I could only hope he was right. In just over twenty-four hours the Thirlmere would be steaming down the Thames. It seemed short enough time in which to get action. True the Thirlmere would have a naval escort as far as Norwegian territorial waters. That gave them another twelve hours, or perhaps a little more, in which to make up their minds. In all they had, perhaps, a little over thirty-six hours. Even as I arrived at this conclusion, the Finnish minister closed his speech amidst tumultuous cheers and Lord Waign began to speak on behalf of the British Government. And thirty-six hours seemed short enough. I had no illusions on the matter. The chances of Government action were remote, even though Fisher and Sir John Kelf used every endeavour to obtain at least the detention of the Thirlmere and an inquiry. The Government had given their blessing to this enterprise. And Marburg and his friends could pull strings. What, against these weighty considerations, was the fantastic statement of a K.C., however famous, who had first been reported dead and who, though now miraculously come to life, had nevertheless sent a ridiculous statement to the Yard only two days ago.
It was in a state of utter depression that, at the end of the ceremony, I wandered aft with the rest of the gathering. The captain, at the close of the affair, had given everyone the freedom of the decks, but had announced in broken English that, in view of the fact that this was a munitions ship, he had orders to allow no one below decks.
I found myself examining the powerful winch gear with a little sharp-featured man. His restless eyes met mine. ‘You press?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘What do you think of this for a bloody silly business? Every editor in the Street is yelling his head off for pro-Finnish stuff. And now when a story with a big British angle breaks, everything is frightfully hush-hush. “MacPherson,” my news editor says to me, “there’s a grand story here.” Grand story be damned! A lot of pious publicity-seeking drivel from Marburg. A lot more drivel from your Finn. And we’re not allowed below decks. How the hell do they expect one to get a good background story? I want to see for myself what they’ve got.’
I did not think he was being reasonable and said so. ‘You can’t expect them to allow a crowd like this to wander all over the ship. But Marburg knows the value of publicity. If several of us applied to him tomorrow for permission to look round, I expect we’d get it.’
At that he gave a short laugh. ‘What the devil’s the good of a permit tomorrow, when the ship sails tonight?’
We were walking round the stern of the ship and I checked in my stride. ‘Sailing tonight?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Can’t you see they’ve got steam up? All they’re waiting for is the torpedo boat. I happen to understand Norwegian and I heard the captain discussing the sailing with his mate. They leave with the ebb.’
I felt a sudden void in my stomach. Why the change of plan? The answer seemed plain enough, but it brought me little joy. Things might not be going too well for them. In the circumstances they might well consider that my escape made it essential to get under way as soon as possible. But because they advanced their sailing date by twenty-four hours, it did not mean that Government action was imminent. In less than six hours the tide would be on the ebb and the Thirlmere would be outward bound. Within a little more than twenty hours the ship would reach Germany. I could not believe that Fisher and Keif would get Government action on a Sunday evening. And by dawn tomorrow the Thirlmere would be pounding her way towards Norwegian territorial waters. By midday she would be shot of her naval escort. The void in my stomach was caused by the knowledge that if I wanted action I should have to provide it myself. I had a vivid picture of myself standing over the hold with a hand-grenade in my hand, threatening to toss it amongst the cargo of high explosives, and I was wondering whether I should ever be able to summon up the courage to drop it if my bluff were called.
My companion had been talking and I suddenly caught the drift of his conversation. ‘There she is coming up the river now,’ he was saying. ‘Perhaps we’ll see something interesting after all. It’s the first time old Petersen has shipped a boat on board one of his ships. Have you ever seen them loading up with locomotives?’ I shook my head. We had climbed the iron ladder to the poop and I was peering past one of the lifeboats to see the sharp bows of a torpedo boat creaming the water brown as she ran smoothly up the centre of the river. ‘It’s an extraordinary sight,’ he went on. ‘The whole ship cants as the winch gear swings it on board. They shove the locomotives down in the hold. It’s specially constructed for that purpose. Then for the rolling stock, rails are run lengthways across the whole of this well deck and the carriages or trucks are lashed to its rails. By Jove! There’s someone going down into the hold. There, just below the bridge. See that little iron trapdoor?’ I was just in time to see the head and shoulders of one of the crew disappearing below the level of the brief fo’c’sle deck.
At the time I took little notice of this incident, for the torpedo boat was rapidly approaching the Thirlmere and it was there my interest lay. The crowd, which had already thinned — out, was lining the bulwarks of the well deck, peering down the river. The torpedo boat came up fast with the tide, swung in a wide circle and nosed up alongside the Thirlmere, the propeller creaming the water at her stern as she maintained way against the flow of the tide. Ropes were flung and she was made fast. The engine quietly running had a familiar sound, and I remembered the white-painted Sea Spray chugging out from Porthgwarra. It seemed incredible to think that this was the same engine. In place of the white friendly lines of Sea Spray was the dull grey menacing hull of this small warship. Over the pointed bows showed the muzzle of a small gun, and on either side of the short mast were multiple anti-aircraft pom-poms. Astern was the depth charge apparatus, and doubtless below the level of the water would be a torpedo tube.
In appearance, the boat was a warship. And as I stood there in the cold sunlight I had a feeling of admiration for the men who had planned this method of removing a secret diesel engine from the country. Looking at that devilish little craft, bristling with armaments, no one would give any attention to its engine. The boat was a Calboyd product and would, of course, be fitted with a Calboyd Dragon engine. Who was there to realise that that engine spelt disaster for one or other of two warring nations! Well, there was myself. And I was helpless. Should I stand up here on the poop and tell the press that installed in that boat was an engine that revolutionised aero engine production? Should I tell them that the Thirlmere was not bound for Finland at all, but for Germany, and that the volunteers were in reality Nazi agents? I could just imagine the laughter that would greet this denunciation, and the good-humoured comments as those same agents marched me ashore. Or there might be angry cries as the crowd denounced me for a communist. No, it was useless. I should achieve nothing that way. The stage had been too well set. Denunciations would only recoil upon the head of the denunciator.
Sailors had now climbed on to the poop and with a clatter the steam winches came to life. Slowly the great steel girder used for lifting locomotives and rolling stock was swung clear of the deck. Cloth-bound rope slings were attached to each end and the girder was swung out over the side of the Thirlmere and lowered until it was only a few feet above the boat, whose mast had been lowered.
For a time I became absorbed in the efforts of the crew of the boat to get the slings into position beneath the keel. I think it was the sound of a camera that made me turn. Almost directly behind me, one of the news-cameramen was taking shots of the man operating the steam winch. He was squatting on his heels, his broad back bent over his camera, which was lodged on a bollard. I was just turning away to see how the men on board the torpedo boat had progressed with their task, when he rose to his feet. Something about his figure made me hesitate. Then, as he picked up his camera and turned to find a new vantage point, I knew who he was.