“I have cancer, and it’s incurable.”
“No. I cannot allow this to happen.”
“I’m not giving you much choice, sir.” He pulled the Very pistol from the back of his belt and pointed it at him. “I suggest you find a place on the liberty boat captain. I will not be coming with you and that’s no lie.” He ushered him away with the pistol. “Go on Tom. Beat it.”
Denby knew his crew mate well, and he knew he was a man who meant every word he had ever uttered, and unusually for an Irishman he was a man of few words.
He also knew that if the cartridge from the pistol hit him the trauma alone would cause potentially fatal injuries, but worse still he could survive and have to suffer the hideous injuries caused by the heat and chemical burns.
The cartridge would reach a temperature of four hundred degrees Fahrenheit instantly and get progressively hotter. The Strontium Nitrate in the flare would burn ferociously. It was why they had chosen it to carry out the final act.
Denby put his hand out to shake his second officer’s hand one last time.
“Thank you.”
“Enough, you’ll have me sobbing. Respectfully sir, bugger off and don’t look back.”
Denby lowered himself down the side of the ship, a ship he would miss dearly, over the rugged steel with its iconic red anti-fouling coating and then a leap of faith into the water. The water was frigid. It took his breath away just how cold it was. He swam the short distance to the one remaining lifeboat that had returned for him. He knew he needed to get out of the water as soon as he could.
He was hauled in and the boat navigated in the dark once more. As they headed back out to sea the first cartridge was fired down in the Albatross’ engine room. The fuel that had been liberally sprayed around ignited as Jock O’Keefe ran for his life. He stopped moments later and laughed at the irony of his decision. He was dying anyway why not enjoy the spectacle?
Three more cartridges jostled for his attention. He fired another down a passageway and hoped for the best then climbed awkwardly up a ladder onto the next deck and repeated the action, this time aiming for the piles of old bedding and the human debris that the passengers had left behind. It ignited quickly. The blue flames becoming yellow and soon the empty voids were filling with toxic fumes. He stood and watched, thought about his short life – almost willing the ship to explode. Watched as the fire and smoke created surreal patterns. He was mesmerised. But there was a job to do.
At forty-one he was far too young to die. But pancreatic cancer spared few people and he had watched his own father suffer terribly from the same disease, so his decision was swift – he would beat it before it beat him.
“Not this time you feckin’ bastard!” He yelled as he ran once more, clambered up the last flight of stairs and got to the bridge. He leaned against the window and strained to look up the river, a blurred patch of white and orange was still just visible in the lighter bands of freezing rain that hammered down onto the incoming river.
They had almost made it. It had taken an hour, in which time the tide had rushed in, surging forward, filling in the myriad muddy channels, clawing at the river bank, bringing new life to the waterway once more.
Denby looked around the boat, saw the metal case and drew it closer to him. He knew that if he had tried to leave the ship with it, it would have sunk, or dragged him to the bottom. An old merchant seaman’s chest, battle-scarred and dented. He hoped he had done the right thing.
They forged on, towards the first of the two islands, searching with a small torch. They were hopefully just fishermen to an inquisitive early riser on land and bound to be ignored. With that hope they scanned the mudbanks.
The locals called them saltings. The place where the sea meets the land. The place where for a thousand years the locals had gathered salt. Where Marsh Samphire and Arrow Grass grew defiantly and fought against the constant shift of the sand and the tides, protecting the land from the sea and battling dehydration each time the tide ensued.
Among the banks, a lone sea bird flew into the air startled by the nocturnal presence of man. Up and away from danger, sounding an alarm call to others.
They reached the first lifeboat, drifting in the shallows. The older African male had been shown how to sail it and he had done a good job. But where was he?
The second came into view. Those small boats were overloaded, but as experienced a skipper as Denby was he knew the risks were low. The water was shallow, and it was at best a five-minute swim.
Across the river, another lifeboat had run aground. A crewman was trying desperately to shift it with the aid of the two strongest men. They were in the water, freezing to death.
The wind had changed, more defiant now, snatching at their clothes, stinging their faces. Cold such as they had never experienced before. These were people from the tropics.
When they had entered the river, the wind was a low-pitched whine, now a tempestuous squall had arrived with vengeance bringing sleet.
It sang a song, of the sirens, calling them. ‘This is not a place to be at night; not for your men, or your women, and especially not your dear children. Give them to me…’
The passengers, now refugees of sorts were panicking, the wind scared them, the cold sapped their strength and they clutched their most basic of possessions and started to run, across the alluvial maze that crossed and double-crossed the marshland. And one by one it claimed them. Men, women and lastly, as she had warned, their children.
The density of the mud sapped their strength, pulling them down but leaving them half-submerged, their upper bodies standing like human headstones, bowing slightly, away from the ever-present howling gale.
The wind chill was horrific. Denby shuddered, desperately trying to stay warm, wrapping himself in blankets, preparing for the next and hopefully penultimate phase.
A deep, guttural crack hit him, a sound wave, a rush of light and air and then another. The Albatross was also dying. On the stern, a single figure stood and prayed that his friends and their precious cargo would make it to safety.
If the locals hadn’t seen the ship, those that were awake, would now.
The fire was brutal. A ship’s most feared enemy, it ran through passageways, up staircases, like a naughty child, knocking on doors and running away. Soon she was well ablaze. Another hulk on the river, a lost cause for all but the curious, she would burn for days.
“Farewell Tom,” shouted O’Keefe into the storm. And then he saw her.
A young girl, with long dark hair, clear eyes and a petrified look. She held a small blanket. What was she, seven, perhaps eight?
“Where did you come from my girl?” He instinctively picked her up and held her.
“From down there. The fire came. I ran. Where is my mother?”
“She is safe, my darling. She is safe.” He looked behind her, the flames were riotous now, claiming anything that got in their way, devouring wood and flammable items with glee.
‘Well, Jock, you have yourself a problem so you have.’ He held her tightly.
“My love. Can you swim?” He knew it was far from being a foolish question. From his personal experience on the West African coast many of the locals couldn’t or wouldn’t swim. He knew it had nothing to do with bone density of black people – or any other myth. The truth was, they had never learned.
“Yes. Yes I can, Mr. Tom taught me.”
“Mr. Tom?” O’Keefe asked.
“The captain. When he came to visit, he would teach us to swim. He said that one day it would help.”
“Well, my love, you are going to have to trust me and pray that Mr. Tom taught you well. Just how far can you swim?”
She held her arms outstretched. “This far mister!”
He could have kissed her. Just wanted to hold on to her but there was no way he would let her burn to death.
He looked for a length of rope, knowing the fall might harm her, or worse. He tied it around her waist.
“This will keep you
safe. OK? When you get into the water, I need you to take the rope off and swim, just like Mr. Tom showed you. Swim away from the lights until you reach the beach. They will come and find you. I promise.”
As he held her over the side she looked up and asked a question.
“What is your name, mister?”
“My name is Jock. And what’s yours?”
“I am called Adaeze.” He smiled at her as he slowly lowered her down into the water until the rope went slack.
“Now swim Adaeze, for all our sakes. Swim…”
Chapter Nine
The first of two old sea forts that had stood sentinel on the River Medway for centuries came into view, or rather its dark outline announced itself against a lightening sky.
The Victorian forts were built as part of Britain’s overall sea defences during the Napoleonic era, when invasion was considered probable. Two garrisons each of a hundred men were stationed at the forts, both of which sat isolated on pockets of dry land at the edges of the river – surrounded by mudflats. It was hoped that enemy ships would choose not to risk running the gauntlet.
Fort Hoo and Fort Darnet were chosen, deliberately, by a man who understood military tactics. He knew the buildings from his early days as a sailor, marvelling at their construction, out there in the marshland, he often wondered what it would have been like to be stationed there.
They gave him a chance to see the enemy coming, for the refugees to get dry and warm and to eat from the provisions that the crew had loaded into the smaller boats. They would be a short-term solution and now, all being well, the families would be making their way to them. The younger children were sent to Fort Hoo, as it had more land, superior mooring potential among the snake-like waterways, and it was the place most likely to observe vessels coming downstream from the nearby towns.
The accommodation casemates were large for their time and each had a fireplace that allowed for both cooking and heat, via a series of roof ducts. Importantly no one would see the smoke if they only cooked at night.
Each fort had latrines, that were still intact and worked with the aid of rain water flushing them. The Victorian engineers had surpassed themselves.
The final consideration was the weak point in any structure or castle. The main door.
Both forts had counterweighted drawbridge doors. Once up, the buildings were secure. All refugees needed a few of the important requirements in life. Shelter, warmth, food, water. The first need was wrapped around them, a perfectly round stone fort. The latter was provided by a well.
He had planned everything. A few days to organise themselves, to let the dust settle and he could make his move – a chance to seek some retribution.
Denby got ashore. Now, with the sky alight a few miles west of his location he threw what caution he had left into the screaming gale.
“Come on, round these people up, get them out of the water, children first, with their mothers.” He had found strength when he needed pity.
He hoped his briefing was succinct and that his men had remembered the current phase.
“And all but two of the lifeboats. As per my instructions. Do it now.”
The wind dropped, a bird called out to no one in particular, an oystercatcher probably, and then Lieutenant Commander Denby saw a sight that would stay with him forever. He stopped. Held his hand up, so his crew could see it against the backdrop of a slowly rising sun.
“Stop!”
The younger of the two English-speaking men was stood in front of him. His arms were outstretched. Lying across his solid arms was a child. Her hair limp, hanging down, bereft of life. Her limbs lifeless too.
He was sobbing. “You said we would be safe, sir. You said we would…”
“Oh no. The poor girl. What happened?” He felt a rush of bile, a heaviness, of fear and worry. Wasn’t it obvious?
“She drowned. They all did.” He pointed back out to the edges of the water. There were bodies, young and old, but mainly young, scattered, abandoned, dead.
Partially submerged, floating, gone. Some would surface another day, possibly weeks later. Daylight would reveal the true horror.
He looked left, then right, then straight ahead. He turned. Then again.
‘Calm down, man. These people need you. Say something. In times of crisis, people need action. Do something.’
“Where are the others? Where are the other men, the women? Talk to me.”
“I think I am the only one.” He dropped to his knees and pulled the little girl up to his face, kissed her, brushed the salt from her forehead, wiped away the mud, gently closed her eyes. “Sleep now.”
He began to shake. The cold had finally paid him some attention too. Adrenaline and shock began to make his teeth chatter and his pulse raise.
“You said we would be OK.” Sorrow was quickly turning to anger.
“I did. I told you what to do lad. We talked about it. Do you remember?” He hated himself.
He couldn’t justify this situation to a grieving father. “I told you to carry the children the last few yards, swim if you had to. Do you not remember?” He was trying not to plead, to show weakness. The navy had taught him this, stay calm at all times.
‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…’ Kipling’s classical poem If – framed and hanging over his desk, in his cabin, on board the ship that shrouded in smoke, and glowing orange and billowing black, a few miles away.
He grabbed a torch, faced the fort downstream and prayed the others had arrived safely. He sent a signal. A dim series of flashes in the gunmetal grey sky. Short and simple. It said ‘stay there.’
At Fort Darnet the crewman, an engineer, acknowledged the signal. He had so much more to say, but now was not the time. The captain of the Albatross probably had enough on his hands.
The engineer stood on the beach, hearing the tide continuing its daily race to defeat and erode the shoreline. He looked downriver to the burning hulk of his ship. At fifty-three he knew he’d never go to sea again. If he survived the night, he’d be happy just to see his family once more.
He stepped over bodies that were washing up onto the edge of the marshland.
“Help me with this one. God knows that happened back there. But we need to focus. The skipper briefed me that if this happened, we were to load them into the lifeboats and set fire to them. Send them upstream, towards the Albatross.”
They found as many of the dead as they could and one by one dragged them to the small boats. Men, women and children. As they pushed the boats into the river one of the crew threw a bottle filled with petrol into it. It ignited, drifting, a Norse funeral by another name.
The tide carried the boats away from them, like nautical children back towards their mother.
Denby grabbed the grieving man. “We need to go. Need to move.” He was frozen too but knew this was their one and only chance. He forcibly dragged the man through the mud, back towards the lifeboat.
“I must bring my girl.” The man from Guinea who had risked everything stared at Denby. “I have to sir…”
“Of course, you must.”
They set off from Fort Hoo, across the water, watching silently as the remaining boats drifted past them, on fire, the stench of human remains filling the air as the storm built and hammered the coastline, sleet and rain cut through the survivors, chilling them further.
He should have just sailed into port. That would have been the sensible thing to do. However, he had promised them all a better life, and arriving into a British port with a large group of African refugees he knew the answer would have been undesirable at best.
‘Send them home.’ And to what?
They arrived at the rear of Fort Darnet, navigated into a small stream which with the arriving tide became a moat around the fort, and tied the boat up, ensuring it would be there when they needed it.
By the morning eight of the crew remained, nine if you included their captain. Two had been lost, trying t
o save children from the mudflats and the incoming tide and their engineer Jock O’Keefe was considered lost, perished in the fire.
Denby had conducted a head count before they all huddled for warmth around a few fires. Twenty-one people in total.
They had provisions for about a week, and there was plenty of old wood for fires. It was winter, which meant abundant rain water and the chance of anyone arriving at the island remote. What concerned Denby more than anything else was the cold and a mutiny. He needed a miracle.
As the light was fading at the end of Day One, a crewman was stood on watch, looking across the river, towards the sister fort. He had taken a small set of binoculars with him in his grab bag; he considered them a worthy addition.
“Sir!” He called, not fearing giving away his position.
Denby left the group as they built more fires and tried to make the old place as close to homely as they could. Survival was no longer an option.
“Look. There, on the top of the wall. You see her?”
He took the glasses, waited for the lens to clear, focused them slightly then exhaled deeply. “I see her. Come on, let’s go.”
“But sir we can’t.” He pointed upstream to the hulk of the Albatross. She had re-floated and had moved further up the river, towards the port. The rescue teams were focused on the ship which was still too dangerous to board and the scattered lifeboats, smouldering, with their hidden tales of chaos and sorrow.
Boats of all sizes had converged upon the area. Ambulances lined the shore near the town of Gillingham. Firefighters watched with professional impotency. The nearby Royal Navy establishment at Chatham offered expert help – recovering bodies from the water and boarding the ship as soon as it was safe, in the hope of finding survivors.
And all the while Denby could only stand in the freezing wind and watch.
“Get inside little one, stay warm. I will come for you tonight. Please God let you survive.”
The Angel of Whitehall Page 7
