Dust Clouds of War

by John Wilcox

  Alice nodded and accepted his hand and strode purposefully across the plank, jumping down onto the narrow decking that bordered the open hold. She wrinkled her nose. If her plan came to fruition, she would have to live with this smell, probably for weeks. She coughed to hide her displeasure.

  ‘Is there anywhere we could talk in private, Captain?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes. I have a cabin.’

  He led the way and they both bent to gain entry through the narrow companionway. The captain gestured to a narrow bunk, which occupied one side of the cabin. She noted with approval that its blankets and sheets were carefully tucked and folded. ‘Sit there, please. More comfortable. I sit on this silly little thing.’ He tucked a small stool made of bamboo under his ample bottom and perched on it. Then, immediately, he stood again and leant forward, holding out his hand. ‘I am Mustapha Abdullah. How do you do, lady.’

  Alice clasped his hand and found that he had a firm grasp. ‘How do you do, Mr Abdullah.’ She sat back and regarded him quickly. His features were good, with wide-set brown eyes and high cheekbones.

  ‘Mr Abdullah – ah, would you mind if I called you Mustapha? It was the name of a young Sudanese boy I knew many years ago and learnt to love very much.’

  ‘Of course not, madam. I am honoured.’ He put his hand on his heart in an old-fashioned gesture and bent his head.

  ‘Good. Now, Mustapha. May I ask if you own this boat as well as being its captain?’

  The Arab inclined his head again. ‘Yes, I am the owner. She is beautiful boat.’

  ‘So I noticed. That’s why I decided I should talk to you. Now, Mustapha. My name is Alice Griffith. I am married to a very senior officer in the British army and, er, I am working for the British government.’

  Mustapha allowed his jaw to drop for a moment. ‘You are working for British government? They let ladies do that in England?’

  Alice directed at him her most bewitching smile. ‘Oh yes. It is called intelligence work. In fact,’ she wrinkled her nose, ‘women are much better at this kind of work than men, you know?’

  Mustapha shook his head slowly. ‘The ways of Allah are strange, lady, but the ways of the British are even more strange.’ His great smile returned. ‘So, then, lady, what can I do for you?’

  She leant forward. ‘Can I rely on your complete confidence?’

  The Arab frowned. ‘I am not sure what that means, madam.’

  ‘It means that I do not want any details of what I say to you given to anybody else. Not even members of your crew.’

  He nodded his head. ‘Certainly. No one will know.’ He grinned. ‘Not even my three wives.’

  Alice returned the grin. ‘Mustapha, have you any reason to love the Germans?’

  ‘No.’ He replied immediately and emphatically. ‘They too quick to whip people, I think. We have our honour and dignity as well as white people.’

  ‘Oh, that I know. Now, listen. I would like to hire your boat to sail to the Rufiji Delta in the south, in German East Africa. And then take me up the main channels in that delta. I don’t know how long we will be away – perhaps a month, perhaps more – but I do not want the Germans to know that you are carrying a member of the British Secret Service if we are stopped. So I must disguise myself. I am prepared to pay you handsomely for this. But I am in a hurry and would like to sail tomorrow.’

  He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Ah, so soon! First I must sell my fish.’

  ‘Of course. How long will that take you?’

  ‘They already in market. Sell today, I think. Good catch this time. And …’ He paused. ‘I must ask crew if they prepared to be away that long.’

  Alice frowned. ‘It is important that you do not tell them where we are going until we are out at sea. You must need to tell them some story.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The captain wrinkled his brow now. ‘This voyage is dangerous, you think?’

  ‘Oh, I hope not. That is one of the reasons why I chose your boat. It is clearly a simple fishing boat – although,’ she smiled, ‘to me it has beautiful lines and looks as though it will sail well.’

  Mustapha’s eyebrows shot up and his chest expanded visibly. ‘Oh yes, lady. The Calipha is the best boat in Mombasa. Now.’ A serious look fell over his face. ‘You say you pay well. So you must, because I lose all that time fishing.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Alice took a deep breath, mentally calculating the amount of funds she had available to her in the Mombasa bank, both from the Morning Post and from her own, ample means. ‘I will pay you six hundred British pounds for a month’s sailing,’ she said. ‘I will bring three hundred with me to give to you tomorrow when we sail and the rest when we return. If we are forced to stay at sea longer than a month, we must negotiate again.’

  Mustapha smiled, making his eyes dance. He was comfortable, she reflected, conducting a bargain, like most Arabs.

  ‘Ah, madam. I think a little more. I could get very close to that with a good catch. Shall we say, seven hundred British pounds?’

  ‘No we shall not. Six hundred and fifty will be my last word. Three hundred and twenty five tomorrow, the rest on return. Now, Mustapha, if you don’t take me I must find another boat, so please, no further bargaining.’

  Slowly, he nodded, his eyes still dancing. ‘Very well, madam.’ He stood and leant forward, extending his hand. ‘We shake hands, like English people. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alice smiled and made sure that the firmness of her grip now matched his. ‘We have a deal. Good. Now what time can we sail tomorrow?’

  ‘Ah, with this boat, we do not need a tide. We can row, using big oars – I think you call them sweeps?’

  Alice nodded.

  ‘Yes, we can row out far enough to catch the wind beyond the harbour. So, shall we say we sail soon after sun comes up: six-thirty by your watch?’

  ‘Good. What about your crew? Do you need to find out if they will sail?’

  Mustapha’s great grin returned. ‘Ah, they will sail all right. Do not worry. They will agree when I tell them what I will pay them.’

  Damn, thought Alice! I offered too much. Well, never mind. Better to have a contented crew than a disaffected one. Her face became serious. ‘Remember, Captain. You must not tell them where we are sailing. If they reveal our destination, it will get back to the Germans very quickly, because Mombasa is full of spies. And then we could all be shot, once we reach the delta.’

  ‘No, madam. Not a word. I will not mention the German ship.’

  Alice shot him a sharp glance. ‘I never mentioned a German ship.’

  ‘No. But we look for the Königsberg, of course. Why else would we go to the delta? She is there, I know.’

  ‘Do you know where she is moored?’

  ‘No. But we find her, lady. We find her. You can rely on Mustapha Abdullah.’

  ‘Well, I do hope so. I will see you in the morning at first light, Mustapha. At first light.’

  ‘At first light, madam.’

  Alice left the quay, her step light and her heart rejoicing. An adventure at last, with the possibility of an exclusive at the end of it and – most important of all – the chance to join Simon! She smiled and turned towards the street market, which was a cacophony of sound and a kaleidoscope of colour, where the whole of Africa and his wife, it seemed, had congregated to trade and haggle. She headed straight towards a stall, which she had noted before, and which sold fabrics and garments aimed at the native market. She quickly selected a brightly coloured dress, another two-piece of blouse and harem-style billowing trousers, native sandals, a selection of scarves and a bad-weather mackintosh-type cape. Wrapping her purchases, she called at a stall that sold dyes and then hurried back to the hotel.

  There, she confirmed to the clerk at the desk that she would need no breakfast in the morning and would be leaving before dawn. She wished to cause no trouble to the nightwatchman so would it be convenient, perhaps, to slip out via the kitchen door, which she understood opened before dawn to receive early produce? />
  Of course, agreed the clerk. She smiled and hurried to her room. There, she laid out her garments, tried them on – to her satisfaction – and selected the trousers and blouse for wear in the morning under the bad-weather cape. She then packed a soft holdall with the remainder of the garments, underwear, toiletries, a water bottle, her malaria tablets and anti-mosquito cream. Then, she slipped in a heavy Webley service revolver and, as an afterthought, the small Belgian Francotte automatic pistol, a snub-nosed weapon that could be easily strapped to her ankle under the billowing trousers without detection. She unpacked the dyes, selected one and retreated to her tiny washroom to apply it all over her body. Finished, she regarded herself with approval in the mirror. Only the grey eyes seemed to regard her somewhat incongruously from the glass. She must remember to avert her gaze if questioned – and she must remember to spread paper over the pillow before retiring for the night.

  It was still dark, a humid, muskily scented night, when a dusky, rather tall native woman slipped out through the service door of the hotel and, head down under her headscarf, made for the harbour. All was a-bustle aboard the Calipha when she boarded her. Alice noted with relief that sleeping mattresses had been set out on deck above the fo’c’s’le – obviously the captain had given her his cabin and thrown out the crew from their quarters to accommodate him. The sweeps were being produced and put into large rowlocks amidships and Mustapha was coiling fishing nets and putting them into the holds. Good! They must look the part and obviously fish once they reached the delta.

  The captain raised his hand in greeting. ‘Good morning, madam. I see you have converted to Islam. You look well! We are ready to sail. You have my quarters. I suggest you go there until we leave the harbour. The wives of fishing vessels here do not usually go with their husbands to sea.’

  ‘Very well, Captain.’

  Alice stepped inside the little cabin and laid out her things. She felt the boat lurch, gather way and then move forward smoothly as the sweeps were manned, but she resisted the temptation to go on deck and see Mombasa retreat into the half-darkness. She therefore was not aware of the dark figure of Herman de Villiers, who stood on the jetty, partly shielded by a palm tree, carefully making a note of the Calipha’s name as she swept out to the open sea.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A finger to his lips, Fonthill waved his three companions back and then moved with them into the darkness of the jungle, away from the Königsberg.

  ‘Now what?’ whispered Jenkins.

  ‘Back to the boats and then we must take careful soundings of the channels leading from the mouth of the delta to the ship. Finding the damned thing is one thing. Getting near enough to destroy her with big guns, within the range of her own guns, is quite another.’

  Fonthill pursed his lips. ‘And we must be particularly careful. They surely must have sent a boat by now to the gun position we destroyed and will have guessed that the place was attacked. So they will be looking for us. Everyone be on the alert.’

  The quartet began retracing their steps, Mzingeli leading, following skilfully the marks of their passage through the undergrowth. If he can do that, thought Simon, then surely the Germans could also – if, that is, they had natives who could track as well as Mzingeli. Once again they skirted the gun emplacement, set about a quarter of a mile hidden in the shoreline north of the Königsberg. And once again they suffered from the insects, the humidity and the muscle-aching task of stepping on and over the curving mangrove roots. The animal residents of the jungle continued to mark their passage with a chorus of screeches and chatterings. Once, Fonthill almost put his foot on what he thought was a log, just under the surface of the water between two roots. The log quickly glided away into deeper water. He decided not to tell Jenkins.

  It was with huge relief, then, that they eventually arrived back at the little inlet where they had left their canoes.

  Except that they had gone.

  They paused at the edge of the undergrowth and then drew back. Mzingeli pointed to the marks in the sandy shingle where the boats had been drawn back into the water. Surrounding them were the imprints of many boots. But these did not lead into the jungle, only back towards where the brown water lapped the shore.

  ‘They did not go into jungle to follow us,’ said Mzingeli.

  ‘Very sensible of them, I am sure,’ muttered Jenkins, scratching at a mosquito bite.

  Fonthill stood, frowning. ‘Why should they take what appeared to be just two dug-out canoes, fishermen’s boats?’

  ‘What did we leave in them, bach sir?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘Perhaps enough to incriminate us. Let me think: nets, of course, including our mosquito nets – would fishermen have them? Unlikely. Blankets, your sounding pole. Then there were our provisions. Not much to give us away there, just rice, dried meat, biscuits, tea and coffee. Luckily we have our rifles, binoculars, maps and canteens with us.’

  He sighed. ‘Well, this shows that they are looking for the people who attacked their gun post. And we can’t make much progress – or take any soundings – without our boats. What’s more, we have nothing to eat.’

  Mzingeli put a long finger to the side of his nose. ‘We don’t get off this island without our boats. We don’t swim to the next one with all these hippos and crocodiles about, I think.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jenkins nodded in fervent agreement. ‘You think right, there, Jelly. Very right, bach.’

  Mzingeli turned to Mizango and spoke to him in Swahili. The other responded, slowly.

  ‘I ask,’ said the tracker, ‘if any of his people would fish these waters. He say, probably not this far south because water too dirty. But perhaps from the northern end of this island. If we can cut through jungle up to there we might attract one of boats from his village, if it go by.’

  ‘Aw, not another march through this bleedin’ jungle an’ sleepin’ rough, is it?’ Jenkins’s perspiring face was a picture of woe.

  Simon nodded. ‘Our only hope, I would say.’ He fumbled in his knapsack and produced the map he had bought from the market in Mombasa, opening it on his knee. He showed Mzingeli where he had roughly marked the position of the Königsberg. ‘How far do you think we have come from there?’

  ‘I think, maybe one and half miles, Nkosi. We march slow in jungle.’

  ‘Hmm. From this map, this island of Kikunja looks to be about four miles from north to south.’ He looked up grinning. ‘That means we have a happy little walk ahead of us to reach the north coast. We had better get moving.’

  He consulted his compass. ‘We follow the shoreline as best we can. It should be easier, anyway, than plodding through the heart of this blasted jungle. And we should be able to sleep more comfortably on the odd beaches we come across. Right, let’s start. I will lead this time, Mzingeli, with the compass, so give me the machete. But keep those keen eyes of yours looking out into the channel. The Germans will almost certainly be patrolling.’

  So they began the incredibly wearying trudge again through the mangroves, carefully putting their feet on the roots and sometimes jumping over the dark water in between, with Fonthill hacking away with the machete when the undergrowth became too tangled ahead. Once again the birds and animals of the swamp sounded their disapproval, and monkeys sometimes hurled branches and sticks down at them. The forest seemed to teem with life. Fonthill noticed large ants seeming to walk stiffly on the surface of the water. He put his finger in and sucked it. Too salty to drink, alas – but surely a source of food.

  He turned back to Mzingeli. ‘We can’t go hungry. Mizango is a fisherman. Even without fishing tackle, can he catch anything that might feed us?’

  ‘Oh yes, Nkosi. I already ask him. He say that cannot get shrimps without nets but further along there should be place where he maybe get crabs and perhaps lobster.’

  ‘How the hell are we going to cook ’em?’

  ‘We have matches and mangrove leaves will burn – when we find dry beach.’

  ‘Good.’

 
; Eventually, they did so and each man slumped down in gratitude onto the still damp sand, studded with young, soft, mangrove shoots standing up like small sentinels. Mzingeli and Mizango immediately rose, however, and began searching under the green undergrowth that edged the beach and arched over the water. Soon, there was a cry of triumph and Mizango held up a wriggling red-shelled crab, as big as his fist, which he threw onto the beach, where Jenkins killed it with a blow from his rifle butt. Then another followed and another until a small pile of the crustaceans had been deposited onto the sand.

  Then the two black men began scavenging for dry wood.

  ‘They’ll never find any,’ mumbled Jenkins. ‘Every bloody thing around ’ere is drenched.’

  But they did and soon a small fire was lit close to the undergrowth, which quickly absorbed the smoke that rose and died among the greenery. The men used rifle butts to crack the hot shells and soon they were hungrily devouring the soft meat inside.

  ‘I’ve ’ad better in Rhyl,’ observed Jenkins, sucking his fingers, ‘but not all that much better, I’d say. Well done, lads.’

  Fonthill held up a hand. ‘Shush,’ he cried – and then, ‘Throw sand on the fire, quickly now. Back into the jungle.’

  Then the others heard it: the throb of a marine engine. They had hardly time to douse the fire, scatter the crab shells, spread the ashes and crawl into the protection of the overhanging foliage when, nosing round the edge of the inlet, a motor launch appeared, the German eagle ensign draped over its stern. It was manned by four men, three of them armed with rifles, scanning the jungle, and a fourth at the tiller.

  Suddenly, an order was given and the launch swept round in a great arc and headed for the shore.

  ‘Damn!’ swore Fonthill. ‘They’ve seen something. If they land, we will have to kill them. We cannot afford to take captives. Mzingeli, 352, put a cartridge up the spout of your rifles. Don’t fire until I do. Stay very quiet now.’

  The launch crunched into the soft sand, an order was shouted in German and the three men jumped into the shallows, their rifles at the ready, the fourth man – obviously an officer or petty officer – remaining at the tiller, staring into the jungle.