Slopping coffee into a mug, asking Andy, ‘How’s the head?’
‘Expect I’ll live.’
‘What you said about the Casa whatsit – that the honest truth?’
‘It’s what I was told, that’s all.’
‘When?’
‘Last night. It came in reference to the bloke who spilt the beans.’
‘Well, well.’
‘Hope you stay well. He wasn’t saying they all have it – or even that any of ’em do now, only that it had been known.’
‘But warning you off, was he?’
‘Well – maybe…’
‘Hm.’ Coffee mug in one hand, the other holding up crossed fingers.
* * *
The Old Man went ashore at nine-thirty; he’d told Halloran he’d be calling first at the agent’s office, then visiting the consul. If he wasn’t back when the time came to shift her again, Halloran was to see to it.
Martensen told him where he’d find the consulate, which was also apparently a trading company; he had an idea Bruce Partridge was still away, but if it was only some routine matter, his wife, who worked as his secretary and assistant, would probably take care of it.
‘Away where, d’you know?’
‘Montevideo – like so many, including our Port Captain. Should be back soon, I imagine, now that show’s all over. Is there some way I can help?’
Shake of the head. ‘Port Captain also back soon, d’you think?’
‘At the weekend, was what I heard. Frankly it doesn’t concern any of us very much, his job here is something of a sinecure. He has a marine assistant by name of Ferras who knows what he’s about, while the figurehead in da Tovar’s absence is a landsman – actually a civil engineer – by name of Mario Caetano. He is always most helpful.’
‘Glad to hear it…’
He didn’t trust this fellow. Had asked him a couple of days ago about getting the Germans to shut off their noise, and the Dane’s advice had been to put up with it: the port authorities after all were tolerating it, Anglo-German sensitivities or disputes weren’t much of their concern, and confrontations of any kind were very much to be avoided; the martial music might seem to be a form of challenge or self-assertion – offensive maybe, to British ears – but look, if the port authorities demanded that it should cease and it did not, it would put them in an invidious position. Trade was trade, was what a port was for, was vital to Brazil and to all her people, who were entirely and strictly neutral…
Josh had remarked on that occasion, ‘Of course your country’s neutral, too. Last thing you’d want is to provoke the bastards.’
‘To an extent perhaps that’s true…’
‘Even when employed as agent for British ships – wouldn’t want to upset ’em by insisting they turn their bloody wireless down?’
‘Oh, well.’ Superior smile. ‘I hardly think such action would result in the Germans marching into Denmark, Captain. But it is essential I remain on good terms with the port authority.’
On this occasion Martensen offered him a cigar, which the skipper refused. The Dane asking him then as he showed him out, ‘Do you still expect to complete loading on Saturday?’
‘Yes. So clearance Saturday forenoon, pilot provisionally early afternoon – two p.m., say. Be able to see to that, will you?’
‘Well.’ Same smile, accompanied by raised eyebrows. Wasn’t going to let himself be provoked either, by this uncouth master mariner. ‘Best thing might be if I visit you tomorrow afternoon for confirmation.’ A nod: ‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll do that.’
The consulate was a private house with some of its ground floor converted to offices, with a separate entrance and a notice in English and Portuguese labelling it as the Consulate of Great Britain; also head office of Partridge Import Export, General Traders. A fat, fair-haired woman of about thirty answered the doorbell and told him that unfortunately Mr Partridge was away.
‘In Montevideo?’
She had a nice smile. ‘He was there for all the excitement, but on his way back he’s stopping off in Rio – for consultations at the embassy, as it. So – Sunday, I hope…’
‘You’re Mrs Partridge?’
‘Oh, indeed!’
‘English by marriage therefore, but –’
‘Dutch. It sounds like it too, doesn’t it? And you are?’
‘Josh Thornhill, Master of the SS PollyAnna, in the port here loading iron ore.’
She’d opened the door wider and stepped back: she was wearing a cotton housecoat and bedroom slippers. ‘Come in, please…’
‘Would it be possible to get your husband on the phone?’
‘Is it a matter of much urgency?’
‘It is. Also highly confidential. One of the problems, I may say, is the absence of the Port Captain. I mean the real one – forget his name, but –’
‘Joao da Tovar. He and his wife play bridge with us, we’re friends. Whereas that beastly little man Caetano –’
‘Haven’t met him, personally, but he’s one of the niggers in the woodpile.’ A sigh, shake of the head. ‘I’d sooner not go into it here and now –’
‘But if we got through to the embassy you’d have to, wouldn’t you? Otherwise what –’
‘Bothers me, too. But – the way things are –’
‘Nothing else for it, is what you are saying. Yes – well… If I find I can get through, and if he happened to be there just at this time – that’s of course a long shot – but you’d like me to try?’
‘Yes, but – new thought you’ve given me there – if you’re able to get through, might persuade the ambassador – rather than your husband – to speak to me?’
‘I could try –’
‘Because – looking at it squarely now – without offence to your husband, Mrs Partridge –’
‘None at all – if it’s such a major issue, my husband could only refer it to the ambassador, or even to some member of his staff. Yes – very well, I’ll try. You take a seat now. Would you like some coffee?’
* * *
Halloran moved the ship astern by a few more yards shortly before noon. The tide was flooding, so that the tug’s job was less to move her than to hold her against the force of it while ropes and wires were shifted and re-secured. Loading had resumed when the Old Man returned and sent for Halloran and Andy to join him in his cabin. He told them, his voice pitched high to beat the racket from the chute, ‘I’ve a telephone call booked for five p.m. to our ambassador in Rio. Got through to the embassy half an hour ago and he wasn’t available; they told this consul’s wife to try again at five o’clock when he would be. Sounds like easy hours the bugger works. Consul’s away, but he’d be no use anyway – visa applications, passports, be about the extent of it. Wife’s all right though, very helpful.’
The Glauchau’s music was inaudible, thanks to the chute, the thunder of incoming ore. The German was lying stern-on in this tide, so there was no view from PollyAnna of the watch on deck; but mental imagery, as one looked at her and her Nazi ensign barely stirring in the breeze, of incarcerated British seamen. You could guess at this being in the skipper’s mind as he turned back to them from the scuttle.
‘Time being, then, that’s it. Never spoke with an ambassador before, but if he comes up to scratch… Well, bloody got to…’
Didn’t, though. He went ashore in good time for the five o’clock call, and returning on board at about seven – stevedores having knocked off at six, the noise all coming from the Glauchau now – the Old Man hauling himself up the gangway which this soon after high water was a steepish haul – and gloweringly telling Halloran, who’d been alerted by the gangway watch and had come hurriedly to meet him, ‘Ambassador’s on his holidays. Whoever it was said he’d be there didn’t know he and his missus were leaving by air this afternoon for La Paz – Bolivia. How’s that for a waste of time and money?’
‘Leaves us on our own too, doesn’t it…’
Thinking of his boarding party again. O
ld Man glancing at him, seeing that and shaking his head. ‘I’ll tell you, Mister. Mrs Partridge come up trumps, called the da Tovars’ private house – da Tovar’s Port Captain, right? Social call, they’re friends – asked when would her husband be back in town, and the good news is she’s expecting him tomorrow, train from Rio getting in at noon. And he’s the best answer to this whole bag of tricks. She left a message – Mrs Partridge did – personal and confidential – soon as he’s back, to call her. So I’ll be at the consulate by midday – get her to call them again if they don’t come through.’ Switch of subject: ‘You on board tonight?’
‘Think I will stay on board, sir.’
‘Holt has the duty, has he?’
‘Yes. Does Mrs Partridge know what it’s about?’
‘No. Accepts it’s urgent because I told her so. Got her head screwed on, that woman. But see, if da Tovar was to take a search party out to the Hun –’
‘Would they release the prisoners to us, d’you reckon?’
A shrug. ‘Sensible thing, wouldn’t it. Wouldn’t want ’em on their hands. And arrest the Glauchau, I’d imagine. That’s my hope. What should’ve happened days ago. A lot better than us shouting our heads off on W/T, alerting those buggers and having ’em push off during the dark hours. Specially as –’
He’d checked. ‘We’ll talk this over later – eight or thereabouts, in my cabin. Bring Hibbert with you – and Fisher, no reason to leave him out of it.’
* * *
To hang on, taking a chance on da Tovar, did make sense, they all agreed. The Old Man had wanted a breadth of view on it, this being a highly unusual and potentially explosive situation, men’s lives quite possibly depending on how you handled it. One did remember, vividly enough, that swamped lifeboat, floating knacker’s yard. It had been a very bad moment for him when Mrs Partridge had told him about the cock-up in the Rio embassy: he’d thought then of trying to get through to Todhunter in Uruguay, asking him to get in touch with the British minister there, man by the name of something-Drake, who Todhunter had said was so well thought of. But Todhunter had also mentioned that the telephone lines around Monte and from there to the ambassador in Buenos Aires were highly insecure; also the existence of a Nazi party in Monte – who’d like as not be in cahoots with their brethren here, Caetano’s lot – and the thought of shouting all this stuff over a long-distance line, in sufficient detail and clarity for Todhunter then to approach the British Minister with it, gave him the jitters: possible outcome being the Glauchau weighing anchor in a hurry and clearing out. He’d been wrestling with this and asking himself, Christ’s sake, what then? when Mrs Partridge – ‘Right off her own bat, bless her little Dutch heart’ – had phoned Capitao da Tovar and struck gold.
Chief Hibbert had agreed that going on the air, in plain language at that, could blow it absolutely. ‘You’re seamen and I’m supposed not to be, but my guess is the Glauchau could get away at any damn state of the tide. Not pinned against any wall, is she. And being twin-screw she can turn easy enough without any tug. Turn on her cable – eh? Diesel too, don’t need the time we do getting steam up. Well, Christ… Another thing, Josh – where’d the Royal Navy be starting from if you did put a signal out? Monte? Don’t know, do we, but that’s a distance of – what?’
Fisher told him, ‘Thousand miles. Could be anywhere on that stretch of coast, though.’
‘Or nowhere on it – by this time?’
The Old Man had nodded. ‘All right. Conference concluded. Don’t anyone forget to say his prayers.’
* * *
Friday. The chute was at work on number five, probability was they’d be topping up number four in mid- or late forenoon, move the ship then for the last time and spend the rest of the day on number one. It would leave a couple of hours’ work for tomorrow, Saturday, full completion by noon in any case. Then goodbye Vitoria.
But tonight, oi Manuela!
Must draw cash…
‘Hear that, Holt?’
Halloran had been telling Fisher something on the other side of the saloon table, but Andy with Manuela in mind hadn’t been tuned in. The mate repeated it now: ‘The Old Man’ll be shifting her, by and by, then visiting the consul’s missus once again – you know what for – and he’s reckoning on buying coffee to take home. Consul runs a business that handles it – wholesale, see, good price. Any of you want some, and has the cruzeiros –’
‘Not me. Need to draw some, in fact.’
‘Shore again tonight?’
He glanced at him, shrugged. ‘Thought I might.’
Ask the skipper for all-night leave, too…
Janner asked Fisher, ‘What’ll we be on, this morning?’ He was asking what subject they’d be studying in their instructional period.
Fisher told him and Gorst, ‘Winter and summer loadlines, tonnage of cargo embarked, effect of depletion of bunkers on passage from summer zone to winter zone. Touched on it once before, if you remember. It’s simple enough, but you both threw fits.’
Gorst put his coffee mug down carefully, told Janner, ‘I can feel one coming on right this minute.’
* * *
Having moved the ship – on a flood tide again, same routine, letting the river do the hard work, tug only taking her weight while it did so – the skipper went ashore, made his way up to the consulate and found Mrs Partridge stifling tears: telling him as he walked in, ‘Only this minute she telephoned –’
‘And?’
‘To tell me that her husband had telephoned her and the soonest he can be back is tomorrow evening! Some naval function he can’t get out of – oh, isn’t it damnable!’
It was. In fact more than damnable. The shock of it froze his mind. Muttering that he’d think of something, go about it some other way, don’t worry my dear, certainly not your fault…
Todhunter?
No. Take bloody hours, and then he wouldn’t be there: or if he was you might be talking into Nazi ears as well as his.
Wireless had to be the answer. Bull by the horns, last resort, just bloody do it; last resort was exactly what it was!
‘Mrs Partridge – I owe you a bit on that last call. Then for the coffee beans you so kindly offered –’
‘I’d like to make you a present of them. In the circumstances –’
‘Most kind, but no. You’ve already been more than helpful. Hours on the damn blower. Here, now – that’s what I owe: and here’s for two tins of the coffee…’
None of his officers had wanted any or had money for it, apparently. It was as good as you’d get anywhere in the world, and dirt cheap. He liked to take a few surprise packages home to his sister and brother-in-law when he could – being a widower and living with them, feeling a bit like an old cuckoo sometimes in their little house – and would be more than ever now with food-rationing starting up. Wouldn’t be many weeks before every damn thing was on the ration, just as it had been last time.
He left Mrs Partridge smiling through incipient tears, set off with his coffee in two hessian-wrapped tins and the full bloody awfulness of the past two days racking his mind. Nothing for it but to go on the air. Risk to those poor sods’ lives, maybe, but – face it, what else, what other hope did they have? Draft the message now and work on it, make it as concise as possible, have Dewar tap it out tomorrow on their way down-river. If there were any RN ships within – please God – a few hours’ steaming distance, the Glauchau would have had it; but in any case you’d have fingered her – naval squadrons or patrols all over would be on the lookout for her.
Emerging on to the dockside road and crossing it diagonally towards the quays, he was already hearing the racket of the chute, and a minute later had PollyAnna’s forepart in sight, and the iron ore dust-cloud overhanging it. Giving that cloud a wide berth on his way to the gangway, the head of which now rested abaft the central ‘island’, a fair distance from the activity around the chute. Holt was there, he saw, and moving aft, away from the noise and dust-cloud, were Halloran and the sec
ond mate and – oh, the pilot who’d brought them in on Sunday. Name of – Mendoza – and recognisable by his limp. Fisher had turned at that moment and spotted him: all three stopping then, looking this way, the pilot giving him a long-range salute. The Old Man shifted one parcel so both were under his left arm, responded with a wave then pointed up at his own cabin, indicating that he’d meet him up there. He was in the cabin himself half a minute before Halloran appeared in the doorway with him.
‘Good day, sir!’
‘Pilot. Captain Mendoza. Good to see you.’
‘Want me to stay, sir?’
‘Might as well, Mister. What can we do for you, Pilot?’
‘Me do for you, I think. A message coming from Senhor Martensen that you wish depart tomorrow two o’clock p.m.?’
‘Told him that yesterday, he’s supposed to be coming this afternoon for confirmation. But – yes, two p.m.’d suit us. Glad it’s to be you again. Mind you, senhor, you’re not overworked, exactly?’
It was intended as friendly ribbing, and Mendoza accepted it as such. Shrugging, ‘This week, not. Only my French frien’ there – and the Volcao who depart; now however coming two more British – and tomorrow, five o’clock the morning, depart that Glauchau. Finish music, eh?’
‘Five, you say?’
A glance at Halloran.
‘High water five-forty, eh? From anchor needing the flood only for passing Sao Joao. My colleague Jose Ybarra take her out five sharp. He speak German a little, is why he, but also he bring in British SS Thelma Vale, berth where was Volcao. All before your departure two p.m. Flood tide for you then – low water half-hour before noon, OK?’
The Old Man had nodded. Glancing at Halloran again. ‘Glauchau’ll be weighing at first light, then.’
Westbound, Warbound Page 16
