‘Perhaps you would help me clean these bottles? It will pass the time for us both, and you can tell me all about England, and why the English come to Switzerland for their holidays.’

  * * * * *

  Von Steiger leaned against the side of his sea cabin and watched the tumbling water beneath his scuttle. Beyond the thick glass it was silent and unreal, and but for Dehler’s voice it might have seemed like the world of the deaf.

  ‘I have made enquiries, Captain, and as yet have discovered nothing fresh about Brandt’s death.’

  Von Steiger could hear the disbelief in the man’s voice. He thinks I am mistaken, that I am merely wasting time. What a pity I have to have a man like him as First Lieutenant. If only he was someone I could confide in. Heuss would be more suited. With him I could be open, without fear of losing his obedience. Aloud he said: ‘I see. Well keep on the lookout.’ He waited, but Dehler still stood there, his heavy face uneasy yet determined. ‘Well, is there something else?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I have done a lot of thinking lately. And I consider that we might not be making best use of ourselves and the ship!’

  Von Steiger tensed. He had been watching and waiting for something like this. Dehler had been brooding over his thoughts, and now they were coming into the open. ‘What is on your mind?’

  Dehler looked away, and spoke quickly as if he were afraid of forgetting a carefully rehearsed speech. That wireless message you received, Captain. I have been doing a lot of thinking, and I believe that our orders were right! We should have stayed farther north, nearer the convoy routes!’

  Von Steiger relaxed slightly. So that was it. Or was Dehler more afraid of the greater distance the raider was putting between herself and Germany?

  ‘That sort of warfare is done for, Dehler,’ he said simply. ‘To wait in the hopes of finding a straggler from a convoy is no threat to the enemy, but it is to us. Do you want to die without a fight?’

  Dehler blanched. ‘I am not afraid to fight, Captain! But I am holding to my right as second in command to raise my objections, especially when your actions are in defiance of the High Command!’

  ‘You have not understood a word I have said.’ Von Steiger felt weary. ‘You have said yourself that mine is the ultimate responsibility, and that is so. It is also true that upon me rests not only the weight of this command, but the successful completion of this cruise. Under the circumstances I think I am the better judge. The High Command may see us as a coloured counter on their chart. I have to see this ship as much more than that.’ He turned away. ‘As a symbol of honour, and as flesh and blood!’

  Dehler drew himself upright. ‘Nevertheless, Captain, I wish to register my protest!’

  The door opened. Lieutenant Ebert watched the Captain, his face set and grim. ‘Masthead reports a warship, sir! Fine on the port bow!’ His words dropped like stones into a still pool.

  Dehler blanched. ‘What? Is he sure?’ He opened and closed his big hands, and tried to realise what this could all mean.

  ‘Alter course one point to starboard, Lieutenant!’ Von Steiger reached for his cap, his mind clicking into orderly sections. For weeks he had considered this very encounter, toyed with it, imagined every conceivable angle. It had to happen, and he felt strangely calm. ‘Keep that warship on our port bow at all costs, and reduce speed to dead slow!’ He waited until Ebert had hurried away, his face etched with surprise at von Steiger’s orders, and then turned again to Dehler, who had not moved. ‘Sound Action Stations, and stand by to lower the starboard boat.’

  ‘But—but, Captain! We can’t fight this warship! We’ll not stand a chance!’

  Von Steiger regarded him with sudden hatred. ‘We cannot run away, either! She could outdistance us, I expect, and if not could shadow us while she signalled every ship for miles to close in and finish the job!’ He smiled with sudden amusement. ‘You have your wish. We are no longer running away! Now, get that boat lowered and fill it with men!’

  ‘Men, sir?’ He sounded faint.

  ‘Yes, I want it to look like a lifeboat!’ An idea crossed his racing mind. ‘And put the woman prisoner in it, too!’

  Even as the alarm bells died away the ship rolled uneasily in the troughs as the engine was reduced still more. Perplexed seamen swung out the starboard whaleboat and lowered it until it was level with the guardrail.

  Von Steiger watched the feverish activity impassively. Only his bunched fists betrayed the impatience within him.

  There was a sound of hurrying feet on the ladder, and Lieutenant Heuss ran breathlessly on to the bridge. Without saluting he gasped: ‘Sir! They are putting the woman in the boat! They said it was your order!’

  Von Steiger lifted his megaphone as the girl was hustled into the swinging boat, her hair blowing in the wind. ‘Lower away!’ The falls squeaked and the boat dropped out of sight. ‘Tell the Coxswain to pull clear as quick as he can and then stop where he is!’

  Damrosch reported, ‘Enemy warship bearing red one-five, sir!’

  He nodded, and lifted his glasses. A mere patch, dark on the rim of the sea, betrayed by the rising white moustache of its high bow-wave. Destroyer, probably.

  ‘Stop engine,’ he said calmly.

  Heuss said suddenly, ‘Did you hear what I said, sir?’

  ‘Get a grip on yourself, Heuss!’ He tore his eyes from the small boat as it bobbed away from the Vulkan, the oars moving with difficulty amongst the crowded seamen. He could see the girl quite clearly, her frail body making a splash of colour against the sombre blue uniforms. ‘Don’t worry about her. If we are sunk she will be safe.’

  Heuss stared at him with amazement. ‘Is that why you did it, sir?’

  ‘I am afraid not, Heuss. The warship will think that we are picking up survivors from a sunken ship, at least I hope she does! The sight of a woman in the boat might help.’ Over his shoulder he rapped sharply: ‘Signalman, make this signal at once. “Can you help? Am picking up survivors.”’ He watched the man bend over his biggest signal-lamp and waited until the shutter had begun to stammer out his message. He was aware that Heuss still stood staring at him. ‘Well?’

  Heuss shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir!’ He turned away to his position at the rear of the bridge, his eyes following the tiny tossing boat.

  Petty Officer Heiser lifted his long telescope and steadied himself against the flag-locker. The tossing motion of the stationary vessel made his task difficult, and he tried not to contemplate the effect it would have upon the gunners. He examined the distant warship keenly through a practised eye. For many years he had stood on different bridges watching for the flashing lamp, the madly gyrating semaphore-arms, or the fluttering flags which were a meaningless jumble to anyone but a highly trained signalman. He had seen battlecruisers and British Dreadnoughts, Japanese cruisers and French gunboats. He knew them all, and gauged their signalling proficiency accordingly.

  ‘She’s an American, Captain! One of their new destroyers!’

  Von Steiger nodded shortly. He did not have to ask the man if he was sure. An American. He lifted his glasses and watched the newcomer without speaking. Fast, powerful and very well handled. There was an air of watchful preparedness about the ship, and an appearance of dash and recklessness which one always found with destroyers. Nevertheless, for all her power and the threat she offered to their very existence, there was one tiny consolation. She was American, and the United States were not yet hardened to the ways of war. It was little enough, but it was something.

  ‘She’s signalling, sir.’ Heiser’s lips moved slowly as he read the light without using the telescope. ‘“What ship?”’

  The light blinked back, ‘Janssens, Amsterdam to Kingston, Jamaica.’

  The white froth at the warship’s raked stem died slightly and she began to sweep round in a wide semicircle, her narrow deck canting so that the Germans could see the torpedo-tubes and swivelled guns trained upon them. The stars and stripes streamed proudly from the gaff, and the ship’s clean lines and well-painted hull gave the impression of untried newness.

  ‘She’s turning towards the whaleboat, sir!’

  But her guns are following us—von Steiger bit his lip as he followed the warship’s confident progress.

  The lithe grey ship moved slowly across the raider’s plunging bows, so that it appeared as if she were balanced on the stem-head.

  Damrosch sounded strained. ‘If she gets much nearer she’ll see our empty davits! She’ll guess what we’re up to!’

  Von Steiger lifted the small speaking-tube. ‘Ebert, make sure of her wireless. She must not transmit! Stand by with the starboard battery!’ He waited, counting seconds. It was now or never. He pressed the small button at his side. The steel shutters fell heavily against the hull and hung unheeded as the gunners swung their training wheels with such speed that their hands were mere white blurs against the dull grey guns. On the poop the long twenty-two pounder swept round in a tight circle, even as the men tore with savage frenzy at the canvas screens.

  ‘Open fire!’

  The ship rocked drunkenly as the two forward guns belched fire at the enemy and hurled their great shells at the fragile-looking destroyer. Damrosch ducked involuntarily as the twenty-two pounder fired at its most extreme angle from the poop and sent its shell screaming past the bridge, so that an acrid shock-wave tore through the wheelhouse door and stripped the chart from its table and flung it at von Steiger’s feet.

  ‘Full speed ahead! Hard a-port!’ The waiting engineers were quick to respond, as if aware of the closeness of possible death, and the ship shook madly to the unchecked thunder of the screw.

  ‘Missed!’ said Heiser irritably. ‘Too short by far.’

  The guns cracked out again, but before they could see the fall of the shot the side of the destroyer rippled with orange flame.

  The bridge shuddered, and von Steiger gripped the teak rail with both hands. They’ve hit us already. Good shooting. Too damned good. From the maindeck he heard the rush of feet and a distant voice calling for the fire parties. Dehler would be busy enough for a bit, he thought bitterly.

  Like a bursting star, bright and blinding above the sullen water, a shell exploded on the destroyer’s maindeck. The foremast, black and slender, shuddered, and then with sad dignity plunged over the side, dragging a tangled web of wireless aerials, flags and rigging in its wake. Tiny, ant-like figures could be seen running with axes to cut away the wreckage.

  Von Steiger drummed his fingers on the rail. Ebert had done his work. The enemy could sink them or be sunk. But she could not talk about it. He pulled in his stomach muscles as the ship leapt beneath him, and he felt the tearing crash of white-hot metal bursting and ricocheting around the boatdeck. Another hit. Thank God their guns were puny compared with the Vulkan’s. But the raider had tremendous vulnerability compared with the low-lying target presented by the destroyer, and she was hopelessly outmanceuvred.

  ‘She’s turning!’

  The American put his ship about like a toy yacht and flung her almost on her beam ends.

  Von Steiger could feel his breathing growing faster. This captain was determined, and fighting mad. ‘Hard a-starboard!’ He pounded the rail, waiting for the heavy bows to swing after the elusive destroyer. He saw puffs of smoke from her spray-washed metal deck, and flinched as the torpedoes leapt from their tubes and bit into the racing water. Come on, old lady! He banged the rail with fierce persistence until his knuckles were numb. With all his power he willed the ship to swing end on to those racing, silver torpedoes.

  ‘Torpedo running to port, sir!’

  Another hoarse cry, ‘Second torpedo running fine on the port bow!’

  ‘Midships! Meet her!’ The Coxswain blinked the sweat from his staring eyes and twirled the varnished spokes in response to the Captain’s urgent voice.

  Heuss looked across at Damrosch’s white face. ‘Missed, by God!’

  The destroyer faltered, and seemed to shorten as she turned again to reduce the range. Ebert’s gunners, their eyes sore from cordite and smoke, spun their wheels and stared wildly at the shape which danced with contemptuous ease across their sights. But for the few short seconds she had taken to loose off the torpedoes, she had laid bare her full length, open and exposed to their pitching guns, and there was a sudden crazed cheer as the enemy’s quarterdeck erupted in a column of black smoke. Then she was round again and attacking like a terrier after a ponderous bullock.

  * * * * *

  Lieutenant Dehler ducked his head beneath the iron bulwark and cursed aloud as a column of water rose alongside and sent a great mass of spray plummeting across the afterdeck. He skidded across the streaming planking and continued to run after the fire party. The black hoses snaked across the holds and ended by a huddled group beneath the poop ladder. The poop gun cracked overhead so that he thought his eardrums would burst, and he saw the men cower wretchedly as the shadow of the gun-muzzle moved across the deck like an accusing finger.

  ‘Get under the poop, you stupid bastards! The blast will cut you down!’

  He slithered to a halt behind the winch housing, pressing his wet hands over his ears, and waited until the gun had fired again. He felt the searing passage of the shell, and saw a dim figure wrench open the breech while a loader staggered forward with the next black shell, his face a mask dominated by a pair of terrified eyes.

  He reached the shelter of the poop, and blinked at the long streamers of smoke which coursed rapidly through the heavy steel door which led to the main poop superstructure, from where they had laid the mines so long ago. He was breathing heavily, his brain numbed by the incessant roar of gunfire and the abandoned scream of shells overhead. The ship had been hit several times, and he had sent his damage-control parties running like madmen in search of the ragged holes.

  Petty Officer Elmke, his face blackened by smoke, greeted him anxiously. ‘Bad fire in that compartment, sir! Listen to it!’

  Dehler listened. The fire sounded like pressurised steam, and was burning with such fierce intensity that the escaping smoke seemed to be ejected through the small cracks in the door as if by a pump.

  A shell must have hit the hull low down, he thought, and exploded in one of the small storerooms below the poop. He licked his lips, aware of a sudden terrible urgency. Fanned by the draught and sucked through the poop with growing power, it might flash back to the small magazine which fed the gun overhead.

  He gestured with his fist. ‘Open the door! Every hose inside at once, and keep pouring it in!’

  Elmke paled. ‘But the draught will only fan the fire, sir!’

  ‘And if it reaches the magazine we are all done for!’ Dehler snarled. ‘Now get moving!’

  The seamen threw off the clips and pulled blindly at the heavy door. The flames had caused almost a vacuum inside so that they had to put all their weight on the handles. Then it was open, and the searing heat and hungry flames burst out on to the poop like savage beasts escaping from a cage. Two of the seamen screamed as the heat temporarily blinded them and a hose dropped unheeded on the deck. Another man whimpered and began to falter, whilst Elmke could only stare at the holocaust, which seemed to be burning away the very mounting which supported the gun above.

  Dehler mopped his streaming eyes, and found that his Luger had somehow appeared in his hand.

  ‘Get in there, you swine! I’ll shoot the first man to fall back!’

  They stared at his wild face and his teeth bared in a maniacal grin, and huddled together for support. Elmke seized a hose and turned it on the men around him. ‘Here, I’ll cover you! Get the other hoses up close!’

  On the poopdeck the gun waited in sudden silence, its breech-block hanging open and the loader cursing with desperation at the delay.

  Petty Officer Adolf Eucken, the gun-captain, banged the gunlayer on the shoulder. ‘Carry on tracking the target! Something’s gone wrong below!’

  Hellwege blinked up at him, his red eyes uncomprehending. ‘Maybe the ammunition party is wiped out! I think the whole damned poop is afire!’

  But Eucken had already gone, and was lying full length over the small oval hatch with its hand-operated lift. His face practically collided with that of Pieck who stood half stooped in the narrow confines of the hatchway. His eyes looked incredibly large in his round face, and he seemed to be dazed by the fact that the ammunition lift was empty.

  ‘What is the trouble, Pieck?’

  Pieck blew down the voice-pipe at his side, but kept his eyes fixed on the petty officer. The cap and aggressive voice momentarily reminded him of Brandt, and he felt his senses reel.

  Far below him, in the very bowels of the ship, a tinny voice called with sudden clarity: ‘The fire’s here, Willi! It’s right outside the magazine door!’ He swallowed hard, aware for the first time of the smoke which poured up over the gun in a dense brown curtain, of the shouted orders and the hiss of water against fire.

  ‘The magazine’s on fire!’ He saw the petty officer’s nostrils dilate like an animal scenting danger. ‘He says there’s a fire right outside the door!’

  Eucken fell back. ‘Christ! Here, let me use that tube!’ He squeezed himself down the hatch, and Pieck could almost smell the fear mingled with his sweat.

  ‘That you, Schmidt?’ He tried to remember what the man looked like. ‘How bad is it?’

  The voice came to him, even above the scream of shells. It was thin and terrified, part of another world. ‘Full of smoke! Great blisters coming up on the door!’

  Eucken reached for the telephone which hung in its leather case, and cranked at the handle. This was very bad. The whole ship was coming apart.

  ‘Gunnery officer!’ Ebert’s harsh voice sounded calm and normal.

  Eucken shouted above the roar of flames, his eyes fixed on Pieck’s white face. ‘Magazine’s in danger, sir! After flat well alight, and there could be a flashback!’

  The smallest pause. ‘Very well, flood it at once!’