Appleby on Ararat (23 page)

“As in the
Swiss Family
, sir. Hoppo’s suggestion.”

“Tscha! That was savages. No disgrace to bolt from brute beasts. But they seem to be all round us; best to lie low, no doubt. Hope that dog’s asleep.”

“We’ll be all right, sir.” Mudge was placid as before. “Short of a harpoon they’re very sluggish, is whales. Ruminative might be the word. A great deal of reflection in them, I’d say at a guess. And if you want to see one, sir – why, there you are.”

They swung round at his words. Hard by the launch’s starboard side, and where moments before there had been only a curtain of fog and night, there loomed and glided a shape vast, black and glistening. Absurdly, it seemed to tower in air like very Leviathan, as impossible as a creature of the Just-So stories. And then in an instant it was veiled and had vanished – vanished with a vast low
plop
like a pebble dropped in a well.

By the dim light of the binnacle Colonel Glover could be seen mopping his brow. Appleby still stared fascinated into the vacancy where the whale had been. It was like sailing the ocean of some mediaeval cartographer in which the monsters of the deep disported themselves familiarly around pygmean barques and galleons. To port he heard a hiss and ripple of broken water; another of the creatures must have returned to the surface from a nocturnal plunge. But this one remained invisible, and presently there was only the deep, low breathing of the slumbering school.

An hour passed – an uncanny hour during which it was difficult to believe in dawn. But dawn would come, and there was some petrol left, and conceivably they might make land. There were plenty of islands, Mudge said, though thinly scattered; they would come upon one with luck – an inhabited one if they had more luck still. He heard a slither in the darkness; it was Diana stumbling across the little deck from some hatch where she had curled herself. “Mr Mudge – John: whatever noise is that?”

“Whales, Diana. And setting you an example in the way of a good night’s sleep. They don’t even snore.”

“Whales! I don’t believe it.” She stopped and stared into darkness. “Look!”

“I told you so.” He turned round. Even closer than before, a vast shape had loomed up to starboard. It was a dull grey and rolling slightly. The water could be heard running down its great flanks.

Childishly Diana clapped her hands. “That island,” she said; “it didn’t have Hoppo’s hippo after all. So this just must be Hoppo’s whale.”

Appleby laughed. “Very well,” he said. “It’s Hoppo’s whale. Mudge says–”

He stopped. For out of the darkness Hoppo’s whale was speaking.

“Achtung!”
it said.

That Hoppo’s whale should incontinently take to itself the character of Balaam’s ass was a thing sufficiently astounding to ensure some seconds’ silence. And by that time the truth was apparent and silence most evidently golden. Appleby leant down and flicked off the tiny light over the instruments. “Mudge,” he whispered, “that coil of rope by the painter: how long is it?”

“Twenty fathom.”

Appleby disappeared like a spectre towards the bows. The submarine appeared to be not under way, but the swell had carried the launch the few yards that made it invisible. There was the faintest splash forward and then silence except for the low heavy breathing of the veritable whales. Diana thought of how George might wake up and bark, of how Mr Rumsby might wake up and vacantly curse the night. But everything remained utterly still; there was no further voice from the sinister craft beside them; Mudge and Glover were unmoving shadows by her side. Minutes went past. The launch rocked gently; Mudge was leaning out, hauling; Appleby, dripping and gasping, was on the deck. They waited, and time seemed to linger about them as if trammelled in the fog.

Diana heard Mudge’s whisper. “Clear of the screws and elevators, Mr Appleby?”

“Jumping wire.”

Silence again. She waited, expecting some terrific explosion. But when sound came it was the faint deep throb of diesel engines. A voice called an order; the fog so muted it that it might have been the harsh cry of a bird. The noise of the engines rose, grew fainter. It could barely be heard. Silence. And then with a jerk the launch moved through the water.

Diana gasped. They were in tow. “John,” she whispered cautiously, “I thought you would be doing something with that grenade.”

She could just see him stir beside her. “No use. It might conceivably damage the steering-gear; nothing more. We want an open hatch.”

“Will the rope hold?” asked Glover. “Forty yards seems rather a lot. Not that we couldn’t do with a wider berth. Awkward if the fog clears.”

“It should hold, sir. She’s not likely to cruise beyond ten knots.” Mudge was professionally knowledgeable. “We’ve just got to keep quiet and sit tight. Shh!”

The figure of Mr Hoppo had emerged from the darkness, calling out with the somewhat uncertain cheerfulness which romantic adventure had induced in him. He stopped short at Mudge’s hiss. “Whatever–?”

“Submarine,” Diana whispered. “John has tied our painter to a submarine. And we’re going for a ride.”

“An
enemy
submarine?”

Appleby sat down by the darkened binnacle. “Well, they don’t speak English. And we shall soon know.”

“Dear me. If I remember my Greek a painter is really something with which one snares wild animals; it seems appropriate enough.” Hoppo giggled, discreetly low. “Had not we better go round and enjoin silence? My memories of this launch are such that I feel they may set a gramophone going at any time.”

“That dog,” said Glover. “Perhaps best put him overboard, poor little beggar. Might give the show away properly.”

“No, sir.” Mudge was respectful but firm. “From a sailor’s point of view I couldn’t advise it. No good ever came of killing a living thing about a boat, begging your pardon. You may recall a poem about an albatross, sir. Picturesque, for the most part. But with a reflective strain to that effect, sir.”

“Very well.” Glover’s agreement was perfunctory; he appeared to be thinking of something else. “I’ll go round and warn the men, if Mrs Kittery will do the same by the women.”

Hours went past. The launch, silent, glided through the calm invisible waters as if propelled by a spirit of power. Faintly the sound of the diesel engines could be heard from time to time. Presently, perhaps, they would halt and the submarine would go forward in short, cautious pushes. And that would be the ticklish period. Appleby and Mudge had ready a pair of sculls; Diana had her hand on the tow-rope; immediately this slackened for more than a second they must silently and strongly pull. Otherwise with their light draft they might conceivably come up with the submarine as it stopped.

Dawn would have to be reckoned with soon; and the fog alone would be the riskiest cover to their manoeuvre then. But the darkness was still entire; the hours were lengthening themselves; the faint ripple at the bows sank as speed was reduced, and reduced again, on the craft before them. Presumably the cautious approach to fog-bound land – eerie in any circumstances – had begun. The launch moved; Diana would softly call; as softly they would pull at the oars. The submarine was nosing forward, stopping, nosing forward again. Once they heard a voice, startling in its brisk confidence, come clear down some crevice or funnel in the fog. Which meant, perhaps, that the fog would be breaking soon.

Glover was whispering in Appleby’s ear. “Something on my mind. Are you proposing an operation for the destruction of this enemy force?”

Appleby turned in the darkness, surprised. “Yes.”

“I don’t know that I like it. Dashed good job, of course. But–”

“Our people must take the risk. They were warned of extreme hazards in the voyage.”

“I’m not thinking of that.” Glover appeared to have difficulty in expressing himself. “Mind you, it was all right with that fellow Dunchue. An officer, no doubt, and a brave man. But hanging about that island pretending to be tight he was just a spy. Quite right to have done with him. But these fellows are regular sailors in a man-of-war. I doubt if they should be attacked except by armed forces of the Crown. Worrying, Appleby – dashed worrying.”

“Well, sir, you
are
the armed forces of the Crown, are you not?”

“Retired list, my dear man. And then there’s the question of uniform. Attacking force oughtn’t to be in civilian clothes.”

“I see.” Appleby meditated suggesting that wars were no longer conducted on quite these lines. But he thought better of it. And Mudge broke in.

“Mr Appleby, sir, I’m much in the same position as the colonel. Naval reserve, sir. I’d be back now, if I’d seen my way to it. And I can do something in the way of uniform, having always kept my old kit in my own locker forward. Nowhere safe from those copper-coloured vermin at the hotel.”

“Give me your oar, my man, and cut along.” Glover appeared greatly relieved. “Hullo, what was that?”

The submarine had given tongue – a melancholy sound like the last cry of a creature that has been long in pain. And from somewhere beyond came the call of an answering siren – a low blare, blurred and muffled.

“Of course,” said Appleby, “it may be a depot ship. But I think it will be the island. And I’m not sure whether our first or second approach to it is the crazier. I can see a light. It must be something pretty powerful to pierce this fog.”

“The fog’s lifting.” Diana’s voice spoke from behind him. “Don’t you think perhaps they’ll wait till it’s gone before going in?”

“They’re going in now. Can’t you smell anything?”

“Fog. And – and smoke.”

“Just that. In fact, we’re not a mile from Heaven’s Hermitage Hotel. We’re just off shore and running between it and the dump. You remember it’s deep water at the dump, and with no reef beyond it. The light’s clearer. They’re flashing it from up on top, just about where we picknicked. Is that Mudge?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“She’ll be berthing in a minute. We must haul in until we’re as close as we dare go. You’ll take over; it’s the sort of cast you’re practised at. From the stern, I think, because the colonel and I will scull her round for the get-away as soon as we’re in position. Diana, as soon as the tow-line slackens next you tell us and then make for the cabin. No one’s to come out. For whatever happens there will be a bang quite uncomfortably close. Everybody quite clear?”

They waited, listening to each other’s breathing – and to their strained sense it was not unlike the vast respiring of the whales. To starboard was the deeper darkness of some near-by solid thing; before them was only fog and the shreds of night and occasional indecipherable sound. Suddenly Diana whispered, padded across the deck, and they felt the way of the launch slowly cease. It was motionless and they could see nothing – but when the fog cleared there would be the half-light of dawn. Appleby had the rope and was pulling gently in; there was more sound now – a clank and rattle and the calling of commands. Then the fog parted.

The fog parted like a contrivance of the theatre and close before them was the tail of the submarine. It lay berthed with its starboard flank rubbing the port fenders of a second submarine. And to starboard of that must be the dump. Arc lights of cold blue were slung from the conning-towers and from hatches aft rose a warmer glow. Men were moving on the decks, silently. And then from the shore – startlingly – there came a sudden laughter, deep and short. The sound served like some closing couplet on a stage. The scene shut as it had opened, and there was only fog.

They had been holding their breath – for it had seemed impossible that they had not been seen as clearly as they saw. But there was no sound of alarm; only from the shore a faint waft of singing, and now a muffled business-like voice from one of the decks in front.

But another break in the fog would be fatal. For already there had been a grey light, not that of electricity, over the momentary scene. Appleby murmured to Glover and they began with an infinite caution to turn the launch. The movement lost them distance and they had to pull her awkwardly, stern first, towards the submarine. They could see the hull now, and the glare of the arc lamps beyond – and now they could see the light that beat up from the hatch.

Mudge was standing in the stern, something unfamiliar in his silhouette. They crept nearer. A voice spoke sharply, soberly: “
Gestorben
?”

There was a murmured reply, with here and there a word distinguishable: “…
eine Granate…gestern abend…”
Somebody hearing about Dunchue.

Mudge had his right arm flexed by his side. They sculled the launch yet closer and shapes loomed on the deck of the nearer submarine. The fog was shifting. Mudge waited. And suddenly the singing came clearly from the shore, rich, beautiful in the darkness.

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,

Wie schön sind deine...

Diana felt Appleby tremble beside her. And then the fog had gone again and the submarine was very close and on the conning-tower was an officer turned away from them. And Mudge was shouting, “Submarine ahoy!”

From somewhere a light flashed on him. He was standing in British naval uniform – a crumpled uniform made for a younger man; the light caught at his feet, swept upward to his collar with its braid of the Nile and Trafalgar. Another beam sprang out, ran along the submarine’s deck, flooded its after part with light. Men were shouting. Mudge’s arm went circling in air. And Glover and Appleby drove with their sculls.

The explosion took the launch and bounced it on the sea like a ball; they were all tumbled against the thwarts and rolled in green water. But Mudge was at his engine and it had leapt to life. Waterlogged, they were running out to ocean.

Diana looked back and saw through the clearing fog a thin tongue of flame. It was half a mile away now, she thought…and then the same thing happened again. The launch leapt and shuddered; the roar of a vast detonation blasted them; the tongue of flame had become a waving curtain of fire. She turned to Appleby and shouted. She could not hear herself and shouted again. “What was that?”