Shout at the Devil - Smith Wilbur (лучшие книги .TXT) 📗

He must have his ship seaworthy and battle-ready to break out through the blockade squadron, and destroy that convoy.

"The big job will be readjusting the ship's trim. There is much to be done. Stores to be manhandled, shell from the magazines, the guns remounted..." Lochtkamper interrupted his thoughts. "We will need labour."

"I will order Fleischer to bring all his forced labour down to assist with the work," von Kleine muttered. "But we must sail in four days. The moon will be right on the night of the thirtieth, we must break out then." The saintly face was ruffled by the force of his concentration, he paced slowly, the golden beard slink on his chest as he formulated his plans, speaking aloud. Kyller has buoyed the channel. He must start clearing the minefield at the entrance. We can cut the boom at the last moment and the current will sweep it aside."

They had reached the waist of the cruiser. Von Kleine was so deep in his thoughts that it took Lochtkamper's restraining hand on his arm, to return him to reality.

"Careful, sir." With a start von Kleine looked up. They had walked into a knot, of African porters. Wild tribesmen, naked beneath their filthy leather cloaks, faces daubed with yellow ochre. They were man-handling the faggots of cordwood that were coming aboard from the launch that lay alongside Blitcher. One of the heavy bundles was suspended from the boom of the derrick, it was swaying twenty feet above the deck and von Kleine had been about to walk under it.

Lochtkamper's warning stopped him.

While he waited for them to clear away the faggot, von Kleine idly watched the native gang of workers.

One of the porters caught his attention. He was taller than his companions, his body sleeker, lacking the bunched and knotty Muscle.

His legs also were sturdier and finely moulded. The man lifted his head from his labours, and von Kleine looked into his face. The features were delicate; the lips not as full as, the forehead broader and deeper than, the typical African.

But it was the eyes that jerked von Kleine's attention back from the troop convoy. They were brown, dark brown and shifty. Von Kleine had learned to recognize guilt in the faces of his subordinates, it showed in the eyes. This man was guilty. It was only an instant that von Kleine saw it, then the porter dropped his gaze and stooped to take a grip on the bundle of timber. The man worried him, left him feeling vaguely uneasy, he wanted to speak with him question him. He started towards him.

"Captain! Captain!" Commissioner Fleischer had come puffing up the catwalk from the launch, plump and sweaty; he was pawing von

Kleine's arm.

"I must speak with you, Captain."

"Ah, Commissioner," von Kleine greeted him coolly, trying to avoid the damp Paw. "One moment, please.

"I wish to.

"It is a matter of the utmost importance. Ensign Proust -."

"In a moment, Commissioner." Von Kleine pulled away, but Fleischer was determined. He stepped in front of von Kleine, blocking his path.

"Ensign Proust, the cowardly little prig..." and von Kleine found himself embroiled in a long report about Ensign Proust's lack of respect for the dignity of the Commissioner. He had been insubordinate, he had argued with Herr Fleischer, and further he had told Herr Fleischer that he considered him "fat'.

"I will speak to Proust," said von Kleine. It was a trivial matter and he wanted no part of it. Then Commander Lochtkamper was beside them. Would the Captain speak to the Herr Commissioner about labour for the handling of ballast? They fell into a long discussion and while they talked, the gang of porters lugged the bundle of timber aft and were absorbed by the bustling hordes of workmen.

Sebastian was sweating with fright; trembling, giddy with fright.

Clearly he had sensed the German officer's suspicions. Those cold blue eyes had burned like dry ice. Now he stooped under his load, trying to shrink himself into insignificance, trying to overcome the grey clammy sense of dread that threatened to crush him.

"He saw you, wheezed Mohammed's cousin, shuffling along beside

Sebastian.

"Yes." Sebastian bent lower. "Is he still watching?" The old man glanced back over his shoulder.

"No. He speaks with Mafuta, the fat one."

"Good." Sebastian felt a lift of relief. "We must get back on the launch."

"The loading is almost finished, but we must first speak with my brother. He waits for us." They turned the corner of the aft gun-turrets. On the deck was a mountain of cordwood. Stacked neatly and lashed down with rope. Black men swarmed over it, between them spreading a huge green tarpaulin over the wood pile.

They reached the wood pile and added the faggots they carried to the stack. Then, in the custom of Africa, they paused to rest and talk. A man clambered down from the wood pile to join them, a sprightly old gentleman with woolly grey hair, impeccably turned out in cloak and penis sheath Mohammed's cousin greeted him with courteous affection, and they took snuff together.

"This man is my brother, "he told Sebastian. "His name is Walaka.

When he was a young man he killed a lion with a spear. It was a big lion with a black mane." To Sebastian this information seemed to be slightly irrelevant, his fear of discovery was making him nervously impatient. There were Germans all around them, big blond Germans bellowing orders as they chivvied on the labour gangs, Germans looking down on them from the tall superstructure above them, Germans elbowing them aside as they passed. Sebastian found it difficult to concentrate.