In perfect English he said: ‘I am sorry I had to sink your ship, Captain. You fought a brave but hopeless battle. I pity you for your loss, but admire you for your courage. I should like to shake your hand.’ He held it out, his eyes shaded and expressionless.

  He had spoken simply, and without emotion. Perhaps, Heuss thought, merely as one seaman speaking to another.

  The British captain took the proffered hand and nodded vaguely. ‘It’s a bit of a shock y’see.’ Had the others realised it, he was speaking with a round Yorkshire accent his tone unsteady and apprehensive. ‘I can’t take it all in, y’see.’

  At that moment there came a cry from the deck. ‘She’s going! There she goes!’

  The Englishman was transformed from that instant. He was no longer a hurt, shocked old man. He was as much a captain as the arrogant German who had shaken his hand, and with a grunt he pushed past von Steiger and climbed up on to the wing of the bridge.

  ‘Why, the insolent pig!’ Wildermuth stepped forward, his pistol half drawn from his holster, but von Steiger shook his head angrily, his eyes flashing. ‘Leave him! This is his moment. It is all he has now!’

  The little Yorkshireman glared down at the listless figures who lay on the raider’s deck, their wet clothing making black shadows on the scrubbed planks. ‘On yer feet, lads! Give the old girl a cheer!’

  His men staggered to their feet, and stared first up at the small erect figure of their captain, and then at the great streaming hull which rose slowly from the water until its broken stern pointed straight up at the barren sky. For a moment she hung there motionless, as if unwilling at the last to leave. Then, with a final hissing roar, followed almost at once by the muffled thunder of her exploding boilers, she slid out of sight.

  Von Steiger jerked his head. ‘Clear the bridge. Leave the good captain alone for a while!’

  Heuss tore his eyes from the great writhing whirpool, its vortex seething with flotsam, and stared at the lonely old man in the corner of an alien ship. His lined face defied description, and the look in his eyes was similar to von Steiger’s when he had joined the ship at Kiel.

  Heuss shook his head and stepped into the wheelhouse. He felt that he should have learned something by all this, but he felt as if he had been deceived.

  5

  AS THE WRECK of the Cardiff Maid sank slowly into the bottomless depths of the Atlantic, to the deep unknown crevasses which lie undisturbed by current or tide and hidden by perpetual darkness, the German raider altered course due south, and even before the last pathetic remnant had been borne away on the remorseless waves, and the patches of coal-dust and oil had been scattered to the points of the compass, she had already started to alter her appearance and personality once more.

  On either side of her hull hung a large sheet of steel painted red with blue cross, and underneath, in clear white letters, ‘NORGE’. The Norwegian flag flew from her gaff, and the name Stella Polaris decorated bows and stern alike. A large imitation pig-pen had been constructed of sewn canvas on the foredeck, to which some realistic washing had been fixed, so that to a keen-eyed observer the raider had all the appearance of a typical ocean-going tramp. Her decks littered with loose cargo, and the crew’s washing flapping casually from every available space. The pig-pen altered her outline quite considerably, and hid the false deck-house which covered two of her guns. For although the remains of the crew of the Cardiff Maid were safely locked below, it was always possible that an enemy submarine might have spotted the raider through her periscope and reported both her appearance and nationality.

  It had taken the hands most of the day to complete the change, and they had been driven mercilessly by their petty officers to get the work done before dusk. A series of brisk rain-squalls, each one heavier than the last, had not helped, and harried by the barked commands and cursing the keen edge of the wind, they had struggled with wet canvas which defied their efforts with brushes and paint, and hammered and banged until few of them had been spared either a cut or a bruise for their pains.

  With the night closing in around them, and the lookouts doubled at their posts, the seamen had at last been allowed to retreat to the safety of their messes. The Vulkan’s fo’c’sle was partitioned into small watertight compartments, each divided from the other by a steel bulkhead and one small door. Each compartment contained two messes, where the men, crowded together with hardly enough room to sit down, lived, slept, ate their badly cooked meals and gambled.

  The yellow glow of the electric lamps cast a warm but feeble light over the men of Schiller’s mess, as they sat packed together on the two long benches facing one another across the scrubbed deal table. The warmth of their bodies and the fierce heat which poured steadily from the steam-pipes, which ran throughout the ship’s length, had made them drowsy, and they sat in vests and trousers, swaying comfortably to the heavy motion of the ship around them. In the background some men made belated efforts to wash their clothes in buckets of heated salt-water, and others squatted on the deck, sewing, polishing and darning, their faces tight with unaccustomed concentration.

  Schiller struck a match and lighted the stub of a cigar. His eyes squinted to the sting of the smoke, but they did not waver from the cards held in the hands of his companions. He was wearing his blue trousers, supported by a wide leather belt. The belt was practically the only possession which he had retained throughout his service, and was decorated with badges and ships’ crests, which he had carefully collected through the years. His other possession was his knife, which hung from the belt in a hand-sewn sheath. Otherwise he was naked, his thick-set body fearsome with tangled black hair, which he occasionally scratched with thoughtful enjoyment as he prepared to play his next card.

  Schwartz stared stonily at his own cards and glanced quickly at the small pile of broken matches on the table. ‘Pity we’ve not some real money to play with! I feel like a schoolkid playing at shopkeeping!’

  Schiller grinned. ‘We’ll have plenty of everything before long. Just you wait till we get farther south. We will be able to stop and search ships at leisure!’

  Blucher, another of the card-players, looked up, his wind-reddened face blank. ‘What, looting d’you mean?’

  Schiller laid down his cards and groaned. ‘Looting! God Almighty! Commandeering—that’s what they call it in wartime!’ He winked at the others. ‘Just think, a nice big merchantman with just us to look around! Deserted cabins, open holds!’ He smacked his lips with relish. ‘We’ll be rich if we’re careful!’

  Hahn leaned on his elbows and watched. He wanted to pull out the gold watch and wave it at them. Stupid, ignorant fools! What did Schiller know about looting, anyway? He would probably break into the first cabin that he could find in an enemy ship and go straight for the whisky. It was well known that all the British officers carried good whisky with them. But Schiller would make a pig of himself, and probably get fighting drunk. Hahn grimaced. Then there would be another firing squad. Well, good riddance to all of them. They must be mad to cheer a sinking ship, or sing the praises of the Captain. One day they might learn that those sort of things got you nowhere. You had to look after yourself, and you could not do that by shouting and yelling like a lot of raw recruits. He could feel the smooth shape of the gold watch against his thigh as it hung heavily inside his pocket. Pure gold, and must have cost a small fortune.

  Well, that was number one. A survivor from the Cardiff Maid had died almost immediately after being swung aboard the raider’s deck. Hahn had been in charge of the purchase which had been hoisting him up the side, when the ship had rolled with sudden violence and the man—a British officer—had been dashed heavily against the hull. He had been badly wounded by shell-splinters, and his rough bandage had burst open on impact, so that as he was jerked urgently over the rail Hahn had felt the blood warm against his face. Lieutenant Dehler had snarled at him: ‘Fix those bandages, you clumsy convict!’ and Hahn had stooped over the dying officer, who regarded him with a fixed stare, his mouth opening and closing in silent protest.

  Hahn had fumbled with the soaked bandages, his mind elsewhere. That swine Dehler was always riding him and calling him a convict in front of the others. Well, we shall see. He had almost stopped breathing when his searching fingers had found the officer’s watch. It had been wrapped in a small waterproof wallet with some tattered letters, and Hahn had recognised its worth immediately. He waited, hardly daring to look up, even when the enemy ship sank, and everyone was dashing from one place to another. Then the wounded man had died, and Hahn had sighed with relief. The letters and wallet he had sent skimming over the rail, but the watch he had slipped into his pocket.

  Lieutenant Dehler had stopped nearby and stared down at him. ‘Dead, is he? Did you look after him all right? There might be some good even in you, then!’

  Hahn smiled to himself. Dehler was like all the others really, for all his bluster. Too sentimental over things which really didn’t matter. Ah well, it was their loss.

  From a neighbouring mess through a watertight door came the plaintive sound of a mouth-organ, and he could hear voices, sad and emotional, as they harmonised the ‘Lorelei’ together. It was all so damned peaceful. They seemed to be doing just as they pleased on the seas. No British warships, and no real opposition anywhere. He leaned his back against the crude angle-iron support which had been built into the fo’c’sle to carry the weight of one of the five-point-nines. Opposite him Pieck sat in silence, his eyes tired and pensive.

  Hahn regarded him carefully. A queer one was Willi Pieck. Flanked on one side by Schiller’s hairy bulk, and on the other by that half-wit Alder, Pieck looked frail and smooth like a girl. Hahn licked his thin lips. I wish he was a girl. He frowned again. There was something else, too. Pieck was worried about the torpedo officer, Kohler. It was, he knew, the officer who had accused Pieck of stealing from his room at the barracks, and who had been the cause of the boy’s imprisonment. That should have been enough, but Hahn knew it was not. He hoarded information carefully, knowing that such details could be useful, and he felt quite sure that Pieck knew more than he had told. Kohler was an effeminate-looking bastard. It might have been something like that. All the men in the ship pulled Pieck’s leg about his girlish face and slim figure, and each time it occurred he looked as it he had been struck a blow.

  He said casually, ‘Seen any more of your friend Lieutenant Kohler, Willi?’

  The boy started, his eyes suddenly alert. ‘No. Not much. I try to keep out of his way!’ He stared fixedly at Hahn’s impassive face, a face betrayed as always by the restless eyes of a professional thief. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Hahn shrugged, his expression blank. ‘Just wondered. I heard him mention your name on the bridge yesterday, that’s all.’ He watched the effect of the lie on Pieck’s pale face. ‘Thought maybe he was after you in some way.’

  Slap-slap went the cards on the table, otherwise there was silence. Pieck felt mesmerised by the other man’s cold eyes, and bunched his hands into tight fists in his lap. ‘After me? How do you mean?’ His voice was unsteady, and he knew that Hahn had guessed his secret.

  ‘Well, Willi, you know what some of these wretched little aristocrats are like. Take this Kohler, for instance. Cool as they come, and as cruel as a cockerel. But I bet you he’s never had a woman in his life!’

  Pieck half rose, his mouth quivering. Hahn’s eyes were mocking. He was enjoying himself.

  Lukaschek, at the end of the table, threw down his cards and whined petulantly: ‘My Christ, Schiller! You’ve won again! You’ve put a curse on my cards!’

  Schiller scooped up some more of the matches and grinned lazily. His eyes, however, were on Hahn.

  ‘Well, Willi?’ Hahn’s voice was sharper and more insistent. ‘Has he been after you? Perhaps that was what got you in the detention barracks, eh?’

  Schiller scratched his chest. What were you in for, Hahn? Stealing, was it not? Well, in the olden days, before the Fatherland was much more than a clod of mud, they used to cut the hands off thieves as a warning to others!’

  Hahn turned on him, furious at this interruption. ‘Well, what of it?’

  ‘So shut your dirty little trap! That’s what of it!’ Schiller breathed noisily down his broken nose. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a woman either, come to that! She’d be afraid you were going through her pockets while you were proving your apology for manhood!’ He relaxed slightly as the other men laughed.

  Hahn slid from the bench, his face ugly. ‘We shall see! Who was it reported that iceberg?’ He gestured at Pieck. ‘Him! Instead of going and telling poor Braun, he ran straight to the blasted bridge!’ He clasped his hands like a girl and lisped: ‘Oh Captain, sir, there’s a great big iceberg ahead! I saw it, sir! Not Braun, sir, he’s left his post!’

  Schiller’s smile faded. ‘You lying little bastard! You know damned well that if it had not been for Willi we might all be at the bottom of the Arctic!’

  ‘I’m only saying⎯’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, you little snake! If you’re so smart perhaps you know the name of the man who was supposed to have relieved Braun. Who was it, eh?’

  Hahn checked himself. Time to break off. There was real danger in Schiller’s hostile face. He shrugged. ‘Well, it wasn’t me. I don’t let my mates down!’

  Gottlieb, a fat ex-shoemaker from Landshut, laughed wheezily, his soft body jerking up and down like jelly. ‘If we are away from land for a month or two, little Willi will be in demand by all of us, eh?’

  Schiller scowled. ‘You won’t see land for months, maybe for ever! By that time the cooks will be looking at you, Gottlieb, but for other reasons! You’d be all right with some fresh cabbage and some baked potatoes!’

  Alder, who had been sitting motionless beside Pieck, jumped as the laughter echoed loudly in the confined space. He peered sideways at his companions, and, realising that nothing more was about to happen, resumed the complex task of unravelling his thoughts. The tension within his body was so great that it hurt him to breathe, and sometimes when the mist across his mind cleared in a brief, confused picture, his thoughts became so frantic and jumbled that he wanted to scream and keep on screaming.

  Below the edge of the table lay his hands. By leaning back very slightly he knew he would be able to see them. But he would not lean back. He would save it. Make the agony last a little longer. Then he could start again. Two hands . . . my name is Emil Alder . . .

  He frowned. Willi was leaning heavily against him, his body throbbing like a trapped animal’s. Perhaps he too was lost. No, that was impossible. Willi was a good fellow. He tried to help, but did not understand. Perhaps one day . . . one day . . . He leaned back, his eyes wild. Two hands . . . my name is Emil Alder . . . .

  Willi Pieck forced himself to sit quietly, his heart still pounding beneath his vest. Although Schiller had spoken up on his behalf, he knew it was only a matter of time before Hahn got him alone again. And the lie about the lookout, Braun. Even that had been used by Hahn to discredit him in front of the others. Why? He knew that although the men had laughed at Hahn, they would all remember his lies only as the truth under different circumstances.

  He stared around desperately at his comrades. If only they knew how he wanted to be one of them. Tough, like Schiller; laconic and cool, like Schwartz; or even like Hahn. He at least seemed not to care what anyone thought of him.

  Suppose I was to see Kohler, and explain that I did not intend to make any trouble. To tell him that all I wanted was to be a good seaman, and serve von Steiger.

  Von Stelger. He remembered the Captain’s keen stare. ‘What is your name?’ That had been a great moment for Pieck. Even Kohler’s incredulous stare, as he had burst into the wheelhouse, had been unable to destroy it completely.

  Perhaps he should just try to avoid Kohler and wait and see what he would do. Then, if he attempted something, he would report it to the Captain. He shook his head wretchedly. No, that was no good. If von Steiger could have a man shot for negligence it was unlikely that he would discredit one of his officers on the word of a common seaman. And on a cruise of such importance as this, Pieck’s own life must seem of no value at all to the Captain, except as a mere cog in the great wheel of command and discipline.

  If only there was someone he could approach. He bit his lip with concentration. Lieutenant Heuss was in charge of his watch. He seemed an unusual kind of man to Pieck, who was used to the more arrogant type of officer. He was popular with his men, and had taken a lot of trouble over their welfare and comfort, and might be the one to listen to him. He sighed. It was small enough comfort, but at least it was something.

  A seaman named Erhard, one of the gunners, pulled a small bible from his trousers and began to thumb slowly through the worn pages. He was a sad-faced man who rarely showed any sign of humour.

  Hellwege, the poop gunlayer, laughed noisily. ‘Here we go again! How d’you do it, man?’

  Erhard looked up suspiciously. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Well, this morning we sunk a damned British ship, and as a gunner you are not bad. We got off as many shells as the other guns, and you were quick with your training wheel!’ He pointed at the small book. ‘Yet now you read about saints, when all of you must be sinners in that book!’

  ‘We are all equal in the eyes of the Lord, Hellwege!’ He eyed him severely.

  Schiller shouted from the end of the table: ‘By God, that’s true enough! So equal we’re nothing!’

  Erhard scowled. ‘What do you know about the scriptures? All you think of is drink, women and any other evil which takes your fancy!’

  Hellwege banged the table with his fist. ‘Never mind him. What I want to know is, how can you reconcile all this with God? What can He think of our efforts to wipe out His creatures? Come on, man, answer me that!’

  ‘He will forgive you!’ Erhard stared back at him, unmoved and impassive.