Shout at the Devil - Smith Wilbur - Страница 63

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Otto von Kleine. It gave him an air of derring-do, the reckless look of a scholarly pirate.

Every few seconds Lieutenant Kyller glanced anxiously at his captain, wondering when the order to turn would come. He hated this business of creeping inshore in the fog, with a flood tide pushing them towards a hostile coast.

"Stop all engines," said von Kleine, and Kyller repeated the order to the helm with alacrity. The muted throbbing died beneath their feet, and afterwards the fog-blanketed air was heavy with a sepulchral hush.

Ask masthead what he makes of the land." Von Kleine spoke without turning his head, and after a pause Kyller reported back.

"Masthead is in the fog. No visibility." He paused.

Toredeck reports fifty fathoms shoaling rapidly." And von Kleine nodded. The sounding tended to confirm his estimate that they were sitting five miles off the breakwater of Durban harbour. When the morning wind swept the fog aside he hoped to see the low coastal hills of Natal ahead of him, terraced with gardens and whitewashed buildings but most of all he hoped to see at least six British merchantmen anchored off the beach waiting their turn to enter the congested harbOUr, plump and sleepy under the protection of the shore batteries;

unaware just how feeble was the protection afforded by half a dozen obsolete ten-pounders manned by old men and boys of the militia.

German naval intelligence had submitted a very detailed report of the de fences and conditions prevailing in Durban.

After careful perusal of this report, von Kleine had decided that he could trade certain betrayal of his exact position to the English for such a rich prize. There was little actual risk involved. One pass across the entrance of the harbour at high speed, a single broadside for each of the anchored merchantmen, and he could be over the horizon again before the shore gunners had loaded their weapons.

The risk, of course, was in showing Blitcher to the entire population of Durban city and thereby supplying the Royal Navy with its first accurate sighting since the declaration of war. Within minutes of his first broadside, the British squadrons, which were hunting him,

would be racing in from all directions to block each of his escape routes. He hoped to counter this by swinging away towards the south,

down into that watery wilderness of wind and ice below J latitude 40',

to the rendezvous with Esther, his supply ship.

Then on to Australia or South America, as the opportunity arose.

He turned to glance at the chronometer above the ship's compass.

Sunrise in three minutes, then they could expect the morning wind.

"Masthead reports the fog dispersing, sir," Von Kleine aroused himself, and looked out into the fog banks. They were moving now,

twisting upon themselves in agitation at the warmth of the sun. "All engines slow ahead together," he said.

Masthead," warbled one of the voice-pipes in the battery in front of Kyller. "Land bearing green four-oh. Range, ten thousand metres.

A big headland." That would be the bluff above Durban, that massive whale-backed mountain that sheltered the harbour. But in the fog von

Kleine had misjudged his approach; he was twice as far from the shore as he had intended.

"All engines full ahead together. New course. Oh-oh-six." He waited for the order to be relayed to the helm before strolling across to the voice-pipes. "Guns. Captain."

"Guns," the voice from far away acknowledged.

"I will be opening fire with high explosives in about ten minutes.

The target will he massed merchant shipping on an approximate mark of three hundred degrees. Range, five thousand metres, You may fire as soon as you bear."

"Mark three hundred degrees. Range, five thousand metres. Sir," repeated the pipe, and von Kleine snapped the voice-tube cover shut and returned to his original position, facing forward with his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Below him the gun-turrets revolved ponderously and the long barrels lifted slightly, pointing out into the mist with impassive menace.

A burst of dazzling sunshine struck the bridge so fiercely that

Kyller lifted his hand to shield his eyes, but it was gone instantly as the Blucher dashed into another clammy cold bank of fog. Then as though they had passed through a curtain on to a brilliantly lit stage,

they came out into a gay summer's morning.

Behind them the fog rolled away in a sodden grey wall from horizon to horizon. Ahead rose the green hills of Africa, rimmed with white beach and surf and speckled with thousands of whiter flecks that were the buildings of Durban town. The scaffolding of the cranes along the harbour wall looked like derelict sets of gallows.

Humped on the smooth green mirror of water between them and the shore, lay four ungainly shapes looking like a troop of basking hippo.

The British merchantmen.

"Four only," muttered von Kleine in chagrin. "I had hoped for more." The forty-foot barrels of the nine-inch guns moved restlessly,

seeming to sniff for their prey, and the Blucher raced on, lifting a hissing white wave at her bows, vibrating and shuddering to the thrust of her engines as they built up to full speed.

"Masthead" the voice-tube beside Kyller squawked urgently.

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