Shout at the Devil - Smith Wilbur - Страница 98

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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

HMS. 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 HMS. Pegasus, the other cruiser of the blockade squadron.

"Well, it looks as though Blitcher 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 original 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 Blitcher. Risk involved in delaying until Blucher leaves the delta before engaging her is too high. Absolutely imperative that she be either destroyed or blocked at her present anchorage. Consequences of Blitcher running blockade and attacking the troop convoy conveying landing forces to invasion of Tonga 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 B14cher before 30

July 1915, you are hereby ordered to scuttle Renounce and Pegasus in the channel of the Rufiji to block Blitcher'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 she'll 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 Blitcher 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 Blitcher 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?" It was exactly the size of a box of twenty-four Monte Crista 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 very 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.

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