"The photograph first. It shows three German engineering officers on the foredeck of a cruiser. The one in the centre was the man killed by the scouts." He puffed again.
"Intelligence reports that the cruiser is a "B" class. Nineinch guns in raked turrets."
""B" class?" asked Sir Percy. "They only launched two vessels of that class."
"Battenberg and Blikher, sir." "Blucher!"said Sir Percy softly.
"Blucher!" agreed Henry Green. "Presumed destroyed in a surface action with His Majesty's ships Bloodhound and Orion off the east coast of Africa between 16 and 20 September."
"Go on."
"Well, this officer could have been a survivor from Blitcher who was lucky enough to come ashore in German East Africa and is now serving with von Vorbeck's army.) "Still dressed in full naval uniform, trundling strange round objects about the continent?" asked Sir Percy sceptic ally
"An unusual duty, I agree, sir."
"Now what do you make of these things? "With one finger Sir Percy prodded Flynn's diagram in front of him.
"Wheels," said Green.
"For what?"
"Transporting material."
"What material?"
"Steel plate."
"Now who would want steel plate on the east coast of Africa?"mused Sir Percy.
"Perhaps the captain of a damaged battle cruiser."
"Let's go down into the plotting room." Sir Percy heaved his bulk out of the chair, and headed for the door.
His shoulders hunched, massive jaw jutting, Admiral Howe brooded over the plot of the Indian Ocean.
"Where was this column intercepted?" he asked.
"Here, sir." Green touched the vast map with the pointer.
"About fifteen miles south-east of Kibiti. It was moving southwards towards..." He did not finish the statement but let the tip of the marker slide down on to the complexity of islands that clustered about the mouth of the long black snake that was the Rufrii river.
"Admiralty plot for East Africa, please." Sir Percy turned to the lieutenant in charge of the plot, and the lieutenant selected Volume 11 of the blue-jacketed books that lined the shelf on the far wall.
"What are the sailing directions for the Rufiji mouth?" demanded the Admiral, and the lieutenant began to read.
"Ras Pombwe to Kikunya mouth, including into Rufiji and Rufrii delta (Latitude 8" 17S, Longitude 39" 20"E). For fifty miles the coast is a maze of low, swampy, mangrove-covered islands, intersected by creeks comprising the delta of into Rufiji. During the rainy season the whole area of the delta is frequently inundated.
The coast of the delta is broken by ten large mouths, eight of which are connected at all times with into Rufiji." Sir Percy interrupted peevishly, "What is all this into business?"
"Arabic word for "river", sir."
"Well, why don't they say so? Carry on."
"With the exception of Simba Uranga mouth and Kikunya mouth, all other entrances are heavily shoaled and navigable only by craft drawing one metre or less."
"Concentrate on those two then," grunted Sir Percy, and the lieutenant turned the page.
"Simba Uranga mouth. Used by coasting vessels engaged in the timber trade. There is no defined bar and, in 1911, the channel was reported by the German Admiralty as having a low river level mean of ten fathoms.
"The channel is bifurcated by a wedge-shaped island, Rufiji-ya-wake, and both arms afford secure anchorage to vessels of large burden. However, holding ground is bad and securing to trees on the bank is more satisfactory. Floating islands of grass and weed are common."
"All right!" Sir Percy halted the recitation, and every person in the plotting room looked expectantly at him. Sir Percy was glowering at the plot, breathing heavily through his nose. "Where is Blikher's plaque?" he demanded harshly.
The lieutenant went to the locker behind him, and came back with the black wooden disc he had removed from the plot two months previously. Sir Percy took it from him, and rubbed it slowly between thumb and forefinger. There was complete silence in the room.
Slowly Sir Percy leaned forward across the map and placed the disc with a click upon the glass top. They all stared at it. It sat sinister as a black cancer where the green land met the blue ocean.
"Communications!" grunted Sir Percy and the yeoman of signals stepped forward with his pad ready.
"Despatch to Commodore Commanding Indian Ocean.
Captain Joyce. HMS. Renounce. Maximum Priority. Message reads: Intelligence reports indicate high probability. "You know something, Captain Joyce, this is bloody good gin." Flynn O'Flynn pointed the base of the glass at the ceiling, and in his eagerness to engulf the liquid, he did the same for the slice of lemon that the steward had placed in his glass. He gurgled like an air-locked geyser, his face changed swiftly to a deeper shade of red, then he expelled the lemon and with it a fine spray of gin and Indian tonic in a burst of explosive coughing.
"Are you all right?" Anxiously Captain Joyce leapt across the cabin and began pounding Flynn between the shoulderblades. He had visions of his key tool in the coming operation being asphyxiated before they had started.
"Pips!" gasped Flynn. "Goddamned lemon pips."
"Steward!" Captain Joyce called over his shoulder without interrupting the tattoo he was playing on Flynn's back.
Bring the major a glass of water. Hurry!"
"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 Wtopo's village. I left my command camped south of the Rovuma, and Pushed through in forced marches. 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 confirmation. 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..
; "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 warship, a cruiser, named BBlitcher?"
"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."
liabilities
"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 Blucher is anchored somewhere in the Rufiji delta."
"Who are you kidding? The Blitcher 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 Blucher 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 Blitcher 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 Blucher 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 flyer."
"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. "Jeer! Is that so?" He looked at the Portuguese lieutenant with respect.
"With the co-operation of the Portuguese army I intend conductin 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 HMS. 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. when.
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 o
nly 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.
Wilbur Smith - Shout At The Devil Page 27