Orphans of the Storm (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Smith panted, “No!” He reached out and grabbed Jake’s arm, turned him around as the rifle came down and dragged him deeper into the jungle of crooked branches and clutching weeds. “Fire that and it gives away our position!”

  “So why did we bring the damn thing?”

  “If they catch up with us then we’ll have to shoot. Not before.” And Smith hauled him on, cursing.

  When the beams of the torches swung towards them they ducked down beneath the branches and froze until the cones of light had jerked past and away. Then they would lift their heads again and flounder on. When the voices and the lights fell away behind them, they knew they had evaded the pursuit.

  They made a big circle through the wizened trees then tall timber, heading downriver and turning to meet it again. They were not sure just where they had lost the canoe and come ashore. They found the stream at last, and the branch where lay the Mary Ellen. The lighter lay in total darkness and as they waded up to it a voice challenged, “Who goes there?”

  Smith recognised it and answered, “Captain here. Don’t shoot me, Buckley.” He and Jake pulled themselves up over the lighter’s side, Buckley reaching out a helping hand after rapping on the deck. That rapping brought Garrity out of the hatch from below. He listened as Buckley asked, “Are you both all right? We heard the bomb go off. What happened to the canoe, sir?”

  “We’re wet, but that’s all,” Smith answered him, “and Brandenburg’s guardboat has what’s left of the canoe.”

  Garrity led them below then, leaving Buckley on watch. A blanket was now hung as a black-out curtain at the foot of the companion and when they pushed through that they found the saloon lit only by a small, blue light. But then, with the hatch shut, Garrity lit the big lamp.

  The saloon was warm and snug, welcoming in that light after the terrors of the night. Jake said, “Home, sweet home. Boy!” He blew out a long sigh. The French girl had poured coffee for them and he found Véronique’s eyes on him, concerned. He caught a glimpse of himself in a small mirror on the bulkhead, saw that he was coated with mud, slime and weeds and his eyes stared wildly. He was not surprised at the girl’s reaction. He thought then that he was very glad to see her, and she had changed in some way. She wore a clean, crisply ironed shirt and had done something to her hair …

  But Garrity was asking, “Did the bomb do any damage, put back their work?”

  Jake said wryly, “Well, if it threw as big a fright into them as it did me, they won’t come out of the trees for a week.”

  But Smith rubbed at his face and sat down wearily at the table, reaction having him in its grip now. He clenched his hands around the mug of coffee to hide the shaking that always came at this time when the action was over. He said, “Call me as soon as it’s light. We won’t know until morning.”

  *

  Kurt Larsen had never lost consciousness. He was as aware of the lightning flash and thunder crack as he was of the blast that hurled him across the cruiser’s deck to the port rail. He stood up and found that his legs were not working properly and wandered weakly under him. He persevered and crossed to the starboard side again. He checked on his petty officers and his men and found they were all uninjured, though shaken and deafened like himself. By that time he had control of his legs and inspected the damage.

  He reported to his captain on the bridge soon afterwards, related how he had seen the canoe with Smith in the bow and how he had planted the explosive charge: “It was done very coolly, as if he were not in any danger and had all the time in the world.”

  Then they listened as Hessler, the Engineer Officer, gave his assessment of the damage: “The staging has gone, of course, a total loss. There is further damage to the ship’s side, needing more work before we can fit another plate. And the plate itself—” Hessler shook his head at Kurt in exasperation mixed with admiration: “If your Englishman had simply planted the charge on the staging then that would have gone but most of the force of the blast would have been outwards and dissipated harmlessly. But he jammed it between the ship’s side and the plate hanging in position over the hole. The explosion threw the plate outwards and the supporting wires snapped. Now it’s lying on the bottom of the river and we’ll have to send down divers to recover it. I think we’ve lost five hours, maybe more.”

  Moehle asked quietly, “Can we sail by tomorrow night?”

  Hessler hesitated, then answered, “We can.”

  Paul Brunner came onto the bridge now and said, “The pilot has returned.” The Executive Officer stood aside and motioned forward the bulky figure who followed him.

  The pilot smiled nervously around him, his broad face glistening with sweat and that was not because of the heat of the night and his climb to the bridge. He said, “We were almost rammed and shot by the guardboat. Her crew were jumpy. They said you’d been attacked.”

  Moehle’s fingers tapped irritably on the bridge screen. He said, “We were.” Then he asked, “What did you learn?”

  The pilot said, “There’s no report of the prisoners—”

  Moehle cut him off there, bursting out: “We know where they are!” And as the pilot gaped at him he curtly described the bomb attack, and finished: “One of the men was not identified but the other was one of the prisoners who escaped from this ship! They are hiding in the forest!”

  The pilot was nodding eagerly now and he said, “Ah! Otto Bergmann, myself and some others, we discussed the situation. The Mary Ellen, she is a lighter, owned by an Englishman with an American for a crew. She was out in the river most of the night when the prisoners escaped. She sailed for the northern shore at noon today with a cargo for the quarry there, but she did not deliver it. The foreman at the quarry wirelessed this evening to ask where she was.”

  Moehle said dubiously, “You think she picked up the prisoners?”

  The pilot said significantly, “She carries a canoe lashed to her foredeck.”

  Moehle frowned, but then admitted, “It is possible, I suppose. They are here, that is a fact, and they were using a canoe. So?”

  The pilot spread his hands, “Otto Bergmann has a big launch. I understand he also has a grudge against the owner of the lighter and his American crewman. Bergmann and some of his comrades are going to search for the Mary Ellen tomorrow, starting at the mouth of the river. And Fritz Nagel, who flies the mail plane up the coast every day, he will carry out an aerial search in the morning. Wherever that lighter is, they’ll find her.”

  Chapter Fifteen – Turkey Shoot

  Smith, Jake and Garrity were eating breakfast, all of them still tired after only a few hours’ sleep, when Véronique stepped out of the galley into the saloon and asked, “What is that noise?” They listened and then heard through the open scuttle the distant buzzing of an aircraft engine.

  Jake said, “That’ll be the guy on the mail run. Feller called Fritz Nagel. He flies out and up the coast every day about this time.” Then he frowned, “Bit out of his way, this morning—”

  Smith jumped for the ladder to the deck, calling over his shoulder, “Keep under cover!”

  He also obeyed that instruction once out of the hatch. He ran forward into the bow but never showed himself outside the awning Garrity had spread over the upperworks of the Mary Ellen at Smith’s order. With Buckley helping and urging he had also cut branches from the low trees crowding the bank of the side channel in which the lighter lay and spread them over and around her fat hull.

  Smith stopped in the bow and looked for Buckley, who was on watch a hundred yards away where the side channel joined the stream that ran down into the river. He saw the big man splashing through the shallows towards the lighter and at the same moment Buckley saw him in the deep shade under the awning and bawled a warning, “Aircraft!”

  Smith shouted to him, “Get down!” Buckley heard him, waved a hand then swerved aside and plunged into the trees. He was lost to sight as he crouched and the branches closed over him. Buckley still remembered old habits learned twenty years before.<
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  Smith looked for the plane, the buzzing of its engine now become a drone, and saw it turning less than a mile away on the far side of the river. It swung in a lazy half-circle then headed towards the stream where the lighter was hidden. Smith drew back further into the shadows and watched through a gap in the branches hanging like a fringe from the awning.

  The aircraft was a single-engined, high-wing monoplane with graceful lines. Its silver fuselage glinted in the early morning sunlight as it flew low and slowly towards the river and then across it. It was clear that the aircraft was searching, flying a zig-zag pattern back and forth across the river as it worked its way upstream. Smith knew what it was seeking.

  Jake knelt beside him where he crouched on the lighter’s hot deck, and asked, “You think he’s looking for us?”

  Smith asked in return, “Is he a friend of Otto, the Nazi you told me about?”

  “Not exactly. I get the feeling Fritz doesn’t like Bergmann. Sort of polite, but—”

  Smith put in, “But he’d rally around the flag.”

  “Oh, sure.” Then Jake nodded, “Yeah. I got it. He’s looking for us, or he wouldn’t be this far upriver.”

  He had to shout the last words because the plane was close now, heading straight for the hidden Mary Ellen. Jake started to edge forward to see better but Smith held him back and shouted in his ear, “Your face will show like a light! And keep still!”

  Jake sank back on his heels and together they waited as the plane was lost to sight behind the awning as it snarled overhead then reappeared on the far side. Now it was dwindling in size, the snarl lowering again to a drone as it went away. Jake asked, “Think he saw us?”

  Smith let out the breath he had held and shook his head. “If he had he would have circled for a good look, to be sure and to mark the spot.” It was circling now, but low over the pool where Brandenburg lay. A light sparked from the silver fuselage, blinking as it stuttered out in morse. Smith could not read it but did not need to; the pilot was reporting to the cruiser that he had drawn a blank. Then the light ceased its flickering and the plane straightened its course. It set off northward, steadily climbing.

  Jake stood up. “He’s back on the mail run.” He turned to Smith and asked, “So what do we do now?”

  But then Buckley waded out of the trees and halted alongside the Mary Ellen. “He never saw a thing. You made a good job of the camouflage.” He spoke to Garrity, now out on the deck with Véronique.

  Smith agreed, “That’s right.” Then to Jake, “I want you to take over the watch from Buckley. He can eat and I have a job for him.” Jake splashed away and Smith told Buckley and Garrity what he wanted done to the Mary Ellen — and what he planned for her.

  The corners of Garrity’s mouth dropped and his shoulders slumped, like a hurt child. He asked miserably, “I suppose you’ve got to? I mean, you haven’t seen Brandenburg since you planted that bomb. Maybe you’ve already smashed her up good and proper.”

  Smith answered gravely, “That’s true. It may not be necessary. I hope it isn’t.” He answered with good reason because what he planned would put his life at risk — again. The bomb might have done enough damage to delay Brandenburg’s repairs and her sailing so she could not go to the aid of Graf Spee. But Smith had to be prepared in case it had not. So he finished, “But I want the Mary Ellen ready.”

  He borrowed the binoculars and set out for the pool. A disgruntled Jake watched him go from his place on watch at the junction of the side channel with the main stream. Buckley had built a hide there out of branches clothed with the glossy, dark green leaves, from which a man could watch the main stream in some comfort, protected from the heat of the sun. But Jake did not want comfort. He craved action.

  Smith headed for the pool, moving quickly but warily. It was likely that Brandenburg’s captain had mounted sentries on shore to give warning of another attack from that direction, might even have sent out patrols. Smith again found a place in the shelter of the tall timber and looking down on the carpet of bushes and stunted trees sweeping away to the pool. He settled down to study the ship through the binoculars, but first he swept the shore-line, then worked inland.

  It was some minutes before he focused on one seaman, dressed in tropical whites, a rifle slung over his shoulder. The man had taken cover behind a dwarf tree but moved frequently and he showed then. Smith continued his search and located the other sentries one by one in a rough line threaded through the stunted trees and along the edge of the river bank. They stood on the land and kept their feet dry but the trees beyond them were rooted in water, he could see the glint of the sun on it. Smith judged the men to be three or four hundred yards away, about halfway between him and the cruiser.

  Now his scrutiny shifted to the ship. New staging had been assembled and hung over the side. Men were on the staging and the plate was being lowered from sheerlegs to cover the hole in the hull. Smith scowled with disappointment; he had hoped to have done more damage. There was a boat close alongside the staging and something familiar about the gear aboard her … Then he had it: a diver was working from the boat, was under the surface now. Why? To examine the cruiser’s bottom for further damage? No, that would have been done earlier. And the explosion of last night would not have injured Brandenburg below the waterline. So …

  He nodded with satisfaction this time. That was a plate hanging from the sheerlegs and not the plate that had dangled there last night. It lay at the bottom of the pool and the diver was engaged on its recovery. They would need two plates for the repairs. And how much time? He tried to calculate it in his head, knowing that the captain of the cruiser wanted desperately to sail this night. So he would drive his men if he had to, but they seemed to be willing anyway and had worked like furies to have done so much.

  He thought that, despite last night’s explosion, Brandenburg would be ready to sail this night. And that meant … Well, all right. Garrity and Buckley were preparing the Mary Ellen now. She would be ready before nightfall.

  Would he? The strains and physical effort of the last few days, escaping from the cruiser and the subsequent lack of sleep, were taking their toll. He felt weary, could have closed his eyes against the glare of the sun and slept. He had to force himself to worm back deeper into the tall trees, then stand up and start back to the lighter. But there was work to be done, Brandenburg to be delayed and held in this pool as long as possible.

  Just the same, they all needed sleep and if the work was done in time they could all snatch a couple of hours before darkness fell.

  He came out on the side channel almost opposite where Jake sat in the hide and kept watch through the screen of leaves for anyone approaching up the main stream. Jake said, “Jesus! This is driving me crazy! Sitting here counting flies. How about a relief and a job?”

  Smith said, “I’ll see to it.” He pointed at a string that coiled out of the bushes on the bank of the channel, its end tied to a stake in the hide. “What’s that?”

  Jake explained, “Alarm signal. If anyone shows out there in the stream I pull the string and some cans rattle aboard the Mary Ellen. It’s crude but it works.”

  Smith said, “Good idea.”

  Jake nodded, “Thanks. One of mine.” Then he asked, “What did you see of the ship?” Smith told him and when he had finished Jake scowled at him, “So they’ll still be ready on time.”

  Smith said, “Yes, but we aren’t finished.” He pointed at the rifle resting in the crook of Jake’s arm, “You don’t need that, shouldn’t use it here. This is an observation post. It’ll be better if you just sound the alarm and get back to the lighter as quick as you can.”

  Jake looked down at the rifle then said, “I’ll unload it and clean it. Tell you what, ask Véronique to bring me a cup of coffee; I’m parched. I’ll send the gun back with her.”

  “I’ll ask her.” Smith walked back through the shallows of the side channel to the Mary Ellen lying under her camouflage of green awning and heaped branches. The string f
rom the hide looped up out of the trees and over the side to a clutch of empty cans hanging from a stanchion.

  He found Garrity and Buckley toiling at the tasks he had set them and they had made progress. Both of them were stripped to the waist and ran with sweat but a good part of the lighter’s buoyant cargo, such as timber, had been unloaded and dumped in among the trees. They paused in the work and straightened while he reported to them as he had to Jake.

  They heard him out in silence, then Garrity drew a long breath and said, “So you’re going ahead.”

  Smith answered, “Yes.” And: “I know what she means to you.” Garrity was facing ruin. The Mary Ellen was all he had. So Smith promised, “I’ll get full compensation for you.” But Garrity was not solely concerned with money.

  The little man stroked the black steel side of the lighter, hot to the touch, in a caress. He said, “She was built for service, so it’s only fitting she ends up that way.”

  Buckley said quickly, changing the subject, “Did you see our inventor?” He nodded at the cans.

  Smith grinned, “He wants a relief. Any volunteer?”

  Garrity said, “Not here, but there’s one below. She’s offered to stand a watch. We wouldn’t let her manhandle this stuff.” He kicked at one of the baulks of timber standing half out of the hold.

  Smith thought that the girl could pull the alarm string as well as anyone and Jake had wanted coffee. He dropped down the hatch and asked the girl. A few minutes later she was on her way down the side channel to the hide, a steaming mug in one hand, the other pushing at her hair.

  Smith grinned, stripped off his shirt, laid his pistol on top of it and started work with the other two.

  Véronique found Jake in the hide and cleaning the rifle but when he saw her he packed the little oil bottle and scrap of cotton in the socket in the butt of the weapon and took the mug from her. She said, “Smith wants me to relieve you here so you can help with the work.”