by Antony Trew
Widmark saw the gleam of fear in the German’s eyes, and hit him again, full in the face this time and with a clenched fist—that made Moewe fight back. He got an arm round Widmark’s neck in an attempt at a stranglehold, but Widmark’s knee caught him a massive upward blow, thudding into his groin. Moewe screamed and dropped his arms. Widmark’s hands went round the German’s throat and he pushed him back against the chart-table. Moewe saw the mad glare in Widmark’s eyes and tried to fight him off, but was helpless—the edge of the chart-table caught him below the buttocks, and as his shoulders went back, Widmark’s knee smashed into his groin again. Moewe’s second scream was muffled and choked as Widmark’s fingers tightened on his windpipe. The second officer was bent over backwards now, with the South African on top of him. With a frenzied burst of strength, Widmark smashed the German’s head into the R/T cabinet—once, twice, thrice. There were tinkling screeching sounds of broken glass and metal, and Moewe’s eyes glazed as he slid to the deck, Widmark falling with him, his fingers tight on his adversary’s throat, gasping with exertion, his eyes close to the German’s.
When Moewe went limp, Widmark let go and staggered to his feet. Then he stood over him, leaning on the chart-table, looking down on the blood-stained face, the absurdly staring eyes.
“You poor bastard——!” he muttered, breathing heavily, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “You poor miserable bastard—I’ve been wanting to do this to one of you for a long time.”
He pulled himself up on to the chart-table and sat there panting, cleaning his hands on a handkerchief which was soon mussed with blood and stove-black. Then he put a foot on Moewe’s chest, and with dull eyes watched the dead man.
“Listen you, whoever you are,” he mumbled, rolling the face sideways with his foot. “It was too easy for you—just a longish minute of fright and it was all over——” He shook his head. “Not like Olafsen—he had an hour of it—with his guts shot out. And mother—my mother! What d’you think she went through?” He moved the German’s face with his foot again, and the swollen tongue lolled out. “What d’you think she felt? I mean, drowning like that—an old woman—alone in the water—in a gale in the middle of the night.”
Widmark shook his head again and then he sat on the settee, chin in hand, brooding. Later, he looked at his watch. It was 2227. He got up, frowned at the smashed valves and broken metal in the radio cabinet, at Günther Moewe’s dead, sightless eyes staring at the deckhead, and then, taking his automatic from the settee, he picked up the German’s Luger and went out on to the bridge where he threw it into the sea. The riveting was as loud as ever as he went down the ladder, into the deck-house and along the alleyway to the Captain’s cabin to find the four Germans sitting in a corner, hands clasped on their heads, the Newt and Rohrbach covering them with automatics.
“Where are the others?” Widmark was breathing heavily, still feeling the effects of his struggle with Moewe,
“You all right, Steve?” Rohrbach looked with dismay at Widmark’s face, streaked with blood where the stove-polish had rubbed off.
Widmark did not appear to hear the question. “Where’re the others?” he repeated.
“McFadden and Hans went down to the engine-room a few minutes ago, Mike Kent’s up for’ard on guard outside the fo’c’sle. Johan’s hunting for the second officer and the steward.”
Widmark was visibly shaken. “My God! I’d forgotten about the steward——!”
“We’re worried about the second officer. He’s much more dangerous.”
Widmark’s face did something then—it wasn’t a smile—it couldn’t really be described. Afterwards Rorhbach said: “For a moment I thought Steve had gone round the bend—I mean, his eyes, and the way he showed his teeth when he grinned and said: ‘He’s dead.’ Then he stared at his hands and said: ‘Get these Jerries into the chain-locker with the others. Where are the women?’”
Rohrbach pointed to the Captain’s sleeping cabin—the key was on the outside. “We’ve locked them in. Told them it’s for their own good and not for long.”
Widmark looked at the door. “Any of them hurt?”
“No, Steve. All okay.”
The Germans had been watching them, but for Kuhn who, breathing deeply, slept. Then von Falkenhausen said: “As one naval officer to another, Lieutenant-Commander, may I ask what is the meaning of this in a neutral port?”
Widmark turned dark, sullen eyes upon him. “Same meaning as your drawing guns on my men. There’s a war on.”
“Yes, but Portugal’s not in it.”
“You and I are, von Falkenhausen.”
Lindemann said: “I suppose, Herr Commander, you realise the seriousness of what you are doing? You say you have killed my second officer? How do you imagine you are going to explain this to the authorities? I think you should stop this dangerous game before it goes any further. It is one thing to try to get information, but when you force your way on board and kill men on a German merchant ship in a neutral——”
Widmark held up his hand. “Stop that! I’m not here to listen to your views on what’s right and what’s wrong. You’re in no position to moralise.”
He beckoned to Rohrbach. “Shove them into the chain-locker, David. Then get cracking on those shackles.” He looked at his watch: “It’s 2230. We’re astern of station. I’ll take a shufti in the engine-room and see how McFadden and Hans are getting on. If these people give any trouble, shoot them.” He looked at von Falkenhausen. “I mean that. By a happy coincidence somebody’s doing a bit of riveting tonight. In case you’re thinking of being brave, just remember that the shots that kill you won’t be heard, and that I’m not very fussy about German lives anyway.”
Von Falkenhausen knew he meant it.
Angus Duncan knocked on the door of Captain McRobert’s cabin, but with the riveting going on for’ard he knew it wouldn’t be heard, so he opened the door and went in.
The captain and the pilot, absorbed in their game of chess, had not heard him. Duncan tapped the captain on the shoulder. “It’s a bigger job than we thought, Captain—it’ll be the best part of thirty minutes before we get those plates tight.”
McRobert frowned, took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at it, then at the bulkhead clock, then at Angus Duncan, and finally at d’Almeida. “Plates, ye say? I thought it was only the one of them?”
“The base plate must ha’ worked loose a time back—it’s affected the four plates around it—there’s a lot of loose rivets. Mighty slow job—should be done by the shore gang by rights, but we’ll manage.”
McRobert looked thoughtful. “What time d’ye reckon we can sail, Chief?”
Duncan scratched his chin and looked at the clock. “Safe enough if ye say 2330, Captain.”
“Guid, Chief. My compliments to the mate. Tell him to let the Port Captain’s Office know it’ll be 2330.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Angus Duncan left the cabin and McRobert looked at d’Almeida. “Sorry about the delay, Pilot. It’s one of those things we canna help.” He shrugged his shoulders. D’Almeida repeated the gesture, smiling, the even teeth white under the dark moustache. “Perhaps you will need the time, Captain, if you are to keep your Queen.”
McRobert sighed, puffing at his pipe. “Aye,” he said gloomily, “she’s in a rare fix.”
John Withers, chief officer of the Clan McPhilly, winked at Angus Duncan. “Okay, Chief. I’ll be letting the Port Captain’s Office know right away—guid luck with that riveting. It’s making a braw noise—hard to hear rightly what a man’s saying.”
He went up the companion ladder to the chart-house, picked up the radio telephone and called the Port Captain’s Office. The call was acknowledged and he passed his message: “Confirming that Clan McPhilly will be sailing at 2300, repeat, 2300. Pilot d’Almeida on board. Over.”
The voice of the Portuguese operator, remote and disembodied, came back. “Clan McPhilly sailing at 2300. Pilot d’Almcida on b
oard. Okay. Good-night. Over and out.”
Withers put down the hand-set and sighed. “That’s the biggest bluidy lie I’ve told in a long time.”
Things were moving fast on board the Hagenfels.
Down in the engine-room Widmark found McFadden and Hans at work on the main diesels; assisting them was the German greaser, a pale young man with crew-cut hair and a pinched-in face.
McFadden was checking the pressures on the starting compressors when Widmark reached him.
“How’s it going, Chiefy?”
McFadden looked up, shocked at Widmark’s appearance. “Fine. They’ll be ready to turn in ten minutes. But what’s happened to you, Steve boy? You don’t look too good.”
Widmark waved his hand irritably. “I’m okay. We’ve got the ship. Everything’s under control. Can’t find the steward though——” He paused, looked over to where the German greaser was working on the fuel valves. “Is that man okay? Aren’t you taking a chance?”
McFadden shook his head. “He’s fine, laddie! His English’s not too good but he understands well enough. Hans told him his pals are in the chain-locker, that we’ve taken over the ship, and that he’d better give us a hand or else——” McFadden tapped the cosh dangling from his wrist.
“That’d give their Lordships a twinge, Chiefy. I’m sure it’s a breach of some Geneva Convention or other——”
“Sure you’re all right, Steve boy?” McFadden couldn’t hide his concern.
Widmark nodded briefly and started towards the ladder. “We’ll be testing the telegraphs from the bridge soon. ’Bye now.”
Half-way along the fore well-deck, he saw a dark shape slide behind a ventilator ahead of him. He tightened his grip on the automatic and as he reached the ventilator called: “Tally-Ho?”
Back came Mike Kent’s voice. “Break out, sir!”
They exchanged news and Widmark said: “As soon as we’ve weighed, I’ll get someone to relieve you here. Then go along to the wireless cabin and get to know the gear. The R/T on the bridge is badly smashed, I’m afraid. I had a set-to with the second officer there.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The others had already told Kent that Widmark had killed Moewe, and in the dim light he looked at Widmark’s face for signs of what they’d said. He could see now what they meant. It was odd. Maybe it was because the black stove-polish had streaked out, maybe the white rims to the eyes made them stare, gave Widmark that ferine look,
“We haven’t found the steward,” Widmark’s voice was hoarse. “Keep a sharp lookout for him.”
It was still raining, a humid drizzle. On the fo’c’sle Widmark found Rohrbach and the Newt busy with the anchor cables. In the blue light of a torch Rohrbach was at work on the shackle immediately abaft the port gypsy, picking out the lead pellet and withdrawing the steel wedge.
“We can knock the lug out any time now, Steve.” Rohrbach moved across to the starboard gypsy and got busy there, the Newt holding the torch.
Johan was struggling with a nine-inch manilla, hauling it up from a bin under the fo’c’sle. Widmark lent him a hand. It was hard work on a hot night, but they got one up on the port side before Rohrbach and the Newt came over.
Rohrbach said: “Starboard shackle’s all set now.”
“Well done, David. Did you have to use the hack-saw?”
“No. These Jerries keep their gear in good condition. Came free as sweet as a daisy.”
When both hawsers were laid out on the fo’c’sle ready for running, they secured the ends to the cables forward of the gypsies. When the word came from the bridge they would knock the lugs out of the shackles and run the cable ends off the gypsies, taking their weight with the manilla hawsers turned up on the windlass drums; then they’d lower the cables on to the bottom of the river as the Hagenfels moved ahead under her own power. Slipping the cables this way would be quick and comparatively noiseless, and when the hawsers had been run out to their bare ends on the windlass drums, they would be cast off and the ship would be clear of her anchors and free to manœuvre.
“Tested the windlass, David?”
“Yes. Juice is on.”
“Good. As soon as you’ve slipped the cables, get Johan to relieve Mike Kent. I’m off to the bridge now. Got the charts, Newt?”
In the darkness the Newt found the bathing bag where he’d put it near the windlass. “Okay, Steve.”
Widmark looked at his watch. “I wish we knew where that bloody steward was,” he grumbled. Then he and the Newt went down the fo’c’sle ladder on to the fore well-deck and made for the bridge.
Paul Müller, the officers’ steward, had been in the pantry washing glasses and plates and generally cleaning up when the sudden burst of firing sounded in the Captain’s cabin. Even with the noise of the riveting there was no mistaking what it was. A gentle, inoffensive young man, he got a severe fright as he glanced through the half-open door and heard a British voice say: “Put those hands up, quick!”
That was enough for Paul. If he lacked the aggressive spirit, he did not lack imagination. There was a war on, there was shooting in the Captain’s cabin, and the British seemed to have arrived and taken over the ship. What it all added up to he had no idea, but he was at that moment free and the most important thing seemed to be to remain so.
Before Moewe had had time to reach the pantry, Müller had slipped out of the door, through the alleyway and on to the boat-deck. Had he been ten seconds later he would have been seen by Widmark who would by then have been coming in through the starboard door. As it was, he was clear and safe—for the time being at any rate.
For a moment he stood on the boat-deck, uncertain, wondering where he could hide; eventually he decided on the foremost lifeboat on the port side. It was opposite him, just abaft the bridge ladder, and once under the canvas cover he would not only be securely hidden but when the riveting stopped he’d have a good idea of what was going on—be able to hear much of what was said on the bridge. Slipping into the boat he lay on a bench-thwart, his eyes level with the gunwale, just able to see out if he lifted the edge of the cover which was held clear of his head by a wooden stretcher. His breath came in short gasps, and his heart pounded with excitement and from his exertions.
Breathlessly he waited—but not for long. Opposite him the port door of the deck-house opened and he saw Moewe come out, gun in hand. The second officer shut the door and went up the bridge ladder, passing within a few feet of him. Almost immediately afterwards the door opened again—this time Müller saw, outlined in the glow of light from the alleyway behind him, a man in plain clothes, his hair tousled, his face black. He looked tigerish, frightening, pistol in one hand, cosh in the other. For a moment he stood there undecided, then he, too, went up the bridge ladder. A few minutes later, Müller saw a shape coming down and held his breath. It was the man with the blackened face, who went back into the deck-house, still with a pistol in one hand and a cosh in the other.
Paul Müller lay there frightened, mystified, peeping from under the edge of the lifeboat cover. But nothing more happened and the noise of riveting drowned effectively any other sounds which might have come his way. In the dark he could not see the time, but later on, feeling cramped, he changed his position and sat crouching in the sternsheets. Now he could see nothing, but that did not stop him thinking.
It was slowly becoming apparent to him that he should be doing something more than just hiding: there was a war on, the Hagenfels was a German ship, and somehow or other the British were taking her by force of arms in a neutral port. If he were asked afterwards what he’d done, it wouldn’t sound too good if he said that he’d hidden in a lifeboat. Paul Müller had no pretensions to bravery, but his duty was beginning to take shape clearly and rather embarrassingly. Reluctantly, he realised that he must do something. But what? He was unarmed.
Herr Moewe had gone on to the bridge, but he had been followed by the man with the black face and then a few minutes later it had been that man only who’d come down from the bridge
. That gave Müller an idea.
He’d go up there and see what had happened. Taking off his shoes, his heart beating faster, he got out from under the boat cover and went up on to the bridge. The chart-room door was half open and the light inside shone out, spilling a bright pool of light on to the deck. Müller looked in through the door and saw Moewe’s dead eyes staring at him, his face smeared with blood. The steward’s insides knotted and he felt sick. He’d never seen such a terrible sight.
Whatever was happening was in deadly earnest. The Britishers were killing members of the crew—officers—he felt alone and frightened and unsure of himself; but his duty was plain, so he forced himself into the chart-house. There he saw the shattered radio-telephone and other signs of a struggle. There was nothing he could do, though; he couldn’t even try the radio-telephone—which he didn’t understand anyway—because it was obviously damaged beyond use. That made him think of the wireless cabin—if the Britishers were taking the ship, they would want to use the wireless once they got to sea. He knew nothing about wirelesses—but he had an idea. Then it occurred to him that there might be a Britisher in the wireless cabin already and that he would have to be careful—they were probably all over the ship—there was no means of hearing them because of the noise of the riveting, and on deck there was little light and much dark shadow and it was misty and wet.
Chapter Sixteen
Widmark got the Newt to help him move Moewe’s body from the chart-house to the after end of the bridge where they covered it with flags from the signal locker. Nothing was said while this was being done. The Newt felt faintly sick. Günther Moewe’s face was not a pleasant sight.