Cuttlefish

by Dave Freer

  “We got clear all right?” Tim asked, feeling guilty.

  “We're still alive, so me opinion is we must have somehow,” said the cook. “You're a bit early for your watch. I got tea, and ship-biscuits, if yer need a feed?”

  “Please!” Never had rock-hard tooth-breaker biscuits sounded so good.

  So Tim went and sat in the mess and corrected the state of his stomach. Tea—made submarine style, with condensed milk—and the biscuits, which had to be soaked to begin to be chewable, were a solid foundation. He took the mug back. “Thanks, Cookie. That should just about hold me to porridge time.”

  “Funny, that's just about what the young miss said too,” said Cookie. “She was here about an hour ago.”

  Tim found that he was actually rather sorry to have missed her. Two hours later, full of that second breakfast, he reported for duty. “Cabins first, and then at twenty hundred you're on with the sail-crew, then back to cleaning, and then at twenty-four hundred deck-watch, sonny. You're back with Cookie for the last hour. Get your sou'wester and oilskin and sea boots on, before you go out,” said Lieutenant Willis, grinning. “Even if you have showed us all that you don't mind getting wet.”

  Tim found that he'd gone from being the new boy to being a part of the crew, at least as far as this officer was concerned, all in one day. It pleased him.

  It obviously didn't please one or two of the others who were on the deck that night, changing the submarine from a sleek underwater craft to a sailing racer, but that was their problem. Standard, one of the other cabin boys, punched his shoulder. Too hard to be the friendly gesture he was pretending it was. Tim winced. “What's up, Darkie?” Standard said. “Got all soft in the cold water? Or was you soft before, and that hardened you up, but not enough?”

  “I wish you'd go swimming, Standard. It'd do you good,” said Tim. They were busy pushing out the spars that clipped onto the narrow deck and gave the sail-crews some space to work. It was noisy wet work, as the big rubber pontoons in the hydrofoil outriggers in the second hull would not be filled for this task That would lift the submarine mostly clear of the water, make her much faster, but easier to see.

  “Uh-huh. Didn't wash you any cleaner. You still look like you could use a bath.” He shoved Tim toward the dark water.

  “Shut up, Standy,” said one of the other ratings. “The kid did well. Get that net spar clipped in, and get a move on.”

  Tim shut up too. There was no point in getting into a fight with Standard, who was bigger than Tim, and knew exactly how to make the most of it. Besides, the mate dealt with fights, and he was supposed to be pretty tough on anyone who was involved, no matter what the reason was. Anyway, he was kind of used to it. It came with having darker skin in a place where most of the people didn't see the sun much. He didn't have to like it, but he knew he'd have to live with it. He'd had enough fights to find that out.

  When they finished on deck Tim went back to clean his last cabin and then clean the heads, then kitted up again and went to the deck-shaft, up the spiral stair and out onto the deck to do his turn on watch. The Cuttlefish, out here in the North Sea, sailed on the surface at night, her mainmast erected, the big transparent sails catching the wind. In the dark, with the submarine running low in the water, with no funnels and no superstructure, and nothing to be seen against the sky but the thin mast, they were very hard to spot. It saved a great deal of fuel, but it did mean that someone on the masthead had to have sharp eyes. There were bow and stern watchmen too, with safety harnesses and a strong likelihood of getting wet. Tim was on stern watch. He was grateful that he was not up in the swaying crow's nest. The North Sea was not as bad as the mighty Atlantic, the other submariners told him. Then he'd be lucky to stay aloft. “It's why you got a berth,” Banks had told him, when he'd come aboard. Banks was the biggest of the three cabin boys, due to move to being a submariner soon—well, as soon as he could pass the exam. He'd failed twice, and only had one more crack at it left. He liked to tell horror stories to the newest of the crew. “The last boy, he was moving his line and we hit a wave. He catapulted out into the sea. They saw him swimming after the sub, but we don't stop, see.”

  Tim had asked one of the senior ratings if it was true. The man grimaced, and said, “Partly. See, when the boat's under sail, she can't stop or turn fast. And at night, they'll never find you. So keep your line clipped in.”

  After that warning, Tim kept the broad leather belt with its riveted steel hasp tight, with its braided rope to the brass snap-link hooked on to the recessed running pipe, and then quickly, unhooked and reclipped to the hasp.

  “Scared you're gonna be washed off, Darkie?” said Standard, who was on the stern, waiting to be relieved. “I thought you said you could swim, new-pup. Not much of a sea today to be scared of,” he said scornfully before he ran back to the deck-shaft cowling without bothering to clip his line in.

  Tim wondered if he should also not clip in. Just to show he wasn't scared. But the truth was, he was scared. And it was very…open, out here for a tunnel boy.

  So he stayed clipped on firmly and scanned the dark water, and, as he'd been told to, looked at the line where the starry sky met the dark of the sea.

  Clara found, after her diving exploit, that the submarine was a great deal more friendly a place than St. Margaret's School for the Children of Officers and Gentlemen had ever been.

  Well, mostly anyway. A few of the boys seemed to want to be a little too friendly. That was…something she'd never really had to deal with before. It was interesting but a little scary too. There were girls who'd been involved with boys at St. Margaret's, of course. And they all talked about it. And one of the fifth-form girls had left very suddenly, after doing more than just kissing, if the whispers were to be believed. Clara was curious, but not that curious. And her mother was watching her.

  She'd asked some question about spotting the anti-submarine nets at dinner.

  “Just what were you doing out of our cabin when we tangled in the net anyway?” asked her mother.

  “Oh, I'd, um, gone to the heads,” said Clara. “And then the ship stopped, so I went to find out what was happening.”

  “You really ought not to be out without me,” said mother, sternly.

  “Well, ma'am, she's your daughter,” said the captain. “And you set the limits and rules for her. But we're a small, closed community, and I've had a word with the crew about your status here. There is absolutely no harm that could come to her on the boat. It's a boat, by the way, Miss Clara. Submarines are always called boats. I'd say let her roam, so long as she stays out of the way and clear of the engines, and out of the cabins. And she's been sensible about it so far. It must be a little dull for her in your cabin.”

  Mother had smiled, wanly. “I must admit that we didn't plan ahead for entertainment for her, Captain Malkis. We were glad to escape with our lives. She should be resuming her schooling…but I am not the best of teachers. I'll set her some work too. But thank you. It's very confining for her.”

  So Clara found herself with her mother's idea of schoolwork, and a fair amount of free time. Mother was so absorbed in her own work, whatever it was. She seemed very frustrated by the lack of a laboratory. “I am convinced osmium is not necessary,” said her mother, in the midst of setting her some mathematical problems.

  Clara blinked. Osmium? It was on the table of elements…she was almost sure. “Er. For what?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Your grandmother's work with her almost-husband, before she left Germany.” Mother kicked the trunk. “Your great-aunt Irmengarde in Breslau had some of her things, still. When she died, I inherited part of the estate from her, remember. This trunk is full of my mother's notes and letters. A solid quartz pressure vessel…some chemicals. It's…interesting.”

  Almost-husband. It was a story that Clara had grown up with, how Oma Clara had fought with the man she was about to marry and broken off the engagement. And how the family had felt it better to send her away to stay with the cousins
in England—where she'd fallen in love with and married an Irish engineer, and had never gone back to Prussia.

  Her mother shook her head, as if trying to clear it. Then she said, “Why don't you go and ask if you can get some air? We are on the surface at night anyway. I'm sorry. I need to think about this.”

  Oma had been a chemist too. The first woman to gain her doctorate from the University of Breslau. Clara knew that she was supposed to follow the tradition set by her grandmother. Only she really didn't like chemistry all that much. She went up to the bridge to ask Captain Malkis if she could go out on the deck.

  He rubbed his chin. “It's a bit risky, young lady. We run very low in the water. Waves break right over the top of the ship, sometimes. It's not exactly a pleasure promenade.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Mind you, you have shown us you're not afraid of getting wet. Go to the quartermaster, get him to issue you with wet-weather gear, and a deck harness. There'll be no malarkying about without it, mind. Lieutenant Willis here, will be doing a deck-round at oh one hundred, and you can go out with him, but not to the masthead! You're not to distract the watch. When we get to safer waters you can spend a bit more time on deck. It's rougher out in the Atlantic, but quieter there away from the shipping lanes.”

  The heavy Shetlands cabled jumper, oilskin, sea boots, and a sou'wester were all a little bit large for her—at the smallest size the quartermaster had. She felt a bit like a scarecrow, clumping back to the bridge. She obviously looked it too. The captain and lieutenant smiled. “Breeches are called for too, I think,” said Captain Malkis.

  So she had to go back to the quartermaster again. She changed in the heads so as to avoid explaining all of it to her mother, who might object, and went back up, and was taken to the inner door to the deck well.

  She shivered. “It's a bit like the escape hatch.” It still made her feel cold, looking at it.

  “A bit. But the pit doesn't seal off on top, and the outer door can't open if there is pressure on it. We have to pump it out before we can exit this way,” explained the lieutenant, leading her out and up the spiral stair, up onto the deck cowling and out under the dark star-spattered open sky, with the wind and the scent of fresh salt-laden air filling her lungs.

  “You clip on here.” He pointed to a brass rail recessed into a groove on the deck. “There's a second snap-link on your leash too, see. You never clip off the first until you've clipped on the second. Got me?”

  She nodded, clipped in, and followed him down the deck to the bow. Out in the darkness spray splashed at them, and the wind bit into her face. And she revelled in it. In the feeling of space, and the fact it didn't smell like the inside of the submarine—of coal, rust, oil, and mostly people. This air didn't feel shared.

  The submariner on the bow heard them coming, and turned and saluted. He had water dripping off his nose and forelock, and on his oilskins. It was amazing how well you could make out things just by a sliver of moonlight. “T'sea's picking up a bit, sir. Evening, miss,” he said.

  “It is. No more ship-sign?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Not since just after I come on watch, sir. Lost sight of him, quick enough,” said the watchman.

  “Well, keep them peeled, Nicholl,” said the lieutenant.

  “Aye, sir.”

  They went back, past the low cowl of the deck shaft, and to the stern. That watchman didn't hear them coming. He was peering intently into the dark. The lieutenant cleared his throat. The poor submariner nearly jumped into the sea with fright—the lieutenant had to catch his leash.

  It was the cabin boy, Tim. “Sorry, sir. I think I see something, sir.” He stared at the sea again, intently. “On the skyline, sir.”

  They all stared into the dark, to where he'd pointed.

  On the up-roll Tim pointed again. “There.”

  “Didn't see anything. But I'm going up to the crow's nest,” said the lieutenant. “You stay here, Miss Calland. Clipped on. Don't move.”

  So Clara did, staring into the dark too. “What did you see?” she asked, not seeing anything.

  “Square black edges,” explained Tim. “I think…a ship's superstructure, and maybe funnels. But she doesn't have any lights on. But the sea doesn't have any square things about it.”

  “It's eyes like a cat you must have! I can barely see anything!” she said, staring again.

  Tim was feeling a little foolish about not having heard them coming. But the belief and, well, trust in her voice set his prickles at ease a bit. “It's from living in the tunnels. You spend a lot of time looking into the dark. Get used to it, I guess,” he said gruffly, not stopping looking at the sea. “There it is again. See. On the upswing. Just there.”

  “I…think I might have,” said Clara, doubtfully.

  Lieutenant Willis came back as they stared out into the night together. “Good spotting, youngster. The masthead watch had just signalled the bridge about seeing something when I got there. I got a sighting of it through the masthead night-glasses. It's a four-stack destroyer, Margot-class. Running without lights, she's hunting.”

  “So what do we do now, sir?” asked Tim.

  “Pretty much what we were doing, son. Watch her. We'll reset the sails a bit and run slightly more easterly, I'd guess. She's maybe eight knots off, and probably won't pick up our sails or mast in the dark. She might hear our engines, so we're unlikely to use those until we've added a bit of distance between us. Come, miss. I'd better get you belowdecks. We'll have a sail-crew up here in a few minutes.”

  So Tim was left to look out alone again until the sail-crew came up to reset the sails, and then he went off watch.

  Duke Malcolm was doing his best to remain patient with the Lord High Admiral. Visiting the admiral in the Admiralty irritated him. Duke Malcolm liked people to come to his offices, but the admiral had asked the duke first. “It's uncertain how the Russians knew that we had planned an intercept when the airship docked in London. The point is, they did and organised a very effective distraction. It was obviously decided that it would be safer to send her by submarine, something they were quite correct about,” said Duke Malcolm.

  Lord Admiral Lesseps nodded. “You've told me before, Your Grace, how allowing these submarines to survive serves our purposes. But they're underhand and unfair and un-English.”

  Not for the first time Duke Malcolm wondered if the Lord Admiral had quite understood that the submarine traders weren't particularly concerned about being “un-English.” Unfortunately the Lord Admiral was far too well connected for Duke Malcolm to be rid of him easily. His family had influence that was of value even to the house of Windsor-Schaumburg-Lippe. They owned vast steelworks and collieries in the colonies as well as here and in Germany. The duke therefore chose to ignore this idiocy. “The question now is just where we anticipate them going to port, as it appears the Royal Navy can't find them at sea.”

  The admiral looked mildly offended, but not quite ready to start a fight with the head of Imperial Intelligence about it. “The new equipment we're fitting does mean we can triangulate on them when they use their engines, provided we have two ships with the new gear, within a ten-mile radius of the submarine. We can detect them at twenty miles, but not work out where they are. But when they run under sail, not. And there is a lot of ocean out there.” The admiral pointed at the large wall-map stuck with varicoloured pins. “It seems unlikely that they will try to run the Baltic Sea, so that leaves the North Atlantic route to Romanov-on-the-Murman.”

  “Which means they have to re-coal at either their nest on the Shetlands or Trondheim's Fiord,” said Duke Malcolm, tired of being told what he already knew.

  The admiral bowed. “Quite so, Your Grace. My aide, Captain Margolis, has the disposition of the fleet elements ready to deal with these nests,” said the admiral, with a small smile of satisfaction.

  The aide got up and indicated on the map with his long wooden pointer. “Because of the possibility of trouble with the Norwegians, the dreadnought Invincible Geo
rge and her group will be steaming here. They will be on station from the twelfth. The armoured cruiser Martinique, and the Margot-class destroyer Camberwell, and their coaling support vessel are already in Scapa Flow. If we fail to detect them, or receive information from you, Your Grace, they are scheduled to sail to join the Invincible George on the morning of the thirteenth. We have the submarine access channels mapped, and those will be mined.”

  The duke didn't listen to the admiral's aide droning on about coaling and the plans on how to raid the nests. Instead he was thinking about the report from Professor Browne. It appeared that Dr. Calland was a Cambridge graduate. She had worked on azoic dye isomers—whatever that meant. There had been an explanation. Nitrogen came into it somewhere. Browne had some of his men checking her work at Imperial Chemicals and Dyes.

  In the meantime he had better get the Irish Interest section to compile a complete dossier on this woman. She had a child. That presumably meant that it had a father.

  And that might be a lever.

  The duke did not understand familial love at a personal level. But he knew it worked on lesser persons.

  The submarine ran on its coal-fired Stirling engines, just below the surface, all day, diving on a couple of occasions to avoid spotter airships. Once they heard the distant sound of drop-mines. Tim knew this was unusual—once the subs had got out to sea, they seldom used their engines, as the coal dust was heavy and took up cargo space, and besides, the blowers had to be re-ceramic-coated after they'd done a certain number of hours. The boat would have to be laid up in a safe port, not working, while that happened. And usually, once away from the cities and the coast, the submarines had a peaceful enough time of it.

  Usually.

  Not this time.

  “Looks like we'll be running for the Faroes instead of the Shetlands. They're hunting us hard,” said one of the senior ratings.

  Tim had to wonder just why they wanted this submarine so badly. It had to be the woman. But why on earth was she so important? She seemed quite ordinary, if rather bookish. She was a doctor. But not a people-doctor, as some of the crew had found out. “I asked her for something for my chilblains,” said Smitty, the bosun. “She said she might be able to help if I had chemical problems, not medical ones. Dyeing clothes was more her line than curing the dying, she said. Used to work in that big industrial dye-works in Ireland, she did.”