by Wilbur Smith
‘He saw you,’ wheezed Mohammed’s cousin, shuffling along beside Sebastian.
‘Yes.’ Sebastian bent lower. ‘Is he still watching?’
The old man glanced back over his shoulder.
‘No. He speaks with Mafuta, the fat one.’
‘Good.’ Sebastian felt a lift of relief. ‘We must get back on the launch.’
‘The loading is almost finished, but we must first speak with my brother. He waits for us.’
They turned the corner of the aft gun-turrets. On the deck was a mountain of cordwood. Stacked neatly and lashed down with rope. Black men swarmed over it, between them spreading a huge green tarpaulin over the wood pile.
They reached the wood pile and added the faggots they carried to the stack. Then, in the custom of Africa, they paused to rest and talk. A man clambered down from the wood pile to join them, a sprightly old gentleman with woolly grey hair, impeccably turned out in cloak and penis-sheath. Mohammed’s cousin greeted him with courteous affection, and they took snuff together.
‘This man is my brother,’ he told Sebastian. ‘His name is Walaka. When he was a young man he killed a lion with a spear. It was a big lion with a black mane.’ To Sebastian this information seemed to be slightly irrelevant, his fear of discovery was making him nervously impatient. There were Germans all around them, big blond Germans bellowing orders as they chivvied on the labour gangs, Germans looking down on them from the tall superstructure above them, Germans elbowing them aside as they passed. Sebastian found it difficult to concentrate.
His two accomplices were involved in a family discussion. It seemed that Walaka’s youngest daughter had given birth to a fine son, but that during his absence a leopard had raided Walaka’s village and killed three of his goats. The new grandson did not seem to compensate Walaka for the loss of his goats. He was distressed.
‘Leopards are the excrement of dead lepers,’ he said, and would have enlarged on the subject but Sebastian interrupted him.
‘Tell me of the things you have seen on this canoe. Say swiftly, there is little time. I must go before the Allemand comes for all of us with the ropes.’
Mention of the ropes brought the meeting to order, and Walaka launched into his report.
There were fires burning in the iron boxes in the belly of the canoe. Fires of such heat that they pained the eye when the door of the box was opened, fires with a breath like that of a hundred bush fires, fires that consumed …
‘Yes, yes.’ Sebastian cut short the lyrical description. ‘What else?’
There had been a great carrying of goods, moving of them to one side of the canoe to make it lean in the water. They had carried boxes and bales, unbolted machinery and guns. See how they had been moved. They had taken from the rooms under her roof a great quantity of the huge bullets, also the white bags of powder for the guns and placed them in other rooms on the far side.
‘What else?’
There was more, much more to tell. Walaka enthused about meat which came out of little tins, of lanterns that burned without wick, flame or oil, of great wheels that spun, and boxes of steel that screamed and hummed, of clean fresh water that gushed from the mouths of long rubber snakes, sometimes cold and at other times hot as though it had been boiled over a fire. There were marvels so numerous that it confused a man.
These things I know. Is there nothing else that you have seen?’
Indeed there was. The Allemand had shot three native porters, lining them up and covering their eyes with strips of white cloth. The men had jumped and wriggled and fallen in a most comical fashion, and afterwards the Germans had washed the blood from the deck with water from the long snakes. Since then none of the other porters had helped themselves to blankets and buckets and other small movables – the price was exorbitant.
Walaka’s description of the execution had a chilling effect on Sebastian. He had done what he had come to do and now his urge to leave Blücher became overpowering. It was helped on by a German petty officer who joined the group uninvited.
‘You lazy black baboons,’ he bellowed. ‘This is not a bloody Sunday-school outing – move, you swine, move!’ And his boots flew. Led by Mohammed’s cousin they left Walaka without farewell and scampered back along the deck. Just before they reached the entry port, Sebastian checked. The two German officers stood where he had left them, but now they were looking up at the high smoke stacks. The tall officer with the golden beard was describing sweeping motions with his outstretched hand, talking while the stocky one listened intently.
Mohammed’s cousin scurried past them and disappeared over the side into the launch, leaving Sebastian hesitant and reluctant to run the gauntlet of those pale blue eyes.
‘Manali, come quickly. The boat swims, you will be left!’ Mohammed’s cousin called from down below, his voice faint but urgent above the chug of the launch’s engine.
Sebastian started forward again, his stomach a cold lump under his ribs. A dozen paces and he had reached the entry port.
The German officer turned and saw him. He challenged with raised voice, and came towards Sebastian, one arm outstretched as though to hold him.
Sebastian whirled and dived down the catwalk. Below him the launch was casting off her lines, water churning back from her propeller.
Sebastian reached the grating at the bottom of the catwalk. There was a gap of ten feet between him and the launch. He jumped, hung for a moment in the air, then hit the gunwale of the launch. His clutching fingers found a grip while his legs dangled in the warm water.
Mohammed’s cousin caught his shoulder and dragged him aboard. They tumbled together in a heap on the deck of the launch.
‘Bloody kaffir,’ said Herman Fleischer and stooped to cuff them both heavily around the ears. Then he went back to his seat in the stern, and Sebastian smiled at him with something close to affection. After those deadly blue eyes, Herman Fleischer seemed as dangerous as a teddy-bear.
Then he looked back at Blücher. The German officer stood at the top of the catwalk, watching them as they drew away, and set a course upstream. Then he turned away from the rail and disappeared.
– 73 –
Sebastian sat on the day couch in the master cabin of H.M.S. Renounce, he sagged against the arm-rest and fought off the grey waves of exhaustion that washed over his mind.
He had not slept in thirty hours. After his escape from Blücher there had been the long launch journey up-river during which he had remained awake and jittery with the after-effects of tension.
After disembarking he had sneaked out of Fleischer’s camp, avoiding the Askari guards, and trotted through the moonlight to meet Flynn and Rosa.
A hurried meal, and then all three of them had mounted on bicycles supplied with the compliments of the Royal Navy, and ridden all night along a rough elephant path to where they had left a canoe hidden among the reeds on the bank of one of the Rufiji tributaries.
In the dawn they had paddled out of one of the unguarded channels of the delta and made their rendezvous with the little whaler from H.M.S. Renounce.
Two long days of activity without rest, and Sebastian was groggy. Rosa sat beside him on the couch. She leaned across and touched his arm, her eyes dark with concern. Neither of them was taking any part in the conference in which the other persons in the crowded cabin were deeply involved.
Joyce sat as chairman, and beside him an older heavier man with bushy grey eyebrows and a truculent jaw, hair brushed in streaks across his pate in an ineffectual attempt to conceal his baldness. This was Armstrong, Captain of H.M.S. Pegasus, the other cruiser of the blockade squadron.
‘Well, it looks as though Blücher has made good her damage, then. If she has fired her boilers, we can expect her to break out any day now – von Kleine would not burn up good fuel to keep his stokers warm.’ He said it with relish, a fighting man anticipating a good hard fight. ‘There’s a message I’d like to give her from Bloodhound and Orion – an old account to settle.’
But Joyce also had a message, one that had its origin at the desk of Admiral Sir Percy Howe, Commander-in-Chief, South Atlantic and Indian Oceans. In part this message read:
‘The safety of your squadron considered secondary to containing Blücher. Risk involved in delaying until Blücher leaves the delta before engaging her is too high. Absolutely imperative that she be either destroyed or blocked at her present anchorage. Consequences of Blücher running blockade and attacking the troop convoy conveying landing forces to invasion of Tanga will be catastrophic. ‘Efforts being made to send you two tramp steamers to act as block ships, but failing their arrival, and failing also effective offensive action against Blücher before 30 July 1915, you are hereby ordered to scuttle Renounce and Pegasus in the channel of the Rufiji to block Blücher’s exit.’
It was a command that left Captain Arthur Joyce sick with dread. To scuttle his splendid ships – a thought as repulsive and loathsome as that of incest, of patricide, of human sacrifice. Today was 26 July, he had four days in which to find an alternative before the order became effective,
‘She’ll come out at night, of course, bound to!’ Armstrong’s voice was thick with battle lust. ‘This time shell not have an old girl and a baby like Orion and Bloodhound to deal with.’ His tone changed slightly. ‘We’ll have to look lively. New moon in three days so Blücher will have dark nights. ‘There could be a change in the weather …’ Armstrong was looking a little worried now, ‘ … we’ll have to tighten up …’
‘Read this,’ said Joyce, and passed the flimsy to Armstrong. He read it.
‘My God!’ he gasped. ‘Scuttle. Oh, my God!’
‘There are two channels that Blücher could use.’ Joyce spoke softly. ‘We would have to block both of them – Renounce and Pegasus!’
‘Jesus God!’ swore Armstrong in horror. ‘There must be another way.’
‘I think there is,’ said Joyce, and looked across at Sebastian. ‘Mr Oldsmith,’ he spoke gently, ‘would it be possible for you to get on board the German cruiser once again?’
There were tiny lumps of yellow mucus in the corner of Sebastian’s bloodshot eyes, but the stain that darkened his skin concealed the rings of fatigue under them.
‘I’d rather not, old chap.’ He ran his hand thoughtfully over his shaven scalp and the stubble of new hair rasped under his fingers. ‘It was one of the most unpleasant hours of my life.’
‘Quite,’ said Captain Joyce. ‘Quite so! I wouldn’t have asked you, had I not considered it to be of prime importance.’ Joyce paused and pursed his lips to whistle softly the first bar of Chopin’s ‘Funeral March’, then he sighed and shook his head. ‘If I were to tell you that you alone have it in your power to save both the cruisers of this squadron from destruction and to protect the lives of fifteen thousand British soldiers and seamen – how would you answer then?’
Glumly, Sebastian sagged back against the couch and closed his eyes.
‘Can I have a few hours sleep first?’
– 74 –
It was exactly the size of a box of twenty-four Monte Cristo Havana Cigars, for that had been its contents before Renounce’s chief engine room artificer and the gunnery lieutenant had set to work on it.
It lay on the centre of Captain Joyce’s desk, while the artificer explained its purpose to the respectful audience that stood around him.
‘It’s verra simple,’ started the artificer in an accent that was as bracing as the fragrance of heather and highland whisky.
‘It would have to be …’ commented Flynn O’Flynn, ‘ … for Bassie to understand it.’
‘All you do is lift the lid.’ The artificer suited action to the words, and even Flynn craned forward to examine the contents of the cigar box. Packed neatly into it were six yellow sticks of gelignite, looking like candles wrapped in grease-proof paper. There was also the flat dry cell battery from a bull’s eye lantern, and a travelling-clock in a pigskin case. All of these were connected by loops and twists of fine copper wire. Engraved into the metal of the clock base were the words:
‘To my dear husband Arthur,
With love,
Iris.
Christmas 1914.’
Captain Arthur Joyce stilled a sentimental pang of regret with the thought that Iris would understand.
‘Then …’ said the artificer, clearly enjoying the hold he had on his audience, ‘ … you wind the knob on the clock.’ He touched it with his forefinger, ‘ … close the lid,’ he closed it, ‘ … wait twelve hours, and – Boom!’ The enthusiasm with which the Scotsman simulated an explosion blew a fine spray of spittle across the desk, and Flynn withdrew hurriedly out of range.
‘Wait twelve hours?’ asked Flynn, dabbing at the droplets on his cheeks. ‘Why so long?’
‘I ordered a twelve-hour delay on the fusing of the charge.’ Joyce answered the question. ‘If Mr Oldsmith is to gain access to the Blücher’s magazines, he will have to infiltrate the native labour gangs engaged in transferring the explosives. Once he is a member of the gang he might find difficulty in extricating himself and getting away from the ship after he has placed the charge. I am sure that Mr Oldsmith would be reluctant to make this attempt unless we could ensure that there is time for him to escape from Blücher, when his efforts … ah,’ he sought the correct phraseology, ‘ … ah … come to fruition.’ Joyce was pleased with this speech, and he turned to Sebastian for endorsement. ‘Am I correct in my assumption, Mr Oldsmith?’
Not to be outdone in verbosity, Sebastian pondered his reply for a second. Five hours of deathlike sleep curled in Rosa’s arms had refreshed his body and sharpened his wit to the edge of a Toledo steel blade.
‘Indubitably,’ he replied, and beamed in triumph.
– 75 –
They sat together in the time when the sun was dying and bleeding on the clouds. They sat together on a kaross of monkey skin in a thicket of wild ebony, at the head of one of the draws that wrinkled down into the valley of the Rufiji. They sat in silence. Rosa bent forward over her needlework, as she stitched a concealed pocket into the filthy cloak of leather that lay across her lap. The pocket would hold the cigar box. Sebastian watched her, and his eyes upon her were a caress. She pulled the last stitch tight, knotted it, then leaned forward to bite the thread.
‘There!’ she said. ‘It’s finished.’ And looked up into his eyes.
‘Thank you,’ said Sebastian. They sat together quietly and Rosa reached out to touch his shoulder. The muscle under the black stained skin was rubber hard, and warm.
‘Come,’ she said and drew his head down to her so that their cheeks touched, and they held each other while the last light faded. The African dusk thickened the shadows in the wild ebony, and down the draw a jackal yipped plaintively.
‘Are you ready?’ Flynn stood near them, a dark bulky figure, with Mohammed beside him.
‘Yes.’ Sebastian looked up at him.
‘Kiss me,’ whispered Rosa, ‘and come back safely.’
Gently Sebastian broke from her embrace. He stood tall above her, and draped the cloak over his naked body. The cigar box hung heavily between his shoulder blades.
‘Wait for me,’ he said, and walked away.
Flynn Patrick O’Flynn moved restlessly under his single blanket and belched. Heartburn moved acid sour in his throat, and he was cold. The earth under him had long since lost the warmth it had sucked from yesterday’s sun. A small slice of the old moon gave a little silver light to the night.
Unsleeping he lay and listened to the soft sound of Rosa sleeping near him. The sound irritated him, he lacked only an excuse to waken her and make her talk to him. Instead he reached into the haversack that served as his pillow and his fingers closed round the cold smooth glass of the bottle.
A night-bird hooted softly down the draw, and Flynn released the bottle and sat up quickly. He placed two fingers between his lips and repeated the night-bird’s cry.
Minutes later Mohammed drifted like a small black ghost into camp and c
ame to squat beside Flynn’s bed.
‘I see you, Fini.’
‘You I see also, Mohammed. It went well?’
‘It went well.’
‘Manali has entered the camp of the Allemand?’
‘He sleeps now beside the man who is my cousin, and in the dawn they will go down the Rufiji, to the big boat of the Allemand once again.’
‘Good!’ grunted Flynn. ‘You have done well.’
Mohammed coughed softly to signify that there was more to tell.
‘What is it?’ Flynn demanded.
‘When I had seen Manali safely into the care of my cousin, I came back along the valley and …’ he hesitated, ‘ … perhaps it is not fitting to speak of such matters at a time when our Lord Manali goes unarmed and alone into the camp of the Allemand.’
‘Speak,’ said Flynn.
‘As I walked without sound, I came to a place where this valley falls down to the little river called Abati. You know the place?’
‘Yes, about a mile down the draw from here.’
‘That is the place.’ Mohammed nodded. ‘It was here that I saw something move in the night. It was as though a mountain walked.’
A silver of ice was thrust down Flynn’s spine, and his breathing snagged painfully in his throat.
‘Yes?’ he breathed.
‘It was a mountain armed with teeth of ivory that grew from its face to touch the ground as it walked.’
‘Plough the Earth.’ Flynn whispered the name, and his hand fell on to the rifle that lay loaded beside his bed.
‘It was that one.’ Mohammed nodded again. ‘He feeds quietly, moving towards the Rufiji. ‘But the voice of a rifle would carry down to the ears of the Allemand.’
‘I won’t fire,’ whispered Flynn. ‘I just want to have a look at him. I just want to see him again.’ And the hand on the rifle shook like that of a man in high fever.