by Alan Evans
Smith said, “Engine trouble or no, she has fires.” A thread of smoke twisted from Gerda’s funnel. He stood lost in thought but he was still aware of Cherry telling Sarah, “I sent a note ashore to Mrs. Cherry asking for that suitcase of yours.”
Smith said absently, “Fortunate that you have some clothes at the consulate.”
“I have suitcases spread over a couple of thousand miles. I travel a lot and I often have to travel light.”
Smith nodded. “I noticed.”
He chewed it over. Two ships. German crews, German money. Wireless. Nitrates. He was ready to accept Cherry’s reasoning, to act on it, only …
Sarah Benson said slowly, “I don’t know. There’s something — not right about it.”
Cherry asked, “What?”
Sarah said again, “I don’t know. It all fits but —” She shook her head.
Cherry chuckled. “Woman’s intuition?” He glanced, amused, at Smith.
But Smith was not laughing. He stared at the Gerda. And then at Sarah Benson. The wind had brought some colour to her cheeks. It all fitted but — she was right, there was a piece missing. He had come to this port with that unease, that excitement that always came to him before an action and this was not that action. There was something else. He took off his cap and ran a hand through the fair hair sweat plastered to his skull.
Cherry thought he looked very young.
Aitkyne’s eye was on Sarah, hungry, but Smith caught it, and the navigator quickly crossed the deck. “Ah, Mr. Aitkyne. I’m sure Mr. Cherry and Miss Benson would like to meet some of the officers. I wonder if the hospitality of the ward-room …”
“A pleasure, sir.” Aitkyne was tall and handsome and his uniform beautifully tailored as always. He hovered over Sarah as he escorted them below.
Smith was left to prowl the deck, eyes on the Gerda, ill at ease.
*
Arnold Phizackerly had awoken early, perforce. It was not long past noon when a hand shook his shoulder and he peered out through gummy lids at Perez and asked huskily, “Wassamarrer?”
Perez was a clerk in the port office but also on a retainer from Phizackerly. He whispered, “The British warship, Thunder, she is headed for the river. The signalling station has just telephoned.” He added apologetically, “You said whenever she came I was to tell you. ‘Whenever’, you said. ‘Day or night’.”
“Ah, God!” Phizackerly covered his eyes for a moment but he was not a man to shirk his duty. He crawled slowly, painfully out from under the single sheet to stand in long-sleeved singlet and long cotton drawers that hung loose around his bony rump. They were none too clean and he smelt powerfully of stale sweat.
Perez whispered, awed, “Much woman, hey?”
Phizackerly followed his stare, his own eyes lingering with satisfaction on the huge mound of Juanita under the sheet. She was more than double his weight and stood a head taller. Theirs was a stormy relationship but in bed or out of it they worked well together. He said, “Too much for you, matey.” And cackled. He poked Perez’s ribs with a bony finger and leered gummily, his teeth still in the cup on the dresser. “But you’re a good lad. Come around tonight an’ I’ll get Juanita to fix you up with somebody special.”
Perez left, whispering his gratitude. Phizackerly made his way, painfully hobbling with early morning stiffness, down to the bar, stopping only to urinate on the way. Olsen the Swede was in the bar, lethargically clearing up from the night before. He got coffee for Phizackerly and slipped a stiff tot of rum into it. Phizackerly gulped it and felt better. Olsen shaved him. They did not talk. Partly because Olsen’s English was fractured and Phizackerly’s was thick Scouse although it was more than forty years since he had left Liverpool, but the real reason was that it was too early.
Phizackerly splashed water on his face, dried it and trailed back to his room. The rest of the house was silent; none of the girls would stir until the cool of the early evening. He was feeling more limber, moving with a jerky sprightliness. He opened the wardrobe and selected a suit from the darkest corner. He paused a moment. Next to the suit hung his old uniform, his pilot’s uniform. He touched it with ritualistic pride, and proud not only because it was his own design. Down in the bar there was a big photograph of him in the uniform, a much younger Phizackerly, posed, contriving somehow to look stern, pompous and cunning all at the same time. It was a perpetual reminder of the original source of his wealth. Everyone knew that in the old days he had been a pilot, the pilot. He told them.
He gave a final stroke to the uniform then dressed in the suit: striped trousers, grey morning-coat, patent leather boots and spats. He did not bother with socks; it was a warm day. A jewelled pin went in the tie, cologne on his face and oil on his hair. He combed the scanty locks down on either side from a centre parting with twin little quiffs at the front. He picked up the topper, surveyed himself in the mirror and decided he looked what he was: a man of substance in this town. He no longer carried the cane since a merchant captain said he looked like a monkey up a bloody stick.
He left the room, closing the door gently behind him after one last fond glance at the mountainous Juanita, lying on her back now and snoring resonantly. Halfway down the stairs he turned and retraced his steps to the dresser beside the bed, fished his teeth from the cup there and bit over them, snapped them tentatively a couple of times. Now he was ready.
He strolled down to the waterfront. Thunder lay out in the basin and a small crowd on the quay stared and pointed at her. Only a small crowd because she had been here many times, they had seen her before. As had Phizackerly but he regarded her with pride as he always did. His narrow chest swelled and he strutted a little. He was British, by God. Then his gaze became pensive, calculating. They were not new calculations but a re-totting of old ones. He knew the size of Thunders complement almost to a man and the value of a man in terms of spending power. The unknown factors were whether any of them would be allowed ashore and if they were, where they would be allowed to spend their leave and their money. The latter factor was the reason for his being on the quay.
His contact in the telegraph office had told him of the Captain’s death. A new Captain could mean a new start. At any rate, Phizackerly would give it a good try.
He came to where Vargas’s boat bobbed at the foot of a ladder. It was a motor-launch, not very clean but serviceable. Vargas owned the boat and plied for hire. His bread and butter trade consisted of taking patrons of Phizackerly’s and similar establishments back to their ships. At this time of day however, business was non-existent unless you went out and actively sought it. Vargas preferred to sleep under the awning he had rigged aft over the well.
Phizackerly climbed down the ladder and nudged Vargas awake with his toe. Vargas rubbed at his face and said politely, “It is good to see you, Fizzy.”
“You’re a lazy bastard.” Phizackerly sat in the stem. “Let’s ’ave a run around the pool.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I want to.”
“But it is business, yes? You don’t go around the pool for nothing so it is business and I wonder what may be in it for me, so I ask why?”
“For you? You’ll get paid.”
“Ah! I get paid.”
“You always get paid.”
“Ha!”
“And anyway,” Phizackerly settled back comfortably, “if it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t be in the position you’re in today with your own boat and able to kip through the day. Living like a lord you are and you owe it all to me and don’t you forget it.”
“I will never forget it because each day for fifteen years you remind me.”
Phizackerly did not answer that. A shadow crossed his face at the reminder of the passage of time. Fifteen years since he had —
Vargas said uneasily, “Hey! It was a joke.”
Phizackerly remembered that it had been hard work, out for long hours at all hours and in all weathers. Now he could go to bed drunk like a gentleman, wake for Jua
nita in the dawn and turn over again afterwards. He was a practical man. He flashed his teeth pink and white at Vargas. “’Course. Get on with it.”
And when Vargas started the engine and they puttered out into the basin Phizackerly said, “’Ave a scout round the old Thunder.”
“We can’t go close unless you keep under the awning. That Captain, he said he’d sink us if you went alongside again.”
Phizackerly said seriously, “I have some sad news. He’s dead.”
“Dead? Ah. That is very sad.” Vargas cheered up a little but then said, “There is still that First Lieutenant.”
“He isn’t Captain. The new Captain is new.”
“Ah-ah!”
“Ah-ah yourself. Get on.”
So they cruised slowly around Thunder where she lay at anchor and Phizackerly took care to stay in the shelter of the awning. He saw Lieutenant Miles had the watch and Garrick was on the bridge. He knew them both; too well. He said nostalgically, “Still, I sometimes miss them days when you was running me out to the ships.” Because that was how Vargas bought the launch, by working Phizackerly’s pilot cutter for him. “Sometimes I even wish they were back, them days.”
Vargas thought he was lying or mad. He knew Phizackerly very well and thought the odds were all on that he was lying. He crossed himself and said, “Sometimes, so do I.”
*
Phizackerly saw Cherry’s boat leave the quay and head for Thunder. He pointed and Vargas swung the launch around Thunder’s stern and tucked her in alongside Cherry’s boat at the foot of the accommodation ladder. As the side-boy carried up the suitcase Phizackerly nipped across the Consul’s boat and up the ladder with a facility born of years of practice.
Smith stood by the entry port, abstracted, uneasy.
Phizackerly appeared, grey topper in hand as he stepped on to Thunder’s deck. With the other hand he whisked a garishly printed handbill from a sheaf in the tail pocket of his coat and slapped it in the hand of the startled boy manning the side. He whispered hoarsely, “Special rates for young fellers.” And winked lewdly. The boy gaped.
Phizackerly tucked the topper under his arm and ducked his head in a little bow. “G’morning, Captain.” He swept the ship in one swift, fore and aft approving glance. “Ah! What a pleasure to tread the deck of a King’s ship again. Fine ship you have, sir. Fine ship. Does you credit, sir.”
Smith said cautiously, “Thank you, Mister —?”
“Phizackerly, sir.” He stepped forward and held out a skinny hand. Smith took it and found it a hard, dry claw. “Arnold Phizackerly. A prominent member of the British business community here. Entrepreneur an’ impresario.”
“What?”
Garrick came stalking and rasped in cold explanation, “Brothel keeper, sir.”
“Oh?” Smith was off-balance a second, then amused. As he stared at the cheekily absurd little man and thought, ‘Brassnecked little devil,’ he had a strong temptation to laugh. It seemed a long time since he had laughed.
He showed no outward sign of amusement but Phizackerly sensed a lack of animosity and seized the opportunity. A number of men had found work in the vicinity and were listening. He said, “It takes all kinds, as you might say, sir. And the door of my house, Fizzy’s Palace of Entertainment, is always open.” It seemed that in an abstracted moment the handbills slipped from his fingers and scattered on the breeze, to be rescued by the men. “I reckon I provide a little bit of old England, a little bit of home, for these lads and that means a lot.”
Garrick said, “Any lad I catch coming out of your whorehouse will certainly find it means a lot. It’s out of bounds and has been for over a year.”
Phizackerly pretended not to hear; he was there to try to have the ban lifted. “I know what it means because I had the honour to serve the old Queen, Gawd Bless Her. Wearing the Widder’s clo’es as you might say.”
Garrick said, “He deserted from a line Regiment.”
Phizackerly did not bat an eyelid. “So when I had to leave the sea-faring profession my first thought was to use my little bit o’ savings to make a little bit of England out here.”
Smith asked, “You were a seaman?”
Garrick plugged remorselessly, “He was a river pilot.”
Phizackerly finally acknowledged him. “That’s right, Mr. Garrick, pilot.” And to Smith, this time with genuine pride, “I was the first pilot here back in ’ninety-two when they opened the copper mines. I found the channel and brought the first ship in with me own hands and after that it was me an’ the pilots as worked for me, apprentices like, and nothing moved in or out of this port without us. Not until they bought the dredger and had the short channel dredged out, that’s the one they use today. And they talk about the mist of a morning at the mouth of this river! Why, in my time —”
He had to pause for breath and Garrick admitted grudgingly, “That’s true. Only he and his pilots could thread that channel and he made a fortune before the mining company decided it would be cheaper to buy the dredger.”
Phizackerly had finally made a point but he threw it away. Smiling paternally at the young Commander he said, “Why bless you, sir, I’ve had more fine ships through my hands than you’ve had fine women.” He heard the catch of Miles’s breath, saw the expression of bad-tempered dislike on Garrick’s face replaced by no expression at all, and he saw Smith’s lips tighten and the pale blue eyes grow hard. He knew he had gone badly wrong. He said cheerfully, but watchful, apprehensive, “Just a joke, sir. To make me point, as it were.”
Smith smiled at him and Phizackerly did not like it. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Phizackerly, and now I’ll make mine. The next time you set foot on this ship I will throw you into the cells or over the side. That is a promise.”
He was still smiling and he had spoken quietly but Phizackerly found comfort in neither. He lifted the topper before his narrow chest like a shield and mumbled, “Time I was getting away.” He retreated behind the cover of the top-hat, clapped it on his head as his feet found the ladder and dropped from sight.
In the launch he mopped his face with a handkerchief. Vargas opened the throttle and asked, “Good business?”
“That’s an honest man.”
“Ah! That is too bad.”
Smith turned from the side and found Knight waiting with the decoded telegram. Knight seemed excited. Smith read the telegram and said only, “Very good,” in dismissal.
He read the telegram again until laughter broke into his thoughts and he saw Cherry and Sarah Benson attended by a little group of grinning officers who shredded away as Smith looked up at them. He said flatly, “Signal from Admiralty to be passed to all H.M. ships. The German cruisers Wolf and Kondor are now known to be at sea and to have been at large for some weeks. Their location and destination are unknown.”
Cherry burst out, startled, “Good Lord!”
Smith stared past him. They would have slipped through the North Sea blockade in vile winter weather, not an easy feat but by no means impossible for two fast ships. Wolf and Kondor. He needed to be given no details nor to consult the silhouette book. He had patrolled the North Sea beat for long enough, watching for these two ships and the rest of the High Seas Fleet. Like a policeman. And like a policeman with known criminals he could recite all of their descriptions and histories, their idiosyncrasies and dangerous strengths, though many of them he had not seen.
He had seen these two.
On a wild black night they had obliterated his ship and his men and thrust him to the point of death. They haunted his dreams.
Cherry was saying, “Commerce raiders. They’ve had some success before so they’re trying that game again.”
Raiders. Aimed at Allied shipping. They could wreak terrible destruction before they were hunted down and that would be more than difficult. They could be on their way to Africa or preparing to slash across the Atlantic trade routes, Britain’s jugular vein, or — his mind took a leap in the dark. Sarah Benson said the Germans were wat
ching Thunder. The Pacific was the last place but … His thoughts raced and then were still. He felt cold.
Cherry murmured vaguely, “Maybe the African coast but more likely the Atlantic …”
Smith said with certainty, “No.”
Cherry stared at him, as did Sarah Benson and it was she who asked, “You think they’re coming here?”
Cherry shook his head but stopped when Smith said, “Yes.” And went on: “They’re watching this ship, following her movements. There are two ships, the Gerda and the Maria, flying neutral flags but in fact German and loaded with Welsh steam coal. Yes?” And as Cherry hesitated, then nodded, Smith said, “They’re tenders. Wolf and Kondor are coalburning ships.”
Cherry was silent a moment, then he said doubtfully, “It’s possible, I suppose.”
Smith was to see that look of disbelief on many faces but he did not see it on Sarah Benson’s. She asked, “You know these ships?” And when he nodded: “What are they like?”
“Of a size with this one but only half her age. They’re slightly faster and decidedly better armed.”
“Then you can’t fight them.” She said it with cold common sense.
Cherry went pink. “Really! You can’t tell the Captain his duty —”
“Duty my foot! It isn’t his duty to commit mass-suicide with the six-hundred-odd men aboard here. Either one of those ships could run rings around this old tub and blow her out of the water! He’s just said so!”
Smith’s smile was bleak. Sarah Benson had summed up the situation with brutal clarity.
There was an uncomfortable silence until Cherry asked, “What will you do?”
Smith would not add to his worries. He said slowly, “I will sail now, heading north again but only for the sake of appearances. I have a rendezvous with a collier but I can’t keep it now. Will you see she is sent here to wait for my orders?”
“Of course. And you will patrol these waters?”