Westbound, Warbound Read online

‘Man’s pulling my leg.’ The skipper was on his way back to them. ‘Pulling my damn leg, must be!’

  ‘Would ye say so, sir?’

  ‘No. Since you ask. I would not.’ Slapping the signal sheet with the back of his other hand. ‘Because the man’s not that much of an idiot, and – the way she was heading, last thing we heard…’

  PollyAnna lurching slightly in her sensitive, light-ship condition, feeling the movement of the sea under the growing influence of a moderate northeasterly. The breeze had backed that way and had strengthened during the past hour, might even qualify as a wind now. The Old Man said, ‘It’s from Todhunter. Inviting me to guess what ship’s just dropped her hook in the Antepuerto. You want to guess?’

  ‘Christ…’

  ‘Right. He’s telling us the bloody Spee’s in there!’

  * * *

  Three days and nights plugging northeastward then, with confusion on the airwaves as to precisely what was happening, but in all their minds a mental picture of the raider lying at her ease in that anchorage within a few cables’ lengths of British merchant ships whom in the normal course of things she’d have sent to the bottom with their cargoes and as like as not their crews. There’d no doubt be a lot of diplomatic wrangling going on, and it would be up to the Uruguayans to sort it out, basing decisions on international law – the Hague Convention – and German pleas, maybe threats. Those were enormous guns to have trained on the centre of a smallish city – if that was how it went. The British cruisers, meanwhile, maintaining a blockade in or just outside the estuary; but it was in a lot of seamen’s minds that if the Graf Spee wanted to blast her way out past them, they’d have a hell of a job to stop her.

  Presumably she did not have such intentions. Or guts. Astonishing. Had suffered greater damage in the action than any of the scanty bulletins had indicated, maybe; this seemed to be the general view. But she’d still had twenty-two knots at her disposal and had been using her guns until long after sunset. Anyway, the Uruguayans shouldn’t allow her to stay longer than twenty-four hours, was the skipper’s opinion: twenty-four hours to effect whatever repairs were necessary to make herself seaworthy – but without increasing her capacity to fight, that was a clear proviso in international law – then clear out, take her chances. With a choice of several routes open to her, at that, as far as getting out of the Plate estuary was concerned, as well as the distinct advantage of 11-inch guns and as likely as not thirty knots. But she was still there on the night of the 14th, and apparently – according to the BBC – she’d asked for ten days… Another item was that the Uruguayan dockyard authorities having refused to help, Argentinian technicians were being sent downriver from Buenos Aires. Meanwhile, a British merchantman, the SS Ashworth, had sailed on the 15th, and under the terms of the Hague Convention had to be given a twenty-four-hour start before a hostile man of war could be allowed to set out after her. Chief Engineer Hibbert suggested in the saloon that evening, ‘Might suit us to have her stuck there a while. If it’s still only cruisers we got outside. Sail a steamer so she can’t leave – and if we got any pull with the Uruguays, that too – hold her while we get a couple of big ships up?’ He could have been right, since on the 16th another merchantman, SS Dunster Grange, was sailed – and the world told about it, one of the commentators pointing out that this should hold the Spee in Monte another twenty-four hours… Shortly after this, however, it was announced in a multi-language broadcast that following a technical inspection of the battleship ordered by the Uruguayan government, the President of the Republic had decreed that she might stay a total of seventy-two hours, time limit expiring 8 p.m. on 17 December.

  Sunday, in other words.

  ‘Hardly seventy-two hours, is that!’

  ‘From the time the decree was signed, maybe?’

  ‘So what’ll they do if she still hangs on?’

  ‘Intern her.’ Halloran, authoritatively to Shaw. ‘Presidential decree’s a presidential decree, they’d bloody have to.’

  PollyAnna would be tied up in Vitoria by then. She’d be there Sunday morning, in fact. The Old Man had cabled the Dundas Gore agent, a Dane by name of Martensen, on Friday: ETA Vitoria first light December 17th, ready to commence loading on arrival, and had his reply this Saturday noon: You should anchor to the south of Baixia Grande on arrival and await pilot. The Old Man’s comment on this being, ‘He should teach his granny to suck eggs too, shouldn’t he.’ Arrival procedures at this port or that, pilotage and berthing arrangements were all in the Admiralty Sailing Directions, in this case the South America Pilot Vol. I. He didn’t need bloody neutrals telling him what he should or shouldn’t do: the bugger was probably only worried that their early arrival might spoil his Sunday lie-in. Relationships with this agent, Andy guessed, weren’t going to be as sunny as they’d been with Todhunter.

  * * *

  Sunday’s first light, then; the approach and entrance to Vitoria looked somewhat tricky. Approaching on a course of north by west with a scattering of low, hump-backed islands four or five cables’ lengths to port, sea calm and glittering with dawn; dead ahead in that slightly confusing mix of haze and darkness the entrance to Baia do Espirito Santo, which wasn’t easy to define visually on account of its encircling low-lying foreshore. Not easy while this light (or lack of it) lasted, anyway. Which as a matter of fact shouldn’t be for long now: the flush of dawn that was creeping inland over that western curve would put paid to it pretty soon – was in fact already high-lighting the Ponta de Santa Luzia, hardening its edges out of what only minutes ago had been so wishy-washy as to be indistinguishable. That there was a mile-long hidden reef diagonally across the bay’s centre was one of the first things he’d noticed in a preliminary study of the chart; then seen that it was a hazard one didn’t need even to approach, thank God: you’d be making a sharp turn to port before getting anywhere near it – and in fact anchoring before that, in the anchorage stipulated by the Danish agent. Baixio was Portuguese for a shoal, Fisher had mentioned – having looked it up – and Baixio Grande was this one right in the entrance to the bay. It did at least have a light-buoy on its southwestern edge – if it was lit, and hadn’t drifted, as some of the marker buoys in the Plate estuary did tend to do, their last pilot down there had mentioned – and seemed glad of, maybe because it justified his employment. Anyway, you’d anchor say half a mile south of that shoal, and on the present line of approach – course 345 degrees – well, daylight was coming fast now, but even if you’d been making the approach in total darkness you’d have had Ponta de Santa Luzia coming up to port at a distance of about three quarters of a mile with a light on a tower there group-flashing four every twelve seconds, and for a cross-bearing if you needed it, another on Ponto do Tubarao a mile and a half on the other bow.

  Not so bad, therefore. And you’d know it next time. If there was a next time.

  Half-five now. Had been up early not only for this landfall but because late last evening there’d been a report from Montevideo (an American broadcaster who’d been on the air before, giving his name as Mike Fowler) to the effect that although the Graf Spee had been given until Sunday 8 p.m., rumours had been circulating that she was secretly intending to break out during this last night. It would have made sense from the German point of view, they’d all agreed. Take the blockading cruisers by surprise, smash out past them – with several more hours of darkness ahead in which to disappear. In fact – Hibbert had pointed out – the cruisers would not be taken by surprise; unlikely they would have been anyway, but that Yank’s broadcasts would be as receivable on board those ships as they were here: the Huns might well be cursing Mr Fowler. And anyway, there’d been no break-out; the airwaves were still busy but nothing sensational was coming through. Five thirty-five: Fisher had rejoined him at the chart – briefly, leaving again now, commuting between here and the Old Man, watching those bearings and the distance run by log; you wouldn’t much want to run on over the Baixio Grande, which the chart showed as having only six feet of water
over it. If that buoy had been out of position for instance – which it might have been; no navigator worth his salt would have taken its reliability for granted. It was in sight now, in fact, a small black lozenge in the old telescope’s lens, its light no more than a flicker as the sea around it reflected these early stages of the dawn.

  There were no other ships in the anchorage. They’d passed several southbound steamers during the night, and some of them might have come out of Vitoria. According to the pilot – Sailing Directions – the channel they’d be using – river actually, estuary of the Rio Santa Maria, the town and wharves of Vitoria being four miles upstream – could be used by night as well as by day. It was surprising because at some points the channel itself wasn’t even a hundred yards wide. Anyway, out here in the first light of day PollyAnna was at anchor just before six in fourteen fathoms, a cable’s length southwest of the buoy, the charted position of which had by then been verified. The bottom was soft mud again; very soft, just dropping the hook into it left her rolling gently in what might have been mushroom soup, despite that depth of water.

  Andy saw to the hoisting of the yellow flag then – since this was their first Brazilian port of call, they’d need pratique again – and also four-flag identification; it could be read from the pilot station, which was on an island less than a mile from where she was lying: Ilha dos Practicos, around which one had as yet seen no movement, not even a light.

  Breakfast, therefore. This would have been Halloran’s watch, but he was shirking it, leaving only Janner with one lookout/bridge messenger; Gorst would relieve Janner when he’d had his breakfast.

  * * *

  The pilot boarded them at eight-fifteen, coming out from the island in a red motorboat with a black ‘P’ on each bow. Halloran was on the foc’sl by then and the Old Man sent Andy down to receive the man as he hauled himself up the Jacob’s ladder. He was dressed in what was virtually a Merchant Navy officer’s uniform – summer whites like theirs – with a master’s four stripes on the shoulder-boards and scrambled eggs on the cap’s peak. A little man of about forty with a limp; could have been a cousin of Batt Collins – the same sharp, foxy look. Andy shook his hand: ‘Holt. Third mate. Speak English, Captain?’

  A side-to-side wagging of the head. Glancing up to where the Old Man was peering down at him from the bridge-wing. ‘Little English, sure.’ A thumb to his chest then: ‘Mendoza, me.’

  On the bridge, Andy introduced him: ‘Captain Mendoza, sir – talks English.’

  ‘Good for him.’ Skipper with his hand out. ‘Welcome aboard. Josh Thornhill.’ Jerk of the head towards the estuary: ‘Up-river now, eh?’ He’d signalled to Halloran to weigh anchor, asked the Brazilian as he turned back, ‘What news of Graf Spee?’

  ‘Ah. Ah!’ That was a good subject; you could see he liked it. ‘Sail from Montevideo tonight, eh?’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Go Buenos Aires maybe.’

  ‘You think that?’

  A shrug: ‘More bigger English ships come, eh?’

  ‘That a fact?’

  ‘So is Germans saying.’

  ‘D’you mean on the wireless, or Germans here?’

  ‘Here. Motor vessel Glauchau. For engine repair, is here. Wait for spare part coming maybe from Rio. Been already three day.’ A glance for’ard: they had a hose playing over the side, sending mud streaming off the cable as it came clanking up. And a yell from Halloran then – anchor aweigh. Mendoza pointed, telling the helmsman, Shuttleworth, ‘Thisaway – slow ahead.’ Checking the compass, adding, ‘Two-nine-zero degree.’ A glance round at the skipper: ‘Maybe tonight a battle?’

  ‘On course two-nine-oh…’

  Shuttleworth’s Adam’s apple wobbled as he reported it. Tallish, balding, slightly stooped; as good a helmsman as they had.

  They stayed on 290 until the light-structure on what the chart called Ponta de Santa Luzia bore due south, then altered to 245. Mendoza pointing out for the Old Man’s benefit, ‘Ponta do Tagano. This side, Ilha do Boi. You like I tell you, Captain? Not come Vitoria before?’

  ‘Never. Fifty years at sea – darn near – and never was.’

  ‘Is a port we make now, you see. City old, port little but soon make very good. For the mines, huh?’

  Fisher had brought the chart from the table, folded appropriately. PollyAnna holding this course for about ten minutes at six knots – one mile covered – leaving on their right a starboard-hand marker-buoy flashing red. The buoyage wasn’t as in British waters, where a starboard-hand buoy was green and can-shaped, port-hand buoy red and conical. Starboard-hand meaning a buoy you left to starboard when entering with the flood tide, or up-river: that wasn’t any different, only you had to be on your toes to remember which was which.

  Mendoza was waving an arm like a vertical pendulum or metronome, pointing from bank to bank: ‘Here is for build a bridge. When there is moneys for it.’

  Old Man reaching for the chart: ‘Long bridge, eh? Cost plenty?’

  Something like a mile of bridge. Mendoza looking serious, nodding. ‘Plenty. Plenty.’ To Shuttleworth then, ‘Starboard – two-six-seven.’ Pointing again: you could see the next mark, a port-hand buoy half a mile ahead, the light on it sparking green. Old Man asking, ‘Berth alongside, will we?’

  ‘Sure. Berth where is chute for loading. See where is number three berth?’

  ‘Here.’ Fisher displaying the chart, skipper then asking was the place crowded, ships at berths four and five, for instance? Not bothering to ask about numbers one or two because it was plain from the chart that there wouldn’t be enough water alongside at that point for any ship of ocean-going size. Presumably berths were to be constructed and dredged there, otherwise why put numbers on them? Mendoza was telling the skipper, ‘At berth four is Brazil ship. Coming tomorrow also a French – berth this side, south, new berth only for ore – no cranes, no chute – not yet. But number three is good – has chute and cranes, not use ship’s gear, uh?’

  Halloran muttered behind them, ‘Five days instead of ten, then?’

  ‘Be nice, wouldn’t it. Oh – First Mate Halloran.’ Performing introductions. ‘Captain Mendoza.’ They’d shaken hands, Mendoza continuing his explanation, that berth five although marked didn’t yet exist, had no quay and wasn’t dredged. The Old Man asking, ‘So where’ve you put the German?’ Andy didn’t hear the answer, he’d moved out into the bridge-wing to see whether the pilot boat was following – and it wasn’t. Mendoza would no doubt get other transport back to the pilot station, or wait until some other ship needed taking out. They’d passed the green-flashing buoy; the next green light wasn’t on any buoy but on a point of land, a light tower. The channel would be at about its widest here, he guessed. The swapping of green for red and red for green was still confusing, but in daylight you could at least see from the buoys’ positions on which side you had to pass them. On a dark night, though, seeing only the actual light flashing and having no shoreline for guidance, if you forgot for a moment that it was all back to front – well, could be somewhat dangerous. Back in the wheelhouse then, borrowing the chart from Fisher he saw that the river opposite the town was marked as an anchorage – half a mile of it roughly, width about a cable’s length – having an anchor symbol in the middle of it. Confined-enough water for a ship of any size to swing in, he thought. Shuttleworth at the pilot’s order was edging her further over to starboard; pilot leaving him to it then, drawing the skipper’s attention to other features – islands and so forth, and up ahead what looked like a very sharp narrowing of the waterway. And some mention of the fact that the tide was flooding, adding maybe two knots to her speed. But a further course adjustment suddenly – to get out of the way of a tug with a string of barges. The tug-master had for some reason taken them on what was surely the wrong side of an island: well, you could see what he’d done – cut a corner through shallows which he’d have known were all right for him, but had now to cross back into the main channel, at serious risk of a collision i
f this ship which presumably he hadn’t seen at an earlier stage had not put her helm over. As it was, the barges were going to be tossed around in the Anna’s wash. In fact it was happening to the tug already. Serve him right if it broke some lines, lost him his tow. Mendoza had shot out into the wing to scream and shake his fists at him; was returning now, muttering angrily in Portuguese and gesturing to Shuttleworth to bring her back on course.

  The narrows were now only a few hundred yards ahead. Half a mile, maybe. And between here and there, two islands to starboard and one to port; there was plenty of room between them, but despite this, after another minute, Mendoza was ringing down for dead slow. Wondering why – and borrowing the chart again – Andy realised (a) that with the tide running as it was you could have stopped engines and still be carried on through, and (b) that beyond the bottleneck you’d be coming up to the wharves that fronted the town, where there’d be other ships alongside and/or at anchor, so that busting through there at any speed, dragging a wash through those narrows with you, wouldn’t be popular at all. Although you did need some engine-power on her, simply to maintain steerageway; and another factor was that the wharves didn’t start immediately after that constriction: there was a stretch of, say, a couple of hundred yards of natural shoreline, then the straight-edged quays.

  He gave Fisher back his chart. Hearing Mendoza ask Halloran whether all the holds were empty.

  Affirmative grunt. ‘Except for essentials. Ore’ll be waiting for us, will it?’

  ‘In trucks – rail trucks – is coming. I don’t know they work today. Some time work Sunday, some time work not.’ A shrug. ‘Senhor Martensen telling you what’s fix up, eh?’

  The Old Man came in on that. ‘D’you know Martensen well, Pilot?’

  A shrug. ‘Know him, sure. Is not such big place you know, Vitoria. Not yet. See, now…’