by Antony Trew
In the chart-house they took the charts and sailing directions out of the canvas bag and laid them on the table.
“They’re a bit bent and scruffy, but they’ll do,” said Widmark. Although at the Polana the Newt had pencilled on to the charts the courses to be steered and the distances from point to point, he was pleased to find parallel rulers and a pair of dividers on the chart-table, and in a drawer two recent British Admiralty charts of the Port of Lourenço Marques and its approaches. They were duplicates of those they’d taken out of the bag.
The Newt whistled through his teeth. “Needn’t have brought ours. They’ve got ’em already, Steve. Amended and up-to-date.”
“Like to know how they got them?”
“Probably wrote to the Admiralty Chart Depot and asked for them. You know how polite we always are to foreigners.”
On the port side of the chart-room they found the switches for the navigation lights, and in a bin recessed into the chart-table three chronometers keeping Greenwich Mean Time. Behind the chart-house door were two pairs of Zeiss night glasses which they took from their leather cases. Among the books above the chart-table were a nautical almanac and sets of navigational and azimuth tables.
Widmark looked at the radio-telephone. “Hope the port authorities don’t try and call us on that.”
“Had it in a big way, hasn’t it?” The Newt poked at the broken valves, smashed coils and transformers, wincing at the still wet bloodstains.
Widmark lit a cigarette. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Out on the bridge the rain still fell in a light drizzle, warm and clinging. Reflections from the anchor light fell dimly upon two glistening shapes standing by the windlass on the fo’c’sle.
There was a teak wheelhouse amidships, well provided with windows, and with doors which gave on to the open wings of the bridge. The Newt hooked back the doors and with his torch found the switches for the magnetic and gyro compasses and engine telegraph lights. To his surprise the gyro compass was already working. This could only mean that the Germans had kept the master-gyro running. More evidence, he reflected, that they were standing-by to make a break for the sea. Calling the engine-room on the voice-pipe, he was reassured by Andrew McFadden’s cheerful “Hallo there, Newt!”
“Okay down below, Chiefy?”
“Everything’s fine, laddie.”
“I’m going to test telegraphs. We’re about to weigh.”
“Okay, son. Go ahead.”
The Newt tested the engine-room telegraphs and reported to Widmark: “Telegraphs tested and okay, Steve.”
“Good! Ring stand-by.”
The bells of the telegraph rang, an evocative purposeful tinkle, and the Newt reported: “Engines on stand-by.”
Widmark went across to the port side of the bridge, leant over the canvas screen and aimed his torch at the fo’c’sle, showing a steady blue light.
There was an answering blue flash. He went to the wheel-house door. “Wheel amidships. Slow ahead.”
The Newt rang the telegraph and repeated: “Wheel amidships, slow ahead, sir.” The tagged-on “sir” was force of habit, inextricably tied to the patter of helm and engine orders.
The muffled explosive notes of the main diesels came from the funnel abaft the bridge as the machinery started to turn, and the Hagenfels trembled and came alive. Widmark watched the line of lights along the shore and when the ship began to move slowly ahead he went to the foreside of the bridge and flashed his torch three times. Three answering flashes told him that the manilla hawsers on the windlass drums were manned, and above the noise of riveting he could hear faintly the clank of the cable links passing through the hawse-pipes.
“Stop engines!”
The Newt repeated the order, the engine-room telegraph jangled, and the vibrations ceased. More flashes of blue light came from the fo’c’sle and Widmark answered them—the cables had been slipped and the Hagenfels was free to manœuvre.
He went into the wheelhouse and saw from the clock there that it was 2253.
Rohrbach and Johan would now, he knew, be going round the ship switching off lights and securing dead-lights over portholes. Soon the ship would be darkened.
For the next few minutes, juggling with helm and engines, Widmark kept the Hagenfels’s bows to the tide, more or less in her anchor berth but dropping slowly astern on the Clan McPhilly.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was 2259, so he switched off the anchor light, ordered “Starboard thirty! Half speed ahead!” and went out on to the bridge.
Soon afterwards the ship’s head was paying off to starboard and the lights along the Gorjao Quay moved up the starboard side until they were almost ahead.
At that moment the riveting stopped and the sudden cessation of sound was as remarkable as its beginning, for it had become a part of the night, a silence of its own. Now a strange new silence fell upon the Espirito Santo and slowly other sounds, small and commonplace, obtruded.
Widmark stopped the main engines, ordered the wheel amidships, and then put the engines half-astern; the Hagenfels’s rate of turn quickened and before long she was heading downstream, the lights of the Clan McPhilly close ahead on the port bow.
“Amidships. Slow ahead. Steady as you go.” Widmark’s voice for the first time communicated some of the excitement he felt, and the Newt smiled. At least the Butcher was that much human. There was a chink in the imperturbability he had displayed since their arrival on the bridge. Widmark’s next order broke into his thoughts.
“Steer one-one-o.”
“Steer one-one-o,” repeated the Newt and then, a few seconds later, “Steady on one-one-o.”
Widmark went back into the wheelhouse and stood next to the Newt, watching the steering compass. The rain clung like fine muslin to the windows on the foreside of the bridge. Lifting them up to the horizontal, Widmark secured them with brass hooks hanging from the deck-head.
“That better?”
“Fine.”
The Hagenfels moved slowly, passing down the port side of the Clan McPhilly. As they came abreast of her, they saw a weak light flashing from under the bridge; it was spelling out a message in morse code, slowly and laboriously: “G-O-O-D-L-U-C-K.”
Widmark dared not reply because his signal might be read from the Gorjao Quay, but under his breath he whispered “Bless you, McRobert,” and he hoped that one day he’d see him again.
It was 2305 by his wrist-watch.
He went into the wheelhouse and switched on the navigation lights.
Ahead of them lay more ships at anchor and as the Hagenfels drew away from the Clan ship, course was altered to pass to starboard of them, so that they would mask the German ship from the quay.
The second of the two ships ahead was the Tactician and when they got up to her they heard the sound of her cables coming in through the hawse-pipes, a cluster of dark shapes on her fo’c’sle busy at the windlass.
Widmark had just given new helm orders, when he heard someone running up the starboard bridge ladder; it was David Rohrbach, who reported: “Everything’s okay, Steve. We’ve darkened ship. Nothing showing except navigation lights. Johan’s on the fo’c’sle door, and Mike’s in the wireless cabin.”
“Good!” Widmark sounded curt and business-like but he was grinning in the darkness. “The big torch is on the chart-table. Grab it. We’ll be up with Ponta Vermelha soon.”
Rohrbach fetched the torch. The rain slackened and Widmark frowned—he would far rather it had come down heavily. But he was grateful for the clouded sky and the darkness which concealed everything but the lights of Lourenço Marques and the ships along the Gorjao Quay floodlit by the clusters on the crane gantries. Nearby the lights of the ships at anchor were so close that Widmark feared the Hagenfels might be identified in their reflection. But there were few lights on the Catembe side of the river, not enough to silhouette the German ship, and, as he had concluded on his reconnaissances, all that could be seen of the Hagenfels from the harbour were her navi
gation lights.
They had passed the fourth ship and were almost abeam of the flashing light marking the entrance to the boat harbour when Widmark, standing in the starboard wing of the bridge, heard Rohrbach’s urgent “My God!”
He turned quickly and against the diffused glow of the port navigation light, reflected on the thin screen of rain, he could just see Rohrbach leaning over the back of the bridge looking down on to the boat-deck.
Widmark ran across and joined him. From the foremost lifeboat on the port side a beam of light was flashing. It came from under the canvas boat cover and was aimed at the shore.
There might have been five seconds between Rohrbach’s “My God!” his jump from the bridge rail on to the boat and his slither to the sternsheets where he struck with a cosh at the signaller under the canvas. Not a sound came from this struggling shape and soon it lay still.
Rohrbach, panting for breath, called up to Widmark: “Okay. I’ll have him on deck in a second. He’s out, I reckon.”
“It’ll be that steward. Get Mike Kent to help you take him up to the chain-locker. I’ll look after Ponta Vermelha, but get back quickly.”
Widmark moved over to the foreside of the bridge. On the port bow he could see the green light of number nine buoy, and well to starboard of it the light at Esparcelado. A lot had happened, he reflected, since they’d seen those lights earlier in the evening. Things might not have gone quite according to plan, but they’d gone pretty well. Taking a grip on himself he abandoned these self-congratulatory thoughts: the Hagenfels was not clear of the harbour yet; the steward had been signalling the shore; maybe those signals had been seen; perhaps the alarm had been given; the greater dangers certainly lay ahead. He looked in at the wheelhouse door. “David’s just laid out the steward.”
The Newt said: “Splendid!”
“Keep number nine buoy fine on the port bow. There are four or five more ships in the anchorage. We should clear them on this course.”
“Aye, aye, Steve. She steers a bit sluggishly. Think we could go on to half-ahead?”
Widmark looked across to port where the shore lights were moving slowly aft.
“Okay. Ring down half-ahead.”
Soon after the telegraph bell had rung, they felt the vibrations quicken and the Hagenfels took on new life.
It was 2313. In another three minutes they would reach number nine buoy, then would come the alteration of course to head up the Polana Channel. Three or four minutes later they would be challenged by the signal station at Ponta Vermelha.
Widmark’s thoughts went briefly to the cabin below: to the women in there. He wondered what Cleo was doing, how she was looking, what she was thinking about? It must have been terrifying for her. In his mind’s eye was the dead face of Günther Moewe. He was glad Cleo had not seen that.
For the first time he saw the lights of another ship moving towards the harbour mouth; it was on a parallel course, closer inshore, passing the lights along the sea wall below the Aterro do Machaquene; but it was travelling a good deal faster, drawing quickly ahead. He gave it a long look through the night glasses.
It was a warship. One of the Portuguese gunboats, and it was in a hurry.
Widmark was not conscious of it, but he had bitten his lip so deeply that a small trickle of blood flowed down his chin.
The women had been locked in the captain’s sea cabin for forty-five minutes; in the dark, too, for Rohrbach had smashed all the lamp-globes there and in the toilet before locking the door on them. “Sorry,” he’d said, “but we can’t take chances. You won’t be here long, anyway, and there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll see that you come to no harm.”
They had gone into the cabin in a state of considerable fright and it had persisted, which was not surprising after what had happened. All of them, that is to say, except Mariotta who was sleeping on Lindemann’s bunk.
The portholes were open but it was hot and stuffy and but for the thin reflection from a deck light it was dark. Of what was happening outside the cabin they had not the faintest idea, for not only could they see nothing but the unceasing noise of the riveting shut out all other sounds.
When Johan left them their conversation had verged on the hysterical, and it was eventually Hester Smit who calmed them down. “I don’t know what it’s all about,” she said,” but it seems to be South Africa versus the rest, so I suppose we’ve got ourselves mixed up in the war somehow.”
“It was terrible of Johan and David to get us into this. I’ll never forgive them.” Cleo was tearful: “We might have been killed in all that shooting.”
Di Brett said: “There’s going to be one hell of a row about this. Fancy trying this sort of thing in a neutral port! What do they think’s going to happen to-morrow morning when the story comes out. They can’t hold these Germans prisoners in their own ship for long. A launch is bound to come off in the morning.” She thought of something. “Not even to-morrow. The company launch is waiting in the boat harbour now to come and fetch us at midnight.”
Hester Smit sighed. “I hope Johan doesn’t get into trouble. He’s such a sweety.”
“I wonder who the others were, Hester? The men who came in through the door with black faces? They looked awful people.”
“I don’t know, Cleo. But they must all be the same lot. They knew each other.”
“Of course they did. The whole thing was planned and organised.” Di Brett checked herself, took the edge of animosity from her voice. She must be careful. One never knew what was coming next. “Very well organised, too. Our side’s pretty good, I must say.” She hoped she’d got that across.
Hester giggled. “Your friend Newton was certainly a surprise, Di. He looked such a softy. How did you meet him?”
“Same way as Cleo and Mariotta met Johan and David. At the hotel where I was staying. He said he was anti-war. An Englishman who lived in Portugal and whose heart was not in it. And that reminds me of something, too——”
“What’s that?”
“There’s another man staying at the Polana. I met him early in the war at Cape Town. His name’s Widmark—a lieutenant-commander. When I asked him what he was doing in L.M. he told me he’d been invalided out of the Navy. He’s quite famous for what he did in the Mediterranean. Or notorious. He pretended not to know James Newton. I had to introduce them to each other. I’m sure he’s involved in this, too.”
“Not Stephen Widmark?” said Cleo faintly.
“Yes. That’s him. Why?”
Cleo realised that her heart was beating a good deal faster than usual. “I have met him,” she said, and hoped it sounded casual. “D’you think he’s on board now?”
“He might be, Cleo. There seem to be a lot of strange people on board. But he wasn’t one of those who came into the cabin. I’d have recognised his voice.”
So would I, so would I, thought Cleo. So that was what Stephen Widmark was doing in Lourenço Marques. Perhaps that explained why he’d not kept the promise he’d made at Costa’s. But why hadn’t he just telephoned her? What harm could that have done? Now something strange was taking place in her mind: her fear was going, had gone; she knew now that Stephen was mixed up in this, that he was on board, and her heart really was getting out of control, thumping wildly; somewhere inside her there was a seething and a longing—she would be seeing him soon. At any moment he might come into the cabin. In her mind she could see his dark, handsome face: the high cheekbones, slanted eyes, and thin nose—the dark hair and bushy eyebrows and, above all, that sardonic, half-amused smile. “Oh God!” she said it to herself, fervently, “I hope I see him again.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by vibrations which shook the ship. “What’s that?” she asked fearfully.
“It’s—it’s—it must be the engines.” Hester Smit’s shrill laugh was near to being hysterical.
“My God!” said Di Brett. “The fools are trying to steal the ship.”
“Why fools, Di?” Cleo’s voice was disapproving—she was think
ing of Stephen. “After all, it’s our side.”
“I mean it’s such a mad risk to take.”
“I think it’s very brave. I hope they succeed.” And though her voice had been firm enough while she said that, Cleo felt small tears run down her cheeks.
Hester laughed excitedly, still a little hysterical. “Hooray! We’re off! I’ll be seeing more of Johan.”
As soon as Johan took over from him at the fo’c’sle, Mike Kent went along the fore well-deck and up the companion ladders to the boat-deck.
There he turned aft and made for the wireless cabin abaft the funnel. The door was closed but not locked. He went in, fumbled in the dark for the light switch, found it and turned on the lights.
Somebody had got there before him: somebody German, somebody who had battered the wireless equipment so that everywhere was confusion, a tangle of wires, broken valves, broken coils and condensers and transformers. Even the two transmission keys had been smashed.
Mike Kent was suddenly very frightened. The wireless was essential to their plans. They might get through without it, but the odds against them would be immeasurably increased. He had to get it going again, somehow. And he’d have to be quick. He took off the tweed jacket he was wearing, removed his spectacles, cleaned them deliberately, put them on again, and took from his pocket a screwdriver, a pair of long-nosed pliers, a circuit tester and some insulating tape.
With an enormous sense of urgency he got to work.
There was no light in the chain-locker and the smell of mud and decaying vegetation, fetched up from the seabed by the anchor cables over the years, was rank and fetid. What little air there was came down the spurling-pipes, but the atmosphere was oppressive and breathing was a laboured business. From above, through the spurling-pipes, came the sound of riveting; but when they had been in the locker for some minutes they could hear, faintly, other sounds, such as hammering and scraping on the fo’c’sle above them, and from time to time the cables leading down from the gypsies rattled in the spurling-pipes.