Shout at the Devil (33 page)

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Authors: Wilbur Smith

BOOK: Shout at the Devil
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‘Bloody kaffir,' said Herman Fleischer and stooped to cuff them both heavily around the ears. Then he went back to his seat in the stern, and Sebastian smiled at him with something close to affection. After those deadly blue eyes, Herman Fleischer seemed as dangerous as a teddy-bear.
Then he looked back at
Blücher
. The German officer stood at the top of the catwalk, watching them as they drew away, and set a course upstream. Then he turned away from the rail and disappeared.
S
ebastian sat on the day couch in the master cabin of H.M.S.
Renounce
, he sagged against the arm-rest and fought off the grey waves of exhaustion that washed over his mind.
He had not slept in thirty hours. After his escape from
Blücher
there had been the long launch journey up-river during which he had remained awake and jittery with the after-effects of tension.
After disembarking he had sneaked out of Fleischer's camp, avoiding the Askari guards, and trotted through the moonlight to meet Flynn and Rosa.
A hurried meal, and then all three of them had mounted on bicycles supplied with the compliments of the Royal Navy, and ridden all night along a rough elephant path to where they had left a canoe hidden among the reeds on the bank of one of the Rufiji tributaries.
In the dawn they had paddled out of one of the unguarded channels of the delta and made their rendezvous with the little whaler from H.M.S.
Renounce.
Two long days of activity without rest, and Sebastian
was groggy. Rosa sat beside him on the couch. She leaned across and touched his arm, her eyes dark with concern. Neither of them was taking any part in the conference in which the other persons in the crowded cabin were deeply involved.
Joyce sat as chairman, and beside him an older heavier man with bushy grey eyebrows and a truculent jaw, hair brushed in streaks across his pate in an ineffectual attempt to conceal his baldness. This was Armstrong, Captain of H.M.S.
Pegasus,
the other cruiser of the blockade squadron.
‘Well, it looks as though
Blücher
has made good her damage, then. If she has fired her boilers, we can expect her to break out any day now – von Kleine would not burn up good fuel to keep his stokers warm.' He said it with relish, a fighting man anticipating a good hard fight. ‘There's a message I'd like to give her from
Bloodhound
and
Orion
– an old account to settle.'
But Joyce also had a message, one that had its origin at the desk of Admiral Sir Percy Howe, Commander-in-Chief, South Atlantic and Indian Oceans. In part this message read:
‘The safety of your squadron considered secondary to containing
Blücher.
Risk involved in delaying until
Blücher
leaves the delta before engaging her is too high. Absolutely imperative that she be either destroyed or blocked at her present anchorage. Consequences of
Blücher
running blockade and attacking the troop convoy conveying landing forces to invasion of Tanga will be catastrophic. ‘Efforts being made to send you two tramp steamers to act as block ships, but failing their arrival, and failing also effective offensive action against
Blücher
before 30 July 1915, you are hereby ordered to scuttle
Renounce
and
Pegasus
in the channel of the Rufiji to block
Blücher'
s exit.'
It was a command that left Captain Arthur Joyce sick
with dread. To scuttle his splendid ships – a thought as repulsive and loathsome as that of incest, of patricide, of human sacrifice. Today was 26 July, he had four days in which to find an alternative before the order became effective,
‘She'll come out at night, of course, bound to!' Armstrong's voice was thick with battle lust. ‘This time shell not have an old girl and a baby like
Orion
and
Bloodhound
to deal with.' His tone changed slightly. ‘We'll have to look lively. New moon in three days so
Blücher
will have dark nights. ‘There could be a change in the weather …' Armstrong was looking a little worried now, ‘ … we'll have to tighten up …'
‘Read this,' said Joyce, and passed the flimsy to Armstrong. He read it.
‘My God!' he gasped. ‘Scuttle. Oh, my God!'
‘There are two channels that
Blücher
could use.' Joyce spoke softly. ‘We would have to block both of them –
Renounce
and
Pegasus!'
‘Jesus God!' swore Armstrong in horror. ‘There must be another way.'
‘I think there is,' said Joyce, and looked across at Sebastian. ‘Mr Oldsmith,' he spoke gently, ‘would it be possible for you to get on board the German cruiser once again?'
There were tiny lumps of yellow mucus in the corner of Sebastian's bloodshot eyes, but the stain that darkened his skin concealed the rings of fatigue under them.
‘I'd rather not, old chap.' He ran his hand thoughtfully over his shaven scalp and the stubble of new hair rasped under his fingers. ‘It was one of the most unpleasant hours of my life.'
‘Quite,' said Captain Joyce. ‘Quite so! I wouldn't have asked you, had I not considered it to be of prime
importance.' Joyce paused and pursed his lips to whistle softly the first bar of Chopin's ‘Funeral March', then he sighed and shook his head. ‘If I were to tell you that you alone have it in your power to save both the cruisers of this squadron from destruction and to protect the lives of fifteen thousand British soldiers and seamen – how would you answer then?'
Glumly, Sebastian sagged back against the couch and closed his eyes.
‘Can I have a few hours sleep first?'
I
t was exactly the size of a box of twenty-four Monte Cristo Havana Cigars, for that had been its contents before
Renounce'
s chief engine room artificer and the gunnery lieutenant had set to work on it.
It lay on the centre of Captain Joyce's desk, while the artificer explained its purpose to the respectful audience that stood around him.
‘It's verra simple,' started the artificer in an accent that was as bracing as the fragrance of heather and highland whisky.
‘It would have to be …' commented Flynn O'Flynn, ‘ … for Bassie to understand it.'
‘All you do is lift the lid.' The artificer suited action to the words, and even Flynn craned forward to examine the contents of the cigar box. Packed neatly into it were six yellow sticks of gelignite, looking like candles wrapped in grease-proof paper. There was also the flat dry cell battery from a bull's eye lantern, and a travelling-clock in a pigskin case. All of these were connected by loops and twists of fine copper wire. Engraved into the metal of the clock base were the words:
‘To my dear husband Arthur,
With love,
Iris.
Christmas 1914.'
Captain Arthur Joyce stilled a sentimental pang of regret with the thought that Iris would understand.
‘Then …' said the artificer, clearly enjoying the hold he had on his audience, ‘ … you wind the knob on the clock.' He touched it with his forefinger, ‘ … close the lid,' he closed it, ‘ … wait twelve hours, and – Boom!' The enthusiasm with which the Scotsman simulated an explosion blew a fine spray of spittle across the desk, and Flynn withdrew hurriedly out of range.
‘Wait twelve hours?' asked Flynn, dabbing at the droplets on his cheeks. ‘Why so long?'
‘I ordered a twelve-hour delay on the fusing of the charge.' Joyce answered the question. ‘If Mr Oldsmith is to gain access to the
Blücher'
s magazines, he will have to infiltrate the native labour gangs engaged in transferring the explosives. Once he is a member of the gang he might find difficulty in extricating himself and getting away from the ship after he has placed the charge. I am sure that Mr Oldsmith would be reluctant to make this attempt unless we could ensure that there is time for him to escape from
Blücher,
when his efforts … ah,' he sought the correct phraseology, ‘ … ah … come to fruition.' Joyce was pleased with this speech, and he turned to Sebastian for endorsement. ‘Am I correct in my assumption, Mr Oldsmith?'
Not to be outdone in verbosity, Sebastian pondered his reply for a second. Five hours of deathlike sleep curled in Rosa's arms had refreshed his body and sharpened his wit to the edge of a Toledo steel blade.
‘Indubitably,' he replied, and beamed in triumph.
T
hey sat together in the time when the sun was dying and bleeding on the clouds. They sat together on a kaross of monkey skin in a thicket of wild ebony, at the head of one of the draws that wrinkled down into the valley of the Rufiji. They sat in silence. Rosa bent forward over her needlework, as she stitched a concealed pocket into the filthy cloak of leather that lay across her lap. The pocket would hold the cigar box. Sebastian watched her, and his eyes upon her were a caress. She pulled the last stitch tight, knotted it, then leaned forward to bite the thread.
‘There!' she said. ‘It's finished.' And looked up into his eyes.
‘Thank you,' said Sebastian. They sat together quietly and Rosa reached out to touch his shoulder. The muscle under the black stained skin was rubber hard, and warm.
‘Come,' she said and drew his head down to her so that their cheeks touched, and they held each other while the last light faded. The African dusk thickened the shadows in the wild ebony, and down the draw a jackal yipped plaintively.
‘Are you ready?' Flynn stood near them, a dark bulky figure, with Mohammed beside him.
‘Yes.' Sebastian looked up at him.
‘Kiss me,' whispered Rosa, ‘and come back safely.'
Gently Sebastian broke from her embrace. He stood tall above her, and draped the cloak over his naked body. The cigar box hung heavily between his shoulder blades.
‘Wait for me,' he said, and walked away.
 
 
Flynn Patrick O'Flynn moved restlessly under his single blanket and belched. Heartburn moved acid sour in his throat, and he was cold. The earth under him had long since lost the warmth it had sucked from yesterday's sun. A small slice of the old moon gave a little silver light to the night.
Unsleeping he lay and listened to the soft sound of Rosa sleeping near him. The sound irritated him, he lacked only an excuse to waken her and make her talk to him. Instead he reached into the haversack that served as his pillow and his fingers closed round the cold smooth glass of the bottle.
A night-bird hooted softly down the draw, and Flynn released the bottle and sat up quickly. He placed two fingers between his lips and repeated the night-bird's cry.
Minutes later Mohammed drifted like a small black ghost into camp and came to squat beside Flynn's bed.
‘I see you, Fini.'
‘You I see also, Mohammed. It went well?'
‘It went well.'
‘Manali has entered the camp of the Allemand?'
‘He sleeps now beside the man who is my cousin, and in the dawn they will go down the Rufiji, to the big boat of the Allemand once again.'
‘Good!' grunted Flynn. ‘You have done well.'
Mohammed coughed softly to signify that there was more to tell.
‘What is it?' Flynn demanded.
‘When I had seen Manali safely into the care of my cousin, I came back along the valley and …' he hesitated, ‘ … perhaps it is not fitting to speak of such matters at a time when our Lord Manali goes unarmed and alone into the camp of the Allemand.'
‘Speak,' said Flynn.
‘As I walked without sound, I came to a place where this
valley falls down to the little river called Abati. You know the place?'
‘Yes, about a mile down the draw from here.'
‘That is the place.' Mohammed nodded. ‘It was here that I saw something move in the night. It was as though a mountain walked.'
A silver of ice was thrust down Flynn's spine, and his breathing snagged painfully in his throat.
‘Yes?' he breathed.
‘It was a mountain armed with teeth of ivory that grew from its face to touch the ground as it walked.'
‘
Plough the Earth.'
Flynn whispered the name, and his hand fell on to the rifle that lay loaded beside his bed.
‘It was that one.' Mohammed nodded again. ‘He feeds quietly, moving towards the Rufiji. ‘But the voice of a rifle would carry down to the ears of the Allemand.'
‘I won't fire,' whispered Flynn. ‘I just want to have a look at him. I just want to see him again.' And the hand on the rifle shook like that of a man in high fever.

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