"Good God, what's that?"
"Full port rudder!" the commander bellowed. "Both engines full astern together." And before the ship could answer her helm or the drag of her propellers, she ran into a log four feet thick and a hundred feet long. A log as unyielding as a reef of solid granite that stopped her dead in the water and crunched in her bows.
The men in the well of her bridge were thrown into a heap of tangled bodies on the deck. A heap from which the bull figure of Flynn Patrick O'Flynn was the first to emerge, On stockinged feet he made for the side of the ship.
"Flynn, where are you going?" Sebastian shouted after him.
"Home,"said Flynn.
"Wait for me. "Sebastian scrambled to his knees.
The engines roaring in reverse pulled the torpedo-boat back off the log-boom, her plywood hull crackling and speaking, but she was mortally wounded. She was sinking with a rapidity that amazed Sebastian. Already her cockpit was flooding.
"Abandon ship, "shouted the commander.
"You damned tooting," said Flynn O'Flynn and leaped in an untidy tangle of arms and legs into the water.
Like a playful seal the torpedo-boat rolled over on its side, and Sebastian jumped. Drawing his breath while he was in the air, steeling himself against the cold of the water.
he was surprised at how warm it was.
from the bridge of HMS. Renounce, the survivors looked like a cluster of bedraggled water rats. In the dawn they floundered and splashed around the edge of the balloon of stained and filthy water where the Rufiji had washed them out, like the effluent from the sewer outlet of a city. Renounce found them before the sharks did, for there was no blood. There was one broken leg, a fractured collar bone and a few cracked ribs but miraculously there was no blood. So from a crew of fourteen, Renounce recovered every man including the two pilots.
They came aboard with their hair matted, their faces streaked, and their eyes swollen and inflamed with engine oil. With a man on either hand to guide them, leaving a trail of malodorous Rufiji water across the deck, they shuffled down to the sick bay, a sodden and sorrow-full looking assembly of humanity.
"Well," said Flynn O'Flynn, "if we don't get a medal for that, then I'm going back to my old job and the hell with them."
"That," said Captain Arthur Joyce, sitting hunched behind his desk, "was not a roaring success." He showed no inclination to whistle "Tipperary'.
"It wasn't even a good try, sir," agreed the torpedo-boat commander. "The Boche had everything ready to throw at our heads."
"log boom!"-" Joyce shook his head, "good Lord, they went out with the Napoleonic War!" He said it in a tone that implied that he was a victim of unfair play.
"It was extraordinarily effective, sir." Yes, it must have been." Joyce sighed. "Well, at the very least we have established that an attack up the channel is not practical."
"During the few minutes before the tide swept us away from the boom I looked beyond it, and I saw what I took to be a mine. I think it certain that the Boche have laid a minefield beyond the boom, sit."
"Thank you, Commander, "Joyce nodded. "I will see to it that their Lordships receive a full account of your conduct.
I consider it excellent." Then he went on, "I would value your opinion of Major O'Flynn and his son do you think they are reliable men?"
"Well the commander hesitated, he did not want to be unfair, they can both swim and the young one seems to have good' eyesight Apart from that I am not really in a position to give a judgement."
"No, I don't suppose you are. Still I wish I knew more about them. For the next phase in this operation I am going to rely quite heavily on them." He stood up. "I think I will talk to them now."
"You mean you actually want someone to go on board Blitcher!" Flynn was appalled.
"I have explained to you, Major, how important it is for me to know exactly what state she is in. I must be able to estimate when she is likely to break out of the delta. I must know how much time I have." Madness, whispered Flynn. "Stark raving bloody madness." He stared at Joyce in disbelief.
"You have told me how well organized is your intelligence system ashore, of the reliable men who work for you. Indeed it is through you that we know that the Germans are cutting c(rdwood and taking it aboard. We know that they have recruited an army of native labourers and are using them not only for wood-cutting, but also for heavy work aboard the Blucher."
"So?" Into that single word Flynn put a wealth of caution.
"One of your men could infiltrate the labour gangs and get aboard Blucher." And Flynn perked up immediately; he had anticipated that Joyce would suggest that Flynn Patrick O'Flynn should personally conduct a survey of Blitcher's damage.
"It might be done." There was alengthy pause while Flynn considered every aspect of the business. "Of course, Captain, my men aren't fighting patriots like you and I. They work for money. They are..." Flynn searched for the word. "They are..."
"Mercenaries?"
"Yes," said Flynn. "That's exactly what they are."
"Hmm," said Joyce. "You mean they would want payment?" "They'd want a big dollop of lolly and you can't blame them, can you?"
"The person you send would have to be a first-class man."
"He would be," Flynn assured him.
"On behalf of His Majesty's Government, I could undertake to purchase a complete and competent report on the disposition of the German cruiser Blitcher, for the sum of he thought about it a moment, one thousand pounds."
"Gold?"
"Gold," agreed Joyce.
"That would cover it nicely." Flynn nodded, then allowed his eyes to move across the cabin to where Sebastian and Rosa sat side by side on the day couch. They were holding hands, and showing more interest in each other than in the bargainings of Flynn and Captain Joyce.
It was a good thing, Flynn decided, that the Wakamba tribe from which Commissioner Fleischer had recruited the majority of his labour force, affected clean-shaven pates. It would be impossible for a person of European descent to dress his straight hair to resemble the woollen cap of an African.
It was also a good thing about the M'senga tree. From the bark of the M'senga tree the fishermen of Central Africa decocted a liquid in which they soaked their nets. It toughened the fibres of the netting and it also stained the skin. Once Flynn had dipped his finger into a basin of the stuff, and despite constant scrubbing, it was fifteen days before the black stain faded.
It was finally a good thing about Sebastian's nose. Its new contours were decidedly negroid.
A thousand pounds!" said Flynn O'Flynn as though it were a benediction, and he scooped another mugful of the black liquid and poured it over Sebastian Oldsmith's clean-shaven scalp. "Think of it, Bassie, me lad, a thousand pounds! Your half share of that is five hundred.
Why! You'll be in a position to pay me back every penny you owe me. You'll be out of debt at last." They were camped on the Abati river, one of the tributaries of the Rufiji. Six miles downstream was Commissioner Fleischer's wood-cutting camp.
"It's money for jam," opined Flynn. He was sitting comfortably in a riempie chair beside the galvanized iron tub, in which Sebastian Oldsmith squatted with his knees drawn up under his chin. Sebastian had the dejected look of a spaniel taking a bath in flea shampoo. The liquid in which he sat was the colour and viscosity of strong Turkish coffee and already his face and body were a dark purply chocolate colour.
Sebastian isn't interested in the money," said Rosa Oldsmith. She knelt beside the tub and, tenderly as a mother bathing her infant, she was ladling the M'senga juice over Sebastian's shoulders and back.
"I know, I know!" Flynn agreed quickly. "We are all doing our duty. We all remember little Maria may the Lord bless and keep her tiny soul. But the money won't hurt us either." Sebastian closed his eyes as another mugful cascaded over his head.
Rub it into the creases round your eyes and under your chin," said Flynn, and Sebastian obeyed. "Now, let's go over it again, Bassie, so you don't get it all balled up. One of
Mohammed's cousins is boss-boy of the gang loading the timber into the launches. They are camped on the bank of the Rufiji. Mohammed will slip you in tonight, and tomorrow his cousin will get you on to one of the launches going down with a load for Blitcher. All you've got to do is keep your eyes open. Joyce just wants to know what work they are doing to repair her; whether or not they've got the boilers fired; things like that. You understand?" Sebastian nodded glumly.
"You'll come back up-river tomorrow evening, slip out of camp soon as it's dark and meet us here. Simple as a pimple, right?" "Right," murmured Sebastian.
"Right then. Out you get and dry off." As the dry wind from the uplands blew over his naked body, the purply tint of the dye faded into a matt chocolate.
Rosa had modestly moved away into the grove of Manila trees behind the camp. Every few minutes Flynn came across to Sebastian and touched his skin.
"Coming along nicely," he said, and, "Nearly done," and, "Jeer, you look better than real." Then finally in Swahili, "Right, Mohammed, mark his face." Mohammed squatted in front of Sebastian with a tiny gourd of cosmetics; a mixture of animal fat and ash and ochre. With his fingers he daubed Sebastian's cheeks and nose and forehead with the tribal patterns. His head held on one side in artistic concentration, making soft clucking sounds of concentration as he worked, until at last Mohammed was satisfied.
"He is ready."
"Get the clothes," said Flynn. This was an exaggeration.
Sebastian's attire could hardly be called clothing.
A string of bark around his neck from which was suspended a plugged duiker horn filled with snuff, a cloak of animal skin that smelled of wood-smoke and man-sweat, draped over his shoulders.
"It stinks!" said Sebastian cringing from contact with the garment. "And it's probably got lice."
"The real thing," agreed Flynn jovially.
"All right, Mohammed. Show him how to fit the istopo the hat."
"I don't have to wear that also," Sebastian protested, staring in horror as Mohammed came towards him, grinning.
"Of course you've got to wear it." Impatiently Flynn brushed aside his protest.
The hat was a hollow six-inch length cut from the neck of a calabash gourd. An anthropologist would have called it a penis-sheath.
It had two purposes: firstly to protect the wearer from the scratches of thorns and the bites of insect pests, and secondly as a boost to his masculinity.
Once in position it looked impressive, enhancing Sebastian's already considerable muscular development.
Rosa said nothing when she returned. She took one long startled look at the hat and then quickly averted her gaze, but her cheeks and neck flared bright scarlet.
"For God's sake, Bassie. Act like you proud of it. Stand up straight and take your hands away. Flynn coached his son-in-law.
Mohammed knelt to slip the rawhide sandals on to Sebastian's feet,
and then han-] him the small blanket roll tied with a bark string.
Sebastian slung it over one shoulder, then picked up the long-handled throwing-spear.
Automatically he grounded the butt and leaned his weight on the shaft; lifting his left leg and placing the sole of his foot against the calf of his right leg, he stood in the stork posture of rest.
In every detail he was a Wakamba tribesman.
"You'll do," said Flynn.
In the dawn, little wisps of river mist swirled around
Commissioner Fleischer's legs as he came down the bank and on to the improvised jetty of logs.
He ran his eyes over the two launches, checking the ropes that held down the cargoes of timber. The launches sat low in the water,
their exhausts puttering and blowing pale blue smoke that drifted away across the slick surface of the river.
"Are you ready?" he called to his sergeant of Askari.
"The men are eating, Bwana Mkuba."
"Tell them to hurry," growled
Fleischer. It was a futile order and he stepped to the edge of the jetty, unbuttoning his trousers. He urinated noisily into the river,
and the circle of men who squatted around the three-legged pot on the jetty watched him with interest, but without interrupting their breakfast.
With leather cloaks folded around their shoulders against the chill air off the water, they reached in turn into the pot and took a handful of the thick white maize porridge, moulding it into a mouth-size ball and then with the thumb forming a cup in the ball,
dipping the ball into the smaller enamel dish and filling the depression with the creamy yellow gravy it contained, a tantalizing mixture of stewed catfish and tree caterpillars.
It was the first time that Sebastian had tasted this delicacy. He sat with the others and imitated their eating routine, forcing himself to place a lump of the spiced maize meal in his mouth. His gorge rose and gagged him, it tasted like fish oil and new-mown grass, not really offensive it was just the thought of those fat yellow caterpillars.
But had he been eating ham sandwiches, his appetite would not have been hearty.
His stomach was cramped with apprehension. He was a spy. A word from one of his companions, and Commissioner Fleischer would shout for the hanging ropes. Sebastian remembered the men he had seen in the monkey-bean tree on the bank of this same river, he remembered the flies clustered on their swollen, lolling tongues. It was not a mental picture conducive to enjoyment of breakfast.
Now, pretending to eat, he watched Commissioner Fleischer instead.
It was the first time he had done so at leisure. The bulky figure in grey corduroy uniform, the pink boiled face with pale golden eyelashes,
the full petulant lips, the big freckled hands, all these revolted him.
He felt his uneasiness swamped by a revival of the emotions that had possessed him as he stood beside the newly filled grave of his daughter on the heights above Lalapanzi.
"Black pig-animals," shouted Herman Fleischer in Swahili, as he rebuttoned his clothing. "That is enough! You do nothing but eat and sleep. It is time now for work." He waddled across the logs of the jetty, into the little circle of porters. His first kick sent the three-legged pot clattering, his second kick caught Sebastian in the back and threw him forward on to his knees.
"Rasch!" He aimed another kick at one of them, but it was dodged,
and the porters scattered to the launches.
Sebastian scrambled up. He had been kicked only once before in his life, and Flynn O'Flynn had learned not to do it again. For
Sebastian there was nothing so humiliating as the contact of another man's foot against his person, also it had hurt.
Herman Fleischer had turned away to chivvy the others, so he did not see the hatred nor the way that Sebastian snarled at him, crouching like aleopard. Another second and he would have been on him. He might have killed Fleischer before the Askari shot him down but he never made the attempt.
A hand on his arm. Mohammed's cousin beside him, his" voice very low.
"Come! Let it pass. They will kill us also." And when Fleischer turned back the two of them had gone to the launch.
On the run down-river, Sebastian huddled with the others. Like them, drawing his cloak over his head to keep off the sun, but unlike them, he did not sleep. Through half-hooded eyes he was still watching
Herman Fleischer, and his thoughts were hate-Ugly.
Even with the current, the run in the deep-laden launches took almost four hours, and it was noon before they chugged around the last bend in the channel and turned in towards the mangrove forests.
Sebastian saw Herman Fleischer swallow the last bite of sausage and carefully repack the remainder into his haversack. He stood up and spoke to the man at the rudder, and both of them peered ahead.
"We have arrived," said Mohammed's cousin, and removed his cloak from over his head. The little huddle of porters stirred into wakefulness and Sebastian stood up with them. all This time he knew what to look for, and he saw the muzzy silhouette of the Blucher skulking under her c
amouflage. From low down on the water she looked mountainous, and Sebastian's spine tingled as he remembered when last he had seen her from this angle, driving down to ram them with those axe-sharp blows. But now she floated awry, listing heavily.
"The boat leans over to one side."
"Yes," agreed Mohammed's cousin. "The Allemand wanted it so. There has been a great carrying of goods within her, they have moved everything to make the boat lean over."
"Why?" The man shrugged and pointed with his chin. "They have lifted her belly from the water, see how they work with fire on the holes in her skin." Tiny as beetles, men swarmed on the exposed hull,
and even in the bright glare of midday, the welding torches flared and sparkled with blue-white flame. The new plating was conspicious in its coat of dull brown zinc oxide paint, against the battleship-grey of the original hull.
Wilbur Smith - Shout At The Devil Page 31