Shout at the Devil

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘How far are we from Blücher?’ and then as an afterthought he used the lieutenant’s surname without rank, ‘How far, Kyller?’ It was as well to keep reminding the man that as the equivalent of a full colonel, he far outranked him.

  ‘Around the next bend, Commissioner.’ Kyller’s voice carried the lazy inflection that made Fleischer think of champagne and opera houses, of skiing parties, and boar hunts. ‘I hope that Captain von Kleine has made adequate preparation to defend her against enemy attack?’

  ‘She is safe.’ For the first time there was a brittle undertone to Kyller’s reply, and Fleischer pounced on it. He sensed an advantage. For the last two days, ever since Kyller had met him at the confluence of the Ruhaha river, Herman had been needling him to find a weakness.

  ‘Tell me, Kyller,’ he dropped his voice to an intimate, confidential level. ‘This is in strict confidence, of course, but do you really feel that Captain von Kleine is able to handle this situation? I mean, do you feel that someone else might have been able to reach a more satisfactory result?’ Ah! Yes! That was it! Look at him flush, look at the anger stain those cool brown cheeks. For the first time the advantage was with Herman Fleischer.

  ‘Commissioner Fleischer,’ Kyller spoke softly but Herman exulted to hear his tone. ‘Captain von Kleine is the most skilful, efficient, and courageous officer under which I have had the honour to serve. He is, furthermore, a gentleman.’

  ‘So?’ Herman grunted. ‘Then why is this paragon hiding in the Rufiji basin with his buttocks shot full of holes?’ Then he threw back his head and guffawed in triumph.

  ‘At another time, sir, and in different circumstances, I would ask you to withdraw those words.’ Kyller turned from him and walked to the forward rail. He stood there staring ahead, while the launch chugged around another bend in the river, opening the same dreary vista of dark water and mangrove forest. Kyller spoke without turning his head. ‘There is the Blücher’ he said.

  There was nothing but the sweep of water and the massed fuzzy heads of the mangroves below a hump of higher ground upon the bank. The laughter faded from Herman’s chubby face as he searched, then a small scowl replaced it as he realized that the lieutenant was baiting him. There was certainly no battle cruiser anchored in the water-way. ‘Lieutenant …’ he began angrily, then checked himself. The high ground was divided by a narrow channel, not more than a hundred yards wide, fenced in by the mangrove forest, but the channel was blocked by a shapeless and ungainly mound of vegetation. He stared at it uncomprehendingly until suddenly beneath the netting that was festooned with branches of mangroves, he saw the blurred outline of turrets and superstructure.

  The camouflage had been laid with fascinating ingenuity. From a distance of three hundred yards the Blücher was invisible.

  – 51 –

  The bubbles came up slowly through the dark water as though it had the same viscosity as warm honey. They burst on the surface in a boiling white rash.

  Captain von Kleine leaned across the foredeck rail of the Blücher and peered at the disturbance below him, with the absorption of a man attempting to read his own future in the murky mirror of the Rufiji waters. For almost two hours he had waited like this, drawing quietly on a succession of little black cheroots, occasionally easing his body into a more comfortable position.

  Although his body was at rest, his brain was busy, endlessly reviewing his preparations and his plans. His preparations were complete, he had mentally listed them and found no omissions.

  A party of six seamen had been despatched fifteen miles downstream by picket boat to the entrance of the delta. They were encamped on a hummock of high ground above the channel to watch the sea for the British blockade squadron.

  As Blücher crept up the channel she had sown the last of her. globular multi-horned mines behind her. No British ship could follow her.

  Remote as the chances of overland attack seemed, yet von Kleine had set up a system of defence around the Blücher. Half his seamen were ashore now, spread in a network to guard each of the possible approaches. Fields of fire had been cut through the mangroves for his Maxim guns. Crude fortifications of log and earth had been built and manned, communication lines set up, and he was ready.

  After long discussions with his medical officer, von Kleine had issued orders to protect the health of his men. Orders for the purification of water, the disposal of sanitation and waste, for the issue of five grains of quinine daily to each man, and fifty other safeguards to health and morale.

  He had ordered an inventory made of stocks of food and supplies, and he was satisfied that with care he could subsist for a further four months. Thereafter he would be reduced to fishing and hunting, and foraging.

  He had despatched Kyller upstream to make contact with the German Commissioner, and solicit his full cooperation.

  Four days had been spent in hiding the Blücher under her camouflage, in setting up a complete workshop on the foredeck under sun awnings, so that the engineers could work in comparative comfort.

  Now at last they had begun a full underwater appraisal of Blücher’s wounds.

  Behind him he heard the petty officer pass an order to the team at the winch. ‘Bring him up – slowly.’

  The donkey engine spluttered into life, and the winch clattered and whined shrilly. Von Kleine stirred against the rail and focused his full attention on the water below him.

  The heavy line and airpipe reeled in smoothly, then suddenly the surface bulged and the body of the diver was lifted dangling on the line. Black in shiny wet rubber, the three brass-bound cyclopean eyes of his helmet glaring, grotesque as a sea monster, he was swung inboard and lowered to the deck.

  Two seamen hurried forward and unscrewed the bolts at the neck, lifted off the heavy helmet, and exposed the head of the engineering commander, Lochtkamper. The heavy face, flat and lined as that of a mastiff, was made heavier than usual by the thoughtful frown it now wore. He looked across at his captain and shook his head slightly.

  ‘Come to my cabin when you are ready, Commander,’ said von Kleine, and walked away.

  ‘A small glass of cognac?’ von Kleine suggested.

  ‘I’d like that, sir.’ Commander Lochtkamper looked out of place in the elegance of the cabin. The hands that accepted the glass were big, knuckles scarred and enlarged by constant violent contact with metal, the skin etched deeply with oil and engine filth. When he sank into the chair at his captain’s invitation, his legs seemed to have too many knees.

  ‘Well?’ asked von Kleine, and Lochtkamper launched into his report. He spoke for ten minutes and von Kleine followed him slowly through the maze of technicalities where strange and irrelevant obscenities grew along the way. In moments of deep concentration such as these Lochtkamper fell back on the gutter idiom of his native Hamburg, and von Kleine was unable to suppress a smile when he learned that the copulatory torpedo had committed a perversion on one of the main frames, springing the plating whose morals were definitely suspect. The damage sounded like that suffered in a brothel during a Saturday night brawl.

  ‘Can you repair it?’ von Kleine asked at last.

  ‘It will mean cutting away all the obscenely damaged plating, lifting it to the deck, recutting it, welding and shaping it. But we will still be short of at least eight hundred obscene square feet of plate, sir.’

  ‘A commodity not readily obtainable in the delta of the Rufiji river,’ von Kleine mused.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘How long will it take you – if I can get the plating for your

  ‘Two months, perhaps.’

  ‘When can you start?’

  ‘Now, sir.’

  ‘Do it then,’ said von Kleine, and Lochtkamper drained his glass, smacked his lips, and stood up. ‘Very good cognac, sir,’ he complimented his captain, and shambled out of the cabin.

  – 52 –

  Staring upward at the massive warship, Herman Fleischer surveyed the battle damage with the uncomprehending curiosity of a land
sman. He saw the gaping ulcers where Orion’s shells had struck, the black blight where the flames had raged through her, the irregular rash with which the splinters had pierced and peppered her upperworks, and then he dropped his eyes to the bows. Work cradles were suspended a few feet above the water, and upon them clutters of seamen were illuminated by the crackling blue glare of the welding torches.

  ‘God in heaven, what a beating!’ He spoke with sadistic relish.

  Kyller ignored the remark. He was directing the native helmsman of the launch to the landing ladder that had been rigged down the side of Blücher. Not even the presence of this sweaty peasant, Fleischer, could spoil his pleasure in this moment of homecoming. To Ernst Kyller, the Blücher was home in the deep sense of the word; it contained all that he valued in life, including the man for whom he bore a devotion surpassing the natural duty of a son to his father. He was savouring the anticipation of von Kleine’s smile and words of commendation for another task well done.

  ‘Ah, Kyller!’ Von Kleine rose from behind his desk and moved around it to greet his lieutenant.

  ‘Back so soon? Did you find Fleischer?’

  ‘He is waiting outside, sir.’

  ‘Good, good. Bring him in.’

  Herman Fleischer paused in the companion-way and blinked suspiciously around the cabin. His mind was automatically converting the furnishings into Reichsmarks, the rugs were silk Teheran in blue and gold and red, the chairs were in dark buttoned leather, all the heavy furniture, including the panelling, was polished mahogany. The light fittings were worked in brass, the glasses in the liquor cabinet were sparkling diamond crystal flanked by a platoon of bottles that wore the uniforms of the great houses of Champagne and Alsace and the Rhine. There was a portrait in oils opposite the desk of two women, both beautiful golden women, clearly mother and daughter. The portholes were curtained with forest-green velvet, corded and tasselled in gold.

  Herman decided that the Count must be a rich man. He had a proper respect for wealth, and it showed in the way he stepped forward, drew himself up, brought his heels together sharply, and then creased his bulging belly in a bow.

  ‘Captain. I came as soon as I received your message.’

  ‘I am grateful, Commissioner.’ Von Kleine returned the salutation. ‘You will take refreshment?’

  ‘A glass of beer, and …’ Herman hesitated, he was certain that somewhere aboard Blücher there must be a treasure trove of rare foods, ‘ … a bite to eat. I have not eaten since noon.’

  It was now the middle of the afternoon. Von Kleine saw nothing unusual in a two-hour period of abstinence, yet he passed the word for his steward while he opened a bottle of beer for his guest.

  ‘I must congratulate you on your victory over the two English warships, Captain. Magnificent, truly magnificent!’

  Lying back in one of the leather chairs Fleischer was engaged in mopping his face and neck, and Kyller grinned cynically as he listened to this new tune.

  ‘A victory that was dearly bought,’ murmured von Kleine, bringing the glass to Fleischer’s chair. ‘And now I need your help.’

  ‘Of course! You need only ask.’

  Von Kleine went to his desk, sat down and drew towards him a sheaf of notes. From their chamois leather case, he produced a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and placed them on his nose.

  ‘Commissioner …’ he started, but at that moment he completely lost Fleischer’s attention. For with a discreet knock the Captain’s steward returned with a large, heavily laden carving-plate. He placed it on the table beside Fleischer’s chair.

  ‘Sweet Mother of God!’ whispered Herman, his eyes glittering, and a fresh sweat of excitement breaking out on his upper lip.

  ‘Smoked salmon!’

  Neither von Kleine nor Kyller had ever been privileged to watch Herman eat before. They did so now in awed silence. This was a specialist working with skill and dedication. After a while von Kleine made another effort to attract Herman’s attention by coughing and rustling his sheaf of notes, but the Commissioner’s snufflings and small moans of sensual pleasure continued. Von Kleine glanced at his lieutenant and lifted a golden eyebrow, Kyller half smiled in embarrassment. It was like watching a man in orgasm, so intimate that von Kleine was obliged to light a cheroot and concentrate his attention on the portrait of his wife and daughter across the cabin.

  A gusty sigh signalled Herman’s climax, and von Kleine looked at him again. He sagged back in the chair, a vague and dreamy smile playing over the ruddy curves of his face. The plate was empty, and with the sweet sorrow of a man remembering a lost love, Herman dabbed a forefinger on to the last shred of pink flesh and lifted it to his mouth.

  ‘That was the best salmon I have ever tasted.’

  ‘I am pleased that you found it so.’ Von Kleine’s voice crackled a little. He felt slightly nauseated by the exhibition.

  ‘I wonder if I might trouble you for another glass of beer, Captain.’

  Von Kleine nodded at Kyller, and the lieutenant went to refill Fleischer’s glass.

  ‘Commissioner. I need at least eight hundred square feet of 1½-inch steel plate delivered to me here. I want it within six weeks,’ von Kleine said, and Herman Fleischer laughed. He laughed the way a man laughs at a children’s tale of fairies and witches, then suddenly he noticed von Kleine’s eyes … and he stopped abruptly.

  ‘Lying in Dar es Salaam harbour under British blockade is the steamer Rheinlander.’ Von Kleine went on speaking softly and clearly. ‘You will proceed there as fast as you can. I will send one of my engineers with you. He will beach the Rheinlander and dismantle her hull. You will then arrange to convey the plating to me here.’

  ‘Dar es Salaam is one hundred kilometres away.’ Herman was aghast.

  ‘According to the Admiralty chart it is seventy-five kilometres,’ von Kleine corrected him.

  ‘The plating will weigh many tons!’ he cried.

  ‘In German East Africa there are many hundreds of thousands of indigenes. I doubt not that you will be able to persuade them to serve as porters.’

  The route is impossible … and what is more, there is a band of enemy guerrillas operating in the area north of here. Guerrillas led by those same bandits that you allowed to escape from the dhow, off the mouth of this river.’ In agitation Fleischer had risen from his chair and now he pointed a fat accusing forefinger at von Kleine. ‘You allowed them to escape. Now they are ravaging the whole province. If I try to bring a heavily laden, slow moving caravan of porters down from Dar es Salaam, word will reach them before I have marched five kilometres. It’s madness – I won’t do it!’

  ‘It seems then, that you have a choice.’ Von Kleine smiled with his mouth only. The English marauders, or a firing party on the afterdeck of this ship.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ howled Fleischer.

  ‘I mean that my request is no longer a request, it is now an order. If you defy it, I will immediately convene a court martial.’

  Von Kleine drew his gold watch and checked the time.

  ‘We should be able to dispose of the formalities and shoot you before dark. What do you think, Kyller?’

  ‘It will be cutting things fine, sir. But I think we could manage it.’

  – 53 –

  When the Governor of Mozambique had offered Flynn a captaincy in the army of Portugal, there had been an ugly scene. Flynn felt strongly that he deserved at least the rank of colonel. He had suggested terminating their business relationship. The Governor had countered with an offer of major – and signalled to his aide-de-camp to refill Flynn’s glass. Flynn had accepted both offers, but the one under protest. That was seven months ago, a few short weeks after the massacre at Lalapanzi.

  Since then Flynn’s army, a mixed bag of a hundred native troops, officered by himself, Sebastian and Rosa Oldsmith, had been operating almost continually in German territory.

  There had been a raid on the Songea railway siding where Flynn had burned five hundred tons of sugar, and ne
arly a thousand of millet that was in the warehouses awaiting shipment to Dar es Salaam, supplies badly needed by Governor Schee and Colonel Lettow von Vorbeck who were assembling an army in the coastal area.

  There had been another brilliant success when they had ambushed and wiped out a band of thirty Askari at a river crossing. Flynn released the three hundred native recruits that the Askari were escorting, and advised them to get the hell back to their villages and forsake any ambitions of military glory – using the corpses of the Askari that littered the banks of the ford as tangible argument.

  Apart from cutting every telegraph line, and blowing up the railway tracks they came across, three other raids had met with mixed results. Twice they had captured supply columns of bearers carrying in provisions to the massing German forces. Each time they had been forced to run as German reinforcements came up to drive them off. The third effort had been an abject failure, the ignominy of it being compounded by the fact that they had almost had the person of Commissioner Fleischer in their grasp.

  Carried on the swift feet of the runners who were part of Flynn’s intelligence system came the news that Herman Fleischer and a party of Askari had left Mahenge boma and marched to the confluence of the Ruhaha and Rufiji rivers. There they had gone aboard the steam launch and disappeared into the fastness of the Rufiji delta on a mysterious errand.

  ‘What goes up must come down,’ Flynn pointed out to Sebastian. ‘And what goes down the Rufiji must come up again. We will go to the Ruhaha and wait for Herr Fleischer to return.’

  For once there was no argument from either Sebastian or Rosa. Between the three of them it was understood without discussion that Flynn’s army existed chiefly to act as the vehicle of retribution. They had made a vow over the grave of the child, and now they fought not so much from a sense of duty or patriotism, but from a burning desire for revenge. They wanted the life of Herman Fleischer in part payment for that of Maria Oldsmith.