The Sea Break

by Antony Trew

  At the head of the gangway, d’Almeida was met by the second officer who took him to the Captain’s cabin. The two men knew each other, McRobert having called at Lourenço Marques for many years. After formal greetings, inquiries about each other’s health and families, and mutual expressions of regret at the heavy losses of Allied shipping taking place on the coast, McRobert invited the pilot to sit down. A steward brought coffee and toast, putting the tray on a small table between them. D’Almeida saw from the cabin clock that it was almost ten o’clock.

  “Unfortunately there is not time, Captain. We must start weighing in three minutes.”

  McRobert frowned. “Did the Port Captain’s office no’ tell ye, then?”

  The pilot threw out his hands in a gesture of interrogation. “Tell me what, please?”

  “We’re delayed a wee bit, Pilot. We reported by voice radio to the Port Captain’s office a short time back. Windlass trouble, would ye believe it? That’s why we’ve had to let go down here. Rivets in the base plate sheered and we’ve got to put in new ones.” He cocked his head on one side, and pointed to the forward portholes.” Hear that, now?”

  From the fo’c’sle came the sound of hammering.

  The pilot nodded, resigned, his mouth drooping. “How long shall we be?”

  McRobert poured the coffee. “Shouldn’t be too long. About an hour, I’d say. We’ll be having a report from the Chief.”

  D’Almeida looked at the bulkhead clock again. If he radioed the Port Captain’s office now for a launch it would take at least fifteen minutes to reach the Clan McPhilly—then he’d have to come back after thirty minutes ashore. It wasn’t worth it. With a small sigh, a click of the teeth, he accepted the inevitability of another late night.

  McRobert remembered something about d’Almeida. “What would ye be saying to a wee game of chess?” He got up and took a chess board and wooden box from the bookcase.

  D’Almeida’s eyes brightened and his teeth gleamed; this was something he understood. “Excellent, Captain, What’s the English saying?”

  McRobert looked at him thoughtfully. Then he smiled. “‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.’ The English say it’s from Shakespeare. Wouldn’t surprise me if it wasn’t Burns.” He began to whistle under his breath, up-ending the box for the pieces to fall on the chessboard. But he was thinking of other things.

  While they set out the chessmen he was listening to what was going on outside; but what he was waiting for did not come. When the cabin clock showed 2203 he mumbled an apology to d’Almeida, left the cabin and hurried through the darkness to the fo’c’sle. At the top of the ladder he was met with the noise of hammering. Kneeling next to Angus Duncan he implored him: “For the Lord’s sake, Mr. Duncan, start the riveting!” Under the light cluster the Captain’s face showed agitation such as the chief engineer had never seen. The thin Scot shook his head and went on wrestling with the valve of the oxy-acetylene cylinder which lay next to the windlass. “This bluidy valve’s nae bluidy guid! We’ve been working on it for ten minutes.” With an impatient gesture he took the hammer from the chief officer. “John,” he said through clenched teeth, “git them bring anither cylinder from aft as quick as ye can, man!”

  The chief officer slipped away and Duncan said: “We’ll have the riveting going in ten minutes, Captain.”

  “Could be too late, Mr. Duncan.”

  Duncan kicked the cylinder. “The damned thing. It’s Satan’s work. One in a thousand valves, maybe, will do that. Should ha’ tested it earlier.” He hammered frenziedly at the base plate making all the noise he could—but it was no substitute for riveting.

  When the launch went alongside the Hagenfels and Widmark saw three men go up the gangway, he had thought of abandoning the plan to concentrate on the crew’s accommodation first, and to make instead for the Captain’s cabin. But he had no means of knowing who the new arrivals were, or to what part of the ship they had gone.

  Crew returning from the shore early?

  Unlikely because the launch’s trip was an unscheduled one.

  More guests for the party?

  Scarcely at that hour.

  Agents or other port authorities?

  Possibly, but why?

  Since Johan, Rohrbach and the Newt were already in the Captain’s cabin, it was important to deal with other parts of the ship first.

  So they kept to the original plan.

  Widmark led as they moved up the port side, Johan behind him, then McFadden and Mike Kent, his seasickness forgotten in the excitement of action.

  Passing along the midship deck-house they hugged the bulkhead, ducking under lighted portholes, moving silently on rope-soled shoes, revolvers and coshes at the ready.

  At the forward end of the deck-house, Widmark signalled the others to stop; he edged up to the corner and looked across the well-deck.

  There were a few blank spots: the winch island at the foot of the foremast, between numbers one and two holds, shut out a part of the starboard side, and there were ventilators which did the same thing. He said to the others. “It’s all clear along the port side as far as I can see. When we get to the winch island, Hans and Mike must deal with the starboard side. We’ll move on up the port side. Meet you at the fo’c’sle doors.”

  Hans and Mike Kent went over to the winch island, and Widmark and McFadden worked their way forward on the port side. The riveting from the Clan McPhilly shut out any sounds from the Captain’s cabin the lights of which were now visible from the foredeck. But the breeze carried the smell of food and tobacco smoke and the tangy odour of beer. Widmark sniffed it and decided that the party was doing itself proud.

  Hans moved silently along the after side of the winch island, with Mike Kent close behind him. At the end of the island he stopped and looked round the corner. Twenty feet from him two men leant over the side, elbows on the bulwark rail. They were talking in low voices, looking out over the river towards the lights of the town. Hans held up a hand.

  “There’s a couple of guys there!” he said. “Watch me but don’t come unless I’m in trouble.” With remarkable agility for such a big man, he slipped round the corner of the island, cosh in one hand, automatic in the other. It took him less than five seconds to come up behind the Germans who never knew what hit them.

  Hans looked at the bodies sprawled grotesquely at his feet. “Hell! That’s two more,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s becoming a habit.” He felt the men’s hearts. One was all right, but the other’s was beating irregularly and a trickle of blood came from his mouth. Enemy or no enemy, Hans was unhappy about that. He’d seen it before, in rugby when a forward had been kicked on the head. The man had died. Hans was at heart a gentle man and all this ferocity appalled him. He sighed.

  A moment later Mike Kent came up and they dragged the bodies behind the winch island. “Out for a long count,” muttered Hans as he and Kent went over to where Widmark and McFadden were waiting. Hans told them what had happened. Widmark said: “Well done!” in a quiet, quarter-deck voice and looked at his watch.

  It was 2214.

  He touched Mike Kent on the shoulder. “Wait outside the port door of the fo’c’sle and bash anyone who uses it. Watch those two at the winch house. They may come round. Put them to sleep again if they do. We’ll go into the fo’c’sle and see what’s cooking. Can’t be more than two or three of them there.”

  Followed by Hans and McFadden, he went into the fo’c’sle, quietly shut the starboard door, locked it and pocketed the key. Systematically they searched the seamen’s and stokers’ messes, the wash places and toilets, but they drew blanks. Then they started on the six cabins. Standing outside the second one, they heard voices. The door was ajar. Widmark kicked it open and there was a big man sitting in a chair, gnarled and sunburnt, with close-cropped hair, he was sweating profusely in a white singlet and khaki slacks. With him was a small man with the face of a ferret. Widmark pointed his automatic at the big German whose mouth opened in astonishment. H
e tried to get up but Hans pushed him down, frisked him and found a sheath-knife on his belt.

  “Put your hands up!” Widmark’s hard voice conveyed more meaning to the Germans than the words.

  Their hands went up. Johan frisked the small man, but he had no weapons.

  The large German began to lower his arms. Hans tapped him with his cosh. “Keep ’em up, chum, if you want to live.”

  Widmark kept the automatic on him. “How many crew on board? Quick or I shoot!”

  Watching all this from behind, McFadden felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to laugh. There was something incredibly music-hall about it all—the Germans’ huge surprise at the sudden confrontation; the armed men, their blackened faces streaked with rain and sweat, behaving in the best traditions of villainy.

  Widmark raised his cosh. “Come on! How many men on board? Make it snappy!”

  The German shook his head. “Ich spreche klein Englisch.”

  McFadden picked up an English magazine from the table next to the bunk.” What’s this doing here, then?”

  Solemnly the German protested: “Ich spreche klein Englisch.”

  Widmark said: “I’m going to shoot this bastard. He’s wasting our time.” The effect on the German was immediate. Not only did he understand English, but he didn’t like the way Widmark spoke it.

  “Okay, Okay,” he muttered. “What you want to know?”

  “How many crew on board now?” The delay was making Widmark angry.

  “Twenty.” The German watched stolidly for the effect of this information.

  “Don’t lie to me.” Widmark’s eyes narrowed. “Your total crew’s only that and there are men ashore. Come on. Quick!” He poked the barrel of the automatic into the man’s neck. “Hear that riveting outside? Nobody’ll hear me shoot. Out with it.”

  Widmark meant what he said, and his determination was felt by the German with whom fear now got the upper hand. His hands went higher and his voice became hoarser.

  “Okay. Okay. I tell truth. Three officers on board. One steward. Two greasers. Two seamen. Carpenter,” he nodded at the small German next to him, “and myself. I am bosun.”

  Widmark looked at him with cold, calculating eyes. “If you’ve lied I’ll kill you. A few dead Germans one way or another make no difference to me.” McFadden and Hans wondered if the German knew how accurate that remark was.

  The bosun nodded emphatically. “What I say is true.”

  “Now,” said Widmark. “Take us to the chain-locker. Both of you. Quick, and no tricks or you’re dead ducks. We’re short of time. Hans, fetch those Jerries you laid out by the winch island and get Mike to help you. Put them in the chain-locker with these customers. I’m not taking any chances.”

  Hans doubled off and Widmark and McFadden followed the Germans down a companion ladder to a lower deck, then forward along a narrow alleyway which ended against a steel door. The bosun unbolted it and switched on a light. Widmark looked in. It was the chain-locker all right. Full of cable and mud and smelling like a sewer.

  “In you go!” He pushed the two Germans through the steel door. “We’ll send you some chums in a moment. There’ll be an armed guard outside.” Tapping his automatic, he pointed at the door.

  The bosun’s protest was half fear and half indignation. “This is not a place for men. There is no air.”

  Widmark snapped at him. “Too bad. That’s where you’re going, my friend. Plenty of fresh air comes down the spurling-pipes.”

  There was a noise behind them. It was Hans staggering down the alleyway with a body over his shoulder. “This bastard weighs a ton,” he complained. They helped him lay the man down inside the chain-locker. Hans was soon back with the second unconscious German. They shut the door on the prisoners, bolted it on the outside and made their way back up the ladder. After a quick look through the remaining cabins they returned to the foredeck. Mike Kent was there waiting for them.

  “Okay?” he asked anxiously.

  “Sure. Everything’s fine.”

  “Haven’t seen a thing here, sir. Much quieter in the Captain’s cabin now.”

  “Right,” said Widmark. “Leave the bag with the cable gear here. McFadden, take Hans and Mike down the port side into the midship deck-house. You’ll have to go up two decks. You’ll find the foremost alleyway running athwartships. The door to the Captain’s cabin will be for’ard on the starboard side. Remember the plan? Stand by outside the door, or near it if it’s open, and if you see any Jerries fix them. As long as this riveting lasts you can use your automatics, but try and make do with coshes. If you hear trouble in the cabin, go in at once and give a hand. Otherwise don’t start anything until I arrive. Okay? I’m going to do a quick recce.”

  Widmark went up two companion ladders to the boat-deck below the bridge and along the port side of the deck-house until he’d reached its forward end, rounded the corner and crossed slowly to starboard, keeping below the level of the portholes. From them came a voice he recognised—a man’s voice. Taking a deep breath, he moved up until his eyes were level with the rim of the porthole. For a second he looked through the gauze fly-screen into the Captain’s cabin, then ducked again. What he saw had shaken him badly.

  The Newt, Johan and Rohrbach were sitting on a settee in an unmistakable attitude of surrender, their hands well above their heads. Opposite them, just inside the door, von Falkenhausen’s and Schäffer’s revolvers explained why. In the fraction of time he’d had to take this in, Widmark realised that these must be two of the men the launch had brought off.

  But how had they learnt what was on the go?

  Where had the plan miscarried?

  The answers were beyond him. Then he thought of the Commodore in Cape Town: “… in war there are too many imponderables‚ Widmark. It’s a blinding certainty that something will go wrong. It always does.”

  Well, it certainly had and with a vengeance. He slithered round to the foreside of the deck-house and gingerly went up for another look. This time he could see Di Brett and Hester Smit, white-faced and huddled on the settee on the starboard side of the cabin. Mariotta was in an arm-chair in the middle of the cabin, and her eyes were closed. Why? Widmark had no idea. Günther Moewe, revolver in hand, stood behind the settee on which the Newt and his friends were sitting. To their right a small middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and steel-rimmed glasses sat in an arm-chair, but Widmark couldn’t see his face clearly.

  On the far left, a man’s legs jutted forward; he was evidently sitting with his knees crossed. Widmark presumed it was Lindemann. Beyond him the neat shoes and ankles of female feet just showed and Widmark realised with a pleasant shock that they must be Cleo’s. In the excitement of the last half-hour he’d forgotten her. Lowering his head after this briefest of looks, he heard von Falkenhausen say: “You gentlemen are playing a dangerous game. This ship is German territory. There are penalties for spies in wartime and they are not pleasant …”

  Widmark thought fast, his mind cool and clear, but his body tense, every sense alert to what was happening. He had to create a diversion. Moving back to the starboard side of the deck-house he lifted himself cautiously for the third time and took a snap view through the porthole. The Newt, Rohrbach and Johan were again opposite him, Moewe behind them, revolver in hand. Lindemann in the corner on his right was now visible and next to him a pale Cleo, head back and eyes half closed, her hands on the arms of the chair. Lindemann was still in the arm-chair but there was a revolver in his right hand, the barrel pointing at the deck. The little man with close-cropped hair appeared to be asleep. Drunk, thought Widmark caustically.

  From upwind the high-speed rat-a-tatter-rat-a-tatter of the Clan McPhilly’s riveting filled the night sky with overwhelming noise.

  Widmark held his breath.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The screen door slammed behind von Falkenhausen and Heinrich Schäffer. “Ah!” said the Freiherr. “A party. Charming. May we join you?”

  Lindemann went acr
oss to meet them. He clicked his heels and bowed. “An unexpected pleasure, Herr Baron?” There was a note of interrogation.

  The Freiherr bowed. “I am sorry to disturb you, Kapitän, but Schäffer and I have been discussing the repair problem with the engineering people ashore. The position is highly unsatisfactory. I thought I should come at once and discuss it with you. I had no idea you were entertaining.” He looked round the room. “We also brought off Francke, your chief mechanician. He was at the discussions with us.”

  “We can discuss the matter in a moment, Freiherr,” said Lindemann. “In the meantime let me introduce you.”

  The Captain performed the introductions and the Freiherr bowed and smiled, his charm communicating itself to them all. When Lindemann introduced him to Di Brett and the Newt, the Freiherr nodded. “I have already met Mrs. Brett and Mr. Newton. At the Polana the other evening.”

  “The others,” Lindemann looked round the cabin, “you already know. My officers: Herr Kuhn and Herr Moewe.” The Germans bowed stiffly, clicking their heels.

  “Now,” said the Captain, “Please sit down. Schäffer will get you a drink.”

  Schäffer poured the drinks for the Freiherr and himself, prosits were exchanged and the new arrivals sat down.

  An awkward silence was broken by the Freiherr, whose smile embraced all in the room. “Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but I must talk shop for a moment.” Turning to Lindemann, he lowered his voice as they discussed the defective crankshaft and the problem of its repair locally. Rohrbach listened to the conversation with amused cynicism; these two were undoubtedly working hard at their act. The Germans’ conversation came to an end and another silence ensued.

  “Lovely weather we’re having.” The Newt beamed good-naturedly at the Freiherr.

  “You like the rain, Herr Newton?”