ENEMIES IN Chile: there was no doubt whatsoever that Halfhyde had been much in disfavour in certain quarters of the country, and in quarters more highly placed than the proprietors of the clearing house. He had upset the Chilean Government itself, and his first thought was that General Codecino, General Oyanadel, or even President Errazuriz himself, might be after his blood. All of them had suffered very red faces as the result of Halfhyde’s successful intrigues in cutting out Captain Watkiss’ squadron from under their noses, down south in Puerto Montt; and extracting a British traitor, by name Savory, from the clutches of their allies the Germans. But all this was in the past; Halfhyde had thought at the time that Codecino and Oyanadel might well have faced firing squads after his departure in punishment for their ineptitude, not to say their chicanery against their own country’s interests. It was true, however, that no word of such had ever reached him and it was possible that the good generals had proved resilient enough to placate their President.
But it turned out that it was not the Chileans who were in the minds of his captors. His current enemy was one of longer standing, although one much concerned in the Chilean débâcle and with Savory, one whom Halfhyde had outwitted too often in the past to be forgiven. The man who called himself Smith said, “There is a squadron of the Imperial German Navy in the port of Arica. Three first-class cruisers, under the command of a vice-admiral. I doubt if I need to tell you his name, Lieutenant Halfhyde.”
Halfhyde swore. “Paulus von Merkatz,” he said softly.
THE JOURNEY was an uncomfortable one, made in a closed carriage with a gun held against his ribs on either side. The carriage rocked and jolted on broken springs along the appalling road north out of Iquique. Halfhyde had plenty of time to ponder on Vice-Admiral von Merkatz, whose squadron had been despatched to Chile on that previous occasion to collect Savory and his intimate knowledge of the British plans for naval expansion. Halfhyde’s stratagems as urged upon Captain Watkiss had resulted in von Merkatz’ own flagship being damaged, and he had outwitted the German again in the waters of the River Plate between Uruguay and Argentina. And on an earlier occasion, von Merkatz had been left fuming and impotent in the hands of the Customs and Excise in Plymouth Sound, while Halfhyde, whose misleading manoeuvres had forced him in, cocked a victorious snook from the battleship Prince Consort…
Halfhyde had asked how von Merkatz knew he was aboard a windjammer and had entered a Chilean port.
“He doesn’t,” Smith said with a laugh. “He’s due for a happy surprise.”
Halfhyde lifted an eyebrow. “I see. In that case, how did you—”
“We hear many things along the grapevine, Lieutenant Halfhyde. Now and again we handle deserters from warships—British, Spanish, Germans have passed through our hands. Since we’re in this for the pickings, we listen. And we learn. And we forget nothing, since one day it may come in handy.”
“Like now.”
“Yes, like now.”
Halfhyde sat back, saying no more. From Iquique to Arica was around a hundred and twenty miles. The journey would take all of four days, perhaps longer. If he remained in these men’s hands for that length of time, the Aysgarth Falls would be perhaps a thousand miles out to sea if the wind stood fair for her. Although her track was known, it was never an easy task to intercept a ship at sea, the more so when she was under sail and at mercy of the wind’s vagaries. And if he reached Arica and was delivered into German hands, then he could assuredly say goodbye to the Aysgarth Falls and Captain McRafferty and indeed to his own plans for the future. Von Merkatz would have him placed in cells and would sail with him for the Fatherland, a prize to be presented to his Emperor who would then take his revenge for damage caused over the years to his ships and his pride. The British Admiralty might well be indisposed to recommend action to Her Majesty on account of a half-pay lieutenant who had already incurred their displeasure, and Vice-Admiral Sir John Willard in Portsmouth might be only too pleased to be rid of him as a son-in-law.
It was a devilish prospect. It must not be allowed to happen, but to get away would be easier said than done. The man who called himself Smith was vigilant, so was his companion sitting on Halfhyde’s other side. The captive was worth money; no doubt there would be bargaining with von Merkatz and Halfhyde had no doubt that the German would be generous. Halfhyde made the assumption that he would be hidden away somewhere in the port, while an emissary went aboard the German flagship, or more likely, so as not to be held as a kind of hostage against Halfhyde’s delivery, sent a message by one of the bumboats.
Time would tell.
MCRAFFERTY PACED the poop, a prey to mounting fears. Bullock had been threateningly insistent that he should make sail without more delay; the passenger, Bullock said, was restive and there would be difficulty over the passage money if they didn’t clear away from Iquique fast. It was only too possible that Halfhyde had fallen victim to some attack ashore and never would rejoin. All McRafferty had been able to do was to leave word with the police authority to have Halfhyde looked for, a message that was received politely enough but with scarcely any interest. This done, the orders had been passed, and the Aysgarth Falls had stood out to sea with the steam tug’s assistance until she was outside the port with a light wind on her starboard quarter. Short once again of a Second Mate and with no replacement possible now from the villainous crowd in the fo’c’sle, the Master had been obliged to take watch-and-watch on deck with his First Mate.
As McRafferty kept an eye lifting on the set of his sails, Jesson came on deck from the saloon. McRafferty looked at him with a distaste that he took pains to disguise. Jesson looked an evil man, but he had to be put up with. Already half the passage money had been paid over, and the First Mate’s bargaining had been good: one hundred pounds in gold was in the Captain’s safe, a similar amount was stowed in Bullock’s cabin. A total of four hundred sovereigns to reach Australia from Chile was, by any standard, very good payment indeed…
“Good morning, Mr Jesson.”
Jesson responded with a curt nod; he was at best a monosyllabic man, McRafferty had found, and bad-tempered. Looking around at the slightly ruffled water, then down the ship’s side as though to make some assessment of her speed, he said, “We’re not moving very fast.”
McRafferty shrugged. “The wind dictates, Mr Jesson, the wind dictates.”
“Wrong. I do.”
McRafferty stared back at him, feeling the anger rise. “Not to the wind.”
The face mottled behind the thick thatch of beard. “I’m a wealthy man, by God!”
“Then you’re a lucky one also, Mr Jesson, but no money can buy the wind.” McRafferty turned his back on a nonsensical, arrogant statement, and strode aft to the wheel, from where he cast a critical eye aloft. He could maybe get an extra knot out of her. He spoke to the helmsman. “A shade closer to the wind, Finney, just a shade.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Old Finney moved the spokes, bringing the wheel up a fraction. McRafferty watched for a while longer, then walked back to the rail and stood beside his passenger.
He said, “I shall do my best, Mr Jesson, but as I told you last night, I do not expect my landfall in Australia to be in less than thirty-two days—and that assumes fair winds, fair winds all the way. Shipmasters are seldom as lucky as that. But there’s no sense in fretting.”
“Thirty-two damned days aboard a ship!”
“It must be put up with, Mr Jesson.”
There was a snort from Jesson, and he turned away abruptly and went below. McRafferty gave him a moment, then moved towards the saloon skylight and stood listening. Jesson’s voice was loud; he was speaking to the girl, but to McRafferty’s satisfaction appeared to be getting no encouragement and, after a while, he stopped talking, and McRafferty heard him shouting for the steward. Whisky had been part of the contract, and Jesson seemed addicted.
ON THE road north, there were stops at wayside hostelries, sleazy places where rough meals and a shakedown bed were provided. Hal
fhyde slept in a small room along with his two armed companions, who took turns to remain awake throughout each night. Early starts were made, and as each dawn came up, they were already on the road. There was no chance of escape; the men were much too wary. Halfhyde didn’t doubt for a moment that the guns would be used if they thought it necessary, and in the privacy of the bedrooms, and in the carriage itself, his hands had been tied behind his back. Although the circumstances were different, there were similarities with Halfhyde’s journey north by carriage with the Chilean General Codecino, from Puerto Montt to Valparaiso. Travelling beneath the distant shadow of the mountains, the scenery appeared much the same. But their surroundings grew bleaker as they drew nearer to their destination. Arica, according to Smith, was a lesser port even than Iquique, a mere village by comparison with Valparaiso, a place where guano, salt, copper, and sulphur were exported, and cargoes were landed for transit to Bolivia.
“Not,” Halfhyde observed, “a likely spot to find Admiral von Merkatz and a heavy squadron, I should have thought.”
Smith was in agreement. “Nevertheless, he’s there and is expected to remain for some while before sailing south for the Horn and the passage back to Kiel. He’s said to have gone in for provisions and bunkers, after a long haul across from Chinese waters.”
As at last the carriage jolted its way into Arica, Halfhyde saw the great, grey ships of the German squadron, with the flag of Vice-Admiral von Merkatz flying at the masthead of a first-class cruiser which he recognized as the Mannheim. A boat was coming inshore—a steam picquet-boat, smartly manned. As he came between the hovels of the little township, Halfhyde lost sight of the picquet-boat but soon afterwards the carriage came into the port area, and the boat could be seen alongside a small jetty. An officer of captain’s rank, probably the Flag Captain, was walking away from it with a lieutenant and the boat’s crew was evidently awaiting their return. The carriage moved on and once again the Germans were lost to sight. Before his view of the dock area had gone, Halfhyde had been able to see the other shipping lying off the port. There were three steamships and some half-dozen square-riggers. The square-riggers were Finns and Norwegians; of the steamers, two wore the Red Ensign, a fact worth noting. Halfhyde was unable to make out the flag of the third. Some minutes after this the carriage stopped at one of the hovels and Smith got down, leaving Halfhyde in the care of the other armed man and the driver, who remained watchfully upon his box.
Smith banged at the door of the hovel. The door was opened by a man who looked like a South American Indian; Smith, who seemed to be known to this man, went inside. A few minutes later Halfhyde was brought out of the carriage and hustled into the building with a gun pressing against his spine. Just as he went in, there was a sudden shift in the weather: the afternoon, which had been fine, darkened with extraordinary rapidity as a large cloud swept across the sun. At the same time, a wind came up, a curiously hot wind from the west.
THE SAME wind, blowing in across the Pacific, had passed to the north of the track taken by the Aysgarth Falls; but Bullock, on watch as the glass began to drop alarmingly, had observed the disturbance in the northern sky and had called the Master.
McRafferty turned out at once and climbed to the poop. “What do you make of it, Mr Bullock?”
“The nearest I can get’s a typhoon, sir. You can see the perimeter of it clearly.”
McRafferty examined the sky. “It’s no typhoon, Mister. We’re much too far westwards for that.”
“Typhoons can go off track.”
“Maybe, but never so far as this. You know as well as I do, they originate in south-east Asia and head north for the Philippines and the Japanese islands. We’re not in the area where it would be called a hurricane, either.”
“It’s a cyclonic storm of some sort,” Bullock said in a surly tone.
McRafferty nodded. “I’ll settle for that, Mister! God alone can say what’s the cause of it here. In any case, I believe we shall stand clear of it—it’s moving eastwards, I fancy.”
Bullock wiped a hand across his face. There was a touch of rain and a big cloud, almost black and very threatening, was extending towards them although the main route was, as McRafferty had said, easterly. “Best get the canvas off her,” Bullock said.
“Yes, I agree. Rouse out all hands, Mr Bullock. Another hand to assist Finney at the wheel. Bring her down to lower tops’ls.” McRafferty stared towards the north, through fast-worsening visibility: the rain was sheeting down now and a moment later the heavy rumble of thunder came, apparently from right overhead as vivid streaks of lightning struck down to play around the masts and yards. McRafferty noticed an odd warmth in the wind; like the breath of hell, he thought fancifully. As the watch below tumbled out from the fo’c’sle and hurried to take their places for getting the canvas off or attending to the battening down of hatches and doorways, Jesson came up from the saloon wearing a scowl.
“Below if you please, Mr Jesson,” McRafferty shouted peremptorily.
“If there’s to be delay—”
“It will have to be accepted. Go below. I’ll not have lubbers cluttering my decks in a storm, Mr Jesson.”
“Now look here, Captain—”
“It was an order. At sea, you will obey the Master.” Captain McRafferty moved close, thrust his jaw forward. The face when angry was a formidable one; it was Jesson who turned away, muttering angrily, a red light coming into his eyes and the lips thinning behind the beard. With an ill grace, he went below, and probably only just in time to save his skin. As his head disappeared below the hatch, the Aysgarth Falls lurched heavily to a sea that swept below her counter and lifted her, canting the deck sharply. McRafferty reached in time for the weather mizzen shrouds and hung on for his life. Men went skidding on their backsides along the waist, and from the saloon, McRafferty heard a heavy bump followed by violent imprecations. He smiled to himself, grimly. Jesson would know better next time. Soon after this, there was a rising sound of fury from the wind, a shrieking, dismal and threatening whine as invisible fingers plucked at the ropes and wires. Little by little the sails were furled along the yards as the desperately working men fought to keep themselves from pitching down from the footropes. It was easy enough to miss a footing, or to over-balance when laying out across the great flapping sails to beat the wind from them and secure the canvas in the buntlines.
IN ARICA Smith had left the hovel; Halfhyde supposed he had made his way to the docks to contact the seamen manning the picquet-boat from the flagship and have a message passed to their Admiral. But Smith was nobody’s fool. When he returned, he was accompanied by two policemen, swarthy men carrying rifles and side-arms. Halfhyde was given to understand he was being arrested and moved to the town’s gaol, where he would be under police guard.
He bowed ironically towards Smith. “I congratulate you on your perspicacity,” he said. “You were unwilling, I take it, to place your head in von Merkatz’ noose?”
Smith grinned. “I wouldn’t trust him too far, Lieutenant Halfhyde. But he’ll get nowhere with the Chilean authorities, and he won’t dare to double-cross them.”
Halfhyde made a contemptuous sound. “Von Merkatz would double-cross his own mother, my dear fellow! His own Emperor, too, if he could be sure of getting away with it. As to the Chilean authorities staving him off, I have my doubts as to that as well. When last I was in Chile, von Merkatz stood favourably with President Errazuriz.”
“Who is no longer in office.”
“Nevertheless, Germany and Chile are friendly, and von Merkatz may see his way clear to obtaining my person without you as an intermediary to be paid.” Halfhyde knew that there could be extra danger to himself insofar as the Chilean authorities would also want his person, but the danger would most likely not be great. It was a pound to a penny that Smith had entered into a private arrangement with the local police and his, Halfhyde’s, presence in Arica would never be reported to Santiago. However, he once again advanced a proposal that he had first made whi
lst en route from Iquique. “Why not accept English gold, or the promise of it, instead?”
Smith didn’t bother to reply; Halfhyde would never be able to muster the sum expected from von Merkatz, let alone exceed it. Halfhyde was taken from the hovel to be marched to police headquarters. The day had darkened further by this time, and as the small procession came into the open, the rain started teeming down. Halfhyde and the policemen were drenched within seconds. Halfhyde was ordered to double; he ran ahead between his escort, his feet splashing through mud and filth. The rain was cold, but there was a curious residue of warmth still in the wind, and this suggested to Halfhyde the likelihood of an approaching earthquake, not uncommon in Chile. More than ever, he wished he was at sea. The movement of storm water could at times be frightening, but the movement of solid earth was a nightmare and would be the more so if one was locked into a police cell.
On arrival at police headquarters, there was a complete absence of any formalities, which confirmed to Halfhyde more clearly than words that his arrest would not be reported beyond the perimeter of the port. Also, Smith had seemed unconcerned that his prisoner might inform the local police about the set-up in Iquique; Halfhyde for his part did not propose to waste his breath on the subject. The network of bribery throughout the coastal areas was much too strong to be breached. Halfhyde was put into a cell little more than four feet square, with just room enough for a plank bed on which he could lie doubled up or sit and contemplate the strong, metal-bound door that was locked and bolted on him. A small window, set high, gave some light; but by now the day had turned virtually into night and, standing on the plank bed to look through, Halfhyde could see nothing but the terrible downpour that was turning the ground outside into a pock-marked muddy pool.
For want of anything better to do, he was still looking from the window as full dark came down. He saw the approach of a storm lantern, held high over the heads of uniformed German naval officers tightly wrapped in boat cloaks, splashing through the water.
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