Shout at the Devil (32 page)

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Authors: Wilbur Smith

BOOK: Shout at the Devil
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‘
A
thousand pounds!' said Flynn O'Flynn as though it were a benediction, and he scooped another mugful of the black liquid and poured it over Sebastian Oldsmith's clean-shaven scalp. ‘Think of it, Bassie, me lad, a thousand pounds! Your half share of that is five hundred. Why! You'll be in a position to pay me back every penny you owe me. You'll be out of debt at last.'
They were camped on the Abati river, one of the tributaries of the Rufiji. Six miles downstream was Commissioner Fleischer's wood-cutting camp.
‘It's money for jam,' opined Flynn. He was sitting comfortably in a riempie chair beside the galvanized iron tub, in which Sebastian Oldsmith squatted with his knees drawn up under his chin. Sebastian had the dejected look of a spaniel taking a bath in flea shampoo. The liquid in which he sat was the colour and viscosity of strong Turkish coffee and already his face and body were a dark purply chocolate colour.
‘Sebastian isn't interested in the money,' said Rosa Oldsmith. She knelt beside the tub and, tenderly as a mother bathing her infant, she was ladling the M'senga juice over Sebastian's shoulders and back.
‘I know, I know!' Flynn agreed quickly. ‘We are all doing our duty. We all remember little Maria – may the Lord bless and keep her tiny soul. But the money won't hurt us either.'
Sebastian closed his eyes as another mugful cascaded over his head.
‘Rub it into the creases round your eyes – and under your chin,' said Flynn, and Sebastian obeyed. ‘Now, let's go over it again, Bassie, so you don't get it all balled up. One of Mohammed's cousins is boss-boy of the gang loading the timber into the launches. They are camped on the bank of the Rufiji. Mohammed will slip you in tonight, and tomorrow his cousin will get you on to one of the launches going down with a load for
Blücher
. All you've got to do is keep your eyes open. Joyce just wants to know what work they are doing to repair her; whether or not they've got the boilers fired; things like that. You understand?'
Sebastian nodded glumly.
‘You'll come back up-river tomorrow evening, slip out of camp soon as it's dark and meet us here. Simple as a pimple, right?'
‘Right,' murmured Sebastian.
‘Right then. Out you get and dry off.'
As the dry wind from the uplands blew over his naked body, the purply tint of the dye faded into a matt chocolate. Rosa had modestly moved away into the grove of Marula trees behind the camp. Every few minutes Flynn came across to Sebastian and touched his skin.
‘Coming along nicely,' he said, and, ‘Nearly done,' and, ‘Jeez, you look better than real.' Then finally in Swahili, ‘Right, Mohammed, mark his face.'
Mohammed squatted in front of Sebastian with a tiny gourd of cosmetics; a mixture of animal fat and ash and ochre. With his fingers he daubed Sebastian's cheeks and nose and forehead with the tribal patterns. His head held on one side in artistic concentration, making soft clucking sounds of concentration as he worked, until at last Mohammed was satisfied.
‘He is ready.'
‘Get the clothes,' said Flynn. This was an exaggeration. Sebastian's attire could hardly be called clothing.
A string of bark around his neck from which was suspended a plugged duiker horn filled with snuff, a cloak of animal skin that smelled of wood-smoke and man-sweat, draped over his shoulders.
‘It stinks!' said Sebastian cringing from contact with the garment. ‘And it's probably got lice.'
‘The real thing,' agreed Flynn jovially. ‘All right, Mohammed. Show him how to fit the istopo – the hat.'
‘I don't have to wear that also,' Sebastian protested, staring in horror as Mohammed came towards him, grinning.
‘Of course you've got to wear it.' Impatiently Flynn brushed aside his protest.
The hat was a hollow six-inch length cut from the neck of a calabash gourd. An anthropologist would have called it a penis-sheath. It had two purposes: firstly to protect the wearer from the scratches of thorns and the bites of insect pests, and secondly as a boost to his masculinity.
Once in position it looked impressive, enhancing Sebastian's already considerable muscular development.
Rosa said nothing when she returned. She took one long startled look at the hat and then quickly averted her gaze, but her cheeks and neck flared bright scarlet.
‘For God's sake, Bassie. Act like you proud of it. Stand up straight and take your hands away.' Flynn coached his son-in-law.
Mohammed knelt to slip the rawhide sandals on to Sebastian's feet, and then hand him the small blanket roll tied with a bark string. Sebastian slung it over one shoulder, then picked up the long-handled throwing-spear. Automatically he grounded the butt and leaned his weight on the shaft; lifting his left leg and placing the sole
of his foot against the calf of his right leg, he stood in the stork posture of rest.
In every detail he was a Wakamba tribesman.
‘You'll do,' said Flynn.
I
n the dawn, little wisps of river mist swirled around Commissioner Fleischer's legs as he came down the bank and on to the improvised jetty of logs.
He ran his eyes over the two launches, checking the ropes that held down the cargoes of timber. The launches sat low in the water, their exhausts puttering and blowing pale blue smoke that drifted away across the slick surface of the river.
‘Are you ready?' he called to his sergeant of Askari.
‘The men are eating, Bwana Mkuba.'
‘Tell them to hurry,' growled Fleischer. It was a futile order and he stepped to the edge of the jetty, unbuttoning his trousers. He urinated noisily into the river, and the circle of men who squatted around the three-legged pot on the jetty watched him with interest, but without interrupting their breakfast.
With leather cloaks folded around their shoulders against the chill air off the water, they reached in turn into the pot and took a handful of the thick white maize porridge, moulding it into a mouth-size ball and then with the thumb forming a cup in the ball, dipping the ball into the smaller enamel dish and filling the depression with the creamy yellow gravy it contained, a tantalizing mixture of stewed catfish and tree caterpillars.
It was the first time that Sebastian had tasted this delicacy. He sat with the others and imitated their eating routine, forcing himself to place a lump of the spiced maize
meal in his mouth. His gorge rose and gagged him, it tasted like fish oil and new-mown grass, not really offensive – it was just the thought of those fat yellow caterpillars. But had he been eating ham sandwiches, his appetite would not have been hearty.
His stomach was cramped with apprehension. He was a spy. A word from one of his companions, and Commissioner Fleischer would shout for the hanging ropes. Sebastian remembered the men he had seen in the monkey-bean tree on the bank of this same river, he remembered the flies clustered on their swollen, lolling tongues. It was not a mental picture conducive to enjoyment of breakfast.
Now, pretending to eat, he watched Commissioner Fleischer instead. It was the first time he had done so at leisure. The bulky figure in grey corduroy uniform, the pink-boiled face with pale golden eyelashes, the full petulant lips, the big freckled hands, all these revolted him. He felt his uneasiness swamped by a revival of the emotions that had possessed him as he stood beside the newly filled grave of his daughter on the heights above Lalapanzi.
‘Black pig-animals,' shouted Herman Fleischer in Swahili, as he rebuttoned his clothing. ‘That is enough! You do nothing but eat and sleep. ‘It is time now for work.' He waddled across the logs of the jetty, into the little circle of porters. His first kick sent the three-legged pot clattering, his second kick caught Sebastian in the back and threw him forward on to his knees.
‘Rasch!' He aimed another kick at one of them, but it was dodged, and the porters scattered to the launches.
Sebastian scrambled up. He had been kicked only once before in his life, and Flynn O'Flynn had learned not to do it again. For Sebastian there was nothing so humiliating as the contact of another man's foot against his person, also it had hurt.
Herman Fleischer had turned away to chivvy the others,
so he did not see the hatred nor the way that Sebastian snarled at him, crouching like a leopard. Another second and he would have been on him. He might have killed Fleischer before the Askari shot him down – but he never made the attempt.
A hand on his arm. Mohammed's cousin beside him, his voice very low.
‘Come! Let it pass. They will kill us also.'
And when Fleischer turned back the two of them had gone to the launch.
On the run down-river, Sebastian huddled with the others. Like them, drawing his cloak over his head to keep off the sun, but unlike them, he did not sleep. Through half-hooded eyes he was still watching Herman Fleischer, and his thoughts were hate-ugly.
Even with the current, the run in the deep-laden launches took almost four hours, and it was noon before they chugged around the last bend in the channel and turned in towards the mangrove forests.
Sebastian saw Herman Fleischer swallow the last bite of sausage and carefully repack the remainder into his haversack. He stood up and spoke to the man at the rudder, and both of them peered ahead.
‘We have arrived,' said Mohammed's cousin, and removed his cloak from over his head. The little huddle of porters stirred into wakefulness and Sebastian stood up with them.
This time he knew what to look for, and he saw the muzzy silhouette of the
Blücher
skulking under her camouflage. From low down on the water she looked mountainous, and Sebastian's spine tingled as he remembered when last he had seen her from this angle, driving down to ram them with those axe-shatp blows. But now she floated awry, listing heavily.
‘The boat leans over to one side.'
‘Yœ,' agreed Mohammed's cousin. The Allemand wanted it so. ‘There has been a great carrying of goods within her, they have moved everything to make the boat lean over.'
‘Why?'
The man shrugged and pointed with his chin. ‘They have lifted her belly from the water, see how they work with fire on the holes in her skin.'
Tiny as beetles, men swarmed on the exposed hull, and even in the bright glare of midday, the welding torches flared and sparkled with blue-white flame. The new plating was conspicious in its coat of dull brown zinc oxide paint, against the battleship-grey of the original hull.
As the launch approached, Sebastian studied the work carefully. He could see that it was nearing completion, the welders were running closed the last seams in the new plating. Already there were painters covering the oxide red with the matt grey final coat.
The pock marks of the shell splinters in her upper-works had been closed. and here again men hung on the flimsy trapezes of rope and planks, their arms lifting and falling as they plied the paint brushes.
An air of bustle and intent activity gripped the
Blücher
. Everywhere men moved about fifty different tasks, while the uniforms of the officers were restless white spots roving about her decks.
‘They have closed all the holes in her belly?' Sebastian asked.
‘All of them,' Mohammed's cousin confirmed. ‘See how she spits out the water that was in her womb.' And he pointed again with his chin. From a dozen outlet vents,
Blücher'
s pumps were expelling solid streams of brown water as she emptied the flooded compartments.
‘There is smoke from her chimneys,' Sebastian
exclaimed, as he noticed for the first time the faint shimmer of heat at the mouths of her stacks.
‘Yes. They have built fire in the iron boxes deep inside her. My brother Walaka works there now. He is helping to tend the fires. At first the fires were small, but each day they feed them higher.'
Sebastian nodded thoughtfully, he knew it took time to heat cold furnaces without cracking the linings of fireclay.
The launch nosed in and bumped against the cliff-high side of the cruiser.
‘Come,' said Mohammed's cousin. ‘We will climb up and work with the gangs carrying the wood down into her. You will see more up there.'
A new wave of dread flooded over Sebastian. He didn't want to go up there among the enemy. But already his guide was scrambling up the catwalk that hung down
Blücher'
s flank.
Sebastian adjusted his penis-sheath, hitched up his cloak, took a deep breath and followed him.
‘
S
ometimes it goes like that In the beginning everything is an obscene shambles; nothing but snags and accidents and delays. Then suddenly everything drops into place and the job is finished.' Standing under the awning on the foredeck, Commander (Engineering) Lochtkamper was a satisfied man, as he looked around the ship. Two weeks ago it looked as though we would still be messing around when the war was over – but now!'
‘You have done well,' von Kleine understated the facts. ‘Again you have justified my confidence. But now I have another task to add to your burdens.'
‘What is it, Captain?' Lochtkamper kept his voice noncommittal, but there was a wariness in his eyes.
‘I want to alter the ship's profile – change it to resemble that of a British heavy cruiser.'
‘How?'
‘A dummy stack abaft the radio office. Canvas on a wooden frame. Then mask “X” turret, and block in the dip of our waist. If we run into the British blockade squadron in the night, it may give us the few extra minutes that will make the difference between success or failure.' Von Kleine spoke again as he turned away, ‘Come, I will show you what I mean.'
Lochtkamper fell in beside him and they started aft, an incongruous pair; the engineer swaddled in soiled overalls, long arms dangling, shambling along beside his captain like a trained ape. Von Kleine tall over him, his tropical whites crisp and sterile, hands clasped behind his back and golden beard bowed forward on to his chest, leaning slightly against the steeply canted angle of the deck.
He spoke carefully. ‘When can I sail, Commander? I must know precisely. Is the work so far advanced that you can say with certainty?'
Lochtkamper was silent, considering his reply as they picked their way side by side through the milling jostle of seamen and native porters.
‘I will have full pressure on my boilers by tomorrow night, another day after that to complete the work on the hull, two more days to adjust the trim of the ship and to make the alterations to the superstructure,' he mused aloud. Then he looked up. Von Kleine was watching him. ‘Four days,' he said. ‘I will be ready in four days.'
‘Four days. You are certain of that?'
‘Yes.'
‘Four days,' repeated von Kleine, and he stopped in mid-stride to think. This morning he had received a message
from Governor Schee in Dar es Salaam, a message relayed from the Admiralty in Berlin. Naval Intelligence reported that three days ago a convoy of twelve troop ships, carrying Indian and South African infantry, had left Durban harbour. Their destination was not known, but it was an educated guess that the British were about to open a new theatre of war. The campaign in German West Africa had been brought to a swift and decisive conclusion by the South Africans. Botha and Smuts had launched a double-pronged offensive, driving in along the railroads to the German capital of Windhoek. The capitulation of the German West African army had released the South African forces for work elsewhere. It was almost certain that those troopships were trundling up the east coast at this very moment, intent on a landing at one of the little harbours that dotted the coast of East Africa. Tanga perhaps, or Kilwa Kvinje – possibly even Dar es Salaam itself.
He must have his ship seaworthy and battle-ready to break out through the blockade squadron, and destroy that convoy.
‘The big job will be readjusting the ship's trim. There is much to be done. Stores to be manhandled, shell from the magazines, the guns remounted …' Lochtkamper interrupted his thoughts. ‘We will need labour.'
‘I will order Fleischer to bring all his forced labour down to assist with the work,' von Kleine muttered. ‘But we must sail in four days. The moon will be right on the night of the thirtieth, we must break out then.' The saintly face was ruffled by the force of his concentration, he paced slowly, the golden beard sunk on his chest as he formulated his plans, speaking aloud. ‘Kyller has buoyed the channel. He must start clearing the minefield at the entrance. ‘We can cut the boom at the last moment – and the current will sweep it aside.'
They had reached the waist of the cruiser. Von Kleine
was so deep in his thoughts that it took Lochtkamper's restraining hand on his arm, to return him to reality.
‘Careful, sir.'
With a start von Kleine looked up. They had walked into a knot of African porters. Wild tribesmen, naked beneath their filthy leather cloaks, faces daubed with yellow ochre. They were man-handling the faggots of cordwood that were coming aboard from the launch that lay alongside
Blücher
. One of the heavy bundles was suspended from the boom of the derrick, it was swaying twenty feet above the deck and von Kleine had been about to walk under it. Lochtkamper's warning stopped him.
While he waited for them to dear away the faggot, von Kleine idly watched the native gang of workers.
One of the porters caught his attention. He was taller than his companions, his body sleeker, lacking the bunched and knotty muscle. His legs also were sturdier and finely moulded. The man lifted his head from his labours, and von Kleine looked into his face. The features were delicate; the lips not as full as, the forehead broader and deeper than, the typical African.
But it was the eyes that jerked von Kleine's attention back from the troop convoy. They were brown, dark brown and shifty. Von Kleine had learned to recognize guilt in the faces of his subordinates, it showed in the eyes. This man was guilty. It was only an instant that von Kleine saw it, then the porter dropped his gaze and stooped to take a grip on the bundle of timber. The man worried him, left him feeling vaguely uneasy, he wanted to speak with him – question him. He started towards him.
‘Captain! Captain!' Commissioner Fleischer had come puffing up the catwalk from the launch, plump and sweaty; he was pawing von Kleine's arm.
‘I must speak with you, Captain.'
‘Ah, Commissioner,' von Kleine greeted him coolly,
trying to avoid the damp paw. ‘One moment, please. I wish to …'
‘It is a matter of the utmost importance. Ensign Proust …'
‘In a moment, Commissioner.' Von Kleine pulled away, but Fleischer was determined. He stepped in front of von Kleine, blocking his path.
‘Ensign Proust, the cowardly little prig …' and von Kleine found himself embroiled in a long report about Ensign Proust's lack of respect for the dignity of the Commissioner. He had been insubordinate, he had argued with Herr Fleischer, and further he had told Herr Fleischer that he considered him ‘fat'.
‘I will speak to Proust,' said von Kleine. It was a trivial matter and he wanted no part of it. Then Commander Lochtkamper was beside them. Would the Captain speak to the Herr Commissioner about labour for the handling of ballast? They fell into a long discussion and while they talked, the gang of porters lugged the bundle of timber aft and were absorbed by the bustling hordes of workmen.
 
 
Sebastian was sweating with fright; trembling, giddy with fright. Clearly he had sensed the German. officer's suspicions. Those cold blue eyes had burned like dry ice. Now he stooped under his load, trying to shrink himself into insignificance, trying to overcome the grey clammy sense of dread that threatened to crush him.
‘He saw you,' wheezed Mohammed's cousin, shuffling along beside Sebastian.
‘Yes.' Sebastian bent lower. ‘Is he still watching?'
The old man glanced back over his shoulder.
‘No. He speaks with Mafuta, the fat one.'
‘Good.' Sebastian felt a lift of relief. ‘We must get back on the launch.'
‘The loading is almost finished, but we must first speak with my brother. He waits for us.'
They turned the corner of the aft gun-turrets. On the deck was a mountain of cordwood. Stacked neatly and lashed down with rope. Black men swarmed over it, between them spreading a huge green tarpaulin over the wood pile.
They reached the wood pile and added the faggots they carried to the stack. Then, in the custom of Africa, they paused to rest and talk. A man clambered down from the wood pile to join them, a sprightly old gentleman with woolly grey hair, impeccably turned out in cloak and penis-sheath. Mohammed's cousin greeted him with courteous affection, and they took snuff together.
‘This man is my brother,' he told Sebastian. ‘His name is Walaka. When he was a young man he killed a lion with a spear. It was a big lion with a black mane.' To Sebastian this information seemed to be slightly irrelevant, his fear of discovery was making him nervously impatient. There were Germans all around them, big blond Germans bellowing orders as they chivvied on the labour gangs, Germans looking down on them from the tall superstructure above them, Germans elbowing them aside as they passed. Sebastian found it difficult to concentrate.
His two accomplices were involved in a family discussion. It seemed that Walaka's youngest daughter had given birth to a fine son, but that during his absence a leopard had raided Walaka's village and killed three of his goats. The new grandson did not seem to compensate Walaka for the loss of his goats. He was distressed.
‘Leopards are the excrement of dead lepers,' he said, and would have enlarged on the subject but Sebastian interrupted him.
‘Tell me of the things you have seen on this canoe. Say swiftly, there is little time. I must go before the Allemand comes for all of us with the ropes.'
Mention of the ropes brought the meeting to order, and Walaka launched into his report.
There were fires burning in the iron boxes in the belly of the canoe. Fires of such heat that they pained the eye when the door of the box was opened, fires with a breath like that of a hundred bush fires, fires that consumed …
‘Yes, yes.' Sebastian cut short the lyrical description. ‘What else?'
There had been a great carrying of goods, moving of them to one side of the canoe to make it lean in the water. They had carried boxes and bales, unbolted machinery and guns. See how they had been moved. They had taken from the rooms under her roof a great quantity of the huge bullets, also the white bags of powder for the guns and placed them in other rooms on the far side.
‘What else?'
There was more, much more to tell. Walaka enthused about meat which came out of little tins, of lanterns that burned without wick, flame or oil, of great wheels that spun, and boxes of steel that screamed and hummed, of clean fresh water that gushed from the mouths of long rubber snakes, sometimes cold and at other times hot as though it had been boiled over a fire. There were marvels so numerous that it confused a man.
These things I know. Is there nothing else that you have seen?'
Indeed there was. The Allemand had shot three native porters, lining them up and covering their eyes with strips of white cloth. The men had jumped and wriggled and fallen in a most comical fashion, and afterwards the Germans had washed the blood from the deck with water from the long snakes. Since then none of the other porters had helped themselves to blankets and buckets and other small movables – the price was exorbitant.
Walaka's description of the execution had a chilling
effect on Sebastian. He had done what he had come to do and now his urge to leave
Blücher
became overpowering. It was helped on by a German petty officer who joined the group uninvited.
‘You lazy black baboons,' he bellowed. ‘This is not a bloody Sunday-school outing – move, you swine, move!' And his boots flew. Led by Mohammed's cousin they left Walaka without farewell and scampered back along the deck. Just before they reached the entry port, Sebastian checked. The two German officers stood where he had left them, but now they were looking up at the high smoke stacks. The tall officer with the golden beard was describing sweeping motions with his outstretched hand, talking while the stocky one listened intently.
Mohammed's cousin scurried past them and disappeared over the side into the launch, leaving Sebastian hesitant and reluctant to run the gauntlet of those pale blue eyes.
‘Manali, come quickly. The boat swims, you will be left!' Mohammed's cousin called from down below, his voice faint but urgent above the chug of the launch's engine.
Sebastian started forward again, his stomach a cold lump under his ribs. A dozen paces and he had reached the entry port.
The German officer turned and saw him. He challenged with raised voice, and came towards Sebastian, one arm outstretched as though to hold him.
Sebastian whirled and dived down the catwalk. Below him the launch was casting off her lines, water churning back from her propeller.
Sebastian reached the grating at the bottom of the catwalk. There was a gap of ten feet between him and the launch. He jumped, hung for a moment in the air, then hit the gunwale of the launch. His clutching fingers found a grip while his legs dangled in the warm water.
Mohammed's cousin caught his shoulder and dragged
him aboard. They tumbled together in a heap on the deck of the launch.

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