Entering the narrows, she was making about three knots – one by her own efforts, two by the tide’s. Effectively therefore making no wash at all. Marker-buoys on both sides indicating that the channel was even narrower than it looked. But once through this squeeze you’d be in comparatively open water. Rough foreshore to start with, as expected – both sides – and on the town side – starboard – a small warship. Patrol boat, they might call it – in view suddenly, moored in there with an anchor out for’ard and a floating brow plus wire-rope moorings connecting stern to shore. Until this moment the little ship had been hidden by the bulge of land on that side. Brazilian ensign at its masthead and a gun on the foc’sl, sailors in white caps pausing to stare as PollyAnna passed within thirty yards of them. Mendoza telling the Old Man, ‘Cabedelo. Is minelayer. Building the last year, in Rio – six like this one. Pretty, huh?’
‘Hm.’ He had his glasses on her. ‘What’d she be – five or six hundred tons?’ Training the glasses left then: ‘And there’s your German…’
At anchor in mid-stream, her bows this way of, stemming the tide. Lying as she was you couldn’t see much of her but you’d guess at roughly PollyAnna’s tonnage. Black hull, grey upperworks, here and there patches of red lead, and that red, white and black thing – Nazi merchant ensign – sluggish above her counter. Mendoza had taken the chart from Fisher, was jabbing a forefinger at it under the skipper’s nose: ‘See. The Glauchau here. Brazil vessel Volcao here. There.’ Pointing at the ships themselves then, in the stream and alongside in berth four. ‘Pass Glauchau, also Volcao – for turning here, and’ – fingernail tapping the chart again – ‘in berth three. OK?’
‘Port side to, then. Suits me. Right way for when we leave, eh?’
‘Stop engine, please.’
Shuttleworth reached to the telegraph, jerking it over and back again. Mendoza answering the Old Man, ‘Depart on flood tide only, Captain. Ebb tide, ships this side not move, tide holding them against the quay – eh?’ Demonstrating it – his hands up and pushing an imaginary ship’s hull against a wall. PollyAnna’s single screw was now effectively at rest but the tide still carrying her upriver; Andy thinking of the single screw because turning the ship in such a confined tideway would have been a darned sight easier if she’d had two of them. No doubt the Old Man would show them all how to do it – or out of respect for the pilot’s local knowledge might leave it to him. Telling Halloran now, ‘I’ll have an anchor ready for letting go, Mister.’ Which was of course the answer. Drop the hook, have the tide swing her around it, then go slow ahead against the tide while weighing and then manoeuvring into the berth. He yelled after Halloran, ‘Less than a shackle’ll do it. Eight and a half fathom we’ll be in.’
‘Starboard…’ Mendoza to Shuttleworth. Pointing – that he should take her midway between the anchored German and the Brazilian steamer alongside in berth four. Brown hull, yellow upperworks, twin yellow funnels with brown badges on them. Five thousand tons, Andy guessed. While the German, of which one could now see more, might be more like 7,000. Men were moving on its decks, a drift towards the port-side rails. With a Red Ensign flapping in their faces, he guessed, they’d be wondering what might be happening or about to happen around the Graf Spee. Well, who wasn’t – or at any rate wouldn’t be once this ship was berthed? Meanwhile, of course, the Huns would love to see them make a mess of the berthing operation: the Old Man would be conscious of that, too. Most likely leave it to the pilot – who after all was being paid for it, and must have executed the same manoeuvre a thousand times – but be ready to shove his oar in if said pilot showed signs of screwing up.
Asking Mendoza now, referring to the chart, ‘This a shoal here – this Pedras What’sit?’
‘Pedras das Argolas. Si – four fathom. Don’t be scare, Captain, we not touch!’
‘Who’s bloody scared?’
‘Four fathom where is the buoy, you see?’
She’d be OK in four fathoms, empty as she was. You wouldn’t chance it, though, because it could turn out to have become, say, three and a half fathoms overnight. As was stated often enough on charts and plans: Depths in the dredged areas may be considerably less than indicated. Passing the Brazilian ship now: and a clattering from for’ard as Halloran’s foc’sl party walked the anchor back with the windlass until it was clear of the pipe, then screwed on the brake. They’d take the windlass out of gear now, and have only to release the brake to send the anchor plunging down.
Passing the Hun. Not a soul on the Anna so much as giving it a glance. Not even when a Hun shouted something that was probably abusive and his shipmates around him laughed. Mendoza did glance in that direction, though – and looked sour about it. He asked the skipper now, ‘I do this, or you?’
‘Go ahead. Holt – in the wing, pass orders for’ard.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Scooping up the megaphone as he went, Fisher leaning in the doorway to hold it open. Mendoza telling Shuttleworth, ‘Engine slow astern.’ Because while she was still making two or even three knots in relation to the shore and that anchored ship, in a tide that was running at the same rate she’d have no steerage-way, would take not a blind bit of notice of her rudder whichever way you put it. She was well enough clear of both the Brazilian and the German, was getting into the eight, eight and a half fathoms which the chart showed as the depth of water opposite the centre and eastern end of berth three, and if one wasn’t going to risk grounding on that allegedly four-fathom patch – which would make the bloody Germans’ day for them –
Mendoza called, ‘Drop anchor!’ and Andy howled, ‘Let go!’ Brake off, anchor splashing down, cable rattling out. Mendoza telling Shuttleworth, ‘Hard port!’ and himself ringing down for half astern. The anchor had to take hold, that was all – snub her round, put her on the swing.
7
The tug that had made a nuisance of itself in the vicinity of Urubu Island, Mendoza had admitted, should have been here to assist in PollyAnna’s berthing. Sure, there was another tug, he’d said, but it was laid-up for boiler cleaning: as that guy knew perfectly well, had simply been chancing his arm, wanting to complete some job he should have finished yesterday.
‘You handled it damn well, though.’ The Old Man was trying to say goodbye to Mendoza at the open doorway of his cabin. Port Health were on board, Halloran looking after them, and as soon as they’d cleared her and cleared off you’d have the agent, Martensen, with his paperwork and problems – and please God, mail and local currency. At the moment the connection between ship and shore was a narrow plank over which the Health team had come teetering ten minutes earlier; and the agent had to be that long stick of a man in a grey suit and a Homburg, who a few minutes ago had arrived abreast the ship in an open-topped motorcar, got out and then seen flag Q still flying, dumped his bag back in the car and begun pacing up and down like Felix the bloody cat. Mendoza wasn’t thinking of leaving yet, though; replying to that ‘handled it damn well’ with ‘Show them – huh?’ – pointing in the direction of the German ship, repeating, ‘Show them how can be done – huh?’
A nod. ‘Wouldn’t’ve done to have cocked it up.’ They were at the rail outside the day cabin now – port side, skipper looking aft at the ore chute which was positioned abreast number five hold. In fact it was a matter of having positioned the ship, as that old chute contraption wasn’t moveable; he’d be moving her a fair number of times in the next few days, shifting her this way and that along the quay for each hold gradually to receive its quota. This had been Mendoza’s main reason for berthing her with her bows pointing downstream; the other way round, she’d eventually have had to come out almost stern-first from berth number two, having nosed further and further into the narrowing slot between the quay and that buoyed shoal, Pedras das Argolas, and then turn – again on an incoming tide, and by that time of course deep-laden.
He had done a good job, in fact. And the Old Man liked him. Only wished he’d bugger off. Well – he’d have to now. Port Health had finished, had just appeared out on
deck there with Halloran. Yellow flag fluttering down, and the gangway already swinging over, under the direction of the bosun, two deckhands guiding it with steadying-lines. The Health people would be gone and Martensen on his way up here in a minute – but Mendoza was still in no hurry: waving towards empty wharves and commenting, ‘Nobody work today, huh?’
‘Except a few of us, including me. You got a home to go to, have you?’
‘Ah, si. Home, wife, children –’
‘Lucky man.’
‘You not?’
‘No. Not now.’
‘In England – no home, no wife?’
‘Home, of sorts, but no wife.’ Pointing: ‘Is that Martensen?’
‘Hm.’ Disinterested glance: more interested in this English skipper’s wifelessness. ‘Martensen, sure. But, Captain – hearing what happen with Graf Spee now, eh?’ A sweeping gesture towards the town: ‘Everyone listen this!’ A narrowing of the eyes: ‘Germans, too – Germans in Glauchau? Is not good, Glauchau. I tell you, Captain –’
‘You don’t have to. I know it. No German’s any bloody good.’ A glance down towards the gangway: Port Health were ashore and Halloran was waiting to greet the Dane. The skipper clamped a friendly but compelling hand on Mendoza’s arm, turning him towards the ladder. ‘She’s here for engine repairs, you said. I’d have thought they’d have put her alongside. Anyhow –’
‘To anchor is what her captain is wanting, and why I am saying –’
‘I’d be keen to hear it, but I must see this damned agent, then fifty other things – paying the hands and – see, I’m sorry, but –’
* * *
Andy and others drinking coffee in the saloon heard the buzz of the loudspeaker as it came on, and the American voice from Montevideo telling them in the cheery tone of a wakey-wakey call, ‘Sunday seventeenth September, day the Graf Spee’s time runs out! Her luck may be running out too, who knows! Anyway, by eight o’clock this evening, Uruguayan time, she has either to get the heck out or be interned here. It’s being said there could be as many as five or seven British warships waiting for her to put her nose outside the three-mile limit, but like a lot else that’s being said, it’s nothing more than rumour. For all I know or anyone has been able to tell me authoritatively, the blockading force is still just three cruisers, same ones that drove her in here. There’s been mention of bigger Royal Navy ships, an aircraft-carrier and a battlecruiser, but only that they were expected at Rio to refuel – to ‘bunker’ as seamen call it – and Rio’s a thousand miles from here. Maybe the German captain – Langsdorff – knows for sure what odds he’ll be facing, maybe he doesn’t, but as of now his ship is still right here in the anchorage, along with a German steamer, the Tacoma, which has moved out from the inner harbour and anchored close to her – for what purpose is something else we don’t know. From this café on the waterfront – a café in which I may say I’m standing on a table, to see over the heads of the crowd outside – well, I have a view of both ships, and when I know what’s going on you can bet you’ll get to know it too. A transfer of stores is I guess the most likely thing. I might add that a lot of folk here in Monte believed the Spee would make a break for it last night: that seemed credible enough, might even have been their best bet, but it emerges now that Captain Langsdorff was not even on board, went out to her by launch no more than an hour ago, having spent the night in the German embassy. But incidentally, when I referred a minute ago to a lot of folk here in Monte – let me tell you there truly are a lot – thousands! And of course this waterfront in particular is jammed solid…’
You could visualise it, those quays – the muelles – and the streets behind them jam-packed with people. But nothing might happen for hours yet, most likely wouldn’t, and one didn’t have the patience to sit around listening to what was still no more than speculation and a certain amount of ‘local colour’ – the commentary continuing, as Andy swallowed the last of his coffee: ‘Folk packing the waterfront, on roofs even and in every window, agog to see whether that mighty ship will make a run for it, face the near-certainty of battle – in which case it might be asked why did she run away from battle in the first place?’ Perfectly sound question, might well be asked, but only Langsdorff and company could have answered it. He shut the saloon door behind him; he was as eager as any of them to hear of those bastards getting their come-uppance, especially having in mind the ships like this one that she’d preyed on – ships sunk, crews drowned or otherwise slaughtered, PollyAnna herself having come close enough to that same treatment.
Didn’t bear thinking about. No point thinking about it.
Mail, in any case, was the thought in mind. A hope that the agent might be bringing some.
No packed waterfront here. A van just driving off, and – with perfect timing – a man who could only have been the agent just starting up the gangway. Grey lightweight suit, grey Homburg, Gladstone bag; and Halloran at the ship’s side waiting for him. He was replying to some question from Halloran: ‘No – no work today. Sunday, for one thing, but also this Graf Spee business, all ears are pressed to wireless sets. Tomorrow 0800, loading is to start.’ Adding as he got up there and put his hand out: ‘If you’ll be ready for it – as I presumed you would be. How d’you do? I’m Martensen.’
Grave-faced, with a rather formal manner and perfectly enunciated English. Too perfect – Germanic, rather. And that excessively loud music, Andy realised, was coming from the German ship, not from the Brazilian along there. Wagner? He was only guessing, knew damn-all about it, but that was how it sounded, the name that sprang to mind. Leaving those two, he moved over to the starboard side for a look at the German. Tide on the turn, he realised, Glauchau on the swing, within minutes would be lying with her stem up-river. Time now being nine-fifty. Crossing back to the shore side he heard Halloran say, ‘I’ll take you up, then. But d’you have mail for us?’
‘No private mail. Only ship’s business.’ Cold blue eyes, weak mouth. ‘You’ll have had some in Montevideo, I imagine?’
‘Some, but –’
Anxious to hear from Leila that she still loves him?
‘Could get some tomorrow. If we do I’ll send it straight along. You’ll be here – what, six or seven days?’
‘Skipper’ll aim for six or less, since Sundays are a washout. Depends how they handle that chute – eh?’
‘Oh, they are efficient enough. The equipment is antiquated, sure, but – you might be surprised. Do you have all the dunnage you require?’
A nod. ‘Took on a whole lot in Calcutta not long ago.’ Dunnage in the form of heavy burlap mats, the holds needing cushioning against the ore’s weight and other characteristics, rock being heavier and harder than coal, for instance, as well as having cutting edges. Martensen had glanced at Andy, taking in his rank, such as it was, and deciding not to bother. Halloran similarly – only inviting the agent, ‘This way, then…’ Andy having hoped for mail because Wednesday – the twentieth – would be his twenty-first; there’d been no reference to it in recent letters from home and he’d told himself they must be holding their fire: closer to the great day there’d be a rush of it. Still, could be tomorrow or Tuesday, even the day itself. And if there wasn’t any – which was a possibility one had to face now – hell, couldn’t blame them for it. Might have written in what would have seemed to them good time, and the GPO sent the lot to Sydney or Mombasa.
His father would most certainly have written. Mama too. And Annabel.
But what the hell – one might well have been at sea, pure chance that one wasn’t. Is a bloody war on, mate…
‘Ah – so sorry!’ The pilot, Mendoza – Andy had almost knocked him down in the screen doorway. He tried French: ‘Pardon, senhor…’
‘Pas de quoi.’ Smiling, and now back to his brand of English, with a glance at the thin, single stripe on Andy’s sleeve: ‘Third mate, uh?’
He nodded. ‘Name’s Holt, sir.’
‘Not in Vitoria before?’
‘No.’ Ba
cking out, letting Mendoza out, and glancing townward – stone-coloured buildings, slate-grey roofs, near-vertical slicks of chimney-smoke, a cathedral spire against pale-blue sky, backdrop of green hills. He pointed: ‘Nice to walk, up there?’
‘Very nice.’ Nodding emphatically. ‘After sea is good, such place.’ Squinting up at the hillsides… Then abruptly, ‘But also I tell you – that way’ – to the right, the start of a road slanting northeastward like a gully through the close-packed buildings – ‘that way, then turning to the’ – working it out, slapping his own left forearm – ‘to port, eh?’
‘Left.’
‘So – left. Café-bar, Manolo’s. Is good fellow, not cheating you. Also girls very nice.’
‘How far?’
‘Ah.’ Screwing his face up. ‘Three, four hundred metre. Tell him you friend of mine. Mario Mendoza, huh?’
* * *
Except for some RCs, including Fisher, who’d been given leave to visit the cathedral for mass, the hands were being allowed shore-leave from midday, could more or less please themselves in the interim, except for cleaning up their own quarters, especially the mess-hall, in which once the skipper had got shot of Martensen he’d lay on his usual Sunday business, reading a few prayers and suggesting a hymn or two to sing. It was mid-forenoon by the end of this, and he had still to make and record pay advances in cruzeiros to those who’d applied for them; these as it happened included Andy, whose intention was to make a bit of a reconnaissance of Manolo’s – in advance of Wednesday, when he thought he might treat himself to a birthday binge.
News from Montevideo was that the German steamer Tacoma had shifted berth, re-anchoring between Graf Spee and the shore, interrupting the watchers’ view of whatever they were doing. Crowds were even thicker along the waterfront than they had been earlier, and the café from which the broadcast was being made had sold out of practically everything.
Westbound, Warbound Page 10