Authors: Wilbur Smith

Shout at the Devil (6 page)

BOOK: Shout at the Devil

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L
ong after the dhow had sailed sedately first out of rifle range, and then out of sight, Herman Fleischer gave himself over completely to the epilepsy of frustrated anger. He raved about the tiny deck, lashing out with ham-sized fists while his Askari skittled around him trying to keep out of range. Repeatedly he returned to the
unconscious form of his helmsman to kick him as he lay. At last his fury burned itself down to the level where it allowed him to trundle aft and hang over the stern rail peering down at the sodden bundle of netting which was wrapped around the propeller.

âSergeant!' His voice was hoarse with strain. âGet two men with knives over the side to cut that away!'

And a stillness fell upon them all. Every man tried to shrink himself down into insignificance, so that the choice might not fall on him. Two volunteers were selected, divested of their uniforms and hustled to the stern, despite their terrified entreaties.

âTell them to hurry,' grunted Herman, and went to his folding chair. His personal boy placed the evening meal with its attendant pitcher of beer on the table before him and Herman fell to.

Once from the stern there was a squeak and a splash, following by a furious burst of rifle fire. Herman frowned and looked up from his plate.

âA crocodile has taken one of the men,' his sergeant, reported in agitation.

âWell, put another one over,' said Herman and returned with unabated relish to his meal. This last batch of sausage was particularly tasty.

The netting had wound so tightly about the blades and shaft of the propeller, that it was an hour after midnight when the last of it was hacked away by lantern light.

The drive shaft had twisted slightly and run one of its bearings, so even at quarter speed there was a fearsome clattering and threshing sound from the stern as the launch limped slowly down the channel towards the sea.

In the grey and pallid pink of dawn they crept past the last island of mangroves and the launch lifted her head to the sluggish thrust of the Indian Ocean. It was a windless morning of flat calm, and Herman peered without hope into
the misty half light that obscured the ocean's far horizon. He had come this far only on the slight chance that the dhow might have gone aground on a mud bank during her night run down the river.

âStop!' he shouted at his battered helmsman. Immediately the agonized clatter of the propeller ceased, and the launch rose and fell uneasily on the long oily swells.

So they had got clear away then. He could not risk his damaged launch on the open sea. He must go back, and leave the dhow and its ivory and its many candidates for the rope, to head unmolested for that pest-hole of rogues and pirates on Zanzibar Island.

Moodily he looked out across the sea and mourned that cargo of ivory. There had been perhaps a million Reichsmarks of it aboard, of which his unofficial handling fee would have been considerable.

Also he mourned the departure of the Englishman. He had never hanged one before.

He sighed and tried to comfort himself with the thought of that damned American, now well digested in the maw of a crocodile, but truly it would have been more satisfying to see him kick and spin on the rope.

He sighed again. Ah, well! At least he would no longer have the perpetual worry of Flynn O'Flynn's presence on his border, nor would he have to suffer the nagging of Governor Schee and his endless demands for O'Flynn's head.

Now it was breakfast time. He was about to turn away when something out there in the lightening dawn caught his attention.

A long low shape, its outline becoming crisper as he watched. There were cries from his Askari as they saw it also, huge in the dawn. The stark square turrets with their slim gun-barrels, the tall triple stacks and the neat geometrical patterns of its rigging.

âThe
BlÃ¼cher!'
roared Herman in savage elation. âThe
BlÃ¼cher,
by God!' He recognized the cruiser, for he had seen her not six months before, lying in Dar es Salaam harbour. âSergeant, bring the signal pistol!' He was capering with excitement. In reply to Herman's hasty message, Governor Schee must have sent the
BlÃ¼cher
racing southwards to blockade the Rufiji mouth. âStart the engine. Schnell! Run out to her,' he shouted at the helmsman as he slid one of the fat Verey cartridges into the gaping breech of the pistol, snapped it closed and pointed the muzzle to the sky.

Beside the tall bulk of the cruiser the launch was as tiny as a floating leaf, and Herman looked up with apprehension at the frail rope ladder he was expected to climb. His Askari assisted him across the narrow strip of water between the two vessels and he hung for a desperate minute until his feet found the rungs and he began his ponderous ascent. Sweating profusely he was helped on to the deck by two seamen and faced an honour guard of a dozen or more. Heading them was a young lieutenant in crisp, smart tropical whites.

Herman shrugged off the helping hands, drew himself to attention with a click of heels. âCommissioner Fleischer.' His voice shaky with exertion.

âLieutenant Kyller.' The officer clicked and saluted.

âI must see your captain immediately. A matter of extreme urgency.'

â 12 â

K
apitÃ¤n zur See Count Otto von Kleine inclined his head gravely as he greeted Herman. He was a tall, thin man, who wore a neat, pointed blond beard with just a few threads of grey to give it dignity. âThe English have landed a full-scale expeditionary force in the Rufiji delta, supported by capital ships? This is correct?' he asked immediately.

âThe report was exaggerated.' Herman regretted bitterly the impetuous wording of his message to the Governor; he had been fired with patriotic ardour at the time. âIn fact, it was only â¦ ah,' he hesitated, âone vessel.'

âOf what strength? What is her armament?' demanded von Kleine.

âWell, it was an unarmed vessel.'

And von Kleine frowned. âOf what type?'

Herman flushed with embarrassment. âAn Arab dhow. Of about twenty-two metres.'

âBut this is impossible. Ridiculous. The Kaiser has delivered an ultimatum to the British Consul in Berlin. He has issued mobilization orders to five divisions.' The captain spun on his heel and began to pace restlessly about his bridge, clapping his hands together in agitation. âWhat was the purpose of this British invasion? Where is this â¦ this dhow? What explanation must I send to Berlin?'

âI have since learned that the expedition was led by a notorious ivory poacher named O'Flynn. He was shot resisting arrest by my Askari, but his accessory, an unknown Englishman, escaped down the river last night in the dhow.'

âWhere will they be headed?' The captain stopped pacing and glared at Herman.

âZanzibar.'

âThis is stupidity, utter stupidity. We will be a laughing stock! A battle cruiser to catch a pair of common criminals!'

âBut, Captain, you must pursue them.'

To what purpose?'

âIf they escape to tell their story, the dignity of the Emperor will be lowered throughout the length of Africa. Think if the British Press were to hear of this! Also, these men are dangerous criminals.'

âBut I cannot board a foreign ship on the high seas. Especially if she flies the Union Jack. It would be an act of war â an act of piracy.'

âBut, Captain, if she were to sink with all hands, sink without a trace?'

And Captain von Kleine nodded thoughtfully. Then abruptly he snapped his fingers and turned to his pilot. âPlot me a course for Zanzibar Island.'

â 13 â

T
hey lay becalmed below a sky of brazen cobalt, and every hour of the calm allowed the Mozambique current to push the little dhow another three miles off its course. Aimlessly she swung her head to meet each of the long swells, and then let it fall away into the troughs.

For the twentieth time since dawn, Sebastian climbed up on to the poop-deck and surveyed the endless waters, searching for a ruffle on the glassy surface that would herald the wind. But there was never any sign of it. He looked towards the west, but the blue line of the coast had long since sunk below the horizon.

âI'm an old dog,
Fisi
,' bellowed Flynn from the lower deck. âHear me laugh,' and he imitated faithfully the yammering cry of an hyena. All day Flynn had regaled the
company with snatches of song and animal imitations. Yet his delirium was interspaced with periods of lucidity. âI reckon this time old Fleischer got me good, Bassie. There's a sack of poison forming round that bullet. I can feel it there. A fat, hot sack of it. Reckon we've got to dig for it pretty soon. Reckon if we can't make it back to Zanzibar pretty soon, we're going to have to dig for it.' Then his mind escaped once more into the hot land of delirium.

âMy little girl, I'll bring you a pretty ribbon. There, don't cry. A pretty ribbon for a pretty girl.' His voice syrupy, then suddenly harsh. âYou cheeky little bitch. You're just like that goddamned mother of yours. Don't know why I don't chase you out,' this last followed immediately by the hyena imitation again.

Now Sebastian turned away from the poop rail and looked down on Flynn. Beside him the faithful Mohammed was dipping strips of cloth in a bucket of sea water, wringing them out and then laying them on Flynn's flushed forehead in a futile attempt to reduce the fever.

Sebastian sighed. His responsibilities lay heavily. The command of the expedition had devolved squarely upon him. And yet, there was a sneaky sensation of pleasure, of pride in his execution of that command to the present. He went back and replayed in his mind the episode of the fishnet, remembering the quick decision that had altered the launch's course and lured it into the trap. He smiled at the memory, and the smile was not his usual self-effacing grin, but something harder. When he turned away to pace the narrow deck there was more spring in his step, and he set his shoulders square.

Again he stopped by the rail and looked towards the west. There was a cloud on the horizon, a tiny dark figure of it. And he watched it with hope that it might herald the start of the afternoon sea breeze. Yet it seemed unnatural. As he watched, it moved. He could swear it moved. Now
his whole attention was fastened upon it. Realization began to flicker in him, building up until it was certainty.

A ship. By God, a ship!

He ran to the poop ladder, and slid down into the waist, across it to the mast.

The crew and the bearers watched him with awakening interest. Some of them got to their feet.

Sebastian jumped on to the boom, balancing there a moment before he started to shin up the mast. Using the mainsail hoops like the rungs of a ladder, he reached the masthead and clung there, peering eagerly into the west.

There she was â no doubt about it. He could see the tips of the triple stacks, each with its feather of dark smoke, and he began to cheer.

Below him the rail was lined with his men, all peering out in the direction they took from him. Sebastian slid down the mast, the friction burning his hands in his haste. His feet hit the deck and he ran to Flynn. âA ship. A big ship coming up fast.' Flynn rolled his head and looked at him vaguely. âListen to me, Flynn. There'll be a doctor aboard. We'll get you to a port in no time.'

âThat's good, Bassie.' Flynn's brain clicked back into focus. âYou've done real good.'

She came up over the horizon with astonishing rapidity, and her silhouette changed as she altered course towards them. But not before Sebastian had seen the gun turrets.

âA warship!' he shouted. To his mind this proved her British â only one nation ruled the waves. âThey've seen us!' He waved his hands above his head.

Bows on, each second growing in size, grey and big, she bore down upon the little dhow.

Gradually the cheering of the crew faltered and subsided into an uneasy silence. Magnified by the still, hot air, huge on the velvety gloss of the ocean, lifting a bow wave of pearling white, the warship came on. No check in her
speed, the ensign at her masthead streaming away from them so they could not see the colours.

âWhat are they going to do?' Sebastian asked aloud, and was answered by Flynn's voice. Sebastian glanced around. Balancing on his good leg with one arm draped around Mohammed's neck, Flynn was hopping across the deck towards him.

âI'll tell you what they're going to do! They're going to hit us smack-bang up the arse!' Flynn roared. âThat's the
BlÃ¼cher
! That's a German cruiser!'

âThey can't do that!' Sebastian protested.

âYou'd like to bet? She's coming straight from the Rufiji delta â and my guess is she's had a chat with Fleischer. He's probably aboard her.' Flynn swayed against Mohammed, gasping with the pain of his leg before he went on. âThey're going to ram us, and then machine-gun anyone still floating.'

âWe've got to make a life raft.'

âNo time, Bassie. Look at her come!'

Less than five miles away, but swiftly narrowing the distance, the
BlÃ¼cher
's tall bows knifed towards them. Wildly Sebastian looked around the crowded deck, and he saw the pile of cork floats they had cut from the fish nets.

Drawing his knife, he ran to one of the sacks of coconuts and cut the twine that closed the mouth. He slipped the knife back into its sheath, stooped, and up-ended the sack, spilling coconuts on to the deck. Then with the empty sack in his hand he ran to the pile of floats and dropped on his knees. In frantic haste he shovelled them into the sack, half filling it before he looked up again. The
BlÃ¼cher
was two miles away, a tall tower of murderous grey steel.

With a length of rope Sebastian tied the sack closed and dragged it to where Flynn stood supported by Mohammed.

âWhat are you doing?' Flynn demanded.

âFixing you up! Lift your arms!' Flynn obeyed and
Sebastian tied the free end of the rope around his chest at the level of his armpits. He paused to unlace and kick off his boots before speaking again. âMohammed, you stay with him. Hang on to the sack and don't let go.' He left them, trotting on bare feet to find his rifle propped against the poop. Buckling on his cartridge belt, he hurried back to the rail.

Sebastian Oldsmith was about to engage a nine-inch battle cruiser with a double-barrelled Gibbs .500.

She was close now, hanging over them like a high cliff of steel. Even Sebastian. could not miss a battle cruiser at two hundred yards, and the heavy bullets clanged against the armoured hull, ringing loudly above the hissing rush of the bow wave.

While he reloaded, Sebastian looked up at the line of heads in the bows of the
BlÃ¼cher
; grinning faces below the white caps with their little swallow-tailed black ribbons. âYou bloody swine,' he shouted at them. Hatred stronger than he had ever dreamed possible choked his voice. âYou filthy, bloody swine.' He lifted the rifle and fired without effect, and the
BlÃ¼cher
hit the dhow.

It struck with a crash and the crackling roar of rending timber. It crushed her side and cut through in the screaming of dying men and the squeal of planking against steel.

It trod the dhow under, breaking her back, forcing her far below the surface. At the initial shock, Sebastian was hurled overboard, the rifle thrown from his hands. He struck the armoured plate of the cruiser a glancing blow and then dropped into the sea beside her. The thrust of the bow wave tumbled him aside, else he would have been dragged along the hull and his body shredded against the steel plate.

He surfaced just in time to suck a lungful of air before the turbulence of the great screws caught him and plucked him under again, driving him deep so the pressure stabbed like red-hot needles in his eardrums. He felt himself swirled
end over end, buffered, shaken vigorously as the water tore at his body.

Colour flashed and zigzagged behind his closed eyelids. There was a suffocating pain in his chest and his lungs pumped, urgently craving air, but he sealed his lips and kicked out with his legs, clawing at the water with his hands.

The churning wake of the cruiser released its grip upon him, and he was shot to the surface with such force that he broke clear to the waist before dropping back to drink air greedily. He unbuckled the heavy cartridge belt and let it sink before he looked about him.

The surface of the sea was scattered with floating debris, and a few bobbing human heads. Near him a section of torn planking rose in a burst of trapped air bubbles. Sebastian struck out for it and clung there, his legs hanging in the clear green water.

âFlynn,' he gasped. âFlynn, where are you?'

A quarter of a mile away, the
BlÃ¼cher
was circling slowly, long and menacing and shark-like, and he stared at it in hatred and in fear.

âMaster!' Mohammed's voice behind him.

Sebastian turned quickly and saw the black face and the red face beside the floating sack of corks a hundred yards away. âFlynn!'

âGood-bye, Bassie,' Flynn called. âThe old Hun is coming back to finish us off. Look! They've got machine guns set up on the bridge. See you on the other side, boy.'

Quickly Sebastian looked back at the cruiser and saw the clusters of white uniforms on the angle of her bridge. âJa, there are still some of them alive.' Through borrowed binoculars, Fleischer scanned the littered area of the wreck. âYou will use the Maxims, of course, Captain? It will be quicker than picking them off with rifles.'

Captain von Kleine did not answer. He stood tall on his
bridge, slightly round-shouldered, staring out at the wreckage with his hands clasped behind him. âThere is something sad in the death of a ship,' he murmured. âEven such a dirty little one as this.' Suddenly he straightened his shoulders and turned to Fleischer. âYour launch is waiting for you at the mouth of the Rufiji. I will take you there, Commissioner.'

âBut first the business of the survivors.'

Von Kleine's expression hardened. âCommissioner, I sank that dhow in what I believed to be my duty. But now I am not sure that my judgement was not clouded by anger. I will not trespass further on my conscience by machine-gunning swimming civilians.'

âYou will then pick them up. I must arrest them and give them trial.'

âI am not a policeman,' he paused and his expression softened a little. âThat one who fired the rifle at us. I think he must be a brave man. He is a criminal, perhaps, but I am not so old in the ways of the world that I do not love courage merely for its own sake. I would not like to know I have saved this man for the noose. Let the sea be the judge and the executioner.' He turned to his lieutenant. âKyller, prepare to drop one of the life rafts.' The lieutenant stared at him in disbelief. âYou heard me?'

âYes, my Captain.'

âThen do it.' Ignoring Fleischer's squawks of protest, von Kleine crossed to the pilot. âAlter course to pass the survivors at a distance of fifty metres.'

âHere she comes.' Flynn grinned tightly, without humour, and watched the cruiser swing ponderously towards them.

The cries of the swimmers around him, pleading mercy, were plaintive as the voices of sea birds â tiny on the immensity of the ocean.

âFlynn. Look at the bridge!' Sebastian's voice floated across to him. âSee him there. The grey uniform.'

Tears from the sting of sea salt in his wound, and the distortion of fever had blurred Flynn's vision, yet he could make out the spot of grey among the speckling of white uniforms on the bridge of the cruiser.

âWho is it?'

âYou were right. It's Fleischer,' Sebastian shouted back, and Flynn began to curse.

âHey, you filthy, fat butcher,' he bellowed, trying to drag himself up onto the floating sack of corks. âHey, you whore's chamber pot.' His voice carried above the murmur of the cruiser's engines running at dead-slow. âCome on, you blood-smeared little pig.'

The tall hull of the cruiser was close now, so close he could see the bulky figure in grey turn to the tall white-uniformed officer beside him, gesticulating in what was clearly entreaty.

The officer turned away, and moved to the rail of the bridge. He leaned out and waved to a group of seamen on the deck below him.

âThat's right. Tell them to shoot. Let's get it over with. Tell them â¦'

A large square object was lifted over the rail by the gang below the bridge. It dropped and fell with a splash alongside.

BOOK: Shout at the Devil

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