Shout at the Devil

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Water?’ wheezed Flynn in horror and the shock was sufficient to diminish the strength of his paroxysm.

  The steward, who from experience could recognize a drinking man when he saw one, rose nobly to the occasion. He hurried across the cabin with a glass in his hand. A mouthful of the raw spirit effected a near miraculous cure, Flynn lay back in his chair, his face still bright purple but his breathing easing, and Joyce withdrew to the far side of the cabin to inhale with relief the moist warm tropical air that oozed sluggishly through the open porthole. After a close range whiff of Flynn’s body smell, it was as sweet as a bunch of tulips.

  Flynn had been in the field for six weeks, and during that time it had not occurred to him to change his clothing. He smelled like a Roquefort cheese.

  There was a pause while everybody recovered their breath, then Joyce picked up where he had left off.

  ‘I was saying, Major, how good it was of you to return so promptly to meet me here.’

  ‘I came the moment I received your message. The runner was waiting for us in M’topo’s village. I left my command camped south of the Rovuma, and pushed through in forced matches. A hundred and fifty miles in three days! Not bad going, hey?’

  ‘Damn good show!’ agreed Joyce, and looked across at the other two men in the cabin for conformation. With the Portuguese Governor’s aide-de-camp was a young army lieutenant. Neither of them could understand a word of English. The aide-de-camp was wearing a politely noncommittal expression, and the lieutenant had loosened the top button of his tunic and was lolling on the cabin’s day couch with a little black cigarette drooping from his lips. Yet he contrived to look as gracefully insolent as a matador.

  The English captain asks that you recommend me to the Governor for the Star of St Peter.’ Flynn translated Captain Joyce’s speech to the aide-de-camp. Flynn wanted a medal. He had been hounding the Governor for one these last six months.

  ‘Will you please tell the English captain that I would be delighted to convey his written citation to the Governor.’ The aide-de-camp smiled blandly. Through their business association he knew better than to take Flynn’s translation literally. Flynn scowled at him, and Joyce sensed the strain in the cabin. He went on quickly.

  ‘I asked you to meet me here to discuss a matter of very great importance.’ He paused. Two months ago your scouts attacked a German supply column near the village of Kibiti.’

  ‘That’s right’ Flynn sat up in his chair. ‘A hell of a fight. We fought like madmen. Hand-to-hand stuff.’

  ‘Quite,’ Joyce agreed quickly. ‘Quite so. With this column was a German naval officer …’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ interjected Flynn with alarm. ‘It wasn’t me. He was trying to escape. You can’t pin that one on me.’

  Joyce looked startled.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘He was shot trying to escape – and you try and prove different,’ Flynn challenged him hotly.

  ‘Yes, I know. I have a copy of your report. A pity. A great pity. We would dearly have liked to interrogate the man.’

  ‘You calling me a liar?’

  ‘Good Lord, Major O’Flynn. Nothing is further from my mind.’ Joyce was finding that conversation with Flynn O’Flynn was similar to feeling your way blindfolded through a hawthorn bush. ‘Your glass is empty, may I offer you a drink?’

  Flynn’s mouth was open to emit further truculent denials, but the offer of hospitality took him unawares and he subsided.

  “Thank you. It’s damn good gin, haven’t tasted anything like it in years. I don’t suppose you could spare a case or two?’

  Again Joyce was startled.

  ‘I’m sure the wardroom secretary will be able to arrange something for you.’

  ‘Bloody good stuff,’ said Flynn, and sipped at his recharged glass. Joyce decided on a different approach.

  ‘Major O’Flynn, have you heard of a German warships, a cruiser, named Blücher?’

  ‘Have I, hell!’ bellowed Flynn with such vehemence that Joyce was left in no doubt that he had struck another jarring note. ‘The bastard sank me!’

  These words conjured up in the eye of Captain Joyce’s mind a brief but macabre picture of a Flynn floating on his back, while a battle cruiser fired on him with nine-inch guns.

  ‘Sank you?’ asked Joyce.

  ‘Rammed me! There I was sailing along in this dhow peaceful as anything when up she comes and – bang, right up the arse.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured Joyce. ‘Was it intentional?’

  ‘You bloody tooting it was.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well …’ started Flynn, and then changed his mind. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Where did this happen?’

  ‘About fifty miles off the mouth of the Rufiji river.’

  ‘The Rufiji?’ Joyce leaned forward eagerly. ‘Do you know it? Do you know the Rufiji delta?’

  ‘Do I know the Rufiji delta?’ chucked Flynn ‘I know it like you know the way to your own Thunder Box. I used to do a lot of business there before the war.’

  ‘Excellent! Wonderful!’ Joyce could not restrain himself from pursing his lips and whistling the first two bars of ‘Tipperary’. From him this was expression of unadulterated joy.

  ‘Yeah? What’s so wonderful about that?’ Flynn was immediately suspicious.

  ‘Major O’Flynn. On the basis of your report, Naval Intelligence considers it highly probable that the Blücher is anchored somewhere in the Rufiji delta.’

  ‘Who are you kidding? The Blücher was sunk months ago – everybody knows that.’

  ‘Presumed sunk. She, and the two British warships that pursued her, disappeared off the face of the earth – or more correctly the ocean. Certain pieces of floating wreckage were recovered that indicated that a battle had been fought by the three ships. It was thought that all three had gone down.’ Joyce paused and smoothed the grey wings of hair along his temples. ‘But now it seems certain that Blücher was badly damaged during the engagement, and that she was holed up in the delta.’

  ‘Those wheels! Steel plating for repairs!’

  ‘Precisely, Major, precisely. But …’ Joyce smiled at Flynn, ‘ … thanks to you, they did not get the plating through.’

  ‘Yes, they did.’ Flynn growled a denial.

  ‘They did?’ demanded Joyce harshly.

  ‘Yeah. We left them lying in the veld. My spies told me that after we had gone the Germans sent another party of bearers up and took them away.’

  ‘Why didn’t you prevent it?’

  ‘What the hell for? They’ve got no value,’ Flynn retorted.

  ‘The enemy’s insistence must have demonstrated their value.’

  ‘Yeah. The enemy were so insistent they sent up a couple of Maxim guns with the second party. In my book the more Maxims there are guarding something, the less value it is.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you destroy them while you had the chance?’

  ‘Listen, friend, how do you reckon to destroy twenty tons of steel – swallow it perhaps?’

  ‘Do you realize just what a threat this ship will be once it is seaworthy?’ Joyce hesitated. ‘I tell you now in strict confidence that there will be an invasion of German East Africa in the very near future. Can you imagine the havoc if Blücher were to slip out of the Rufiji and get among the troop convoys?’

  ‘Yeah – all of us have got troubles.’

  ‘Major.’ The captain’s voice was hoarse with the effort of checking his temper. ‘Major. I want you to do a reconnaissance and locate the Blücher for us.’

  ‘Is that so?’ boomed Flynn. ‘You want me to go galloping round in the delta when there’s a Maxim behind every mangrove tree. It might take a year to search that delta, you’ve got no idea what it’s like in there.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Joyce swivelled his chair, he nodded at the Portuguese lieutenant. ‘This officer is an aviator.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘He is a f
lyer.’

  ‘Yeah? Is that so good? I did a bit of sleeping around when I was young – still get it up now and then.’

  Joyce coughed.

  ‘He flies an aircraft. A flying-machine.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Flynn. He was impressed. ‘Jeez! Is that so?’ He looked at the Portuguese lieutenant with respect.

  ‘With the co-operation of the Portuguese army I intend conducting an aerial reconnaissance of the Rufiji delta.’

  ‘You mean flying over it in a flying-machine?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘That’s a bloody good idea.’ Flynn was enthusiastic.

  ‘When can you be ready?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For the reconnaissance.’

  ‘Now just hold on a shake, friend!’ Flynn was aghast. ‘You not getting me into one of those flying things.’

  Two hours later they were still arguing on the bridge of H.M.S. Renounce, as Joyce conned her back towards the land to deposit Flynn and the two Portuguese on the beach from which his launch had picked them up that morning. The British cruiser steamed over a sea that was oil-slick calm and purple blue, and the land lay as a dark irregular line on the horizon.

  ‘It is essential that someone who knows the delta flies with the pilot. He has just arrived from Portugal, besides which he will be fully occupied in piloting the machine. He must have an observer.’ Joyce was trying again.

  Flynn had lost all interest in the discussion, he was now occupied with weightier matters.

  ‘Captain,’ he started, and Joyce recognized the new tone of his voice and turned to him hopefully.

  ‘Captain, that other business. What about it?’

  ‘I’m sorry – I don’t follow you.’

  That gin you promised me, what about it?’

  Captain Arthur Joyce R.N. was a man of gentle mien. His face was smooth and unlined, his mouth full but grave, his eyes thoughtful, the streaks of silver grey at his temples gave him dignity. There was only one pointer to his true temperament, his eyebrows grew in one solid continuous line across his face; they were as thick and furry across the bridge of his nose as they were above his eyes. Despite his appearance he was a man of dark and violent temper. Ten years on his own bridge, wielding the limitless power and authority of a Royal Naval Captain had not mellowed him, but had taught him how to use the curb on his temper. Since early that morning when he had first shaken Flynn O’Flynn’s large hairy paw, Arthur Joyce had been exercising every bit of restraint he possessed – now he had exhausted it all.

  Flynn found himself standing speechless beneath the full blaze of Captain Joyce’s anger. In a staccato, low-pitched speech, Arthur Joyce told him his opinion of Flynn’s courage, character, reliability, drinking habits and sense of personal hygiene.

  Flynn was shocked and deeply hurt.

  ‘Listen …’ he said.

  ‘YOU listen,’ said Joyce. ‘Nothing will give me more pleasure than to see you leave this ship. And when you do so you can rest content in the knowledge that a full report of your conduct will go to my superiors – with copies to the Governor of Mozambique, and the Portuguese War Office.’

  ‘Hold on!’ cried Flynn. Not only was he going to leave the cruiser without the gin, but he could imagine that the wording of Joyce’s report would ensure that he never got that medal. They might even withdraw his commission. In this moment of terrible stress the solution came to him.

  ‘There is one man. Only one man who knows the delta better than I do. He’s young, plenty of guts – and he’s got eyes like a hawk.’

  Joyce glared at him, breathing hard as he fought to check the headlong run of his rage.

  ‘Who?’ he demanded.

  ‘My own son,’ intoned Flynn, it sounded better than son-in-law.

  ‘Will he do it?’

  ‘He’ll do it. I’ll see to that,’ Flynn assured him.

  – 59 –

  ‘It’s as safe as a horse and cart,’ boomed Flynn, he liked the simile, and repeated it.

  ‘How safe is a horse and cart when it’s up in the clouds?’ asked Sebastian, without lowering his eyes from the sky.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Bassie. Most young fellows would jump at this chance.’ Flynn was literally in excellent spirits. Joyce had come through with three cases of best Beefeater gin. He sat on one of the gasoline drums that lay beneath the shade of the palm trees above the beach, around him in various attitudes of relaxation lay twenty of his scouts, for it was a drowsy, warm and windless morning. A bright sun burned down from a clear sky, and the white sand was dazzling against the dark green of the sea. The low surf sighed softly against the beach, and half a mile out, a cloud of seabirds were milling and diving on a shoal of bait-fish. Their cries blending with the sound of the sea.

  Even though they were a hundred miles north of the Rovuma mouth, deep in German territory, a holiday atmosphere prevailed. Heightened by anticipation of the imminent arrival of the flying-machine they were enjoying themselves – all of them except Sebastian and Rosa. They were holding each other’s hands and looking into the southern sky.

  ‘You must find it for us.’ Rosa’s voice was low, but not low enough to cover her intensity. For the last ten days, since Flynn had returned from his meeting with Joyce on board the Renounce, she had spoken of little else but the German warship. It had become another cup to catch the hatred that overflowed from her.

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Sebastian.

  ‘You must,’ she said. ‘You must.’

  ‘Should be able to get a good view from up there. Like standing on a mountain – only with no mountain under you,’ said Sebastian and he felt his skin crawl at the thought.

  ‘Listen!’ said Rosa.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ssh!’

  And he heard it, an insect drone that swelled and sank and swelled again. They heard it under the trees also, and some of them came out into the sun and stood peering towards the south.

  Suddenly in the sky there was a flash of reflected sunlight off metal or glass, and a shout went up from the watchers.

  It came in towards them, low on wobbly wings, the clatter of its engine rising to a crescendo, its shadow racing ahead of it along the white beach. The group of native scouts exploded in panic-stricken retreat, Sebastian dropped on his face in the sand, only Rosa stood unmoving as it roared a few feet over her head, and then rose and banked away in a curve out over the sea.

  Sebastian stood up and sheepishly brushed sand from his bush-jacket, as the aircraft levelled in and sank down on to the hard-packed sand near the water’s edge. The beat of its engine faded to a spluttering burble, and it waddled slowly towards them, the backwash of the propeller sending a misty plume of sand scudding out behind. The wings looked as though they were about to fall off.

  ‘All right,’ bellowed Flynn at his men who were standing well back in the palm grove. ‘Get these drums down there.’

  The pilot switched off the motor, and the silence was stunning. He climbed stiffly out of the cockpit on to the lower wing, dumpy and awkward in his thick leather jacket, helmet and goggles. He jumped down on to the beach and shrugged out of the jacket, pulled off the helmet and was revealed as the suave young Portuguese lieutenant.

  ‘Da Silva,’ he said offering his right hand as Sebastian ran forward to greet him. ‘Hernandez da Silva.’

  While Flynn and Sebastian supervised the refuelling of the aircraft, Rosa sat with the pilot under the palms, while he breakfasted on garlic polony and a bottle of white wine that he had brought with him – suitably exotic food for a dashing knight of the air.

  Although his mouth was busy, the pilot’s eyes were free and he used them on Rosa. Even at a distance of fifty yards Sebastian became aware with mounting disquiet that Rosa was suddenly a woman again. Where before there had been a lifted chin and the straight-forward masculine gaze; now there were downcast eyes broken with quick bright glances and secret smiles, now there were soft rose colours that glowed and faded benea
th the sun-browned skin of her cheeks and neck. She touched her hair with a finger, pushing a strand back behind her ear. She tugged at the front of her bush-jacket to straighten it, then drew her long khaki-clad legs up sideways beneath her as she sat in the sand. The pilot’s eyes followed the movement. He wiped the neck of the wine bottle on his sleeve, and then with a flourish offered it to Rosa.

  Rosa murmured her thanks and accepted the bottle to sip at it delicately. With the freckles across her cheeks and the skin peeling from her nose she looked as fresh and as innocent as a little girl, Sebastian thought.

  The Portuguese lieutenant on the other hand looked neither fresh nor innocent. He was handsome, if you liked the slimy continental type with that slightly jaded tom cat look. Sebastian decided that there was something obscenely erotic about that little black moustache, that lay upon his upper lip and accentuated the cherry-pink lips beneath.

  Watching him take the bottle back from Rosa and lift it towards her in salutation before drinking, Sebastian was overcome with two strong desires. One was to take the wine bottle and thrust it down the lieutenant’s throat, the other was to get him into the flying-machine and away from Rosa just as quickly as was possible.

  ‘Paci. Paci,’ he growled at Mohammed’s gang who were slopping gasoline into the funnel on the upper wing. ‘Get a move on, for cat’s sake!’

  ‘Get your clobber into this thing, Bassie, and stop giving orders – you know it just confuses everybody.’

  ‘I don’t know where to put it – you’d better tell that greaser to come and show me. I can’t speak his language.’

  ‘Put it in the front cockpit – the observer’s cockpit.’

  ‘Tell that damned Portuguese to come here.’ Sebastian dug in stubbornly. Tell him to leave Rosa alone and come here.’

  Rosa followed the pilot to the aircraft and the expression of awed respect on her face, as she listened to him throwing out orders in Portuguese, infuriated Sebastian. The ritual of starting the aircraft completed, it stood clattering and quivering on the beach, and the pilot waved imperiously at Sebastian from the cockpit to come aboard.