Sub-Lieutenant Seebohm watched some seamen lowering the large rope-fenders over the side at regular intervals, and wondered if they would be sufficient to withstand the shock. He stiffened as Dehler pushed his way through the ranks of men and peered over the rail.

  ‘Come on, you men! Move those fenders along! Put them ahead of the ship’s frames, there is more support for them there.’ He took a rope from a seaman’s hand and snorted with impatience. ‘Like this, you clumsy oaf!’ He deftly tied the line around a cleat and stood up, breathing hard. ‘You can recognise where the frames are by the lines of rivets down the hull!’ He turned irritably to Seebohm. ‘You could have shown him that! Don’t just stand there like a priest at a whore’s wedding!’ He peered up at the bridge, his eyes fixed on von Steiger’s distant silhouette. He was still smarting under the lash of the Captain’s rebuke, and the man’s apparent calmness did not help Dehler to forget. He glared towards the wheelhouse and tried to see the other officers. Half aloud he said, ‘That’s right, you all stay up there when there’s a job of work to be done!’

  The raider’s stem moved past the collier’s spindly funnel and remorselessly began to pass down the length of her side. They had all been so busy that the dawn had come unnoticed, and Dehler was surprised that he could see Heuss so clearly on top of the other vessel’s bridge.

  I should be up there. What could he do if anything went wrong now? After that skirmish last night, I expect von Steiger will fall on his neck and kiss him! The fool should never have allowed it to happen! Probably walked aboard in a stinking funk!

  Seebohm muttered with alarm. The Vulkan’s bows had swung in very slightly, so that the gap between the two ships narrowed by several feet. They were steaming parallel now, and barely fifty feet apart. The Vulkan was a good ten feet higher than the collier, and already Dehler could see the ragged crew of Lascars cranking on their winches, and, even as he watched, the long booms of the loading derricks began to move jerkily towards the open holds. He watched with impatience mounting within him, then he bellowed across the water: ‘Too low! You’ll never make it!’ He turned again to the bridge. ‘We shall have to use our own derricks, sir! We’re too high for hers!’

  Von Steiger raised his hand. ‘Very well. Get them ready.’

  ‘Already done, sir!’ Dehler glared triumphantly, and then turned towards a petty officer. ‘Stand by with the heaving-lines!’

  Closer and closer, so that the gap between them was darkened by their shadows. The water surged and thundered in trapped torment, and some of the men waved self-consciously to their friends on the opposite deck.

  Schiller stood poised by the rail, his feet wide apart, his eyes narrowly gauging the distance from the collier’s side. Behind him the first headrope was all ready to be passed across and secured once he had thrown his line.

  Dehler jerked his thumb. ‘Now!’

  Schiller drew back his arm and threw the line in one unbroken heave. It soared cleanly across the collier’s foredeck and was immediately seized by half a dozen hands. As the slack was gathered in, the eye of the big hauser began to ease its way through the forward fairleads and move jerkily across the gap.

  Von Steiger watched the headrope being dragged aboard the Nemesis, and took a quick look aft. Another heaving-line had gone across, and already the sternrope was snaking into position. His practised eye sorted out the order from the chaos of running men, who surged across the decks between the long brown coils of rope which still waited to be secured. Breast-ropes, springs, all were laid out, and filled every inch of the littered decks.

  He could feel the great suction tugging against the side of his ship and sensed the tremendous strain which was exerting itself on the rudder. He signalled to the Coxswain through the wheelhouse window, and watched as the spokes were eased over to starboard. Just half a turn, yet the effect was immediate and final. He saw the headrope slacken, and held his breath as the Vulkan’s bows swung rapidly towards the other vessel.

  The daylight vanished between the two ships, and then they struck. Even as the Coxswain applied opposite wheel, the first of the rope fenders took the impact, and then, with a scream of protesting metal, the two juggernauts thundered together. He felt the pressure of the bridge rail against his chest, and then held on as the ship rolled away for a second impact.

  Dehler could be heard yelling orders, and, sensing the urgency, the seamen were passing the new lines across to the men on the lower deck of the collier. It was like lashing down two mad beasts which were trying to destroy each other. A six-inch breastrope parted with the sound of a pistol shot, but more seamen were there in an instant, a new rope already reeved through the fairleads. Von Steiger forced his hands into his pockets, and waited. The ship shuddered as it struck again, and two seamen were thrown from their feet. He watched the ropes tauten, and saw the seamen waiting to pounce like dogs. The headrope slackened as the ships nudged each other again, and instantly they had taken a couple more turns with it around the forward bollards. The ropes seemed to hum, but the strain was now evenly shared, and sullenly the two ships cruised forward together at reduced speed, the crushed fenders squeaking and writhing in protest.

  Across the minute gap the first party of seamen poured with their petty officers. Dressed in old overalls, boiler suits or scraps of tattered uniform, they scrambled into the first pair of open holds in the collier’s iron deck, to where the gleaming Welsh coal waited to be dug out by hand and loaded, shovel by shovel, into the waiting bags.

  Already the two great booms on the raider’s foremast were swinging across the collier’s deck, while score of hands steadied the dangling purchases and treacherous guy-ropes, which might pluck a man off his feet and send him spinning into the gaping holds.

  Von Steiger relaxed slightly and groped for a cheroot. Already a thick black cloud of wet dust was rising over the two ships, and the air was filled with the frantic ring and clash of shovels. He nodded with approval. Dehler had been right about the hoists. This was one advantage the Vulkan had over a warship. She could haul her own coal and not rely on the short-masted collier. In a battle-cruiser it would have taken ages to rig and operate the double whips, outhauls and complicated winch movements, which were difficult even with a well-trained crew in harbour. The Vulkan’s foremast derricks would be more than enough for this. He turned to the watching officers.

  ‘Right, gentlemen. As you know, every available man turns to for coaling. That applies here, and to my officers. Carry on, and see that nobody even leans against a shovel until we are done. If they stop for a breath, they can never be restarted.’ He watched the officers move from the bridge, their faces showing little enthusiasm. It would do them good, he thought, and in any case would show the men that their officers were quite capable of manual work.

  Niklas appeared at his side, his eyes already rimmed in black. He waved his coaling plan towards the forward hold. ‘It is much easier to load this way, but what a business it is to move it again into the bunkers!’

  ‘Are we filling any bunkers now?’

  ‘Two. I have the shoots already rigged, and my stokers can tend to them. If Heuss gets those Lascars moving we should really be able to pack it away!’

  Von Steiger nodded in agreement. ‘I shall be leaving a prize crew aboard, and will send the collier away independently as soon as we have taken on sufficient coal for a while. We can rendezvous with her later on at some prescribed places.’ He called across to a messenger: ‘Here, boy! Pass the word across for Lieutenant Heuss, and tell Sub-Lieutenant Wildermuth to report to the bridge with him.’ To the engineer he added ‘Wildermuth can take her. See that your men pump across some fresh water and fill her tanks. I shall be putting some of our prisoners aboard. I think that we can get rid of all the unimportant ones.’

  Niklas rubbed his chin. ‘We shall be a bit short of water, sir. We may have to cut down the daily ration.’

  ‘So be it then. I intend to milk some more off the next ship we meet. Until then, there will be no luxury uses for fresh water at all!’

  Lieutenant Heuss climbed slowly on to the bridge. Von Steiger was immediately struck by his tired, empty face and the apparent heaviness in his limbs.

  ‘You did well, Heuss. I shall want a full report later, but right now I want you to transfer all the prisoners to the collier. They can have the crew’s quarters and any other cabin-space, and the Lascars will have to be content with an empty hold. The Lascars can help Wildermuth with the prize crew to work the ship, I think. They usually have little stomach for fighting.’

  Heuss’s eyes flickered with sudden concern. ‘All the prisoners, sir?’

  ‘All the seamen, that is. Keep the senior officers, and any others that might be a security risk.’

  ‘What about the girl? She can’t very well go with that overloaded ship.’

  ‘I realise that, Heuss. Although I suspect my reasons may be different from yours.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘Pull yourself together, man! We have an urgent job to do here. Seconds are precious. You look like a man in a trance!’

  Heuss stiffened, his face taut with suppressed anger. ‘Last night was pretty hard on all of us, sir!’

  ‘Quite so, Heuss. Well, carry on with your duty, and then go and keep an eye on the coaling party in our forward hold. We need eyes everywhere this morning.’

  He turned to greet the perspiring Wildermuth. ‘Ah, Wildermuth, you have a command as from now. Come with me to the chart-table and I will write you your orders and give you a series of rendezvous for the next few weeks.’

  As he passed Heuss he clapped him lightly on the shoulder. ‘You have changed feelings now, perhaps? War is a little different when you can reach it at arm’s length! It is not quite so humane and heroic as watching your enemy through a prismatic range-finder or a powerful telescope. That is the clean way to fight. Unfortunately, war demands that sooner or later we must dirty our hands a little!’

  Heuss staggered down the ladder and cannoned into Elbert, who was supervising the rigging of another small derrick. He grinned, and wiped the coal-dust from his teeth. ‘Ah, Emil! The hero returns! That was a nice bit of shooting you did!’

  ‘Shooting?’ His face hardened with pain. ‘I killed a man with an axe!’

  Ebert shrugged. ‘Well, he didn’t kill you, my friend, that is one thing. And I was saved from sending you to the grave too early!’

  Heuss stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  Ebert grinned wider. ‘When that fellow shot out our searchlight, von Steiger was not sure if you could stop that madman from getting to the wireless. So he ordered me to open fire on the collier’s bridge with three machine guns!’

  Heuss gripped his arm, his eyes wild. ‘You’re joking? You must be! Even von Steiger would not fire on his own men!’

  Ebert sighed and turned back to his derrick. ‘My friend, I like you very much. But if it meant saving this ship and the rest of the crew, I would have ordered my men to fire!’ He laughed. ‘But, you see, you surprised us all!’

  * * * * *

  The gaping hatch over the hold, which had first appeared like a grey rectangle above which the clouds moved in unbroken formation, was almost hidden in the swirling mists of dust, and in the shifting slopes of coal the men hacked and dug like victims in hell.

  In the centre of the hold the sacks waited to be filled, but even as they were packed with the slippery, stubborn coal, and the men holding them cursed at their comrades for using their knife-edged shovels too freely, another hoist would swing hungrily through the filth and set them working more desperately than before. On deck, and even in the hold, it had been bitterly cold, but now, sweating and groaning with their efforts, the men were working stripped to the waist, their bodies grotesque and steaming with grime and filth. In their black faces their eyes glinted white and distorted, and their breath rasped painfully with each gulp for air.

  ‘Get a move on down there! Work, you lazy pigs!’ The harsh voice echoed and rebounded around their iron prison, but even Schiller was too weary to reply. His great barrel-chest heaved and panted with each vicious swing of his shovel, and his matted hair was streaked with black dust and sweat. He lurched drunkenly across to Pieck’s small figure, which was crouched astride the sacks, his hands holding one open in readiness. Schiller hurled the load into the sack and paused, wheezing, on his shovel.

  ‘All right, Willi?’ He squinted through the blinding dust. ‘God, why don’t you take that damned jacket off? You’ll never get it clean after this, and you’ll need it for the next lot of work on deck!’

  Pieck shook his head and held on grimly to the sack. ‘No, it’s all right,’ he panted. ‘I can manage!’

  Petty Officer Brandt shouted again, ‘Get moving, or I’ll log the lot of you!’

  Schiller swore and lashed out again at the shifting bank of coal. ‘Bastard! I’ll carve your face for you!’

  Petty Officer Weiss, stripped like the others, reeled past them, his face contorted with pain. ‘God damn this coal! I nearly crushed my foot!’

  Schiller laughed. ‘Good! I hope you choke yourself!’

  The shovels rang, and the winches rattled and squeaked. Out of the black sky the empty hoists hovered and swung, always empty, always Waiting to be filled with full bags.

  Lieutenant Heuss shaded his sore eyes against the flying dust and watched the sullen column of prisoners being escorted aft along the collier’s deck. Fifty less mouths for the Vulkan to feed. He pushed his way ahead to the shelter of the raider’s fo’c’sle and stood looking down at the ant-like activity. It was still only an hour since the two ships had linked together, and yet the level of coal in the two forward holds had risen considerably and was even visible from his position in the bows. His ears were deadened by the din, and his mouth was thick with the dust, which, driven by the wind and laced with spray, had turned the Vulkan’s white bridge into a wall of streaked dirt. All that and more would have to be washed down before the men could rest.

  He tried not to think about Ebert’s remarks, but like a drill they worked into his aching brain. Von Steiger would have killed him if necessary. Would have swept the collier’s bridge at a range of less than fifty yards with three machine guns. He closed his eyes and tried to think instead of the girl. He would see her as soon as he could. She at least would help him to forget the horror of the hand-to-hand struggle.

  Von Steiger had been so matter-of fact. He had been laughing at him. He had as good as said outright that Heuss now knew what it was like to control a ship for a few mere hours and have the decision of life and death to consider at first hand. He was not human. He was up there now on the wing of the bridge, watching them all. He had got his collier, and had held on to it. Yet even now he was issuing orders, making plans and still keeping his eye on both ships at once.

  Heuss pulled his cap over his eyes, and walked to the edge of the hold and squinted down at the toiling men who hurled the empty bags aside and spread the new coal evenly around them with rakes and makeshift wooden trimmers. Like animals, he thought. Their skins shone like ebony, and their hands glinted with droplets of blood from broken blisters and the jagged cruelty of the black flood.

  Wildermuth had the collier to worry about now, and good luck to him. With his two petty officers and twenty men he would be responsible for a ship over half full of coal and packed with prisoners. If he could keep clear of the shipping lanes as directed, and stay out of trouble, it might not be too bad for him. But if he lost control of that lot he could expect little mercy, either from the prisoners or from von Steiger when he found them again.

  A whistle shrilled from the bridge, and the sound of shovels died away. The men were too beaten and winded to ask the reason for this unexpected rest, and merely leaned on their shovels or against the grimed bulwarks, their eyes closed and their chests heaving. The silence hung over the two ships once more, and left only the sea and the protesting groans of the two grinding hulls.

  Dehler looked up, his face angry. ‘They don’t need a rest, Captain! There’s much more to shift yet!’

  Von Steiger had a megaphone in his hands and directed his voice to Wildermuth, who stood solidly on the collier’s bridge. ‘There is a ship on our starboard quarter. A big one. It might be an armed merchant cruiser! Range about eight miles, I think. Cast off immediately and proceed at full speed! Carry on. Lieutenant Dehler, stand by to let go, and clear our men off that collier!’

  The whistle blasted again, and a different kind of activity commenced. Blackened, half-naked figures scrambled across the bulwarks, their bodies already shivering in their cold sweat, and dazed by this sudden change of events. Blistered hands fumbled with ropes and unhooked purchases, and all the time the officers shouted and cursed at them from every angle. It was as if the two ships were now reluctant to part, and every job took twice as long to complete. The half-blinded, gasping seamen had to be led to their stations and have their hands put on the necessary ropes ready for letting go.

  Dehler peered anxiously along the confused deck and tried to estimate the degree of readiness. ‘Let go breasts!’ He was committed now. There was a sense of urgency in von Steiger’s voice. Dehler raised his hand. ‘Let go!’ He swore at the delays. ‘Let go springs!’

  The men ran like puppets, heads down, heaving on the wet, gritty ropes. The headrope went next, but for another agonising minute the two ships swayed and thundered together, and then a sliver of trapped spray rose over the rail and the collier began to idle clear. Her sides were streaked and scraped, and in several places, where the German ship had struck her really hard, her rusty plates were buckled and bare.

  Telegraphs jangled, and at the collier’s stern a mounting white froth beat the waves with urgent haste.

  A whistle shrilled from the Vulkan’s poop, and Lieutenant Kohler gesticulated wildly at the bridge. ‘The sternrope! It’s jammed, sir! It’s snared on the collier’s deck!’

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