Dust Clouds of War

by John Wilcox

  ‘Quick,’ shouted Fonthill, ‘throw out the nets.’

  Mizango and Mzingeli had just time to hurl the shrimping net in a great arc when the boat appeared with, this time, a rating at the tiller, what appeared to be an officer in the bow and two sailors amidships bearing rifles.

  ‘If they hail us,’ whispered Simon, ‘answer in Swahili and repeat that we two are Portuguese.’

  Inevitably, the hail came, from the officer in the bow, who gestured towards them with a pistol that he withdrew from a holster at his belt. As he did so, Jenkins slid his hand under the tarpaulin where the rifles were.

  ‘Be careful,’ hissed Fonthill, ‘they have us covered with their guns.’

  The launch cut its motor and eased alongside the canoes. Once again the question came from the officer. Simon knew enough German to realise that they were being challenged and asked what they were doing fishing so deeply into the delta in German waters. He could not understand Mzingeli’s reply in Swahili, of course, and it was clear that neither could the German, for he indicated to them to pull up their net and paddle closer, alongside the launch.

  ‘If they search us and discover the Mausers we’re done for,’ whispered Simon. ‘So take plenty of time getting the nets up. I will help and deliberately tangle them. We need to play for time.’

  While Jenkins, paddling deliberately badly, turned the lead canoe in a circle, the others pulled hard onto the great net, entangling it round the high bow post of the dug-out and causing the German officer to scream at them in frustration. Simon realised that he had to intervene.

  ‘I no speaka German, but speak some English,’ he called, with what he hoped might sound like a Portuguese accent. ‘You speaka English?’

  ‘Nein,’ shouted the officer and he waved his revolver urgently, indicating that Fonthill should climb into the launch.

  ‘What you wanta me to do?’ asked Simon plaintively, hunching his shoulders and spreading out his hands beseechingly. The frantic and clumsy net hauling of Mzingeli and Mizango was now beginning to rock both of the canoes and it was clear that Jenkins was certainly becoming alarmed, far more concerned about joining the crocodiles in the black water than being imprisoned by the German navy.

  ‘Oi, steady on lads,’ he shouted.

  Fonthill did his best to cover up Jenkins’s involuntary lapse and immediately called out, ‘We fishermen. Portugesa fishermen. No fighters, please. Don’t shoota.’

  But Jenkins’s cry had been enough to alert the officer and he lifted his revolver into the air and let off a round. Instantly, all net hauling ceased and an apprehensive silence descended onto the launch and two canoes. Simon’s mind raced. If he created some sort of diversion, would it enable Jenkins to withdraw one of the Mausers from under the tarpaulin and shoot … what? All three of the Germans, who now had all of their guns pointing ominously at the canoes? Ridiculous! The Germans would bring him down before he could work the bolt of his rifle to reload the magazine. Simon did, however, have his Webley revolver, containing six cartridges, tucked under a cloth by the stern of the canoe.

  He waved acknowledgment to the officer. Turning his back on him and picking up the cloth, he ostentatiously wiped his hands with it and then his brow, while slipping the revolver into the waistband of his trousers underneath his shirt. ‘I come on boarda,’ he shouted and waving to Jenkins to follow him, he left the rocking canoe and clambered into the launch.

  Jenkins, not at all averse to leaving the fragile dug-out, followed him and quietly moved towards the nearest sailor, standing there with his hand just above the knife at his belt. From the corner of his eye, Simon noticed that Mzingeli had managed to throw the end of the fishing net around the propeller beneath the launch’s stern.

  The German officer waved to Mzingeli and Mizango to climb aboard also and shouted an order to the rating standing at the tiller behind the engine housing. The man put down his rifle and bent down and pushed a switch to start the motor. It coughed into action, then immediately whirred to a stop as the wings of the propeller wound themselves around the net.

  The officer cursed and joined the helmsman leaning over the stern to examine what had caused the motor to cut. Simon half-turned, pulled out the Webley, dropped on one knee and fired at the officer, wounding him in the shoulder and causing him to drop his revolver. At the same time, Jenkins struck up the rifle of the sailor standing next to him and pushed him into his mate, sending them both reeling.

  ‘Drop your guns,’ shouted Fonthill. One did so but the other fired a bullet, which flew over the officer’s head as the latter knelt, gasping and holding his wounded shoulder. The rating received Jenkins’s knife in his ribs for his courage and he too collapsed onto the deck of the launch.

  ‘Mzingeli,’ ordered Simon. ‘Get the rifles, quickly.’

  The tracker sprang around the deck, barefooted and as lithely as any seaman before the mast, gathering the weapons.

  ‘Good.’ Still holding the revolver, Fonthill tore off his shirt and threw it to Jenkins. He nodded to the wounded seaman. ‘Pull out your knife and tear up my shirt to make a dressing and bandage. We mustn’t let him bleed to death. I will do what I can to help the officer.’

  He waved his revolver at the helmsman and gestured to him to remove his shirt. Wide-eyed, the man did so. Simon mimed to him to tear the shirt similarly into strips and then knelt down to remove the bloodstained jacket from the officer, who lay moaning on the deck.

  Inspecting the wound, Fonthill nodded. ‘You have been very lucky, Fritz,’ he said. ‘My bullet has gone clean through under the bones and out the other side. Throw me your knife, 352.’

  The knife clattered along the deck and Simon used it to cut away the shirt, double a part of it into two pads and apply them to the wound at the front and back. He gestured to the helmsman to use one of his shirt’s strips to bind the dressing to the chest. Then he stood, blowing out his cheeks at the effort and speed of it all.

  ‘Mzingeli,’ he said. ‘Stack the rifles. You did well to disable the motor but we’re going to need it pretty damn quick to get out of here. The sound of shots may attract more boats or crewmen from the Königsberg. Please ask Mizango to drop into the water to untangle the net from the prop and you keep watch over him with a rifle to make sure the crocs don’t fancy his legs. We’ve got to move quickly.’

  Simon moved to where a little companionway led into a small cabin. ‘Now,’ he waved his revolver to the seaman who had dropped his rifle, ‘you take your mate down below and give him water.’ He pointed to the wounded man, whom Jenkins was now helping to his feet, and mimed giving him a drink.

  The unwounded man nodded and, putting his hand around the waist of the wounded man, helped to go below.

  Jenkins nodded. ‘It was only a flesh wound, see,’ he said. ‘I must be losin’ me nerve ’cos I didn’t want to stick ’im proper, like. Must be gettin’ soft in me old age.’

  ‘Good. Take over from Mzingeli watching for crocs and get him to get into the canoes and salvage our maps and what supplies we’ve got left. I want to get out of here as soon as we can. We can leave the dug-outs behind.’

  ‘Very good, bach sir.’

  A cry from the water from a triumphant Mizango indicated that the propeller had been freed and he was hauled aboard. Fonthill indicated to the helmsman to help the wounded officer to his feet and to take him into the little cabin. Once they were below and had joined the other two, Simon locked the cabin door and turned back to the motor. To his relief the engine kicked into life immediately. Slipping the gear into reverse, Simon swung round in a welter of white wake out into the channel and headed due north, revving the motor as high as he dared to elude whatever pursuit might be mounted from the cruiser or the shore.

  ‘352,’ shouted Fonthill above the roar, ‘you and Mzingeli man starboard and port with the rifles, ready to fire back if we are fired upon from the shore.’

  ‘Er … starboard and what?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, each take a side
and watch out for movement in the jungle. Ask Mzingeli to tell Mizango to watch ahead from the bow – the front of the boat – to warn of any trouble coming up. I can’t see too clearly here from the stern.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain.’

  The launch was considerably faster and seemed better equipped than the first they had captured; Fonthill estimated that it was probably the captain’s own boat and chuckled at the thought of robbing him of it. But his delight was short-lived, for a cry from the bow alerted him to possible danger.

  Handing the tiller to Jenkins and cutting the motor to just allow the boat to make headway, he walked ahead to see where Mizango was pointing. Shading his eyes from the sun, he saw that a small motor craft, carrying the German flag at its stern, had pulled alongside an Arab dhow in mid channel. The dhow had dropped its anchor and its skipper appeared to be in earnest conversation with a man in German uniform on its deck.

  ‘Damn!’ Fonthill’s mind raced. The smaller of the two craft was a speedboat and could easily overtake the launch. Should they sail by with an airy wave or stop and deprive the Germans of their catch, whatever it was? Yes, better the latter. They outnumbered the crew of the little boat, anyway, which seemed to be manned by only two men. A high-speed patrol boat, obviously.

  Simon moved back to Jenkins at the tiller. ‘You and Mzingeli get your rifles,’ he said, ‘and be prepared to jump aboard that little boat and the Arab vessel at its side. Disarm the two Germans and bring ’em back here and put them down below with the others. Move quickly, now. I’m going alongside.’

  He increased speed again and then dropped the revs so that the engine noise fell away and let the momentum of the boat approach the two boats from the rear and gently pull alongside the patrol boat. Both of the Germans remained looking ahead but the officer had been joined on board the deck of the dhow by a slim Arab who was now addressing the Germans.

  With a gentle bump the launch slipped alongside the speedboat and Mzingeli leapt aboard, pushed the helmsman to one side and climbed on board the dhow, thrusting his rifle into the side of the German officer, indicating that he should drop his revolver. The man did so, his face a picture of surprise and consternation.

  ‘Well done, lads,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘352, you get on board the Arab ship and take over watching the Germans. Mzingeli, come back here and tie us up to the speedboat. I don’t want to drift away.’

  Within minutes, the three boats were lashed side by side and Simon had joined a grinning Jenkins on board the dhow. ‘What the hell are you laughing at?’ he demanded of the Welshman.

  Jenkins nodded mutely towards the slim Arab.

  ‘Hello, Simon,’ said Alice. She turned towards the captain of the dhow, standing at her side, his face matching the astonishment on that of the German officer. ‘Mustapha,’ she said, ‘I would like to introduce you to Simon Fonthill, my husband.’ She smiled and sighed at Fonthill. ‘He’s always rescuing me. It’s getting very embarrassing and rather boring.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Simon Fonthill’s jaw dropped as he regarded the figure before him. Her so-familiar grey eyes and white teeth shone from a face that was almost as dark as that of the sailor standing next to her. She was dressed in a tangerine-coloured blouse that was open at the neck, revealing a cheap, Arabian necklace, above pantaloons that flared, houri-like, at the ankles, and she wore open-toed native slippers on her brown feet. Her fair hair, turning grey, was tucked away under a brightly coloured scarf. His heart missed a beat as he regarded her, looking as though she had just stepped from a native bazaar – half her age and ridiculously attractive.

  He regained his composure, his face a mixture of surprise and indignation. ‘Alice!’ he cried. ‘What the hell are you doing here? And dressed up like something from the Arabian Nights?’

  ‘Doing here? Well, looking for you, actually. And it looks as though we’ve found you.’ She looked him up and down, her eyes twinkling in her dusky face. ‘As for the Arabian Nights, my darling, you look as though you have stepped from the stage of Aladdin – and, my goodness, I think you could do with a bath.’

  And then she stepped forward, put her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

  Simon untangled himself, coughed, and looked at the two Germans in some embarrassment. Then he turned to Jenkins. ‘Get these two into the cabin on the launch, where we’ve got the rest of the bloody German navy. And make sure the door is bolted behind you.’

  Jenkins waved his rifle towards the two prisoners who stepped reluctantly – their faces still a picture of bewilderment – into the launch.

  Fonthill turned to Mzingeli. ‘Put a couple of rifle shots into the hull of the speedboat and set it adrift. It should soon sink.’

  Then he spoke to Mustapha. ‘I presume, sir,’ he said, ‘that you are the captain of this craft?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, effendi. I bring your wife from Mombasa, here to look for you.’

  ‘Well, I am obliged to you for looking after her. But you must get your vessel under way now and beat back up the channel towards the open sea, for we might both be pursued from the German cruiser.’

  Alice’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, Simon. You’ve found her! I knew you would.’

  Three rifle shots from the speedboat showed that Mzingeli had opened up the hull of the little boat and he pushed the craft away and then climbed back aboard the dhow. Jenkins, his task as jailer completed, followed him less adroitly. Mustapha shouted orders and the crew of the Calipha began to haul up its anchor.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Alice. ‘I wanted to catch a glimpse, at least, of the Königsberg. Is it far from here?’

  ‘No. But all this shooting will have alerted the crew and they must have at least one boat left that could pursue us. So we must get out of here. We will take you aboard the launch to one of our warships off the delta.’

  Alice drew herself to her full height. ‘Certainly not. I can’t leave Mustapha and his crew to the mercy of the Germans. They have been magnificent in getting me here. I shall stay with them, thank you very much.’ Then her tone altered and she put her hand on his arm. ‘But, Simon, you must tell me what you have been up to. It will make a wonderful story.’

  ‘I will do no such thing. But what the hell are we going to do with this bloody boat? Is it a good sailor?’

  ‘Oh, first class. She ghosts along in light airs and really puts her lee rail down with a bit of wind.’

  ‘What? Good lord, Alice. You’ve certainly picked up the jargon. Very well, we will accompany the dhow until we reach the open water. There are German gun emplacements to pass before we do. What’s the chap’s name again?’

  ‘Mustapha.’

  ‘Very well. Now, sit over there until I’ve had a word with him. I want you to tell me how you found us.’

  Mustapha was supervising the hauling up of the mast of the great lanteen sail as Simon approached him.

  ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘it looks as though the tide is with us. Can we make good time with this wind and the tide back to the open sea, do you think?’

  Mustapha’s nostrils flared as he sniffed the wind. ‘Oh yes. Offshore wind has sprung up. We should sail well.’ He smiled and looked down at the launch. ‘Faster than that boat of yours, perhaps.’

  Fonthill returned the smile. ‘Well, we won’t have to tack, of course. But we will keep you company until we are past the German guns on the shore. Did you pass many coming down this channel?’

  The Arab shook his head. ‘I saw nothing, effendi. Busy sailing boat, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Well, they are there. So we must sail quickly past them. Put on as much sail as you can.’

  ‘Very well, effendi.’

  Mustapha barked more orders and Simon walked back to Alice. ‘Now, my love, I apologise for laying down the law, but we are still in some danger here and I must insist that you join me in the launch. I think it would be better for this crew if you were not on board if the Germans do catch up with the dhow.’

  ‘Oh, ve
ry well, Simon. But you must allow me to go back on board when we are out at sea for I must pay these good fellows off. They are all my friends now.’

  ‘Of course. Explain to Mustapha and tell him to deny all knowledge of you if they are caught. Then join us in the launch. We must go on ahead, for I have to report to the admiral and we have prisoners to unload.’

  The lashings coupling the launch to the Calipha were untied and Fonthill steered the launch away from the dhow. Immediately, however, as the newly-risen offshore wind filled her giant sail, the native boat gathered way, heeled over and began almost to skip across the water.

  ‘My word,’ Simon shouted to Alice, ‘she is a good sailor. Now, come and sit next to me while I steer and tell me how you got here and why. No nonsense, now.’

  Meekly, Alice did as she was told. Mustapha had proved to be not only an excellent sailor, skippering a fast and seaworthy boat, but a man who knew the delta extremely well, having fished its channels in the past. He also knew many of the fishermen’s villages and they had systematically called on them, until they found one who acknowledged that they had recently sold two dug-out canoes to two Englishmen who had paddled away down the Simba-Uranga Channel.

  ‘So we followed you, in the hope that we would catch you up,’ said Alice. ‘And we did.’

  ‘No you didn’t. You were stopped and captured by a German patrol boat.’

  Alice frowned. ‘Yes.’ She leant forward. ‘And this is the funny thing, Simon. That boat came straight for us, as though it was expecting us. I hid in the cabin, of course, pretending to be Mustapha’s wife …’

  ‘Not completely, I trust?’

  ‘No. Don’t be silly. But, as you know, my German isn’t too bad, and I heard him demanding Mustapha to produce the English lady whom he had on board who was, in fact, a spy. That’s when I stepped out and began arguing with him because I didn’t want Mustapha to get into trouble – and that’s when you arrived, thank goodness.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Simon thought in silence for a while. Then, ‘Who knew in Mombasa what you were up to?’