‘Coming this way.’
‘This coast, maybe. If she holds on.’
‘Not at twenty knots, she wouldn’t.’
‘Is that somehow relevant?’
‘The mate and I were pondering her likely movements, that’s all. Economical speed about fifteen, we reckoned.’
‘Might well be. Or could be twenty. Either way, by the time we’re ready to leave Monte –’
Shaw cut in again: ‘Sit tight and keep our knees together until she’s pissed off again, is what I’d propose.’
* * *
By dawn on the 4th, still with about twelve hours to go, the wind had veered northeast, same direction as the Brazil Current. Andy and Fisher took their morning stars and the results, in close accord, suggested a small alteration of course, which was conveyed to Halloran. Fisher noted the time and log reading, and laid the new track off on the chart.
‘Sets us back a bit. ETA at the dredged channel seventeen hundred, more like.’
‘Dredged channel?’
‘Here.’ He spread a new chart – 2001 – on top of the other. ‘See. Bahia de Montevideo. Channel’s here – five miles of it, leading due north. Our approach’ll be here, between English Bank and Rouen Bank, then hard a-starboard. Giving ETA at the channel’s outer end because that’s where the pilot meets us. Channel’s dredged periodically to thirty feet – soft mud, silts up like mad. Only good thing about it is you can’t seriously damage yourself on soft mud. But once in the estuary there’s not a hell of a lot of water anywhere… Your first visit here, is this?’
‘To Monte.’ He nodded. ‘Passed close by in the old Burntisland, though – when we came down from Rio and visited BA, remember?’
Buenos Aires being a hundred miles up-river and on its other bank. Argentina on your left, Uruguay on your right. From BA in the Burntisland they’d steamed on down to the Magellan Strait and up the Chilean coast to Santiago; himself a cadet, Fisher third mate. The Spanish war had been at its height: the bombing of Guernica, all that. Couple of years ago, but it felt more like last month – because, he guessed, he’d enjoyed what he’d been doing. So far, anyway, had enjoyed it. As he’d tried to explain to his father that day – he’d found himself in what felt like his own element, a role that suited him – seaman, working seaman with no frills, no bullshit, or at any rate very little – and definitely preferring the cargo business – tramping – which gave you the whole world as your stamping-ground, no port on earth you wouldn’t eventually get to know.
And no bloody passengers…
Fisher was telling him about Montevideo – ‘Likely thing, with coal, is they’ll want us to anchor in what’s called the Antepuerto and discharge into lighters. Agents may tell us when they answer the Old Man’s message, otherwise the pilot will.’
The Old Man had wirelessed last night to Messrs Todhunter and Rodriguez, Dundas Gore’s agents in Monte, giving an ETA of 1630. He might have amended that now, but had decided to let it wait, and in midforenoon received Todhunter’s reply. As foretold by Fisher, PollyAnna was to anchor in the Antepuerto. Todhunter looked forward to seeing Captain Thornhill, and would come out to the ship as soon as Port Health had cleared her; he’d meanwhile arranged for lighters to be alongside by 0830 local time on Tuesday.
He and the skipper were old friends, apparently. But not a word about the ship’s future movements. Could be a matter of discretion – no need to broadcast what could be discussed face to face in a few hours’ time. The Old Man acknowledged Todhunter’s message and gave him an amended ETA, main purpose being not to ruffle local feathers or incur extra costs by keeping the pilot boat waiting; and in the event he did not: the boat was coming down the dredged channel as they made their own approach – a splash of colour that resolved itself into a red-painted cutter under a red-and-white pilot flag. PollyAnna going dead slow at that stage, her master then stopping engines and finally putting her astern for half a minute, kicking up what might have been cocoa flooding for’ard along her grey sides, and stopping her half a cable’s length from a light-buoy that was named on the chart as the Whistle Buoy, marking the entrance to the channel. You could smell that mud. Meanwhile, Batt Collins down there on the fore-deck was putting a Jacob’s ladder over, then watching as the boat chugged in alongside; the pilot transferred himself to the ladder and old Batt leaned over to haul him up. Halloran there now too, touching his cap to the pilot before shaking his hand; pilot glancing aloft, checking that the blue-and-white-striped Uruguayan flag was up there – mark of respect, the ship being now in Uruguayan waters and jurisdiction. She was also flying the Dundas Gore house flag – a blue pendant with D/G in white – the yellow international code flag ‘Q’ for Quarantine, and on her stern of course the one that mattered, the Red Duster. In addition, her four-letter identification was bent on ready for hoisting – if the Old Man decided it should be hoisted at a later stage. Factors in this were that while there’d almost certainly be other British ships in the port, in which case identification might be appropriate – they could look her up, see who she was – there might also be Germans, and why provide them with information they weren’t entitled to? Although they could get it easily enough if they wanted to by looking it up in the Customs register; or even more simply by focusing a telescope on the name painted in black capitals on her bows and counter. The concern behind this was the possibility of German freighters going on the air on raiders’ frequencies with messages such as British freighter PollyAnna sailed for this or that port at – time and date, plus maybe cargo details. And wouldn’t they, if they could get away with it? The skipper had agreed, said he’d ask Todhunter what the form was when he came aboard.
The Old Man nodding down towards the pilot now, muttering to himself or Fisher, ‘Think he was a bloody admiral, wouldn’t you?’ Referring to the Uruguayan – smart white uniform, cap aslant rather as Admiral Beatty had worn his, and that jaunty manner. He was out of their sight then, following Halloran in through the screen door on his way up to the bridge. Pilot cutter meanwhile sheering off; sounds from below of those two clumping up. Andy joined Fisher at the chart, out of the others’ way. If they’d been going into the port itself and berthing alongside, Fisher, as second mate, wouldn’t have been up here, he’d have been down aft, in charge of the stern ropes and wires. Halloran’s station was on the foc’sl-head – would have been if they’d been berthing on a quay, still would be now, anchoring. Time – five-ten: should be dropping the hook by six, maybe – and with any luck the agent, Todhunter, would be bringing mail with him… Pilot now arriving in the bridge, looking, as he approached the Old Man, like some comic-opera sea-captain – as if he might start singing and dancing at any moment. Beaming smile exposing gleaming white teeth under a black moustache with up-curling ends, shiny black hair curling out around the edges of his cap, odour of Brylcreem or something worse redolent even from this distance of about fifteen feet.
Clasping the Old Man’s hand: ‘Captain Thorn-eel, we have been meeting before, I sink – vairy nice, vairy nice!’
Andy murmured, ‘Christ.’
Fisher said even more quietly, ‘I couldn’t have said that in Spanish, though.’
‘No. Nor could I.’ Wouldn’t have wanted to, either. But that was how Fisher was – prone to give everyone his due. Making it easy to see why he and Halloran didn’t hit it off. They were opposites in that and other ways as well. While he himself, he guessed, came somewhere in between – neither ‘proper’, as Fisher was, nor sour-minded like the mate. At least, one hoped…
* * *
The anchor splashed in at six-fifteen and was secured with seven shackles out by half-past; Port Health officials had visited and given pratique by seven, which allowed for the gangway to be rigged, starboard side aft, in place of the Jacob’s ladder, and for the motorboat to be lowered and moved back to that quarter. The Port Health men’s tug returning to the dockyard passed the agent’s launch on its way out; a small man in the launch’s sternsheets wearing a striped blaz
er and Panama hat would, Andy guessed, be Todhunter: and plainly was – the Old Man having seen him from a cabin window came down aft to welcome him.
There were half a dozen other ships in this Antepuerto: three British, two Dutch, one French. No Germans – although Andy heard Todhunter telling the skipper that a Hun was due in next day; he added that the port authorities would surely berth it well away from any of the others.
‘They’ve got that much sense.’
‘Glad to hear it. Though mind you, the lads running into ’em ashore –’
‘We’ve an answer of sorts to that, too. In any case, neutral port –’
‘Until we’ve sunk ’em all – or the bloody Graf Spee’s sunk all of us… Any news of that damn thing?’
‘Nothing certain. Rumours, of course. Believe me, we all keep our ears pinned back. My word, Josh, you’re looking extremely fit!’
‘Virtuous life, Mick, that’s the secret. Never too late, why not try it? That our mail you’ve got there?’
It was: the Old Man took it from him and passed it to Cadet Janner – one of those nearby keeping their ears pinned back – to sort and distribute. The Old Man’s own private mail, as well as official bumf from the owners, Admiralty and Ministry of Shipping, was in an attaché case that the agent was hanging on to as they went in through the weather door and up to the day cabin. There was always a lot of paperwork to be got through. Details of cargo, for instance, on bills of lading and the manifest – simple enough with a single bulk cargo, for sure, but by no means invariably so. Todhunter or his clerks would have to ‘enter’ ship and cargo at the Customs House – first thing in the morning, one might suppose. He’d also see to the ordering of fresh provisions and any other requirements – mechanical, electrical, medical, legal or financial; he’d have cash with him in that bag, local currency for advances against men’s wages, and so forth.
Andy had a letter from a girl by the name of Liza Sharp, who lived in Helensburgh and when he’d last seen her had been attending a secretarial college in Glasgow. He hadn’t read it yet, hadn’t even opened it. It surprised him that she’d have written – correspondence was something they hadn’t indulged in before, and he wouldn’t have recognised her handwriting – but there it was under ‘Sender’: Miss E Sharp, Helensburgh. There’d been some exciting moments with her last summer, and touch wood might be more; an intriguing thing was that she looked – or could look, when she wanted to – as if butter wouldn’t melt, whereas in fact she was pleasantly on the wild side. Another factor – not all that advantageous – was that his parents and hers knew each other and lived within a stone’s throw of each other; her father was a lawyer of some kind, with a practice in Glasgow.
Anyway, he’d read this later, when things had settled down. Another letter he’d noticed with interest was addressed to Halloran in a back-sloping hand which he’d recognised as the lovely Leila’s – whose last communication (or the last he knew of) he’d been invited to read – oddly enough – that evening in Calcutta. It had been one of three or four remaining unclaimed on the table in the saloon, where Janner had sorted them then taken the crew’s to their mess room below the poop. Anyway, the mate finally dashed in, spotted it instantly – not difficult, that same violet-coloured stationery – and snatched it up only seconds before Mervyn Clowes, third wireless officer, arrived with a message that the captain wanted him – Halloran – to join him and the agent up top.
‘Does, does he…?’
He was up there about twenty minutes; would probably have had a tot with them, while discussing aspects of ship’s business. It was close on eight o’clock when he came down and sent Gorst to the bosun with a message for all hands to muster on the fore-deck, where the master would address them.
Fisher asked him quietly, ‘Know where we go from here, do we?’
A nod. ‘Vitoria, for iron ore. From here to there in ballast.’
Andy looked at Fisher: ‘Vitoria – that’s –’
‘North of Rio. Say four days’ steaming.’
‘Graf Spee permitting.’ McAlan, second engineer, stubbing out a cigarette. ‘Where do we take the ore? Home?’
‘Old Man’ll tell you – if he wants to. Let’s get up there.’
* * *
The hands were milling around on deck, quite a few of them dressed as if they thought they might be going ashore. Which might be possible, if the skipper authorised it and boat transport in both directions was made available, and as long as the agent had brought cash with him. In the last day or two the skipper would have been working out, as he always did before making port, how much was owing to each individual – accrued wages less advances and deductions, including any fines for indiscipline or breaches of the terms of engagement.
You could hear car horns and music floating on the warm evening air, see lights all along the shore and around the bay. On the town side, this eastern part above and behind the port, neon lights blazed multi-coloured over cinemas, dance-halls, restaurants.
The Old Man, with a megaphone in his hand and the stout little Todhunter at his side, was on the railed walkway fronting his own quarters, two decks up. Halloran called to the bosun, ‘All hands, is it?’ and getting an affirmative, turned to look up towards the bridge. The last of the officers were still filtering out around him, and a wireless or gramophone from the nearest other ship – 300 yards away, but the sound came loud and clear across the water – belting out ‘Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Baby?’. Halloran shouted up through cupped hands, ‘All hands present, sir!’
‘So listen here.’ Old Man’s voice raised, trumpeted through the megaphone over the ship’s own familiar creaking, straining noises and the distant motor-horns, music and voices. The gramophone had gone silent for a moment, started up again now with ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’. ‘Won’t take long, this.’ He certainly did need the megaphone. ‘First thing you’ll want to know is when we’ve discharged our coal – commencing 0830 and taking maybe a week – we’ll be sailing light ship up-coast to a Brazilian port to load ore for Britain. That’s as much as you need know about it for now – and it’s for your private information, no one else’s. This place like most others has its share of Nazi spies, and we don’t want ’em tipped off when or where we’re going next – huh? Remember – answer no questions, and don’t be overheard talking about ports, routes, cargoes – it’s your lives at stake, uh? And mine… Well – this connects to point two, and should reduce that risk, and save you money. British residents here in Monte – businessmen, among them Mr Todhunter here, our Line’s agent – have set up a place of recreation for use by British crews. Calling it the Liberty Inn. Cut-price drinks and snacks, billiards, darts and table tennis, staffed by British residents who’ll give advice and local information. Regular bars and restaurants aren’t cheap, d’you see; what’s more, although Uruguayans are mainly on our side, there’s some as aren’t, and in the wrong place at the wrong time a man could find himself up against it. There’s local Nazis for one thing – and a Hun steamer of some kind due in tomorrow for another. We don’t want trouble if we can avoid it, and as for the local police – well, they’re neutrals, can’t take sides: get into a fight you could end up in quod as easy as a German could.’
He’d broken off, listening to Todhunter. Nodding then and raising the megaphone again: ‘Should’ve said. Liberty Inn run their own launch, collect and return between shore and ship, costs you nothing. That’s the launch there, lying off…’
* * *
Liza’s letter was warm but also pointless. She told him she’d recently met his sister Annabel at some dance in Glasgow and this had put it in her mind to write to him. She – Liza – was still at the secretarial college and intended to join the Wrens when she finished in a few months’ time, but with any luck she’d still be around when he got back. Annabel had said she was sure he’d be home long before that. She – Annabel – had been at the dance with a rather nice-looking RNVR sub-lieutenant – they’d been mostly naval people at
the dance, to which Liza had been taken by her cousin Charles – and Annabel’s sub-lieutenant had told her he was ‘standing by’ a submarine then building in one of the Clyde yards. She’d had the impression that Annabel and this submariner were quite heavily involved…
Anyway that’s only gossip. Excuse to write and let you know I’m still around and looking forward to your return – hoping it may be soon, and that I have such lovely memories of last summer, Andy. Please do make it soon.
He pushed the letter into his pocket. Thinking, nice of her to have bothered… She had something in mind for him, obviously. Otherwise why bother? Give her a run for her money in any case. Why not? Man should not live by bread alone… Thinking of which, there was also – in and around Glasgow – another chum of Annabel’s, Sheila Gilchrist – oh, and one he’d met when he’d been out with – well, girl called Susan, Susan Shea – a girl by name of Paula – Paula West – who was really hot stuff… Thinking of her more than of the others as he headed for the bridge; he was duty officer on board tonight, one of whose duties was to check anchor-bearings every hour. With the wind as light as it was and in its present direction there was very little chance of the anchor dragging, but you still had to make sure it didn’t. The German SS Eisleben dropped her hook on the afternoon of the 5th at the western end of the Antepuerto, with the German merchant ensign – red with a black swastika in a white circle in its centre – drooping damply over her stern. She was riding high, obviously in ballast. It felt unreal, unnatural to be sharing an anchorage with the bastard, and having to tolerate the sight of that foul emblem day after day. ‘Bloody insult,’ was Batt Collins’ view of it. There’d been rainstorms during the day – a day stinking of coal dust and loud with the clatter of winches and steel grabs thudding into the holds then swinging up and over to drop half-ton loads thundering into the lighters. In the heavier downpours Batt would blow his whistle for the stevedores to knock off and ship’s crew to cover hatches, some of them having done so choosing to stand there in the rain, have themselves as well as the decks washed down. In the evening, strains of Nazi anthems – brass-band martial music, anyway – carried thumping across the anchorage from the German, and other ships turned up the volume on their own to drown it out.
Westbound, Warbound Page 6
