Waves slapped hollowly against the bottom, a sure sign of shallow water, and once or twice there was a slight protesting jar and a scraping as they grazed a shoulder of sand. It was perhaps five minutes later that they ploughed to a halt.
Orsini reversed quickly. At first the launch refused to budge and then it parted the sand with an ugly sucking noise. Carlo vaulted over the side without a word to anyone. The water rose to his chest, and as he waded forward, it dropped to waist level.
He changed direction to the left and a moment later it lifted to his armpits again. He waved quickly and Orsini swung the wheel, taking the boat after him.
The young Italian swam forward into the shoals, sounding the bottom every few yards, and behind him the Buona Esperanza carefully followed his circuitous trail. And then a wave lifted out of the mist, swamping him, and he went under.
He surfaced and swam back to the launch, and when Chavasse pulled him in, there was a wide grin on his face. “Deep water. I couldn’t touch bottom. We’re through.”
Orsini waved from the wheelhouse and gave the engines more power, swinging the wheel to take them out of the estuary to sea. Fifty yards beyond the entrance, the dark bulk of Cat Island lifted out of the mist and he turned to port. As they rounded the point, the current pushing against them, engines roared into life and a gray naval patrol boat surged out of the rock inlet where she had been waiting.
As she swept across their bows, a heavy machine gun started to fire, bullets sweeping across the deck, shattering glass in the wheelhouse. Chavasse had a quick glimpse of Kapo at the rail, still wearing his hunting jacket with the fur collar, mouth open as he cried his men on.
Carlo appeared in the doorway of the wheelhouse, the submachine gun at his hip, firing as he crossed the deck to the rail. On the patrol boat, someone screamed and Kapo ducked out of sight.
Already Orsini was taking his engines to full power, and from the forward deck of the patrol boat another machine gun started to fire, tracer and cannon hammering into the hull of the Buona Esperanza, great shudders rushing through her entire frame as she reeled at the impact.
And then they were through, prow lifting over the waves as the patrol boat faded into the mist behind them. Chavasse picked himself up from the deck and gave a hand to Liri. There was blood on her face and she wiped it away quickly.
“Are you all right?” he said.
She nodded. “A flying splinter, that’s all.”
Carlo turned, the submachine gun hugged to his breast. For the first time since Chavasse had known him there was a smile on his face.
“I gave the bastards something to remember me by.”
Chavasse moved to the door of the wheelhouse. The windows were shattered, glass scattered across the floor, but Orsini seemed to be all in one piece.
“I got down quick,” he called above the roar of the engine. “Did you see Kapo?”
“For a moment there I thought he’d put one over on us. We should have reckoned on the possibility of him having both exits watched.”
“I hope the swine’s head rolls for this.”
As Orsini grinned savagely, the engines missed a couple of times, faltered, tried to pick up, then stopped completely.
The Buona Esperanza ploughed forward, her prow biting into a wave, slowed and started to drift with the current.
SIXTEEN
WHEN ORSINI GOT THE HATCH OFF the tiny engine room, they could smell escaping fuel at once. The Italian slid down the short steel ladder and Chavasse and Orsini followed him.
Carlo made a quick examination and turned. “It could be worse. A section of the fuel intake pipe is damaged. We were lucky the whole damned lot didn’t blow sky-high.”
A jagged hole in the steel hull punched by a cannon shell was mute evidence of how the damage had been caused.
“How are we off for spares?” Orsini demanded.
“No problem there, but I’ll have to cut a section to the right size and braze it.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes if you all get to hell out of here and leave me alone.”
Chavasse went up the ladder and joined Liri on deck. “How bad is it?” she asked.
“Bad enough to make us sitting ducks for the next half hour.”
Orsini scrambled out of the engine room and nodded grimly. “If the swine doesn’t get us now, he doesn’t deserve to. We’d better make ready, Paul.”
He broke open a box of cartridges and carefully loaded the submachine gun’s one-hundred-round circular clip, and Chavasse checked the machine gun and the half dozen magazines that went with it. Liri scrambled on top of the wheelhouse and kept watch, straining her eyes into the mist.
When he had finished loading the submachine gun, Orsini went below and came back with an old American service issue.45 automatic. He tossed it to the girl, who caught it deftly.
“Best I can do, but watch it. It has the kick of an angry mule.”
“I’ve been using guns all my life,” she said, pulling out the magazine and examining it expertly.
Orsini grinned up at her. “I wonder what you’d look like in a skirt and some decent stockings and shoes. The thought has great appeal. When we reach Matano I must do something about it.”
She laughed, her face flushing, and then the smile was wiped from her face. “Listen, I think I hear them.”
The boat lifted on the swell, waves slapping hollowly against her bows. Chavasse stood at the rail, straining his ears and, in the distance, heard the sound of an engine.
“Come down from there,” he told the girl. “Go into the wheelhouse and lie flat.”
She did as she was told. Chavasse stood over her, the barrel of the Bren gun poking through one of the windows, and Orsini crouched beside the engine room hatch.
“Perhaps they’re going away?” Liri whispered.
Chavasse shook his head. “Not on your life. They must have heard our engines stop and they cut their own and listened to see what was happening. Kapo must know that there are only two possibilities. Either we’re being picked up by another boat or our engines have packed in.”
The patrol boat came nearer and nearer, obviously beating backwards and forwards through the mist. It passed very close to them indeed, its bow-wave rippling across the water, rocking the Buona Esperanza violently. For a moment, Chavasse thought they had been missed and then the engine of the patrol boat lifted and it roared out of the mist.
It swept across their stern and the air was broken by the sound of violence. The main trouble came from the heavy machine gun mounted in the stern of the patrol boat, its crew couched behind a curved shield of armor plating. In the prow, several soldiers stood at the rail firing rifles and machine pistols, and Kapo lurked behind them, a revolver in his hand.
Chavasse started to fire, swinging the barrel of the Bren in an arc, and a couple of soldiers stumbled backwards to the deck. He saw Francesca running, head down, and swung the Bren desperately, his bullets chipping the rail beside her head. As his magazine ran out, she disappeared into the wheelhouse.
He ducked, reaching for another magazine, and glass shattered above his head and the walls splintered, rocking to the impact of tracer and cannon shell. As the patrol boat swung away, Orsini jumped to his feet and fired a long burst at the crew of the machine gun in the stern. There was a sharp cry. As the boat disappeared into the mist, one of them lurched to the rail and toppled into the sea.
The sound of the patrol boat faded and Orsini shouted to Liri, “Keep down. Next time he’s really going to mean business.”
The patrol boat circled several times, invisible in the heavy mist, and Chavasse waited impatiently. When Kapo at last made his move it was from a different quarter. As the boat roared out of the mist behind him, Chavasse frantically swung the Bren round, firing from the hip.