“I used to head down below and take what I could but it was like feeding an elephant cherries. You understand?”
O’Shea held him again, Cade was trying to leap ahead. He’d already heard enough.
“Anyway, by the time we reached Southampton we had lost fifty or more. Fifty, out of four hundred. The government of the day saw it as a fair exchange. The men that couldn’t fight were put to work, the women too and the kids…actually I have no idea what happened to them.”
A new voice became apparent, barely a whisper that steadily became louder. “Hello Tom, I think it’s about time you had a rest.”
Adaeze looked at Cade. Her eyes spoke volumes. He nodded and helped Denby back to his feet.
“She’s right, Tom. We can come back another day. For now, let’s have you resting shall we?”
“There’s always a first time to obey an order I guess.” He smiled the boyish smile once more, but knew he was defeated.
Cade and O’Shea walked slowly back through the gardens, a living memorial to the brave and colourful, the belligerent and courageous. They reached the car, Cade opened the passenger door and put his arm around O’Shea.
“Thanks, I appreciate you being there Carrie. Was always going to be difficult.”
“There’s somewhere else you need to visit before we head back up to London.”
“There is. If that’s OK with you.”
A ten-minute drive saw them pulling into the car park of the local crematorium.
“Good evening sir, gates close soon. If that’s OK?”
“It’s fine. We’ve come a very long way. If you can bear with us?” Cade was holding a roughly drawn map. He held it up to the groundsman.
“Why not? If you’ve come that far. It’s a lovely evening after all. Take your time. The plot you are looking for is over there to your right. Third rose garden and it’s on your left from there. I’ll wait for you to leave but will close the gates for now.”
They walked, past tall trees that fragmented the early evening sunlight, wilted balloons guided them along the path, roses, both real and artificial, images of people, young and old, cut flowers, some fresh others dying.
They reached the plot. A simple affair with a small marble plaque, upon which was carved Cade’s father’s name, his date of birth and date of death and an inscription from Kipling’s poem If.
He knelt down and ran his fingertips over the plaque, feeling the surface change as he traced the letters to the end. He wiped the stone clean and then looked up.
A single yellow rose was planted immediately behind it. A solitary flower presented itself. He pulled the bloom closer and inhaled its sweet fragrance.
O’Shea put her hand on Cade’s shoulder and pressed gently. She was looking away, into the breeze. She could hear him sobbing. She let him, knowing that with each one his guilt at not being there was leaving him. They were together again.
He stood. Looked around, overtly wiped his eyes and laughed.
“He’d hate this, Carrie. And he’d say it bothered him not one iota that I wasn’t there at the service. Probably tell me to sort my bloody self out, mention that Latin quote about the world not being enough and the other one, reminding you not to let bastards grind you down.” He uttered the last sentence in the wickedly accurate tones of his dad.
“Take care mate. I love you. Until we meet again.” He looked at O’Shea. “Come on you, let’s go. I suddenly need a drink.”
She studied him for a moment. The tears had accentuated his defiantly blue eyes. He needed a shave which was unusual, and the grey at his temples had spread a little since she had first met him.
He was the same build and his manner was still true English gentleman. But there was an underlying edge to him these days.
“He’d love that you got back to see him.”
“He would. I’m just not sure why I am here though.” They walked to the car as a light shower threatened to dampen their spirits.
“You are here to say a proper goodbye Jack.”
“No, I meant here, in England. I came back because a man in need asked me to. But so far all I have heard is a fascinating war story. And as fascinating as it is Carrie, I can’t see any connection to you or me or even John Daniel.”
“There was a time when you wouldn’t have questioned this Jack. Go with the flow and all that. Tomorrow’s another day. Let’s try to sleep on it.”
“Try? Do you have other plans?”
“Now then, Mr. C. I doubt either of us has the energy.”
He guided her into the passenger seat with a playful tap across her backside. “Don’t you be so sure!”
At the Wise Man Hospice, they tucked Tom Denby back into his bed. A Douglas Reeman book soon lay unread upon his chest at page ninety-two, the story of a naval battle somewhere.
He was dreaming, complete immersion, the type of dream that brings its viewer to life and then shakes them awake. But this night, he slept soundly.
In his left hand was a tarnished silver chain upon which was a padlock.
On the body of the padlock, someone had inscribed a message.
If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.
He was soon back there, on the ship that meant so much to him, but this time he was alone. A sole mariner, the only other people on board were dead.
Chapter Eight
The Medway Estuary, Kent, 1970s
His was a dream that enabled him to hear, to see, in full colour, to touch and even taste. He looked down at his wristwatch. The second hand was slowly arcing around the face. He could hear it. Tick, tick, tick.
He woke suddenly. He was beyond tired. Tired beyond its own wildest dreams. Asleep standing up. He shook his head, rubbed at his eyes then spoke to his trusted third officer.
“You have the helm, I’m heading below, I need to get them ready. Are you OK Harry?”
“Yes sir, I’m as ready as I will ever be. And, sir.”
“Yes.”
“It’s been a real pleasure. I’ve learned so much. If we don’t make it…”
“Enough of that talk lad. We’ll do more than bloody well make it. I’ve got a bottle of spiced rum in my cabin, and it’s got our names on it! I’ll be back in fifteen.”
He left the bridge and made his way down below, to the lower decks. The engine was a constant companion with its heartbeat pulsing, aft the mighty bronze propellers were churning through the cold water, aerating it, bringing it to life, turning it a phosphorescent blue, if only for a while, before it was allowed to return to its normal darker green, almost nocturnal black state.
He found the two men he needed. The two that had the best command of the English language – for Denby’s French was rudimentary at times. And time was a commodity he had little of.
“Men, I need to talk to you. Come with me.” They followed. The women and children stayed where they were.
He outlined what was going to happen. Then he told them again, using basic props to enforce that this was not going to be easy.
“Any questions?”
One of the men, the eldest cleared his throat, nodded then spoke.
“I have a question, sir. Where will we hide out until the coast is clear? And then what? Will we be safe?”
“Three questions for the price of one.” Denby smiled warmly trying to offer assurance.
“I have planned this in great detail.”
“How long have you been planning this?”
“About forty minutes.” He laughed, if not a little uncomfortably. “But we’ll be fine. When I give the signal, I don’t want anyone jumping in with both feet though.”
“We have a saying in Africa – Only a fool tests the depth of a river with both feet.”
“Then I am inclined to agree. We go in about two hours. When your people get onto land, tell them to head to this place.” He handed them a pencil drawing. A simple round structure by the sea.
He stirred in his sleep, started mumbling, talking,
words that meant something in his mind only. He was back there, in the moment, could feel the physical cold of the night. It was that day once more, and he was responsible for them all.
This was so real, as real as it could ever get. That night. Those moments. The people. The men. The women. Those children.
“Twenty minutes,” he announced calmly. “Gentlemen, are we all ready?”
He knew it was a pointless question. He scanned fore and aft, no one was on the water and that was a godsend.
They came to a stop. There was land to their port side and open seas to their starboard. A small boat was lowered over the side and with three crew on board it disappeared north east into the darkness.
The only visible light was from small torches, hazardous at best, but necessary to stop prying eyes. They got alongside the three old masts that stood proud of the sea, at a slant, covered in rust and years of grime.
The diver entered the water but soon realised the tide was too strong. His task had looked simple. Get alongside, lower the case and ensure it reaches the wreck. Once it has hit the structure tie the rope off to one of the masts and get away.
It had looked simple.
An hour later without the diver onboard the small boat returned to the mother ship. They conveyed the news.
“He knew the risks sir. He was well paid. We’ll look after his family, eh, sir?”
“We will. For now, we need to move on. I’m so sorry chaps. I really am.” It was becoming a living hell.
Under sail again the old freighter edged along the Kent coast once more, before slowing and starting to turn to port, slowing more, easing her way into the estuary.
“Steady now.”
“About three miles, sir.”
“Thank you. Be ready to deploy the boat again. Volunteers only this time.”
The water was deep enough to take sizeable vessels all the way up the river to Chatham, a famous and longstanding military harbour.
“It was on this river that the British suffered one of their greatest defeats against the Dutch. Back in 1667, a night to be remembered. Let’s make sure we don’t repeat it. All hands look lively now.”
The Albatross was quietly moving up the river, her navigation lights were off and no one made a sound. The estuary was close enough to civilisation to attract attention during the day but remote enough to slip in under the cover of darkness.
Within minutes they were passing Deadman’s Island to their port. Denby found himself thinking about the fleet of Dutch warships that had taken the same path, their intentions far from honourable.
“Deploy the boat. Make it count this time and for God’s sake mark the position.”
The boat with four volunteers on board slipped into the shallows and soon found land.
“You know what they say about this place don’t you?”
“I do and I’ll thank you not to discuss it. We’ve got a job to do, and it’s in all of our interests to do it well.”
They secured the boat then began to walk across the marshy island, with one man counting the paces and the man immediately behind, cracking green glow sticks, leaving a safe trail back to the boat.
“This is about as far as I want to go. Agreed?” The older and more experienced sailor had made the decision based on nothing more than legend.
Deadman’s Island was used by the government of the late Seventeen hundreds as a dumping ground. Not of human waste but of bodies. Records showed that many hundreds were placed there, some in coffins, so just unceremoniously dumped overboard.
Floating prison hulks, returning from overseas with prisoners ravaged by tropical diseases had been ordered to dump their dead before they reached the important naval ports of Chatham and London.
“I’ve read that the Black Plague is still out here. That bones wash up all the time. Here seems as good a place as any. Because I’m in no hurry to come back and the locals never come here. Let’s dig.”
They found the driest part of the ground and began to dig down, in a minute a spade had struck something.
They stared down in the hole. A bone, aged, and brown was lying in the hole staring back.
“Jesus, I’ve had enough, get the case in there and let’s piss off shall we?”
They covered the metal case, marked it with a pre-made cross and retraced their steps back to the boat.
“Gentlemen, how are we doing?”
“Fine skipper but don’t ever ask me to do that again. It was awful out there – we found a bloody head.”
“I did wonder if you might. Hundreds of them apparently. That is why I chose the place. If experienced and courageous men like us, don’t like visiting the island then hopefully no one else will. Not long now. Let’s get going, shall we? Nice and steady. Four miles. Slow Ahead now.”
He almost cooed as he gave the order to reduce speed. Ahead lay his target. He hoped to steer the ship through the middle of a lazy S bend that announced the outer reaches of the towns of Gillingham and Chatham.
“Let’s bring the ship to starboard please, Dead Slow Ahead – and prepare to run her aground. The mudflats are deep here so let’s get as close as we can to the mainland. I want this grand old lady to stand out like a sore thumb at a healthy thumb party by the morning, and all being well by then we will all be somewhere safer.”
“Isn’t this too obvious?”
“Hiding in plain sight never caused me any problems in the war. I sailed this old girl and her forerunner for years, right under the noses of the Kriegsmarine and they never found me.”
“But that was wartime sir. The Germans were the enemy. Respectfully, this is now.”
“Then behave like we are at war. Because trust me when the British authorities come looking for us it will feel like we are the enemy.”
“Two minutes.”
“Thank you. God speed gentlemen. Look after yourselves. When you get home deny all knowledge of me. Tell them I hijacked the ship, tell them you did it because you feared me. Tell them anything but the truth.”
“One minute.”
The ship started to run aground. The sand and gravel made the process less intrusive than a reef or solid stone. Quieter too. That said, she still made a noise and anyone within earshot would have heard it, would have seen the wave too if it had been daylight.
Down below the passengers huddled together, women sobbed, children screamed or sat motionless, mouths open. Scared. To them the noise was the end of their world.
The Albatross kept moving forward, then slowly the river began to claim her, slower now, yet still moving forward, then finally she was finished, her life on the ocean ended. Stranded midstream in a river that had provided a maritime lifeline for centuries. Oh, they would notice her, that was guaranteed.
They waited a few minutes. Let everything and everyone calm.
“Wait.”
He knew what was about to happen. At least if the textbooks, he’d poured over since he was a young naval officer were correct. Slowly the ship started to list to her starboard, further now, her hull quietly moaning as the river bed scrambled to consume her. At thirty-seven degrees, she stopped.
And then, all was quiet. What there was of a moon was hidden from view and the weather gods had so far been kind.
Then for the first time in his illustrious career Denby gave the order.
“Abandon ship.”
The lifeboats were loaded and lowered, swinging out on their davits until they were safe to lower down into the shallower water. The boats on the port side were as good as useless due to the degree of list.
With a crewmember in each they ferried the passengers back up the river, towards the sea.
Denby stood and watched them head away in the half light. Away, he hoped, from harm and toward a brighter future. He could only thank whichever god was watching that he didn’t have the usual high numbers of passengers on board.
The lifeboats had a relatively short journey, across the river, some turned right, the others, left. Closer now, they s
lowed and also began to feel the riverbed tugging at their keels.
“Jump off. I cannot go any further. You will be OK. I need to go back and get the others. Go!”
Men went first, those that could swim, into the water, then the women who formed a chain with their men and passed the children along the lines that had formed in the darkness. The cold had already announced its presence as the wind whistled sideways through the estuary straight off the North Sea.
“I am cold and frightened, papa.”
“Hush. You will be alright while I am here.” He knew she was frightened. He was too. Perhaps it would have been better to stay where they were and live a life of poverty and war?
On the deck of the Albatross, Denby was pacing like an expectant father.
“How much longer? We have three hours until daylight but I can’t risk another ship arriving.”
“An hour, sir. An hour at the very most.”
“Then let’s plan for that. I don’t know whether she will remain like this much longer. Once the tide changes she may re-float, so we need to prepare for the final stage.”
“Aye, sir.” The crew member disappeared down the inclined corridor and made his way below decks.
The hour came up on Denby’s watch. It was now, or never. How could it have come to this? Those faceless bastards sitting in their offices, lying in their comfortable warm beds, milking the situation of human sorrow until it was bone dry. For what? Money and power and greed.
The crew gathered on the deck, a few started to lower themselves down into the remaining lifeboat as Denby and his second officer prepared to leave. He shook his hand. They stood and looked at each other for a second.
“It’s been fun, Tom. But my days at sea are numbered. I haven’t told you, but I am very sick.”
Denby knew what was coming. He’d sensed a change in his colleague, a feeling that he was deliberately protecting him from something.
The Angel of Whitehall Page 6
