Shout at the Devil (21 page)

Read Shout at the Devil Online

Authors: Wilbur Smith

BOOK: Shout at the Devil
11.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
‘Come along, old girl. Do try and keep up,' murmured Charles Little with the scorn that a destroyer man feels for any vessel that cannot cruise at twenty knots. Then he looked beyond
Orion
at the land. Below the massif of Table Mountain, near the head of the Constantia valley a single pin prick of light showed.
‘there'll be fog tonight, sir,' the pilot spoke at Charles's elbow, and Charles turned without regret to peer over the bows into the gathering night.
‘Yes, a good night for pirates.'
T
he fog condensed on the grey metal of the bridge, so the footplates were slippery underfoot. It soaked into the overcoats of the men huddled against the rail, and it dewed in minute pearls on the eyebrows and the beard of Kapitän zur See 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. ‘Foredeck 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 defences 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
Blücher
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 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 be 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
Blücher
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
Blücher
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.
‘Bridge,' said Kyller but the reply was lost in the deafening detonation of the first broadside, the long thunderous roll of heavy gun-fire. He jumped involuntarily, taken unawares, and then quickly lifted the binoculars from his chest to train them on the British merchantmen.
All attention, every eye on the bridge was concentrated ahead, waiting for the fall of shot upon the doomed vessels.
In the comparative silence that followed the bellow of the broadside, a shriek from the masthead voice-pipe carried clearly.
‘Warships! Enemy warships dead astern!'
‘Starboard ten.' Von Kleine raised his voice a little louder than was his wont, and still under full power,
Blücher
swerved away from the land, leaning out from the turn, with her wake curved like an ostrich plume on the surface of the sea behind her, and ran for the shelter of the fog banks, leaving the rich prize of cargo shipping unscathed. On her bridge von Kleine and his officers were staring aft, the merchantmen forgotten as they searched for this new threat.
‘Two warships.' The masthead look-out was elaborating his sighting report. ‘A destroyer and a cruiser. Bearing ninety degrees. Range, five-oh-seven-oh. Destroyer leading.'
In the spherical field of von Kleine's binoculars the neat little triangle of the leading destroyer's superstructure popped up above the horizon. The cruiser was not yet in sight from the bridge.
‘If they'd been an hour later,' lamented Kyller, ‘we'd have finished the business and …'
‘What does masthead see of the
cruiser?'
von Kleine interrupted him impatiently. He had no time to mourn this chance of fate – his only concern was to evaluate the force that was pursuing him, and then make the decision whether to run, or to turn back and engage them immediately.
‘Cruiser is a medium, six or nine-inch. Either “O” class, or an “R”. She's four miles behind her escort. Both ships still out of range.'
The destroyer was of no consequence; he could run down on her and blast her into a burning wreck, before her feeble little 4.7-inch guns were able to drop a shell within a mile of
Blücher
, but the cruiser was another matter entirely. To tackle her,
Blücher
would be engaging with her own class;
victory would only be won after a severe mauling, and she was six thousand miles from the nearest friendly port where she could effect major repairs.
There was a further consideration. These two British ships might be the vanguard of a battle squadron. If he turned now and challenged action, engaged the cruiser in a single ship action, he might suddenly find himself pitted against imponderable odds. There could very well be another cruiser, or two, or three – even a battleship, below the southern horizon.
His duty and his orders dictated instant flight, avoiding action, and so prolonging
Blücher
's fighting life.
‘Enemy are streaming their colours, sir,' Kyller reported. Von Kleine lifted his binoculars again. At the destroyer's masthead flew the tiny spots of white and red. This time he must leave the challenge to combat unanswered. ‘Very well,' he said, and turned away to his stool in the corner of the bridge. He slumped into it and hunched his shoulders in thought. There were many interesting problems to occupy him, not least of them was how long he could run at full speed towards the north while his boilers devoured coal ravenously, and each minute widened the gap between
Blücher
and
Esther.
He swivelled his stool and looked back over his stern. The destroyer was visible to the unaided eye now, and von Kleine frowned at it in irritation. She would yap at his heels like a terrier, clinging to him and shouting his course and speed across the ether to the hungry British squadrons, that must even now be closing with him from every direction. For days now he could expect to see her sitting in his wake.
‘
C
ome on! Come on!' Charles Little slapped his hand impatiently against the padded arm of his stool as he watched
Orion
.
For a night and a day he had watched her gaining on
Blücher
but so infinitesimally slowly that it required his range finder to confirm the gain every thirty minutes.
Orion'
s bows were unnaturally high, and the waves she lifted with the passage of her hull through the water were the white wings of a seagull in the tropical sunlight; for Manderson, her captain, had pumped out her forward fresh-water tanks and fired away half the shell and explosive propellant from her forward magazines. Every man whose presence in the front half of the ship was not essential to her operation had been ordered aft to stand on the open deck as human ballast – all this in an effort to lift Orion's bows and to coax another inch of speed from the cruiser.
Now she faced the most dangerous hour of her life, for she was creeping within extreme range of
Blücher'
s terrible nine-inch armament, and, taking into account the discrepancy in their speeds, it would be another hour before she could bring her own six-inch guns to bear. During that time she would be under fire from
Blücher'
s after turrets and would have no answer to them.
It was heart-breaking for Charles to watch the chase, for
Bloodhound
had not once been asked to extend herself. Below there was a reserve of speed that would allow her to close with
Blücher
in fifty minutes of steaming – always provided she was not smashed into a fiery shambles long before.
Thus the three vessels fled towards the ever-receding northern horizon. The two long shapes of the cruisers flying arrow straight, solid columns of reeking smoke pouring from
the triple funnels to besmear the gay, glittering surface of the sea with a long double bank of black that dispersed only slowly on the easterly breeze; while, like a water beetle, the diminutive
Bloodhound
circled out to the side of
Blücher
from where, when the time came, she could spot the fall of
Orion'
s shells more accurately and signal the corrections to her. But always
Bloodhound
tactfully kept outside the fifteen-mile radius which marked the length of
Blücher'
s talons.
‘We can expect
Blücher
to open fire at any moment now, sir,' the navigating lieutenant commented as he straightened up from the sextant, over which he had been measuring the angle subtended by the two cruisers.
Charles nodded in agreement. ‘Yes. Von Kleine must try for a few lucky hits, even at that range.'
‘This isn't going to be very pretty to watch.'
‘We'll just have to sit tight, keep our fingers crossed, and hope old
Orion
can—' He stopped abruptly, and then jumped up from his stool. ‘Hello!
Blücher'
s up to something!'
The silhouette of the German cruiser had altered drastically in the last few seconds. The gap between her funnels widened and now Charles could see the humped menace of her forward turrets.
‘By God, she's altering course! The bloody bastard is bringing all his turrets to bear!'
 
 
Lieutenant Kyller studied his captain's face. In sleep there was an air of serenity about the man. It reminded Kyller of a painting he had seen in the cathedral at Nümberg, a portrait of Saint Luke by Holbein. The same fine bone structure, the golden-blond beard and moustache that framed the mobile and sensitive lips. He pushed the idea aside and leaned forward. Gently he touched von Kleine's shoulder.
‘Captain. My Captain,' and von Kleine opened his eyes. They were smoky blue with sleep but his voice was crisp.
‘What is it, Kyller?'
‘The gunnery officer reports the enemy will be within range in fifteen minutes.'
Von Kleine swivelled his stool and looked quickly about his ship. Above him the smoke poured from every funnel, and from the mouth of each stack a volcano of sparks and shimmering heat blew steadily. The paint had blistered and peeled from the metal of the funnels and they glowed red hot, even in the sunlight.
Blücher
was straining herself far beyond the limits her makers had set. God alone knew what injury this constant running at full speed was doing her, and von Kleine winced as he felt her tremble in protest beneath him.
He turned his eyes astern. The British cruiser was hull up on the horizon now. The difference in their speeds must be a small fraction of a knot, but
Blücher'
s superiority in fire power was enormous.
For a moment he allowed himself to ponder the arrogance of a nation that constantly, almost by choice, matched their men and ships against unnatural odds. Always they sent terriers to fight against wolfhounds. Then he smiled, you had to be English or mad, to understand the English.
He glanced out to starboard. The British destroyer had worked out on to his flank. It could do little harm from there.
‘Very well, Kyller …' He stood as he spoke.
‘Bridge – Engine Room,' the voice-tube squealed.
‘Engine Room – Bridge.' Kyller turned to it.
‘Our port main bearing is running red hot. I must shut down our port engine!'
The words struck von Kleine like a bucket of iced water thrown down his back. He leaped to the voice-tube.
‘This is the Captain. I must have full power for another hour!'
‘I can't do it, sir. Another fifteen minutes and the main drive shaft will seize up. God knows what damage it will do.'
For five seconds von Kleine hunched silently over the voice-tube. His mind raced. On one engine
Blücher
would lose ten knots on her speed. The enemy would be able to manoeuvre about him freely – possibly hold off until nightfall and then … He must attack immediately; turn on them and press his attack home with all his armament.
‘Give me full power for as long as you can,' he snapped, and then turning to the gunnery officer's tube, ‘This is the Captain. I am turning four points to starboard, and will keep the enemy directly on our starboard beam for the next fifteen minutes. After that I will be forced to reduce speed. Open fire when you bear.' Von Kleine snapped the cover closed and turned to his yeoman of signals. ‘Hoist the battle ensign!'
He spoke softly, without heat, but there were lights in his eyes like those in a blue sapphire.

Other books

Behind the Eight Ball by M.A. Church
Sons of Amber: Michael by Bianca D'Arc
A Spy Among Friends by Ben Macintyre
Risky Pleasures by Brenda Jackson
Mother Be The Judge by O'Brien, Sally
Daughters of the KGB by Douglas Boyd