The Quick Boat Men, page 21
‘Anyt’ing to stop de goddam Huns,’ he said.
The master of the Liverpool Street, a man called Houghton, was sleeping off a colossal drunk in one of the nearby hotels. The master of the King’s Cross had long since departed for England.
They hauled Houghton from his bed and dragged him to the café where they started filling him up with black coffee.
‘We’re commandeering your ship,’ Edward said.
‘You bloody young whippersnapper,’ Houghton snarled. ‘Who are you – navy?’
‘Yes.’ The lie came easily.
‘Where’s your uniform?’
‘I had to ditch it. To pass through the German lines.’
Houghton pulled a face. ‘Well, you’re out of luck. My ship’s out of coal.’
‘We’re going to bunker her. Know the King’s Cross?’
‘’Course I do. Right astern of me. First time we’ve been in port together for twenty years. She’s full of coal but the shaft bearing’s gone and you can bet your last quid there won’t be a spare in Antwerp.’
‘What about your crew?’
‘Bolted. Most of ’em, anyway.’
‘Can you round the rest up?’
‘Why?’
‘We’re taking your ship home. With her captain.’
Houghton was a stubborn man who had long given up hope of advancement. It took an hour of bullying and wheedling to get him to change his mind. But, as his hangover eased, he finally began to see what they were getting at. Seaman enough to know exactly what to do, he began to organise wires from the stern of his ship to pull her out past the bow of the King’s Cross and lie alongside.
Somehow, they managed to round up the bedraggled remnants of his crew. There was an engineer officer and two or three of the black gang among them, and they knew their jobs backwards.
‘You’ll never do it,’ Houghton said gloomily. ‘You can’t shift coal with half a dozen men.’
They ignored him. As the Boetje Otto nudged the King’s Cross alongside her sister ship, receiving nothing more than a dent, a bent rail and a shattered derrick boom, the remnants of the naval brigade began to appear in the neighbouring streets looking for a means of reaching England. They were a mixture of Marines and sailors, unshaven, dirty and some wearing items of Belgian uniform because they had given their own clothing to the wounded.
One of the sergeants saluted and explained what had happened. He assumed, like Houghton, that Edward was a naval officer and instinctively looked for guidance. ‘We landed on the sixth, sir,’ he said. ‘And went straight up the line. We never saw no Germans. Just Zeppelin and bloody Krupp shells lobbing over us into Antwerp. They sounded like the District Line on the London Underground going over. We were told to expect a Uhlan charge, sir. In the end we pulled out but we still didn’t see no Germans. Is the war lost, sir?’
‘Not on your life,’ he said. ‘How would you like to see home?’
‘Not ’alf, sir. What you got?’
‘I’ve got a ship with coal and no engines and a ship with engines but no coal. It needs a bit of elbow grease. Think you and your friends might like to lend a hand?’
Thirty-one
While Houghton’s men began to raise steam on the King’s Cross to power her cargo winches, Sam occupied himself with getting the Bourdillon in the water on to a cradle and up the slip, and moving all four boats to the wharf where the ships lay. It didn’t take long before one of the Belgian refugees approached, and, in halting English, asked if they could help in return for a passage to England.
By evening the quay was full of men, women and children. Sam found plenty of assistants, even women, willing to push the heavy cradles and work the crowbars. Winches started clattering and great canvas slings of best Welsh coal were dumped in clouds of black dust on the decks of the Liverpool Street, where it was pounced on by men with shovels and sacks.
With the derricks working, they needed more sacks and barrows, and Sam was dispatched to find them. He came back with his party, eyes gleaming.
‘You know where we saw the ‘Typhoo Tea’ van,’ he said. ‘It’s just like van der Essen said. There’s nobody there. Only a watchman. He told me they all hopped it when the shells started dropping. He’s off himself now. I can’t tell you the amount of bang there is there. He showed us. We helped ourselves to their barrows and trolleys.’
They manhandled the equipment aboard the Liverpool Street and within minutes the decks were packed with sweating marines, floating coal dust and the rattle and clatter of winches, as coal swung from the King’s Cross to the Liverpool Street.
‘How long to raise steam for the main engines?’ Edward asked the engineer.
‘Four hours. We can do it in four hours.’
Edward was surprised to see a familiar figure appear on the gangplank. It was Alexander Owen-Smith, the curate from Porthelt. He carried a small suitcase and looked immaculate in a lightweight fawn suit and panama hat. As he stepped on deck, Edward stopped him.
Owen-Smith stared at the dust-blackened face. ‘You,’ he said, incredulously. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I’m taking this ship back to England.’
‘In that case, I demand a passage. I’m a British citizen.’
‘British citizens are working their passage.’
‘You can’t expect me to do that sort of work.’
‘Then get off the bloody ship.’
Anger and petulance chased themselves across the curate’s face. In the end he controlled himself and drew a deep breath. ‘What must I do?’
‘Take your jacket off for a start.’
The exchange was watched with interest by the coal-blackened Marines and refugees. Their fear seemed to have dispersed with having something to do and they were all more cheerful. Some of the women had gone into town to buy bread and doorstep sandwiches were thrust into the grimy hands of the hungry workers.
The coaling was finished by evening.
‘Captain,’ Edward said to Houghton. ‘Why don’t we tow the King’s Cross home with us?’
Houghton guffawed. ‘Don’t talk daft, lad.’
‘All we have to do is get her out of the river. The navy’ll be out looking for lost British ships. They’re bound to show up as soon as we’re clear of German artillery. We could get two ships and twice as many people to safety.’
‘Can’t be done. We’d have to have the towing hook right on the stern. Anywhere else the tow would foul. That’s why tugs have their towing hook in the middle of the ship. So they can turn back and forth and still keep the tow steady.’
‘We’ve got the Boetje Otto.’ Edward gestured at the Bourdillons. ‘I came for those,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m going to get them home. For the navy.’
They found the skipper of the Boetje Otto was agreeable to attaching his ship to the King’s Cross’ stern and acting as a jury rudder to manoeuvre her down-river behind the Liverpool Street.
‘So why don’t you have a go?’ Edward said to Houghton. ‘And win yourself a medal. Think what your wife will say.’
Houghton laughed. ‘She went off with the mate from the Shulmar two years ago while I was in ’amburg.’ He glanced up at the towering structures of the dockside cranes. ‘My cargo hoists have a maximum lift of three tons. We’ll need one of them.’
‘No problem,’ said Edward. By his side stood a man in a blue suit and bowler hat. Behind him, a woman and two children were standing guard over their suitcases.
‘Monsieur Schalcken,’ he said. ‘Dockyard manager. He’ll work the crane in return for a passage to England.’
As Schalcken climbed to the cab of the crane, the boats were manoeuvred into position. Slings were fitted and one by one the boats were hoisted into the air and lowered, two to the King’s Cross, two to the Liverpool Street. When they were lashed in place, the ships looked topheavy but Houghton wasn’t worried.
‘They’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘So long as we don’t have gale force winds.’ He grinned at Edward. ‘Christ, lad, pull this off and I’ll have to hand it to you for sheer bloody cheek.’
‘We leave at first light,’ Edward said. ‘We’d better warn the naval brigade to bring in their outposts.’
There was no need. The outposts were already in.
‘The German Navy’s arrived,’ an officer informed Edward briskly. ‘Two armed trawlers with three-pounders on the bow and a machine-gun on the stern. The Schwan and the Tolpel. They’re lying in a trot alongside a coaster name of Mevrouw Koolhaven.’
This was bad news. These boats would be lying across their path as they headed for the sea. ‘We’d better check this out,’ said Edward.
They found the trawlers without difficulty, moored alongside the little coaster at the explosives wharf. Men were moving from the warehouse to the ships. The old ‘Typhoo Tea’ van still stood under the trees.
‘If we could put a match to that there warehouse,’ Sam said, ‘it’d go up a treat. The ship alongside would go up because it’s full of explosives, too. And if that went up, so would them two trawlers.’
‘How about a torpedo?’
‘We haven’t got one.’
‘No, but van der Essen has.’
‘They’d blow you out of the water.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of doing it from the water,’ Edward said.
The ‘Typhoo Tea’ van’s engine showed a marked reluctance to start, but Sam wasn’t a fitter for nothing and, eventually, as he swung the starting handle, it roared into life. The sudden noise was drowned by the thud of shells to the east, and no one showed the slightest interest from the quayside where the German trawlers were moored.
There was a crack as they removed a branch or two from the overhanging acacias as they turned, but then they were driving slowly down the shallow slope to van der Essen’s warehouses and the quayside.
Van der Essen’s foreman brought out the steel cylinder they’d been working on and gingerly located detonators against the top layer of explosive. Then he produced a cap made of wood. In it were three holes through which long metal spikes had been inserted.
‘When they’re pushed in,’ van der Essen explained, ‘they strike the detonators and set off the explosive. I hope it works.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ Edward said. ‘Get everybody aboard.’
Sam crossed himself. ‘I’m not a Catholic yet,’ he said, ‘though Rosie insists on the kid being brought up properly. But a little prayer never does any harm, does it?’
As Houghton mounted the ladder to the bridge of the King’s Cross, Edward climbed into the driving seat of the van. The ‘torpedo’ had been jammed into place over the mudguard so that it protruded a good two feet in front, and lashed securely into place. Remembering Fairy, Edward had seen that it was backed up with a baulk of timber to stop it from moving.
‘I just hope I can get out in time,’ he said with a grimace to Sam.
As the van climbed the slope to the main road, they both spotted the grubby fawn suit and panama of Owen-Smith.
Edward braked, and the two men jumped out. ‘I bet the bastard’s on his way to warn those bloody Germans what we’re up to,’ muttered Edward as they gave chase. Sam launched himself in a flying tackle which sent the curate crashing to the cobbles.
‘What the hell are you up to?’ Edward snapped, grabbing him by the collar.
‘I don’t wish to go with you.’
‘You’ll be interned.’
‘Better than being killed.’
‘You’ve changed your tune since yesterday. Tie the bugger up, Sam.’
His hands secured behind his back by his braces, Owen-Smith was bundled into the back of the van and they trundled slowly up to the road that ran behind the warehouses and parallel with the quayside.
‘For God’s sake,’ Sam breathed as they manoeuvred with difficulty round a narrow corner, ‘don’t run into anything with that thing in front.’
At the top of the slope that led down to the explosives wharf, they parked the van and climbed out. Sam stuffed a handkerchief into Owen-Smith’s mouth and tied it tight with his tie.
There was no movement near the explosives store but they could see a sentry near the door, silent and still in the shadows.
Sam pushed Owen-Smith against a wall out of the way of the blast, while Edward edged the van forward and slowly turned the corner. There was only an inch between the nose of the torpedo and a wall, and he was conscious of the dryness of his lips as the metal spikes leading to the detonators just brushed the bricks.
Then he lashed the steering wheel to the choke lever with a heaving line from the King’s Cross. Shoving the throttle forward, he wriggled from the seat. As he did so, his jacket pocket caught the gear lever and wrenched it into neutral. With the hand throttle advanced, the engine began to scream. Edward wrenched at the jacket. It tore and he fell out of the door, the van’s wheels only just missing his legs. As he picked himself up, Edward saw the sentry outside the store stare at the advancing vehicle and open his mouth to shout.
Engine screaming, the thick-spoked solid-tyred wheels rumbled faster and faster over the cobbles, but started to drift off course.
‘Christ, Sam. It’s going to miss.’
The van suddenly mounted the pavement. For a moment it looked as though it would fall on its side, and then it skidded into a brick building yards from the target.
Nothing happened. But then there was a roar and a tremendous blast that blew Edward on to his back.
The first explosion was followed by another that merged into a long sustained rumble. What seemed like a hot breath from hell took his breath away, searing his lungs as if from a blowtorch. Windows shattered. A wall collapsed and bricks and other debris flew through the air, including the driver’s door from the van, which bounced and clattered before coming to a stop against a tree which had been stripped of all its leaves.
Desperately, Edward shielded his head with his arms and felt his hands beaten by bouncing objects. Slowly the noise subsided. Edward sat up. Sam was crouched, wild-eyed, against the wall.
There was nothing left of the explosives store. Just a great cloud of brown smoke lifting slowly into the air. As it began to clear, they saw that every scrap of the building was gone except for a broken wall no more than a few feet high and a pair of burning doors. The Mevrouw Koolhaven was nothing but a twisted iron hull. Beyond her, the two German trawlers leaned on one another as though exhausted, their bridgeworks shattered.
But of Owen-Smith there was no sign.
The Liverpool Street, with the King’s Cross in tow, moved slowly down the river, with the Boetje Otto attached by a hawser to the stern of the King’s Cross.
As they moved slowly past the half-submerged trawlers, they saw horsemen with lances and strange flat-topped headgear gallop down the slope. They were about fifty strong and were followed by a car carrying staff officers. Voices floated across the water and there were a few shots.
Bullets whacked into the yellow sides of the Bourdillons. As the firing grew heavier the people on the crowded decks crawled on hands and knees to the shelter of the deck-houses and hatches. The shouting was renewed, but fortunately the Germans had nothing more powerful than rifles. The Marines on board returned fire, which discouraged the cavalry who were in an exposed position, and gradually, as the ships drew out of effective range, the firing petered out.
They cleared the city and were in the estuary by midday. By mid-afternoon they were in the Channel in a thinning mist, and eventually, a British cruiser carrying a commodore’s pennant crossed their bows. An Aldis lamp began flashing.
‘Do I reply, sir?’ said one of the naval brigade to Edward.
‘Got a lamp?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell him “Liverpool Street. Towing King’s Cross and carrying refugees and four Bourdillons for the Royal Navy.”’
‘How do you spell Bourdillon, sir?’
Edward repeated the message and grinned at Sam. ‘It’ll get into the newspapers, Sam. Wait and see. Nothing like a free puff for the old firm.’
Thirty-two
The rescue of two unimportant merchant ships and four boats stood out like a small beacon in the darkness of defeat after Mons, the sinking of the three armoured cruisers, the fall of Antwerp and the loss of the bulk of the naval brigade. There was little to crow about so the propagandists seized on their small victory and it got full headline treatment. Egg was quick to explain to the newspapermen who turned up next day what ‘Bourdillons’ were, ending with the same comment Edward had made – these quick boats would undoubtedly be wanted by the navy.
By the time Edward and Sam stepped ashore at Harwich, the press was there in droves. The two men managed to extricate themselves from the crush, only for Edward to be escorted to one side by a grim-faced naval commander.
‘I’d be obliged,’ he said ‘if you would shut up. A statement’s being prepared. You’ll get full credit for everything.’
‘I don’t want your bloody credit,’ Edward snapped, short-tempered with tiredness. ‘But Captain Houghton would doubtless appreciate a mention in your statement.’
The commander insisted on escorting Edward to see the admiral, a tall man with a hawk-nose and bushy eyebrows.
‘What the devil were you doing in Antwerp?’ he demanded.
‘Business.’
‘I heard you were navy,’ the commander pointed out. ‘The captain of the Liverpool Street said you were.’
‘I had to say something. To get him on his feet.’
The admiral and the commander exchanged glances. ‘Pity you’re not in the navy,’ the admiral observed drily. ‘We could do with a few like you. My chaps say you destroyed two German ships with a torpedo.’
‘Three actually.’
‘How in God’s name did you manage that?’
Edward explained.
The admiral thought for a moment. ‘So far most of our efforts with torpedoes have been a great deal less successful. The bloody things sink or go off-course.’
