by John Wilcox
‘It’s the village,’ whispered Mzingeli.
‘Good.’ Simon wiped his forehead. ‘We can’t enter it at night. Tell Mizango to find us a spot to camp nearby. Then we will find the chief as soon as people are about.’
Sleeping at night in the jungle was almost as bad as by day, for the fear of snakes – Mizango warned that many were dangerous – kept them awake and forced them to light a small fire. As soon as dawn broke, they paddled their way into a small inlet, where dug-out canoes were drawn up.
There they waited while Mizango and Mzingeli disappeared along a beaten path. They returned twenty minutes later, bringing with them a wizened beanstick of a man who, with his tightly curled white hair and toothless grin, seemed a replica of Mizango.
Everyone sat in a semicircle on the grey shingle while the three black men spoke animatedly. Eventually Mzingeli turned to Fonthill.
‘Yes. Chief says that big ship with three funnels and plenty guns is moored not far from here, but deeper into channel.’
‘Splendid.’ Fonthill pulled out from under his shirt a small leather bag and dipped into it, producing five German coins. He handed them to the chief, who grabbed them eagerly. ‘Now, ask him if he can draw in the shingle a rough map, showing where we are now and where the big ship is moored. If he can, I will double the coins.’
The chief gave his toothless grin and nodded. Then, with a long black finger he traced a rough outline of a big entrance to the delta, which Simon identified, from the old map he had bought in Mombasa, as the mouth of the Kikunja Channel. Then he traced a line down the channel to the south-west, to an outline of an island. His finger moved to the left and then sharply to the south, past another island. At the southern end of the island he made a cross.
‘German ship,’ said Mzingeli.
The old man grinned again and began talking again, this time frowning and jabbing his finger into the shingle in emphasis.
‘He say,’ said Mzingeli, ‘that big ship is protected by small boats carrying guns. It is well hidden in trees and there are many posts on mainland and islands where Germans are hidden with guns. He don’t think it possible to get there by canoe without Germans shooting at us.’
Fonthill nodded and thought for a moment. He leant forward and indicated the big island at the southern tip of which the Königsberg was moored. ‘What is this island called?’
‘Kikunja.’
‘Ah yes, after the channel. Is it possible for us to go ashore there on the island to the north of where the ship is and walk through the jungle to see the ship for ourselves?’
Another palaver followed. Then Mzingeli: ‘He say that it is possible but very difficult to get through jungle. We would need to follow island shoreline down but very … er … tangled and so on. Will take time.’
Fonthill nodded. He handed over five more coins and sat thinking. Then: ‘Sounds too difficult to me. Tell him we will go back to the mouth of the delta and find our ships and go home. Thank him for his help.’
The chief folded the coins in his large fist, nodded and grinned to everyone and then stood and ambled away.
‘Blimey,’ grunted Jenkins. ‘We’re not giving up now, are we?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Of course not. But, just in case the old boy was going to run to the Germans – valued customers for his fish, I should think – I wanted to set him off our track. We will paddle by night down to the end of this island and then go ashore on the next island where the Königsberg is moored. Then we will take a stroll through the jungle and take a look at the ship. From now on, 352, it is particularly important that you keep on taking regular soundings with your pole. We must report on how far upchannel the big ships can go.’
‘Very good, bach sir. And I shall look forward to the refreshin’ walk through this miserable bleedin’ jungle, so I will.’
They spent the rest of the day trying to rest among the mangrove roots on the edge of the village. Fonthill found it impossible to sleep. The sight of the blood gushing from the German sailor’s throat and the ease with which his knife had slipped into the soft flesh kept returning to him and making his stomach turn. He and Jenkins had been involved in so many battles and hand-to-hand encounters over the years that he was a little surprised at his revulsion still at killing. The distaste for it was muted when he killed at long range with the bullet. But, ever since the battles of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift, the necessity of using cold steel always reminded him of those frantic two days when he saw soldiers’ bowels ripped open by the assegais of the Zulu and the distinctive iklwa sound made by the twisting and withdrawing of the blades after the killings.
Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Alice. He had scribbled a further, fuller letter to her from the ship and asked that it be delivered to her when the vessel returned to Mombasa, which was imminent. She would surely have received the letter by now. He had explained that their mission had been extended and that it would be some little time before he and his two companions returned to the port. He assured her that the task ahead of them was not unduly dangerous, just rather arduous and wearying. She should not, under any circumstance, attempt to discover the nature of the mission as it was cloaked in secrecy and any talk of it could threaten its successful conclusion.
He turned and pushed the end of his headscarf over his face to keep the flies away. Surely the letter would prevent Alice from sniffing at their coat-tails. His mind idled its way to thinking of their adopted son, Sunil. The boy who had been such a comfort to them over the last decade was, now, of course, a subaltern fighting on the Western Front. Even in East Africa the news of the awful carnage of the fighting in Europe had reached them. It was said that the average lifetime of a second lieutenant in the trenches there was less than a month. God, he hoped he was safe! They had lost their first son in childbirth and this boy had become precious to them both. He had also turned out to be a first-class soldier. So that was one comfort. Please God, he prayed, keep him safe. Keep him safe …
The sun went down and it was with relief that they launched the two canoes and headed, at first, to the north. Then, when well out of sight of the village, they turned and paddled their way to the south, keeping close inshore to reduce the risk of them being spotted out in mid channel, now brightly lit by the moon.
Eventually, they rounded the edge of the island that housed the village and paddled quickly across to Kikunja. They must be nearing the Königsberg now, which meant, pondered Simon, that they would soon be coming abreast of the shore gun emplacements set up in the jungle to protect her. Better not risk going too far by canoe down the channel. He peered to the shoreline on his left. It seemed impenetrable. How on earth were they going to cut their way through it without being discovered?
Eventually, another little inlet with its own beach appeared, the shingle glinting in the moonlight. He signalled for the two canoes to pull into it.
They followed the usual drill: Mzingeli, the master tracker with a tread as light as a panther’s, disappearing into the jungle to ensure that there were no Germans entrenched nearby and also to find a path of some sort near the shoreline; and the others pulling up the canoes and hiding them, as far as possible, among the mangrove roots. The smell from the latter – or perhaps from the stagnant water between them – added to the general feeling of dismay at the task ahead of them.
This was reinforced when Mzingeli returned to say that he could find no path through the undergrowth and the roots. ‘Ah well,’ said Simon, ‘it’s a bad thing in that it is going to make the going very difficult, but good in that it shows there is not much traffic hereabouts.’ He took out his compass. ‘Come on. At least there is plenty of light from the moon. But tread carefully.’
The next two hours were amongst the worst of Fonthill’s life. He did his best to follow the shoreline, catching the occasional glimpse of bright water between the tree trunks, but sometimes his compass bearing took them deeper into the jungle, so that they had to use their one machete to cut a way through to make a
ny progress at all. They all slipped and stumbled over the cursed roots, sometimes splashing into the water between them. Perspiration coated their bodies, attracting myriads of insects, and thorns tore at what was left of the clothing, causing blood to trickle down their skins, attracting yet more parasites. The chattering of the monkeys preceded them and the squawking of parakeets and other birds, fluttering up as they came near, prompted Fonthill to feel that the jungle itself was conspiring to warn the Germans of their approach.
Eventually, the jungle began to thin out slightly and a beaten path of sorts materialised by the side of the channel. Here, Fonthill sent Mzingeli on ahead to scout while the others took a much-needed rest perched on the mangrove roots protruding from the black, fetid water.
‘Big gun post up ahead,’ reported the tracker, his teeth flashing in the early dawn light. ‘It blocks path. We must go into jungle to get round it.’
‘Oh bugger,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘Why don’t you three leave me ’ere, keeping these mangrieves warm? You can pick me up on your way back.’
‘No talking from now on,’ whispered Simon. ‘You’d better lead, Mzingeli. I’ll be close behind with the compass.’
It took them at least forty-five minutes to circle around the gun emplacement and then return to the shoreline. As they did so, Mzingeli held up his hand and beckoned Fonthill forward. Simon knelt at his side and, parting the fronds ahead of him, revealed in the early light of dawn the long, menacing outline of a grey-painted warship, moored close up to the shore so that she looked vast, her three funnels and menacing gun barrels draped in camouflage netting, a black and red eagle hanging listlessly from its flagstaff on her stern.
He grinned, turned and gestured for Jenkins to join them. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s the Königsberg, as I live and breathe. We’ve found the bastard at last.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alice read Simon’s second letter, delivered that morning from HMS Weymouth on her return to Mombasa, with a growing sense of fury. Why on earth couldn’t he tell her where he was going? A ‘routine job’ indeed! Was she a blabbermouth who could not keep a secret? Was she just another correspondent who couldn’t be trusted? Dammit – was she not his wife who would be concerned about his safety? Why the hell, then, couldn’t he tell her, at least to what part of the country it was that his ‘mission’ was taking him?
Country …? She mused. Country? Presumably, the Weymouth had taken him there – the notepaper of his letter was headed from the wardroom of that ship. It should not be difficult to find out what had been her destination before returning home to port. She sat for a moment, thinking. Then she put on her wide-brimmed sunhat, wrapped around its base a blue-grey scarf that she knew complemented her eyes, left the hotel and headed for the harbour.
Using her binoculars she scanned the ships in the harbour. Yes, there was Weymouth, anchored quite far out. And yes, what luck! There was her pinnace, clearly marked, heading into the harbour from the ship, quite close into the quay now. She strode forward.
A young midshipman sprang ashore.
‘Excuse me, Lieutenant,’ said Alice, doing her best to summon up a winning smile. ‘I am sorry to bother you but I wonder if you could help me?’
The young man beamed and saluted. ‘I am only a midshipman, madam, but I will do my best. How can I help?’
Alice fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Oh, my goodness. You look much older than that. But thank you. I am searching for a Lieutenant Commander Hawkins and, I have stupidly left the name of his ship at the hotel. Would he be serving on the Weymouth, by any chance?’
‘No, ma’am. I don’t know an officer of that name.’
‘Ah that’s strange. I am sure it was the Weymouth. His ship had come in from Cape Town. Was that your last destination, pray?’
‘No, ma’am. We have just come back from the Rufiji Delta, which is certainly south of here, but not that far south.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry to have detained you. I must return to my hotel and ascertain the name of his ship. Thank you so much.’
The young man saluted. ‘Not at all, madam. Good day.’
Alice walked away, thinking quickly. The Rufiji Delta. Of course. The Königsberg! They had sent Simon, Jenkins and Mzingeli to find the big German cruiser that was tucked away somewhere in that network of channels and islands. What better team to seek her out and pin her down than that wonderful trio!
Her brow darkened. What was it Simon had written? Something to the effect that their task would be arduous but not dangerous. What rubbish! Of course it would be dangerous! She knew that the German ship had defied all efforts to sink her, from bombing attacks from the air to light-craft assaults along the channels, and that she was defended by gun emplacements in the jungle armed with artillery pieces and heavy machine guns. Even the Magnificent Trio could not lightly undertake the task of finding her new hiding place and then planning how to sink her.
Alice sat for a moment in shade offered by palm fronds and closed her eyes, the better to think. At least Mzingeli would be invaluable on this mission; his knowledge of the jungle would be an ideal complement to the guts and courage of Jenkins and the leadership skills of Simon. Jungle? From the little she had read of the delta, she knew that the islands and the mainland fringing it were dominated by thick undergrowth, mangrove swamps and forest. They would not try to wade through that sort of terrain in quest of the Königsberg. It would take them a month of Sundays to make any progress.
Alice brushed away a fly. No. They would explore the channels by boat, just as dangerous, but quicker and more likely to bring success. Then a slow smile crept across her sunburnt features. What a story! The search for the German cruiser had captured the imagination of all the readers of newspapers back home. If Simon could find her – and if she could find him first and be with him when the discovery was made – it would be the scoop of a lifetime. On a par – no, better than – Stanley’s discovery of Livingstone forty years or so ago.
She stood, her mind made up. She would go in search of her husband and his two comrades. There was little time, because they had, what – a week’s start on her? But if she could find a really fast sailing Arab dhow in the harbour – and there seemed plenty of them about – to catch a following wind and take her into the delta, she could cut down that lead.
The frown returned, however, as she lengthened her stride to get back to the hotel. The delta was a maze of channels – which one to follow? Well, she would just have to tackle that problem when they reached there. Time was of the essence now.
She strode to the reception desk at the hotel. ‘I am going away for some time,’ she said, ‘but I would be grateful if you could keep my room for me. My company in London will keep up the payments while I am away, of course, and I would like to leave most of my possessions in it.’
The receptionist inclined his head. ‘Of course, madam. That will be no problem. When will you be leaving and can you let us have a forwarding address for you, for mail, of course?’
‘Well, I hope to be leave tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. I have to make some arrangements first, you understand. I’m afraid I can’t give you a forwarding address, so please keep my mail for me.’
She slipped a pound note across the counter and the clerk accepted and pocketed it in one smooth movement. ‘Of course, madam.’
His eyes followed her as she began to climb up the stairs. Then he picked up the desk telephone and dialled a number. Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he said, ‘Mr de Villiers? Ah yes, sir. I have some news that I think will interest you …’
Alice changed very quickly into a simple, khaki-coloured, cotton dress, sandals and a pith helmet and retraced her steps to the harbour, this time making for the smelly jetties where the fishing boats, large and small, were moored. She walked along slowly, inspecting each one with care. Then she found one that she felt might fit the bill.
It was an Arab dhow, carrying a huge lanteen sail that was now furled to its spar. Unusually, it had a s
mall cabin amidships, with open holds for the catch and what appeared to be sailors’ quarters in the fo’c’s’le. Three crew members were washing down the holds, under the direction of what appeared to be the captain, a handsome, middle-aged man, wearing a clipped beard and a turban, his shirt undone to the waist, showing a muscular, dark-brown chest. He looked up quickly at Alice and gave her a quick smile, revealing white, even teeth. It was not intrusive or disrespectful; merely cheerful.
Alice did not respond but walked past and then, from behind a tree trunk, inspected the boat again. She was rakish in appearance, with the gunnels sweeping down from a high prow and then up again to an equally high sternpost. She certainly looked as though she would make the most of the capricious winds that characterised this part of the African coastline. To Alice’s not altogether untutored eye, she looked a sleek, speedy craft – and one which, importantly, fitted easily into the environment.
Turning back, Alice hailed the captain. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Do you speak English?’
The smile returned. ‘Oh yes, madam. I have sailed to London docks and back. I know your language.’
‘Splendid. May I come on board and have a conversation with you?’
The man’s eyebrows rose. ‘By all means, madam.’ He issued a series of commands in Arabic and a gangplank was thrown, bridging the gap between the boat and the jetty. He boarded it and walked halfway along and held out his hand.
‘Be careful, madam. This is very slippy, I think.’
