“Sir? Did you—”
“Get out of this room,” Beauchene said, standing up from his chair. “This is a private room. A nice room. Do you think people in this room want to smell you in here?”
Michael winced. He saw Kpanga swallow hard.
“Sir?” the African said, with a note of pleading in his voice. “I only wanted to—”
“Smell up this room, oui. You’ve done your job. Get out.”
Kpanga gave a look to Michael of forlorn indignation. His mouth opened as if he wished to say something, perhaps to make some explanation of the captain’s remarks. But no explanation could be made. Kpanga closed his mouth, straightened his back which had begun to hunch as if readying for the strike of a bullwhip, and strode quickly out of the room.
“You and me,” Beauchene told Michael. “Up on deck.” He braced the Thompson against his shoulder and without another word to the Wesshausers or their children he went into the hall.
“Wasn’t that a little harsh?” Michael asked as they walked.
“He’s a black nigger,” came the flat response. “Worse than that, he’s a college boy.”
The rain had again tapered to a nasty drizzle. A smear of faint gray light had begun to show to the east. Javelin was so close to the port side of Sofia the two ships were almost trading paint. Michael took the revolver from his waistband. The other crewmen with weapons were lined along the portside gunwale. They were facing a dozen black-garbed men, also wielding rifles and pistols, who were lined along Javelin’s starboard gunwale. A Javelin searchlight swung back and forth across the scene, stabbing the eyes. Sofia, still at full speed, shuddered over a wave and shards of white foam was flung up between the hulls. The sound of diesels was the muffled beat of wardrums.
“Captain of the Sofia!” called a voice over a bullhorn. “Show yourself!” There was a few seconds’ pause. “Captain of the Sofia! Show yourself!” That same request and pause was repeated over and over.
Michael had a good view of Javelin. It did, indeed, look like any ordinary freighter. Its mast and running lights illuminated coils of ropes, lifeboats, ventilation funnels, capstans, nettings, various machines and cables used in hoisting cargo and the like. Michael saw a figure in a black raincoat and a white captain’s cap standing at the railing up at the blue-lit wheelhouse. Just watching, casually examining the scene. Captain Manson Konnig, in the flesh?
“Captain of the Sofia! Show—”
Gustave Beauchene stepped forward and fired off a short burst from his Tommy that shattered the arrogant searchlight and instantly killed it.
Seven
In Sheep’s Clothing
Two seconds after the searchlight’s death, a rifle was fired from Javelin. A bullet whacked the gunwale in front of Beauchene. Someone else on Sofia pulled the trigger. A bullet sang off Javelin’s superstructure. Then the shooting started overlapping each other, echoing between the ships. A porthole on Sofia was smashed. Everyone crouched down behind whatever cover they could find. A bullet zipped past Michael’s left shoulder as he knelt behind the gunwale. Beauchene’s Thompson chattered and bullets beat against steel.
Several shots rang out fast upon each other, and there came a cry of pain from one of Sofia’s crew. Michael got off two bullets at a man in a black rainslicker and cap who scurried up a stairway. He saw the man clutch at his left thigh. Bullets slammed into the gunwale before Michael, causing him to duck his head.
Suddenly from amidships on Javelin there was the noise of a bolt going back.
A belt-fed machine gun began to speak, its tone deadly. Bullets bit into Sofia’s deck, ricocheted off a capstan and pocked holes through a lifeboat. Michael lifted his head and saw the machine gun and its team up on a metal-shielded platform that a few moments before had been camouflaged with a gray canvas tarp. The gunner swivelled his weapon back and forth, spraying bullets across Sofia. Michael got off two more shots and saw sparks fly off the metal shield. Then the machine gun came hunting for him and nearly chewed through the gunwale in its enthusiasm.
More of Sofia’s bullets banged into the metal shield. The gunners shifted targets and fired at the annoying hornet’s nest. Michael squeezed the rest of his bullets off and quickly reloaded. A high-pitched klaxon alarm suddenly began, ear-cracking in intensity.
It was coming from an electric whistle atop the superstructure. Javelin picked up speed and began to move away, changing course to port. The firing kept on, even as the two ships widened their distance.
At last, there was no use in shooting because the range was too far.
Michael stood up. Gunsmoke still whirled in the air. He watched Javelin hurry across the gray waves. “Who’s hit?” he called, and Olaf shouted back that it was the Dutchman, shot through the right wrist. “We held them off!” Gustave Beauchane was on his feet but he was staggering with shock. “We held them off! Mon Dieu, nous l’avons fait!” Then he looked to one side and his giddy grin faded. He saw the Spaniard lying a few feet away with the top of his head blown away and glistening bits of brain laid out upon the deckboards.
His eyes narrowed, Michael was watching Javelin continue to move away at about ten knots. He saw activity at the stern. A dark shape was rising from the deck. Something covered with another tarpaulin. He wondered if an electric winch was at work.
There was similar activity toward the bow. Something rose up on a platform to a height just above the gunwale. Men moved about in trained and deliberate order. The tarps were removed. Michael realized with a start that he was looking at the steel gun shields and the barrels of two five-inch cannons that had been artfully hidden below the deck.
Javelin was not a freighter. It was a warship.
A wolf, he thought. Dressed in sheep’s clothing.
As he stared across the waves in what for him was nearly shock, Michael saw Javelin swing into a broadside position.
“Christ!” Billy Bowers said, standing a few feet away. He shouted the next: “They’ve got big guns!”
The forward cannon fired with a gout of smoke. There was a thunderclap and a waterspout rose up directly in front of Sofia’s bow. The freighter trembled in a sharp turn to starboard. There was the noise of everything loose crashing together and men lost their footing on the rainslick deck.
The cannon toward the stern fired. Hanging onto the gunwale, Michael felt the shell’s impact like a blow to the belly. Sofia gave a wounded cry. She’d been hit up near the bow. The forward cannon fired a second time. Michael heard the air sizzle as the shell passed just over the ship, and a waterspout shot up to starboard. Once more the stern gun spoke, and again Sofia was shaken by a hit. The ship was zigzagging violently; either the Swede or Medina was putting his back to the wheel.
A shell from the forward cannon punched through the superstructure. Portholes exploded and steel crumpled. “Get down! Get down!” someone was shouting, though it was hardly necessary; men were trying to fold themselves into smaller and smaller targets.
Except for three. Michael remained standing, so did Billy, and Gustave Beauchene aimed his Thompson at the now-distant Javelin and opened fire as he shouted blue curses into the rain. The warship’s guns fired almost in unison. Sofia lurched, struck in two places. A blaze had broken out toward the bow, the flames leaping up from the deck. Another shell crashed into the superstructure, dangerously close to the wheelhouse. The freighter veered again to starboard, trying desperately to escape the punishment.