Chapter 2

RFS Dupetit-Trouars lay anchored some 100 metres or so from the shore. Her anchor chains were coated in a thick green slime of tropical algae. Her hull, once gleaming white, was streaked with rust. The tricoleur flag draped lifeless from the staff on the stern.

The cruiser's shafts had not turned for almost a year and very little maintenance had been done in that time. It was now little more than a floating headquarters for the French Pacific Squadron.

Nearby lay RFS Linois, an antique, now, and in a similar state of disrepair. Its preposterous extended ram bow, 'tumblehome' hull and two tall, large funnels made her look like a floating museum exhibit. Similarly, her propeller shafts had not spun for some considerable time.

The crews reflected the state of their ships. Tahiti, for all intents and purposes, was in peacetime mode. Very little of the Great War in Europe disturbed the tranquility of this island paradise.

Severe budgetary constraints restricted operations. There was little coal available, and that had been labouriously hauled halfway around the World. Grease, paint, ammunition and spare parts were in short supply. It was little wonder that routine maintenance had gone by the board.

In fact, there was more than enough allied ships in the Pacific theatre and the tiny French Squadron had no particular role. British and Japanese Naval vessels were generally well-manned and efficient and now they'd been complemented by ships of the United States Navy.

Under an awning set on the quarterdeck of the flagship, Admiral Michelet sat at his desk attended by his French Orderly and Tahitian Servant. He watched his Communications Officer, Commandant Marfart, stroll towards him dressed in his unbuttoned uniform shirt and khaki shorts. He had in his hands the day's signal chits for him to look over.

"That shipping agent has been calling again, Admiral," Marfart said, "he says a ship's overdue for coaling."

"What are we, the lost and found department?" the Admiral shrugged. "It's probably changed its mind and coaled someplace else."

"Probably," he agreed, "strange signal from the Marquesas. I think you should have a look at it."

"What is it?"

"From a Jesuit Priest. He says he's found a castaway. The man claims he was captured by German Pirates."

Michelet chuckled with laughter, "the man's delirious, obviously. Been too long in the hot sun... affects the mind. Anything else?"

"We picked up a signal from the SS Nantucket Respect. It was incomplete, just the vessel's callsign and nothing else. That's the same vessel that shipping agent claims is overdue."

"Ah, shit! So it's coming into silly season again. Have we anything in the area?"

"Nothing!"

"Then pass it on to the British, they have nothing better to do."

"Yes, Admiral."

Joanna awoke early on the third day of their stay on Hatutu in the Northern Marquesas Group of Islands. Rupert was already out surf casting with the rod he'd fashioned from driftwood. He approached fishing with the same intensity and inventiveness he attacked any task. Joanna was amazed at some of the ideas he came up with.

The fire had been stoked, and water was boiling on it for her morning coffee. On a hook on one of the posts of their lean-to was his holster and pistol. It would be so easy to take it and shoot him as he came up the beach with the morning's catch. So easy, perhaps, but unthinkable.

The Germans had evidently left in a hurry because they'd abandoned some of their supplies. Rupert told her that it was proof they intended to return. She wondered, though, whether they were able to. She also thought of her Parents cooped up as prisoners on the sailing ship. She wondered if they were still alive.

Rupert wandered back to their campsite carrying a creel full of fish. Joanna felt she ought to say something about his dress. He was bare-chested with just the briefest of trousers and it disturbed her. By the time he set the basket down and beamed at her, she'd forgotten what she was going to say.

"Fishing good," he told her.

She squinted up at him in the bright sunlight. He sat down to fetch himself a coffee. Joanna saw him scratch his stubbly chin and look about, evidence he was thinking of some new scheme. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"I think, maybe, we build better shelter. Too much sun, not good for you."

Always, she thought, he talked of doing things for her like he'd dedicated himself to her well-being. Sometimes it gave her a warm feeling, but occasionally, it was just too overwhelming.

He knelt over the fishing basket and began examining the catch. Joanna watched his well-tanned back. Her eyes drifted down to where his belt made a futile attempt at keeping his trousers hitched. A furrow peeped out over the belt and rippled as he moved. It gave her a funny feeling and she remembered what she was going to tell him earlier.

"Rupert." He turned around, looking straight at her with those deep blue eyes, his bare chest gorgeous like some Greek God. "Nothing," she smiled. She needed to go for a walk alone. She got up, mumbled something to Rupert, then hurried down the beach until she was out of sight of their campsite. There she lay on her back and stared up at the blue sky.

She was shaking again, emotional, and her body felt supersensitive. Tears clouded her eyes. She thought of the dream she had last night, a dream she was sure would send her straight to purgatory, thoughts that she couldn't even confess on Sunday. Dreams of lying naked together with Rupert, his face inches from her own, of him kissing her passionately as she clutched his strong body against hers. She opened her eyes to stop the vision, then turned onto her front. The picture was still there beckoning to her. Her tears flowed stronger than ever.

Brother Paul returned to the hut where their visitor lay recovering from his ordeal. He was sitting up, appeared lucid and clear-eyed and munching a Guava the Natives had given him. He perked up when he saw the priest.

"You explained to them?" he asked anxiously in English.

"Ah oui," replied the Brother, "but I hear nothing back. I ask to speak to the American Consul and they say to wait."

"Did you tell them about the Germans? Are they going to send a ship?"

"I tell them," the Priest looked skeptical, "I ask the Marquesans to check Hatutu for signs of your pirates, but..."

"But?"

"Hiram, perhaps this is, ah, maybe all a dream you had while drifting at sea, yes? Maybe you were castaway on Hatutu and can't remember? You were dehydrated, funny things can go through your mind when..."

"It's true!" protested the American, "do I look mad to you?"

"No, but..."

"Then you need to explain to them, make them understand there's a German raider anchored near that island and..."

"Monsieur," said the Priest nervously, "Hiram, the Marquesans checked yesterday. They went right around the island... there's nothing there."

"Nothing?"

"Non!"

"They must have left. Perhaps after they discovered me missing?"

The Priest sighed. "Perhaps I'll call Tahiti again and see what the say."

Rear Admiral Arthur ordered the bell to be rung for a round of sherry before dinner. The servant marched ceremoniously into the wardroom of HMS Suffolk with a decanter and glasses on a silver tray. He poured each guest a drink and smoothly placed a glass alongside each chair on the left, always on the left, of the placemat.

"Gentlemen," he told his Captains, "a toast to our American allies!" Each British Officer took a seemly sip of the sherry before sitting down.

"Thank you gentlemen," said Admiral Wendhoven, Commander of the USN's San Diego Naval Base. "Thank you very much. May we continue in the spirit of cooperation and comradeship in the coming trial."

"Quite!" agreed the Admiral's British allies.

Halfway through the meal, Admiral Arthur leaned over towards Commander Debenham of HMS Sussex. "Alexander," he said, "I've had a signal from our man in Tahiti."

"Sir?"

"Apparently the French have mislocated a ship... a whale factory ship... American!"

"Doesn't surprise me," Debenham replied, wryly.

"Quite! Probably their radio's broken down, changed their minds or found some dusky beauties on some island somewhere, what?"

"No doubt!"

"Nevertheless, I think it would be flattering to our new allies if we stopped and had a look for it, don't you think?"

"Where was their last position?"

"Off the Marquesas. Sent half a message then stopped. The agent on Tahiti hasn't been able to raise them again."

"You don't say?" Debenham's shoulders began to itch, evidence that another of his 'hunchs' was starting to materialise. Alexander Debenham, with nearly 25 years at sea, was noted as having an uncanny sense when something wasn't quite right.

"I was thinking of sending Sussex, you game?" continued the Admiral, "the crew will be foul, I rather think they're anxious to be going home."

"I will explain to them. I don't think a cruise through the Pacific Islands would be too hard a task, Admiral.

"Perhaps not," he grinned, "just make sure you bring Sussex home with all its crew on board!"

"Of course, sir," he chuckled.

Margaret Begg couldn't remember a time when she had been so miserable. The whole atmosphere on the Seeteufel had changed for the worst. She couldn't believe things could get harder than they had been.

The mess on the German ship was now crowded with angry, crude, blaspheming New England whalers. Following the loss of their ship, sunk by the German raider's shells, it hadn't taken them long to recover their composure.

They cursed the German guards, argued with them until Margaret was afraid there would be a fight. The Whaler's crew were boisterous and loud and she couldn't sleep.

Their time up on deck was now severely limited. There was now so many prisoners on board that the German crew couldn't cope with all of them topside. They were allowed up in shifts of five or six at a time. There were now two guards, both armed with rifles. The Germans were nervous.

She was now the only woman on board, cooped up with 30 men who had not seen a female human for about a year. She was glad her daughter had been left on that island, glad she wouldn't be exposed to the catcalls, wolf-whistles and indecent suggestions. She was happy, oddly, that she was likely being cared for by that young German sailor. The boy adored her, that was obvious in everything he did for her while on board the Seeteufel. And that clown he made for her? So sweet of him, she thought, she was sure Joanna wouldn't come to harm.

Robert Begg was sullen and tense in the presence of so many disgruntled fellow prisoners. Robert, and Rufe, their remaining crewman from the MV Senator, sat protectively near Margaret looking ready to spring to the defence of her honour at a moments notice. He even appeared friendlier to the German guard who often sat with them, rifle across his knees. He no-longer called him 'Kraut' or 'Heine.' Instead, it was Johan this or that, an ally, perhaps, if things in the mess got out of hand.

And the guard would tell them as much as he knew in broken English. They had not heard from Rupert or her daughter and hoped they were all right. Yes, they would return to the island once they found somewhere to dispose of their prisoners. The Captain, von Seydlitz, would never leave a crewman behind, it was a matter of honour.

"Hey beautiful!" a whaler called out, "come sit over here, honey!"

"Yeah," another said, "let us show you some real whale meat!"

"Shut up, Johnson!" their Skipper called out, "don't you go scaring the lady!" Margaret hated it. She looked down at the deck, fidgeting.

Robert extended his arm and rubbed her shoulder. If there was any compensation, she was grateful for one thing. Her husband seemed so much closer to her.

Meanwhile, at Papeete, capital of French Polynesia and Headquarters of the French Pacific Squadron, US Consul Mark Prewer strode purposefully up the ladder of the RFS Dupetit-Trouars. His family had been called Prieux before the US Immigration Authorities butchered the name a generation ago.

He spoke French as his first language. He understood the Gallic character and way of doing things. His posting on Tahiti had been a happy one.

He greeted Admiral Michelet like an old friend. Formally allies now, he'd recently celebrated his new status with the French Officers in the customary manner. His hangover had lasted fully three days afterwards.

"Monseur Prewer," the Admiral said, "please, you will stay for lunch?"

Lunch in the French Pacific Squadron lasted a good two hours. Business was never discussed, rather that had to wait until afterwards when the US Consul unveiled a box of the finest Cuban cigars for the delectation of his hosts.

'Wherever French explorers planted their flag in the soil, the next coloniser to arrive was the Chef, ' so the saying goes. Meals on board the Dupetit were legend throughout the Navy and many a person considered themselves fortunate to receive an invitation to the Flagship.

"Admiral," began Prewer as they puffed contentedly sitting on the deckchairs of the cruiser's quarterdeck, "I have a problem."

"Consider it solved, my friend," the Frenchman replied, "how may we help?"

"There is an American castaway on Eiao in the Marquesas..."

"Ah, the madman!" said the Admiral, rotating his finger above his head, "too long adrift at sea. I've seen this many times."

"Yes, Monseur. I have been on the radio to the French Resident there. The man is in the care of the Jesuit mission. He claims to be one Hiram Willens, a crewman on the yacht 'Senator' that was believed to have foundered off San Diego last month."

"But that's not possible, Monseur Prewer! He could not have drifted so far..."

"I agree, Admiral. He also has some wild story about German pirates. He says he was rescued by a raider masquerading as a Barquentine-rigged sailing vessel. He says they have the Beggs, his employers, as prisoners on board."

"That is an unlikely story," remarked the Admiral.

"I know, but Washington is very anxious that we pick this fellow up, I thought..."

"Ah! Lieutenant Simeon!" he called to his secretary, "is the 'Chasseur' still based in the Marquesas?"

"Yes, Admiral," he answered, "at Atuona in the Southern Group."

"We have a Patrol vessel a day's steaming away," he explained to Prewer, "It's an old torpedo boat, I will send it to pick your man up."

"Thank you, Admiral."

"Another glass of Cognac?"

"A small one, perhaps."

Joanna felt the sunlight on her back dim perceptably. She turned her head and saw a figure sillouetted against the rising sun.

"Joanna," the figure said, "you hurt! Please, I help!"

"No, Rupert, I'm all right, really."

"You been crying? Why you cry, you hurt, or sad, maybe?"

"Maybe sad," she told him. He came and knelt beside her. Joanna caught a whiff of the coconut oil he smeared over himself as protection against the sun. Again, as always, she sensed his maleness, his energy and vitality. Her head spun.

"I cheer you, make you feel happy," he told her.

"Why?" Joanna's voice was thick in her throat, she could barely speak.

"Why?" he repeated, "I not understand."

"Why... why do you do all these things for me. I'm not a child!" To her own ears she sounded petulant. It annoyed her, it wasn't what she intended.

"Because you need me." His voice sounded confused. "I... is hard for me to say in English," he continued.

"I don't, I don't need you. I can take care of myself," she responded, again rather more petulantly than she meant.

He looked abashed, like a schoolchild facing the Principal. "I sorry," he continued, "I get English words confused. I try to say things... but come out wrong way."

Joanna softened. He always did that to her when he adopted that look. His whole self-effacement act struck her somewhere under her ribcage. "You do fine," she told him, "I understand you."

"You come back now?" he asked, "I worry for you." He took her gently by the arm and she allowed him to pull her to feet. She tottered and he held her around the waist. Instinctively she put her arm around his back as they walked slowly back to the campsite.

After a long pause, she asked, "what do you find so hard to say in English?" She knew the answer already, knew all along in her heart since they stood together on the Seeteufel watching the island of Hatutu emerge from the horizon. Even earlier, perhaps?

However Rupert demurred at the question with a shrug of the shoulders. She persisted, he turned away and spoke something to the wind in German. In the end he wouldn't answer her. They set about gathering firewood in silence.

Von Seydlitz was in a foul mood. The Seeteufel was no-longer a happy ship. There were just too many prisoners on board. Some of them were deliberately trying to provoke his crew and he feared that violence could break out at any time. He desperately wanted to get rid of them.

His best and safest option was to put them aboard a neutral ship bound for a port in, say, South America. That would give him the breathing space needed to clear the area before angry pursuers came after him. Other options were to set them adrift at sea or dump them on a deserted island. Neither choice appealed to the the German Captain for humanitarian reasons. Any more trouble, however, and he might change his mind.

There was one other option and that was to await a German supply ship at the 'Mid-Ocean Meeting Point.' That was a box of ocean where German raiders could prearrange to meet their support ships.

But there was no guarantee that there was a supply ship at sea now that America was in the war. Von Seydlitz was going to wait a week and, if nothing turned up, he intended to head back towards the Marquesas and, hopefully, encounter a neutral ship on the way.

If the MOMP had become known to the Allies, of course, then he was in serious trouble. It was some 800 kilometres North of Easter Island, well away from shipping routes but handy for those ships operating out of South American ports.

As the sun fell to the horizon, the Seeteufel hoisted two coloured riding lights to the masthead, red over green. This was her recognition signal. Around midnight the lookout shook the Captain awake, he had seen a Morse lamp signalling.