He poured another whisky, then sat staring openly at the girl at the table. She grew uneasy, and after a while gathered up her sewing and her skirts and fled for her cabin. The passenger watched with a grin as she went. Give her a little longer to get accustomed to having him around, and she would soften, no longer run like a gazelle from his masculinity. All women were the same, looked scared, pretended they didn’t want it, played hard to get—women of her sort, that was. There were plenty who didn’t, plenty easier, but they weren’t here.
Best forget Sergeant Cantlow: to grow into a new identity. You had to forget the old one, or you’d be sure to give yourself away one day. Jesson drank, sighed, stretched out on the settee, listening to the creak of woodwork around him and the banging and rattling of the blocks from up above as the Aysgarth Falls drove on through the Pacific.
On the poop, Bullock walked aft to look down at the wake and read the patent log that gave the speed and the day’s distance run. While he read this off, with his back turned, Float, finishing a job of work on the ratlines of the mizzen shrouds before being locked back into the sail locker, glanced down the open saloon skylight and saw the recumbent figure on the settee. Talk originating from Goss, the saloon steward, had told Float that the passenger liked his whisky and never left the saloon of an evening before the bottle was empty. At this moment it was no more than half empty, and already Jesson had a comatose look.
THE GERMAN cruisers had been positively recognized shortly after noon as the fighting-tops had advanced over the horizon, growing very slowly larger until the compass platforms and then the decks and guns were seen. Over them flaunted the German Naval ensigns, together with the flag of Vice-Admiral von Merkatz at the flagship’s main truck.
“A brave sight,” Halfhyde said sardonically. “All to apprehend one half-pay lieutenant!”
Captain Graves spoke on the voice-pipe to the engine-room. The engineer responded nobly enough, and the paddles whirled furiously; but they could not give quite enough speed to keep the Tacoma ahead, and Halfhyde knew that the German squadron must be upon them by the time the sun went down and long before that would be in a position to open fire upon a helpless target if von Merkatz was insane enough to attack the British flag. The White Ensign had not yet been run up; Halfhyde preferred to keep it in reserve and trust that the sudden hoisting would deflect von Merkatz, though in fact there was no knowing how far his temper would lead him.
As the afternoon wore on, the cruisers closed the gap. Von Merkatz began signalling. Graves was the first to spot the flashing lamp.
“You’ve not seen it,” Halfhyde said, “and neither have I.” He turned his back and paced the bridge with Graves. Conversation languished; Halfhyde’s thoughts were grim enough, not conducive to talk. Germany and its gaols loomed. Von Merkatz was a powerful man, known to have the ear of his Emperor, who was a man after his own heart, proud, boastful, convinced of German superiority in all things. Aboard his flagship von Merkatz too was thinking of his Emperor; part British, His Imperial Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm II was always disdainful of his distaff side—of his grandmother Queen Victoria, his childhood’s nagger when his family had visited Balmoral and had been forced to pay heed to the autocratic old woman and listen to the appalling heathen noise from the bagpipes of her Scottish guard. The mere thought of his grandmother always sent His Imperial Majesty into a temper. England and the English he detested, and it was frequently his pleasure to imitate and poke fun at his Uncle Edward, Prince of Wales, portly and often drunk, an easy-going fool who was said to hobnob with tradespeople such as Thomas Lipton aboard his yacht. Lipton and Dewar, tea and whisky, so common…von Merkatz paced his admiral’s bridge, grinding his teeth. What an appalling country, where no one, not even the heir to the throne, knew his place any more. So different from Germany, as the wretched Halfhyde was going to find out the moment the Special Service Squadron reached the great base at Kiel. Von Merkatz was not unexpectant of a personal welcome by his Kaiser upon his return from foreign waters. Kaiser Wilhelm would be most pleased with his catch; His Imperial Majesty was well aware of what Lieutenant Halfhyde had done in the past—how could he not be?—and had indeed been frigid towards von Merkatz for having allowed it to happen, though von Merkatz had managed to talk his way out of that.
Now the tables were about to be turned.
Von Merkatz looked through his telescope, then spoke to his Flag Captain. “The dolt evidently has no intention of answering my signals. Well, we shall see! Man and arm your guns, Flag Captain, and make a signal to the rest of my squadron indicating what I am doing.”
“Yes, sir.” The Flag Captain hesitated, then asked, “Are they to man and arm as well, sir?”
Von Merkatz stared crushingly. “Against a puny merchantman, half sail, half steam, like one of these new-fangled motor carriages married to a windmill? Poof!”
He turned away and strode the holystoned planking of the admiral’s bridge, his neat beard quivering with anticipation.
RUMOURS CONCERNING the passenger had flown like bees about the Aysgarth Falls. Largely, these had started as a result of old Finney’s report of his apparent wealth: all that heavy gear, the clothing, the assured manner. Float, who was well enough acquainted with the manoeuvrings and intrigues of the criminal fraternity, had come to the conclusion that Jesson was up to no good. The rumours had been diverse: Jesson, who was automatically assumed to be travelling
