‘Ah, yes.’ Mendoza mimed sleep: eyes shut, face on his hands, snoring. ‘For me, five o’clock not good. For Jose Ybarra not so bad, maybe. Uh?’ Laughing again.
Halloran asking him quickly, casually, ‘Where’s she bound, the German?’
‘Where bound?’ Hands spread and a vacant look. ‘I not knowing. Not ask. Clear for German port, maybe. You like I ask?’
The Old Man told him – before Halloran could say yes please – ‘No skin off our nose. But what about the spare parts she was waiting for?’
That high shrug again: ‘Maybe has come?’
* * *
The Old Man told them – Halloran, Hibbert, Fisher and Andy – ‘Port Captain da Tovar won’t be back before tomorrow evening. He telephoned his wife and she called Mrs Partridge.’
Halloran snorted: ‘So that’s scuppered.’
‘On top of which we just heard from our pilot, Mendoza, that the Glauchau’ll be weighing at five a.m. A German-speaking pilot’s boarding her at that time. Mendoza’s booked to take us out at fourteen hundred. So she’ll be nine hours ahead of us, route and destination unknown. Mendoza offered to find out, but hell, she could clear for Timbuktu and aim to sneak through to Bremen. And I still wouldn’t want to display much interest. What we don’t know that really matters is what RN ships, if any, may still be on or anywhere near this coast. As it looks now, we’ll be sitting here watching that bloody Hun steam out with our own people locked up inside her.’
Hibbert stirred. ‘Wouldn’t feel too comfy doing that.’
‘No.’ The skipper agreed. ‘Nor’d I. And if the sod sails at five – that’s it, she’s gone, they’ve gone. Well, I’ll make that signal – have to – but unless there are ships damn near this hole –’
Hibbert cut in again, ‘Hundred to one against it?’
‘Dunno. Maybe. But we’d have let our folk know what she is – prisoners on board, and maybe a Graf Spee support-ship – and where she’s starting from, estimated speed say fifteen knots… I wouldn’t put a lot of weight on the threat to murder ’em, but they’re still gone, aren’t they – and you could say we’d deserted ’em. I’d say it – we would have. Well – the W/T problem we’ve gone into, in the short term doesn’t help, telephones not secure – and no bugger on the other end at that – no consul here, no port captain, no legitimate authority whatsoever. Other words, we’re on our tod. Any argument with that?’
‘Argument for a boarding party then?’
‘Not as you proposed, no. Whatever we do has got to bloody work. A few lads shinning up Jacob’s ladders – won’t wash, Mister. And if what we do don’t pay off, result might be – I said it before – PollyAnna arrested and us interned.’ He looked at Hibbert. ‘Any ideas, Chief?’
‘You have, haven’t you?’
‘Of a sort. Of a sort, yes. Hellish chancy, but…’ Thinking about it: all eyes on him, and his own round blue ones moving from face to face. They were quite unusually round, Andy realised, as the pale-blue gaze left him, settled on Fisher.
‘When’s moonrise tonight, Second?’
Fisher went into his brain-racking state: face blank, eyes blinking not fast but very regularly. Holding it long enough for some others present to glance at each other, thinking, how long, oh Lord, how long? but getting there just before the questioner might snap, ‘Well?’ He nodded: told the Old Man, ‘Shortly before 0400, sir. 0350, maybe. Except this overcast may thicken – could even be rain –’
‘Be out of the river by four, any road.’ Skipper’s hand running around his jawline. ‘High water here 0540, Mendoza was saying, so 0200 it’s flooding, and no moon. I’ll want steam for 0200, Chief. And no sign we’re raising it, certainly not before dark. Nothing happening anywhere as might look fishy. After dark, cover and secure number one hold. We’ll leave tomorrow’s ore behind us. Owners’ll scream like stuck pigs, but – never mind, my lookout, no one else’s. Trim won’t be as perfect as we’d want – just can’t be helped. Cover of dark, Mister, prepare the ship for sea – nice and quiet and showing no lights as wasn’t showing last night.’
‘No shore-leave, then?’
‘No. And no bloody arguments. Anyone has arrangements made, forget it. She’ll get over it.’ She will too, Andy thought, but tonight she’ll be spitting mad. He felt distinctly sad about it himself – more than disappointed, a better word might be deprived – and Halloran had thrown him an amused glance. The skipper was saying there was a lot of detail to be settled, most of it between himself and the mate. And that later he’d address the whole crew in the mess room.
‘You, Second, will have your work cut out getting us down-river in the dark with no pilot.’
Andy, thinking about that passage, wondered what the minelayer might be doing by that time. Whether in fact – intriguing thought – the answer might depend at least to some extent on Arabella – whether the little skipper might be preoccupied with her… Maybe not, though: Fisher had said the little squirt had left her with that Nazi. Fisher asking the Old Man now, ‘What about Customs clearance, sir?’
‘Forget it. Can’t clear. Not a word, any of you, to the agent, either – he may be along, by and by. Or to Mendoza if he happens along again. Far as either of them’s concerned, we’re sailing fourteen hundred tomorrow, getting clearance during the forenoon. Fact of it is we’ll be breaking every rule in the book – can’t bloody help it.’ Looking round again for reactions: ‘Any useful comments, suggestions or alternatives?’
Hibbert shifted his massive fame. ‘Alternatives to what, Josh?’
11
The Old Man bawled to his chief engineer – on their own in the day cabin now – ‘Tell me how else?’
He’d said he wouldn’t be comfy doing nothing, but wasn’t happy with the action as the skipper had outlined it, either. The racket outside went into decline before he’d had time to answer: elevator coming to a halt in a roar of released steam, the last of this day’s intake of ore crashing down through the trunking’s ringing steel and thudding into the foremost hold, and what had seemed for a moment like blessed silence was at once invaded by the Germanic oompa-oompa. Hibbert now able to say instead of shout, ‘Heck of a thing to be taking on, Josh. Even if the lads were trained for such malarkey – or you were…’
‘Bugger training. Not going to be a naval battle, Dick – just a bloody rough-house. All right, if I make a bollocks of it –’
‘Disaster all round. And even if it comes off – without casualties, would you expect? Even loss of life?’
‘Say our prayers and take our chances, is all.’ Thumbing shag tobacco into his pipe. ‘Have to, no bloody option. All right – I have to. You reckon if we behaved like proper little non-combatants we’d arrive home with a clean bill of health?’
A nod. ‘To all intents and purposes…’
‘Those are our people, Dick. The sort I’d soonest not be judged and found wanting by. Sooner not let down – uh?’
Flare of the skipper’s storm lighter. Hibbert shrugging, half in agreement, but scared of consequences. ‘You’ll be chancing your own crew’s lives and freedom. How about their judgement?’
‘I’ll be putting it to ’em fair and square.’ He had his pipe going. ‘Ask ’em are they game for it, or –’
‘And if they say no, the terms of their engagements –’
‘Last thing they’ll do. Long and short of it is there’s a bunch of their own kind over there, locked up and destined for bloody Germany. What if it was us, and we heard another Red Ensign ship had known about it and done bugger all?’
‘The lads’ll vote to have a go, I’m sure. But it’s your head on the block if it goes wrong – as you and I know very well it could.’
‘And that’s what I should be thinking of? Safeguarding yours truly? That how you’d see it if you were Master?’
The engineer wagged his head. ‘Maybe not, but –’
‘There you are, then.’ Sucking on the pipe. ‘There you are.’ He checked the time. ‘Have you
r crowd told no shore-leave, will you?’
* * *
Halloran told Batt Collins, ‘No shore-leave, Bosun.’
Shock in the bony, hard-eyed face. ‘Last night in – no leave, sir?’
‘Captain’s orders. You’ll hear why soon enough, he’ll be addressing all hands in the mess, later. But put it around right away – any of ’em try nipping ashore between now and then, it’ll be Wilful Disobedience.’
For which the statutory penalty that could be awarded by a magistrate’s or naval court was imprisonment for up to four weeks, with or without hard labour, as well as loss of pay.
Batt’s eyes still held the mate’s. He’d have preferred to know the reason now, before he passed on the edict. ‘Reason that’ll satisfy ’em, is it?’
‘If you don’t think so when you hear it, Bosun, you can call me a liar.’
‘Well.’ A shrug. ‘There’s some won’t be overjoyed.’
‘If you like, tell ’em Mr Holt had a heavy date tonight, and he’s not even allowed ashore to tell her he can’t make it.’
The chute trunking was clear of the ship now, and the hands who’d been waiting had gone down into the hold – number one – to square things off. Halloran left the rest of it to Collins and went up to see the Old Man, arriving just as Hibbert left – skipper telling him quietly, ‘Chief – steam for 0130, let’s say, kick-off 0145.’
‘Can do.’ Seeing the mate arriving then: ‘Can do, sir.’
‘Come in, Mister.’ Waiting, puffing at his pipe until the door was shut. Then: ‘Got it worked out, after a fashion. See what holes you can pick in it. What it comes down to in numbers is one party of twelve and two of eight, total twenty-eight – I’d hope all volunteers.’
‘I lead ’em into the Hun, do I?’
‘No.’ Pointing at a chair. ‘No, we’ll give Holt that job. You’ve a bigger one. See here…’
He’d sketched it on the back of an old chart: two hull shapes alongside each other, PollyAnna with her starboardside forepart impinging on the German’s port side amidships, that point of contact – or impact – marked ‘A’. Explaining quietly, ‘At ‘A’, the group of twelve, Holt leading ’em. Straight over, rush the guard and any others that may be there, and – up to Holt, this, depends on how he finds it – down into that hatch to the ’tween-decks, smash in there, bring the prisoners up out of it and over into the Anna. You’re there at our rail with the first party of eight – who’ll have secured us alongside after he’s gone over – standing by to receive the prisoners. If it’s all gone nice and smooth, mind you – otherwise you send ’em to support Holt’s lot, if they’re in need of it. Same applies to the other eight – who might best be further aft here.’ Port side, abreast number three hatch. ‘There again, Mister, only send ’em into the scrap if or when they’re needed. How I’d hope it might go is the first rush goes over, Holt with as many as he needs gets down inside, rest of ’em keeping that deck-space clear of Huns until he’s back up with the prisoners. Then double-quick back on board – some rearguard action no doubt, your reserves lending a hand or staying put at the ship’s side – your judgement, what’s needed. Then, Mister, you count ’em all back, signal me by whistle that we’ve got ’em all, and – cast off, we’re away.’
Looking at him. ‘Well?’
‘Could be awkward, the disengaging.’
A nod. ‘It could. Principle’d be to get the prisoners over first while our lot lay into the Huns and drive ’em back. But also stick together, no heroes getting cut off on their own.’
‘Right.’
‘Why this has to be your job, see. Holt’s is to break in, get ’em, break out again, get ’em across to the Hun’s port side and over. He doesn’t have to think what else is happening. That’s what you do – see he gets the support he needs and none of ’em gets left behind. I’ll be trying to hold her alongside, but in that tideway – well, what d’you say to a few fathoms of four or four and a half inch Manila, at points A and B? You there, bosun here, a couple of hands at each point going over behind Holt’s team to make lines fast. Lines with eyes in ’em, so securing’s quick an’ easy?’
A nod. ‘Cadets could do with splicing work, I’ll put ’em on to it. How about the start of it – 0145, you were saying?’
‘Tide’ll be flooding. Low water’s 2320, 2330. Step one, rig a steel-wire rope – four-inch, maybe – from the foc’sl to a bollard well up ahead of us. 0115, say, do that. Don’t want to attract attention, mind, no torches. Then when we’re set, bosun nips ashore with two or three hands, casts off breasts and springs, back on board and brings in the gangway. There again, no torches, and we’ll show no lights. Ship’s weight in the tide’s now all on the wire out for’ard: soon as I have her moving off the quay and there’s slack in it, let it go from inboard. So we leave the port of Vitoria one steel-wire rope for a Christmas present. Alternative might be if we had a wire long enough to pass around the bollard and bring back inboard, but I doubt we have, eh?’
‘Sure we haven’t, sir. But’ – he’d had two fingers crossed, uncrossed them now – ‘weapons for the boarding parties. Have Postlethwaite knock up some battens, shall I?’
A nod. ‘Good thinking. Whatever timber he’s got that’s right for it. Two by two maybe. Say twenty-four inches long, and chisel the corners off one end for a hand-grip.’
‘Twenty-eight of ’em. Better say thirty. If he’s got that much that’s suitable.’
‘If he hasn’t, use something else. Lengths of hawser – or rigging-wire. Best get a move on, hadn’t he? But listen now – question of holding us alongside. Might turn out to be not only the flood tide – which we’ll be stemming, obviously, three or four knots for that – but if the Hun’s wide awake he could be working his engines to separate us. In his shoes that’s what I’d do – aiming to trap our blokes on board – eh?’
‘If Holt can do his stunt like greased lightning –’
‘Then no problem.’ The skipper touched wood – not for the first time. ‘But we don’t know what he’ll be up against. And if he gets stuck in there – or can’t get through to the prisoners – well, see to it his front-runners have an axe, cold chisel, fourteen-pound hammer maybe, crowbar… Best have a torch too, hadn’t he.’
* * *
In the mess room, where the evening meal hadn’t yet been cleared away, the skipper, backed by a gaggle of his officers including Andy, faced close on fifty intensely interested deck and engine room hands, and began by telling them, ‘Before we get into detail, here’s the issue in a nutshell. That German out there – motor vessel Glauchau – is holding British merchant seamen prisoners in her ’tween-decks.’
Like letting a bomb off. Shocked, startled faces, then growing anger, a swelling growl of it, which he silenced with a raised hand.
‘We don’t know how many or from what ship or ships. All we know is they’re in that Glauchau and she’s due to sail at 0500 – pilot’s booked for that hour. To sneak home to bloody Germany, you might guess. Another guess is she may have been going to act as a support-ship for the Graf Spee – she holed-up here the day after the Spee got into Monte – awaiting fresh orders is my guess; her story is she’s been waiting for engine spares – and she’s got away with it this far because the Port Captain’s away and his deputies are bloody Nazis. That’s fact, not fancy, could be why she picked this place or it was picked for her.’
The donkeyman – Barnes, senior engine room rating – was on his feet. A Welshman of average height but unusual width, he was said to have once lifted a full-sized trimmer under his left arm and a greaser under the other and banged their heads together.
‘Cap’n, sir –’
‘Yes, Barnes?’
‘Reckoning on boarding and breaking ’em out, sir?’
‘You wouldn’t be opposed to some such action, eh?’
‘By God no!’
Nor would any of them, by the sound of it. The skipper quietened them again.
‘You’ll see why I couldn
’t grant shore leave tonight. We’ll have steam up by one-thirty, cast off one forty-five, and I’ll lay PollyAnna alongside the Hun shortly before two. First mate and I’ve worked out a way of handling it from there on; I’ll just tell you some of the background to this state of affairs, then he’ll take over. Anyway, as even the ship’s cat’s aware, we’re non-combatants: boarding and bashing Huns is not our business. Just happens I don’t believe we’ve any option. I’ve looked for other ways of going about it – after Mr Holt, who’d had suspicions of his own, had it confirmed by a shoreside barman, I might mention. I tried the British consul, but he’s away, couldn’t have done much anyway; telephoned the embassy in Rio and damn me if the ambassador’s not gone walkabout as well. Well, we could go on the air, get the Andrew on the job, but point one, Huns’d pick it up on their wireless and run like riggers; two, the cruisers as were on this coast might by now be days away. And right here, the Port Captain who’s said to be a good ’un was due back noon today and I was hoping to do business with him, but he’s been held up in Rio. What I’m telling you, see, is I’ve tried and got bloody nowhere, so – no choice, uh?’
* * *
Andy told his team of twelve, aft on the upper deck, ‘Battens and fists. No knives. Skipper’s orders, that.’
AB Parlance asked him, ‘Brass knuckles allowed, sir?’
‘Well, it’s not Be Kind To Huns Night, is it?’ That drew some chuckles. He added, ‘But we don’t want to leave knife wounds behind us.’
‘What if they got pistols?’
‘Skipper thinks not likely. But he has a Colt revolver and Cadet Gorst’s a practised pistol-shot – he’ll be on the bridge-wing with it and any gunmen do appear they’ll be his target.’ That had been decided in the saloon half an hour ago, skipper having mentioned that he had this old six-shooter, couldn’t hit a barn door with it point-blank, and Gorst had come up with the fact he’d been in his training ship’s pistol-shooting team, didn’t profess to be any dead-eyed Dick, but had been known to hit targets smaller than barn doors.
Westbound, Warbound Page 17
