Westbound, Warbound

by Alexander Fullerton

  Same with the Jacob’s ladder, which any watch on deck would want to have in view.

  The loudspeaker too. Wouldn’t they have wanted that on the town side if they were so keen on annoying the local populace? And this gave rise to yet another question, which had occurred to him earlier on – why some port or civic authority hadn’t asked them to shut up.

  He told Fisher, ‘They had a quartermaster of sorts sitting there all day – starboard side, close to the island’s fore corner. Starboard after corner of number three hatch, right? And the speaker from either wireless or gramophone within a yard or two of his head, blasting his eardrums out. As like as not still there – they’d have a watch on deck, wouldn’t they. What caught my eye earlier on was his being stationed there amidships, and a Jacob’s ladder – just that, no gangway – back aft near the mainmast. Hey, there are Huns moving around there – just this moment – see, passed across the light?’

  ‘I saw. Pacing the deck. Mourning the Graf Spee, no doubt.’ Fisher added, ‘Knowing the Andrew’s on this coast might have ’em a touch nervous, too. Like we felt leaving Monte.’ They’d resumed their stroll along the quay. Fisher said, ‘Old Man might put the word out, in fact. May have done already. Can’t sit here for ever, after all.’

  ‘If transmitting from inside the port’s allowed – d’you know? Or if he reckoned he’d get away with it. Neutral port, so forth. Bastards are safe as long as they stay put, but whether that’s allowed, or for how long… Awaiting engine spares – could be that they are, but who knows?’ He’d stumbled over something – dead cat, maybe: they were diverting around a heap of chain cable. The light was good enough where there were lights, but there were dark areas in between. ‘The German’s well down to her marks, incidentally – did you notice?’

  ‘Don’t think I did. Take your word for it…’

  ‘Well, listen – what if she’d been heading for a rendezvous with the Spee? All right, I know, Spee was said to have a support-ship with some other name – forget it, but – may have had more than one? Big ship, big crew, longish time at sea, must need all she can get. And this one’s full of something. With the Spee gone west, what’d she do?’

  ‘Ask for fresh orders.’

  ‘Might’ve done that and been told ’sit tight’. This is as good a hidey-hole as any, isn’t it. And look here, Mendoza said she’d been here three days – means she arrived on the fourteenth. Spee took refuge in Monte on the thirteenth. It’d fit, wouldn’t it – they’ve arranged a rendezvous, Glauchau finds herself as it were stood up, with whatever she may be carrying – stores, food, ammunition – huh?’

  ‘Not bad as a theory. Certainly not implausible. But look – have we come far enough, d’you think?’

  ‘Well – as you like, but, so happens, up that street here and then to the left – three or four minutes, no more – there’s a café-bar called Manolo’s. I’d thought I might take a gander, see what it’s like – if it’s open. Ten minutes from here, I’d guess. May not be open – Halloran could be right. Thing is, I have a birthday coming up –’

  ‘We all know about your birthday.’

  ‘Do you…?’

  ‘Wednesday – right? Gives you Monday and Tuesday to prospect this joint – or others, must be dozens, uh?’

  ‘Tomorrow I’m duty on board. OK, still leaves Tuesday. But this place was recommended by our pilot, Mendoza. I wasn’t asking, he just came out with it. Anyway – as you like. The town does seem fairly dead. Although they don’t know it …’

  They being Brazilian sailors, arm-in-arm and singing. Andy had put on a tweed jacket and Fisher a sweater – having been in uniform ‘whites’ all day – but apparently were still recognisable as Merchant Navy men: there was some clapping and a shout of ‘Graf Spee kaput, huh?’ from the Brazilians, and some cheering. A few other passers-by, civilians, were then smiling and raising their hats, offering what might have been Portuguese congratulations. Fisher protesting, ‘Cheers for the RN – fine. We didn’t have a darned thing to –’

  ‘It’s our side winning they’re happy about. Don’t like Germans – and what’s wrong with that? Look, there are a few people about – up that way more than here, and that’s where Manolo’s is. D’you mind, Don – quick look-see?’

  Off the cobbles, across the dockside road and into the one the sailors had come out of – the way he’d gone this afternoon with the cadets. Narrow pavement here now, Fisher in the lead, and as they progressed there were actually quite a few people around. Andy telling Fisher, ‘Forty or fifty yards up here, no distance at all, really. Convenient for the likes of us, eh?’ Ahead of them some well-dressed people were coming out of a house in which music played. Loud voices, major spillage of light, party breaking up or moving on. A fat man in a fedora pointed his cigar at them as they passed, called in a high-pitched tone, ‘Victorious British Navy come to Vitoria, huh?’ The women began clapping and another man called, ‘Bravo, Bravo!’

  ‘Crazy. Or pissed. British Navy –’

  ‘We are British Navy. British Merchant Navy.’ He was walking backwards, acknowledging the applause and waving goodnight to them, but a motorcar with huge headlights and high, sweeping mudguards was drawing in to pick them up, and they forgot about the British Navy. Andy shouted to Fisher, who was by now some distance ahead, ‘Left at the next corner. Left, Don!’ Putting a spurt on then to catch up – Fisher having heard him after all and swung left as instructed – and rounding the corner after him at fair speed Andy almost collided with a dapper little Brazilian commander or lieutenant-commander – a lot of gold braid on his sleeves, anyway – and a tall, dark girl who just about took his breath away. Long dark hair over bare brown shoulders, big slanted eyes, wide red mouth that happened to be open, laughing, and a figure no artist or male imagination could have improved on. She seemed to be laughing at his reaction to her – and maybe not actually repulsed by the look of him. The commander wasn’t much enjoying the situation, going by the snarl on his face, only talking fast and urging her along – away. In the last half-minute that street corner had become quite busy, was so at this moment anyway, and the girl, while allowing herself to be hauled along was looking back at Andy over one lovely shoulder: was then gone, less spirited away than dragged. Andy stock-still and semi-stunned, telling Fisher, ‘I’d ask her to my party! Oh, sainted aunt!’

  ‘Are we going to find this pub?’

  ‘Didn’t you see her?’

  ‘Also saw the guy she was with – who looked distinctly riled –’

  ‘Must have either rotten eyesight or ice-water in your veins, Don!’

  ‘Neither – but I have a steady girlfriend, as I’ve mentioned a couple of times, and – all right, being no sexmaniac –’

  ‘Saying I am?’

  ‘Saying one should be able to pass a pretty girl in the street without getting the bloody staggers!’

  ‘That one wasn’t – isn’t – just a ‘pretty girl’, she’s –’

  ‘This the place?’

  They’d stopped. Andy insisting, ‘That girl – Don, you must admit…’

  Although maybe Don wouldn’t. While he – Andy – most certainly would. Old for his age maybe, or maybe not, but in this department he was susceptible: had a notion you couldn’t be too old for it. Or too young, even. And when they looked anything like that one – well, words failed. Were fading anyway as he focused on the light and noise emanating from Manolo’s, and began coming back to earth. ‘Came by this afternoon and it was shut, all dark inside. So, quick look inside – since we’re here – OK?’

  There were some people at the outside tables, but the jollity was all inside, and the glass door was standing open. Background guitar music, Spanish, pushing other sound to higher levels, men and girls at the bar and at tables, and one couple trying to rhumba on a dance-floor about three feet in diameter; other heads were turning as Fisher and Andy came in, meeting more of that instant recognition and applause. Two uniformed Brazilian merchant officers – from the Vo
lcao, might be – stood up and bowed, and a table of what looked like petty officers – naval, from the minelayer perhaps, and they had women with them – made a show of clapping. Others, all kinds, welcoming them as they pushed through towards the back of the room – Andy in the lead now, Fisher bleating, ‘It’s ridiculous, really quite embarrassing…’

  ‘Manolo?’ There were two men behind the bar; Andy had picked on the nearer of them, who’d called simultaneously – in English – ‘Welcome, senhors!’ Sounding as if he might be English. Dark, about thirty, could have done with a shave. Andy tried again: ‘Are you Manolo?’

  ‘Tonio!’ The British-sounding one beckoning the other, who on closer inspection was obviously the boss: older, fatter, more of a Brazilian look about him. Moving closer: ‘I can be of service, senhor?’

  ‘Are you Manolo?’

  ‘For my many sins, why yes, I –’

  ‘Captain Mendoza said this was the place to come. He piloted us in this morning. My name’s Andy Holt, this is Don Fisher.’ Shaking hands across the bar – then with the other one, who said his name was Frank Cluny but that most of them called him Franco.

  ‘British?’

  Shake of the head: ‘South African.’ A nod towards Manolo. ‘Tonio’s a Spaniard. What’ll it be, fellers?’ Glancing away then at a smallish man – grey hair, grey suit, a hard-faced blonde and another, younger man with him. They were crowding in on Andy’s left, the grey-headed one putting some question, addressing it either to him or Fisher, sharp brown eyes flickering between them; Andy meanwhile telling Franco, ‘Two beers,’ and the small man asking ‘Sheep Pooley-Anna, you?’

  Looking down at him for a moment: deciding it wasn’t as rude as it had sounded, only that he wasn’t anywhere near at home in English. He nodded: ‘How’d you guess?’

  The younger one cut in with, ‘This Senhor Mario Caetano, he is Acting Port Captain. Is correct how I say it, ‘acting’?’

  Caetano took over again. ‘How I know that is here now Pooley-Anna. You asking how I guess – uh?’

  The blonde aired her English then with, ‘Port Captain go Montevideo, so is mine hosband become –’

  ‘Most everybody go Montevideo!’

  A waitress said it, giggling as she squeezed almost lovingly – certainly very closely – past Fisher and then Andy. Closer than ever when up against Andy. Little dark girl, very shapely. Frank Cluny, getting their beers, wagged a finger at her and then beckoned with it to Andy, who’d been gazing after her, to move in nearer. He said into his ear, ‘Caetano speaks more German than English. Wouldn’t say anything you’d sooner they didn’t know. Have a word later, man, OK?’ Voice up loud again: ‘Two beers it is, gents, and’ – querying glance at Manolo, who nodded – ‘on the house, this round.’

  * * *

  He hadn’t always been a barman. In his home town of Durban and then in Beira he’d been a shipping clerk, moving up to Beira when the company he worked for offered him promotion to assistant manager at that branch. But they’d ratted on him – he’d been there three years, picked up the language and done well for the firm, yet when the manager retired, and it had been taken for granted that Frank would step into his shoes, buggers sent up a new bloke – a Capetonian who happened to have married a daughter of one of the directors. As a sop to Frank when he made a fuss about it, they offered him a trip as supercargo in a steamer that was routed more or less round the world and had Vitoria as one of her ports of call, and – cut a long story short – he’d spent a few days and nights ashore, got tied up with this popsie, and – hell, bloody ship sailed without him. His own fault, sure – the really awkward bit coming when it turned out the girl had a husband. One of those things, man – damn-foolery compounded by the fact he’d never before drunk much cachaça.

  ‘That’s what it is. I’d forgotten, I was thinking it must be gin.’ Andy looked at Fisher: ‘Remember – in the old Burntisland?’

  Caetano, who’d still been hanging around although his wife seemed to have departed, raised his glass of the colourless liquor. ‘Prost!’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  Fisher said, ‘German for cheers.’

  Acting Port Captain Caetano shaking his head: ‘Cheer. I mistake me.’ Then: ‘Cachaça too much, uh?’

  ‘Meaning he’s had a few too many?’

  ‘Paint-stripper, isn’t it. Rum of a sort, but –’

  The other man said, ‘Cane spirit, high proof.’

  ‘Homemade?’

  ‘Not here, man.’ Cluny looked offended. ‘Tonio’d never dream of –’

  ‘You a partner in the business, Franco?’

  ‘Well. Working my way in, sort of.’

  ‘What you were saying – about the hole you were in when you got stuck here then found she had a husband –’

  ‘Very emotional, while it lasted. Would you believe it, the bugger went off again, and before I could blink – hell, you wouldn’t believe it, man –’

  ‘She came calling?’

  ‘Didn’t she just. After all that. Anyway, far as making a living’s concerned, I did tally-clerking for a while, and a couple of other things, and to make the ends half meet, worked nights for Tonio as well. And got shacked up again. No, Christ, not the same one. Two kids now, so –’

  ‘All’s well that ends well.’

  ‘Might say so. Yeah. Make a living. Tonio and I get on – good friends all over, too. Did think of shipping back, joining up, but then what about Maris and the brats? Look, I better vamoose, man…’

  He’d only joined them ‘for a moment’, when they’d shifted to this table, leaving Manolo – Tonio – presiding at the bar. The rush had been ending by then, was definitely over now, they’d closed the kitchen and the girls were washing up. Cluny said into Andy’s ear as he left them, ‘Talk later, eh?’

  ‘Not much later. Starting work at eight.’ Checking the time: ‘Oh, no…’

  ‘I did suggest’ – Fisher, primly – ‘some time ago –’

  ‘Work loading sheep, huh?’

  Caetano’s man, asking it of either of them. He’d been listening intently to everything they’d said. Wanting to improve his English, maybe. But from time to time interpreting some remark or other to his boss. Fisher was answering that rather pointless question: ‘We’re at the ore chute. As you’d know, surely – if you have anything to with the running of the port.’

  Andy liked that. Fisher showing his teeth for once. Justifiably too – there’d been no explanation of that one’s function, or of his relationship to Caetano. He – Andy – backed it up by asking Caetano, ‘D’you speak German?’

  Blank stare. He’d heard, and by the look of him might have understood, only wasn’t keen to admit it. The other one – name Ferras, something like that – was providing a translation, and Andy supplied him with an explanation of the question: ‘He said ‘prost’ a minute ago.’

  ‘Mistake. Few word he learn, get mix up. In English, ‘Cheer’, hunh?’

  ‘Speak other languages?’

  ‘Ozzer?’

  ‘French, for instance. Speak French?’

  ‘Coming tomorrow French sheep, yes.’

  ‘Moutons, you might say?’

  ‘Well.’ Fisher scraped his chair back. ‘Let’s be on our way?’

  ‘Why not. Before it gets any worse.’ Andy reached to shake Caetano’s hand. ‘Goodnight, sir.’ For good measure he shook the other one’s as well. In for a penny…

  At the bar then, Cluny told him, ‘Goodnight is Boa noite.’

  ‘You wanted a word?’

  ‘Not in earshot of that skunk. Any rate, there’s a guy I’d want with us, fill in on detail. Usually drops in, course of an evening, tonight of course he hasn’t. Wouldn’t want Caetano or Ferras seeing the three of us chewing the fat, either. Come back tomorrow, man?’

  ‘If it’s something that really matters.’

  ‘Matter to you, damn sure.’

  Manolo proposed to Cluny, ‘Why not see them out, see they turn the c
orrect direction?’

  Andy shook his hand. ‘Boa noite, senhor. Thanks for those beers.’

  ‘My pleasure. Come again?’

  ‘Will do. And on Wednesday, may bring some friends. My birthday.’ To Cluny: ‘That’s what we could have been talking about, anyone asks. OK?’

  ‘Great.’ He looked pleased with this. ‘About a table, and the menu. Sure… Show you out now, eh?’

  Caetano and Ferras were leaving too, though, would be neck and neck with them. The South African gave up, went and held the door open for all of them – Andy and Fisher exiting and turning right, Andy looking back before they reached the corner and seeing those three still in conversation on the pavement.

  * * *

  Back on the quayside, heading west, the Glauchau’s music maybe softer than it had been earlier, more like a Salvation Army rendering than the massed bands of the Brigade of Guards, Fisher broke a longish silence with, ‘Still waters running deep, eh?’

  Andy nodded. ‘Something stinks.’

  ‘I’d have thought a Port Captain would’ve worn some kind of uniform. Merchant marine with four stripes, most likely. All right, in his civvies, Sunday evening, but he didn’t even call himself ‘Captain’ – I mean the others didn’t, not even that stooge, Ferrars…’

  ‘Could be that Caetano’s a pen-pusher. Office-wallah, knows the ropes and routines well enough to stand in for the boss when he wants time off. If there’s no one else. He’s a chum of theirs, anyway.’ Gesturing towards the Glauchau. ‘Cluny said he was – you wouldn’t’ve heard, he was making sure Caetano didn’t – told me he spoke more German than he does English.’