and against the diffused glow of the port navigation light, reflected on the thin screen of rain, he could just see Rohrbach leaning over the back of the bridge looking down on to the boat-deck.
Widmark ran across and joined him. From the foremost lifeboat on the port side a beam of light was flashing. It came from under the canvas boat cover and was aimed at the shore.
There might have been five seconds between Rohrbach’s
“My God!” his jump from the bridge rail on to the boat and his slither to the sternsheets where he struck with a cosh at the signaller under the canvas. Not a sound came from this struggling shape and soon it lay still.
Rohrbach, panting for breath, called up to Widmark: “Okay. I’ll have him on deck in a second. He’s out, I reckon.”
“It’ll be that steward. Get Mike Kent to help you take him up to the chain-locker. I’ll look after Ponta Vermelha, but get back quickly.”
Widmark moved over to the foreside of the bridge. On the port bow he could see the green light of number nine buoy, and well to starboard of it the light at Esparcelado. A lot had happened, he reflected, since they’d seen those lights earlier in the evening. Things might not have gone quite according to plan, but they’d gone pretty well. Taking a grip on himself he abandoned these self-congratulatory thoughts: the
Hagenfels
was not clear of the harbour yet; the steward had been
signalling
the shore; maybe those signals had been seen; perhaps the alarm had been given; the greater dangers certainly lay ahead. He looked in at the wheelhouse door. “David’s just laid out the steward.”
The Newt said: “Splendid!”
“Keep number nine buoy fine on the port bow. There are four or five more ships in the anchorage. We should clear them on this course.”
“Aye, aye, Steve. She steers a bit sluggishly. Think we could go on to half-ahead?”
Widmark looked across to port where the shore lights were moving slowly aft.
“Okay. Ring down half-ahead.”
Soon after the telegraph bell had rung, they felt the
vibrations
quicken and the
Hagenfels
took on new life.
It was 2313. In another three minutes they would reach number nine buoy, then would come the alteration of course to head up the Polana Channel. Three or four minutes later
they would be challenged by the signal station at Ponta Vermelha.
Widmark’s thoughts went briefly to the cabin below: to the women in there. He wondered what Cleo was doing, how she was looking, what she was thinking about? It must have been terrifying for her. In his mind’s eye was the dead face of Günther Moewe. He was glad Cleo had not seen that.
For the first time he saw the lights of another ship moving towards the harbour mouth; it was on a parallel course, closer inshore, passing the lights along the sea wall below the Aterro do Machaquene; but it was travelling a good deal faster, drawing quickly ahead. He gave it a long look through the night glasses.
It was a warship. One of the Portuguese gunboats, and it was in a hurry.
Widmark was not conscious of it, but he had bitten his lip so deeply that a small trickle of blood flowed down his chin.
The women had been locked in the captain’s sea cabin for forty-five minutes; in the dark, too, for Rohrbach had smashed all the lamp-globes there and in the toilet before locking the door on them. “Sorry,” he’d said, “but we can’t take chances. You won’t be here long, anyway, and there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll see that you come to no harm.”
They had gone into the cabin in a state of considerable fright and it had persisted, which was not surprising after what had happened. All of them, that is to say, except Mariotta who was sleeping on Lindemann’s bunk.
The portholes were open but it was hot and stuffy and but for the thin reflection from a deck light it was dark. Of what was happening outside the cabin they had not the faintest idea, for not only could they see nothing but the unceasing noise of the riveting shut out all other sounds.
When Johan left them their conversation had verged on the hysterical, and it was eventually Hester Smit who calmed them down. “I don’t know what it’s all about,” she said,” but it
seems to be South Africa versus the rest, so I suppose we’ve got ourselves mixed up in the war somehow.”
“It was terrible of Johan and David to get us into this. I’ll never forgive them.” Cleo was tearful: “We might have been killed in all that shooting.”
Di Brett said: “There’s going to be one hell of a row about this. Fancy trying this sort of thing in a neutral port! What do they think’s going to happen to-morrow morning when the story comes out. They can’t hold these Germans prisoners in their own ship for long. A launch is bound to come off in the morning.” She thought of something. “Not even to-morrow. The company launch is waiting in the boat harbour
now
to come and fetch us at midnight.”
Hester Smit sighed. “I hope Johan doesn’t get into trouble. He’s such a sweety.”
“I wonder who the others were, Hester? The men who came in through the door with black faces? They looked awful people.”
“I don’t know, Cleo. But they must all be the same lot. They knew each other.”