Cuttlefish

by Dave Freer

  Clara felt as if all the cares of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you!”

  He nodded. “But keep it to yourself, miss. Not even your mother must you tell.”

  “She doesn't believe me anyway,” said Clara.

  She walked on down the passage with a spring in her step, past the mess. Cookie waved at her. “You're looking a bit more chipper, missy.”

  She nearly told him why. And then swallowed it and waved, and went on down to the little electrical workshop. Soon she was telling Tim. He was, after all, the one person on the ship she could tell. And she could tell him that the mate would speak to the captain about him. That he was safe until Australia.

  Clara had listened through the night, setting the little travelling chronometer to wake her when Sparks had finished his session. She'd picked up fragments of news and foreign languages, all faint. So she took the crystal set with her, when the mate had finished his watch, to his cabin in the bow area. Knocked.

  He opened the door, smiled to see the crystal set. “Good. You have told no one?”

  Clara could hardly say that she'd told Tim without having to explain. So she shook her head. It was a lie, but it was not going to hurt anyone.

  “Ja. Well, you can leave the set with me. I will listen. I know wireless well. I have thought about it on my watch. They will most likely use a regular time. So what time was it when you heard the Morse transmission?”

  “Um. Three quarters of an hour before changeover,” said Clara, thinking.

  The mate nodded. “Good. You will come back then. Maybe quarter of an hour earlier. We will see if we can catch them at it.”

  Clara did some serious catching up on her sleep that day, to the point that her mother noticed, and asked if she was well.

  “Fine. Just tired,” said Clara airily. “I was listening to the crystal set late.”

  “You've had it glued to your ear for days,” said her mother with a wry smile. “Have you finally had enough of it? I see you haven't got it here now.”

  “I lent it to the mate.” Clara looked at the chronometer. “I think I'll go to the mess. I have been through this book too often.”

  “Maybe you should offer to wash dishes,” said Mother. It was the job Mother had always been keen on volunteering her or her father to do. Mother didn't like doing it herself, Clara knew. Well, there were times when to have to wash dishes was fair, but this wasn't one of them.

  “I did, but Cookie said I'd chip the plates,” said Clara, hastening out of the door. She went forward, not to the mess, but to the mate.

  He had the crystal set set up, with the aerial wire spanned and had the earphone plugged into his ear. He opened the door with one hand, and beckoned her in, putting a finger to his lips. “Getting it. Hush.”

  Clara wanted to listen too. But then she could not have dealt with the Morse. He nodded, held up a finger, tapped the small shellacked desk several times. And then took the earphone out of his ear. “Transmission ends. You were right, miss. And they were not even using code.”

  “Good! We can go and tell the captain,” said Clara, the huge relief making her want to dance, and laugh and yell.

  He shook his head, very slowly. “I am afraid the captain himself he may be implicated, ja.”

  Clara gasped. “But he can't be. He's the captain. I mean…he could just have let us go or be caught a lot of times.”

  “I am not sure. But there is more than one person on this Unterseeboot they referred to. They did not identify themselves. And it seems Captain Malkis did not wish to let you leave, when you could have left safely with the Americans in Rivas. He got a wireless message saying that they agreed to all of your mother's conditions. I was there,” said the mate.

  Clara bit her lip. “And he wouldn't believe us about the spy.…No. But I still don't think it can be him, Mr. Mate.”

  The mate shrugged. “We cannot tell. We still do not know who they are, and the captain, he will not authorise a full search. I tried, because if they find the ring of Lieutenant Ambrose's mother, they would find the thief, not your boy. But we will set a trap for them. We lie off Tutuila in the daytime, ja. They have said they will signal the precise position with a mirror at ten hundred hours. So we will go up the deck well, and they will be trapped. Caught red-handed. It is on my watch, so it will be easy to organise. I have my Pistool. I will meet you at the hatch door to the deck well.”

  “And then, finally it will be over,” said Clara, clasping her hands together and biting her lip.

  The mate nodded. “Ja. Do not tip our hand, though. We do not know who it is, so we must be quiet, quiet like mice.”

  Clara knew she had four and a half hours to wait. She could hardly bear it. She ate almost nothing, to the extent that Cookie asked her if she was well. She just nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She waited until after changeover, then stole down to the electrical workshop. Inevitably she ran into Thorne, but all the artificer did was to smile at her. Knowingly. He looked a little worried. She had to wonder why. She hoped it wasn't him. She liked his muttonchop whiskers, and he was kind to her.

  Still, he did nothing to stop her going into the little electrical workshop and closing the door.

  Tim, in the brig, had got quite expert at telling just who was walking down the passage. He recognised Clara, easily. Thorne had just stopped at the cell, and quickly handed him something through the bars. A little wash-leather bag. “Put it in your pockets, sonny,” he said quietly. “Some fish hooks, some line, some copper wire. Some brass beads I've made with workshop scrap. You can at least feed yourself and trade with the natives. The skipper's going to leave you on Tau.” Then, before Tim could say anything, he'd walked off. That was the sixth visit Tim had had, including one from a very pale-faced Artificer McConnell, still on a crutch, doing his longest walk yet from the sick bay. Tim's pockets bulged with chocolate and even Big Eddie's precious clasp knife. The oddest visits by far were from a few people that he thought wouldn't care, or that he didn't like or he thought didn't like him. Submariner Jonas had brought him an envelope. “We had a secret whip round for you, Darkie. A little money will go a long way out here, when you can find some people. Slip it in your underdaks, on a piece o' string, to stop it falling out. They won't find it there.”

  “By half past ten, you should be out of there,” said Clara, down the pipe. “We caught them at it again early this morning, the mate and I. We've got a trap set for them at ten o'clock, when they'll be signalling their friends on the shore. I can't stay. Thorne was looking very suspiciously at me.” She paused. “The mate thinks…the captain may even be involved.”

  “That's impossible.” Tim might be bitter about the fact that the captain didn't believe him, but he was the captain. Straight in his dealings and…well, the captain.

  “Indeed, that's what he said about the transmitter and the traitor,” said Clara. “Impossible. I'll be seeing you later, Tim. Got to run, or Mother will be asking questions.”

  And Tim was left alone to wait.

  Clara went back to their cabin and tried to be a dutiful daughter and not kick her heels against the bulkheads. She watched the time carefully, hoping her mother would turn in. But Mother was, as usual, working. So, at three minutes to ten, Clara got up and announced that she was off to the heads, hoping Mother would not notice she was wearing her breeches under her dressing gown. And, once out, she walked very fast, to the deck shaft door. The mate was waiting there. “Good girl,” he said. “I have my Pistool. Let us go.”

  He opened the door for her. If they were on the surface—as they must be to open the door—there should have been a watchman in the cowling if the mast was not up. But there wasn't.

  There was just bright sunlight, and something suddenly pressed hard across her mouth and nose.

  Dizziness. And that was all she remembered.

  Tim sat and waited. And then he lay and waited. And then he tried to read the nav textbook again. Then he looked at the contents of the w
ash-leather bag Thorne had given him. Hooks, wire, beads, a spool of linen line…just what you'd need to survive being dumped on an island. He'd just put them away when hasty footsteps came down the passage.

  It was not someone he was pleased to see: Lieutenant Ambrose, and with him Gordon—one of the senior ratings.

  Tim wasn't pleased to see Lieutenant Ambrose. But Lieutenant Ambrose was utterly amazed to see him. “What are you doing here, Barnabas?” he demanded.

  “Lying on my back looking at the bulkhead. Which I'd rather look at than you.” Tim didn't feel he had to be polite.

  “But…but you've run away!” exclaimed the lieutenant.

  Tim snorted. “The door is locked and I'm in a submarine in the middle of the ocean. I can't run anywhere. Is that the next lie you'll tell about me?”

  The lieutenant swallowed. “Gordon. Stay here. I am going to fetch the captain.”

  “What's going on?” asked Tim, beginning to get worried now, as Lieutenant Ambrose left at a sprint.

  Gordon shrugged his shoulders. “They thought you done a runner. We came down to see what damage had been done.”

  Next thing the captain and Clara's mother arrived, also at the run. Both of them appeared stunned to see him. “Where is Clara?” asked her mother, as if she couldn't see that the little cell didn't have much in the way of hiding places for a mouse, let alone another person.

  Tim felt his stomach sink. “She went with the first mate, to catch the spy with the transmitter.” He pointed at the captain. “He said he thought it must be you.”

  Captain Malkis took a deep breath. Turned to the lieutenant. “Where is First Mate Werner?”

  “I couldn't find him, sir,” said Lieutenant Ambrose. “That's why I called you when the hatch-watchman reported finding Miss Calland's dressing gown on the hatch stairs.”

  It got through to Tim first. “He's kidnapped her,” yelled Tim. “And I told you there was a spy. You wouldn't listen to me!”

  “Ambrose, Nicholl. Check the mate's cabin,” said the captain, ignoring Tim. “Search it thoroughly. And I want the hatch-watch to report to me on the bridge. Now.”

  “She said she'd lent her crystal set to the mate,” said Clara's mother, wringing her hands.

  “We'll get to the bottom of this,” said the captain. “I will speak to you shortly, Barnabas.”

  And they went away, and Tim was left standing holding onto the bars, shaking them in frustration and fury.

  A very little while later Lieutenant Willis came down, with the key to the brig. “You've been sprung, boy,” he said as he unlocked the door. “Captain wants you on the bridge.”

  “What's happened?” asked Tim, trying to be rational, not angry and afraid for Clara. He was not succeeding too well.

  Obviously the lieutenant understood. He put a hand on Tim's shoulder. “Cool down, son. Let the old man tell you. But basically Ambrose and Nicholl found a wireless transmitter in the mate's cabin. There's a small life raft missing. The mate ordered the deck watch in. He said the sub was going to dive.”

  Tim let the breath hiss between his teeth. “It was in the little shellacked desk of his, wasn't it? It was always locked. Not like Ambrose, who left the key in the lock either.”

  Lieutenant Willis nodded. “Nicholl broke it open.”

  “I should have done that,” said Tim savagely, beating himself up for what he could not undo. “What worse could have happened to me?”

  They arrived at the crowded little bridge. The submarine was under way, submerged, with a rating peering through the periscope.

  Out of habit Tim saluted the captain. He didn't have to anymore. He wasn't part of the crew, after all. The captain, however, saluted him. “Barnabas,” he said. “I owe you an apology. We have found the wireless transmitter in Werner's cabin. I should have listened to you, boy. I should have listened to my instincts too. I didn't think you were a thief, which is why I was so angry and disappointed when Lieutenant Ambrose caught you.”

  Tim swallowed. “I didn't want to believe Clara when she said that the mate thought you were the traitor either, sir.”

  “What?” The Captain shook his head incredulously.

  “Only she said you were so busy denying the obvious that you had to be, see. But I didn't think it was possible. I didn't want to believe it. But it looked like it, didn't it? I told you there was a spy with inside information, and you told me there couldn't be, even though it was as plain as the nose on your face. You'd rather believe what you wanted to believe than me.” Tim knew this was a pointless fight. But he was still wanting to have it, to say it.

  “Tim-boy,” said Lieutenant Willis. “How do you know what Miss Calland thought about this?” He turned to the captain. “Sir, with your permission, I'd like to ask Barnabas to give us the whole story. And I think it's only fair to ask that nothing further be held against him.”

  The captain nodded. “I think he's been punished enough. And he did say there was a spy aboard, and Miss Calland did try and tell me about the wireless transmissions. All truths, I am afraid. Please tell what you can, Barnabas. We need to try and get Miss Calland back.”

  That took the wind right out of Tim's sails. Because getting her back was the most important thing. “Um. Sir, fair enough, I was searching Lieutenant Ambrose's gear for the transmitter. But I wasn't stealing anything. I swear I never took anything.”

  “For which you deserved a clip around the ear, because I bet you searched mine too,” said Lieutenant Willis cheerfully.

  Tim nodded. “Yessir. I'd searched every room I cleaned. But not the captain's, sir. Or in the mate's locked desk. But he still had the knife that I found in the brig…after we had those Winged Hussars there.”

  They looked at him in puzzlement. “He said he was going to tell you, sir. Told me not to tell anyone else. He told Clara not to tell anyone else about the wireless signal too.”

  “But she told you? How?” asked Lieutenant Ambrose, picking up on the details. He was good at that.

  Tim took a deep breath, told himself that he'd been wrong, and it hadn't been Lieutenant Ambrose, and there was no point in not answering his questions, and Clara could hardly get in more trouble. “Um. The electrical workshop is next to the brig. They share a drain to the bilges, sir. She came and talked to me most days. Kept me sane, sir. So she told me about the mate.…”

  “Captain, Sir,” interrupted the man on the periscope. “There is something flashing up the mountainside in the jungle. Looks like it might be someone trying to do SOS.

  Clara found the world going up and down. And upside down. And her head hurt and she was going to be sick.

  She tried to put her hands to her head and discovered that she could not move them. So she was sick anyway.

  She found herself dumped onto the ground to finish throwing up.

  After her breakfast had joined the jungle leaf-mould, she managed to look at just who had dropped her off his shoulder onto the wet ground. It was not someone she knew. Not someone from the boat, but a suntanned man with a pockmarked face. Behind him stood the mate, and another man. “Finished?” asked the pockmarked man, unsympathetically.

  Clara nodded, feeling too drained to do more.

  “Good. You can walk, then. Cut her feet loose, Disco, and tie the rope onto her. We don't want her running away.”

  The third man did, and they walked on, upwards. It was hot, and Clara still felt terrible. The trail was steep, and rather overgrown. The man called Disco had to keep cutting bushes away. “Making an easy trail for them to follow,” grumbled the pockmarked man.

  “They will not know where we went into this forest,” said the mate. “That is why we hide the life raft, ja. The HMS Forrest will be close by nightfall. They do not have time to search all of this jungle.”

  “Besides, we could hold an army off from the pillbox, I suppose,” said Pockmarks.

  Clara could only be relieved by their getting to the “pillbox.” Her mouth tasted dry and sour, and her head was whirlin
g. It was an odd flat-roofed round building made of green concrete, dug into the side of the mountain, with narrow slits instead of windows.

  And it stank. The smell hit them like a wave as the first man opened the door.

  “Phew!” said the pockmarked man. “Did something die in there?”

  Disco nodded. “Pig go die in there.”

  “And you didn't clean it out, you lazy good-for-nothing!” he exclaimed crossly, cuffing Disco about the ear. “Well, get the wireless transmitter out, and put the girl in there. We can bar the door and stay out here under the trees in the old gun-emplacements. We can let the HMS Forrest know we've got the girl, and await instructions.”

  Duke Malcolm pointed at the map. “We missed our guess. We'd assumed that they'd make for Vanuatu, which is the normal coaling spot for their submarines heading for Wyndham in Western Australia. I know several vessels had been dispatched to the area. Now we have a message from our agent, saying they're going to American Samoa. It suggests that Captain Malkis was not making for Wyndham as we expected, but for one of the ports on the southern coast, via the Bass Strait. I do have an operative in place there, who reports on the shipping in and out of Pago Pago. Our agent on the submarine says he will be able to take the daughter as a hostage; he's tricked her into his confidence, and he will get her ashore. The question is, of course, just what naval support can you give us, Admiral? I've discussed this with Professor Browne, and he is of the opinion that this woman could, alive, give us a new monopoly position. Alive, if we can have her, or she must be dead before anyone else can be allowed to know what she has in her head.”

  The admiral sucked breath through his teeth. “I'll have to check, Your Grace. There might be a gunboat or two at Port Solf in Prussian Samoa…but the Americans keep several cruisers and a destroyer stationed in Pago Pago. Lieutenant Corbett…”