Chapter 10
But by a quirk of fate, the weather roughened overnight; the sea churned, and for days, Calum was forced to stay put.
By then, the Freja had moved on, hiding for days at a time in remote bays, inlets and sounds along the rugged west coast, too far from the cottage for Oscar to row out, land, leave another note, and return without arousing suspicion.
He was extremely careful to sound convincing, knowing that two German submarines had been ordered to secretly patrol the western approaches in an attempt to locate Royal Navy vessels travelling to or from Scapa Flow, while also gathering intelligence on shipping movements around the Inner Hebrides.
Both had been forced to surface because of the rough weather, and he needed to let the British know of their presence.
“I want to verify the sounding and tidal drift,” he would say to the watch. “Depth varies quickly in the sea lochs here, and the charts may not be complete, which will be detrimental to the U-boats. And if we must leave in fog, I want confidence in our exit channel.”
Responsible for coastal reconnaissance and soundings, he had legitimate reason to go out, and, even when alone, he would make sure to return with accurate depth figures.
He would lower the boat, taking a weighted line, a hooded lantern, and a notebook.
To avoid suspicion, he would sometimes ask one crewman to accompany him.
At other times, he would refuse company.
“Sir, shall I send Petersen with you?” the first mate once asked.
“No, I’ll not be long. If I’m not back within the hour, wake the captain,” he replied, both to sound credible, and to show that he was aware of the risk.
British patrols had not approached, and he wondered constantly if Rachel had received his first note, and if she had deemed the old fisherman that she had mentioned, suitable for the task.
Knowing that the weather had turned, he understood that the old man may not have been able to go to Gairloch.
He needed the Freja to return to the sea loch, where he could leave another note.
Luck was on his side: where they were presently anchored, because of the hilly terrain behind the coast, radio signals sent to Germany, and worse, instructions received back, were often patchy and unintelligible, frustrating the already-nervous radio operator, Herr Schnabl, who informed the captain.
“We must bear north,” Adler instructed the helmsman.
“Sir, if we head any further north, we’ll run into British fishing boats,” Oskar told Alder. “Between Ullapool and the northwestern tip of the mainland is always heavily fished, especially now, when there are sure to be meat shortages.”
“And you suggest?” Adler asked.
“Returning south to that sea loch where no fishing boats were observed,” Oskar replied.
“And wireless reception was better,” Herr Schnabl agreed enthusiastically. “There’s too much static here, and I need Wilhelmshaven to repeat their orders, if they’ve even made sense of our intelligence at all.”
“Very well,” Adler replied.
The Freja went back.
“I want to inspect the anchor chains,” Oskar told the watch that night. “The cable is chafing, and the anchor may be fouled.”
The man frowned. “I felt no vibration in the chain,” he replied to Oskar.
“The tide’s turning,” Oskar replied. “I want to go forward and see how she lies.”
The watch stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged, still frowning.
Oskar lowered the rowing boat into the blackness, then wrapped the oars in cloth to muffle them before disappearing into the darkness.
He shipped the oars before reaching Rachel’s tiny beach and drifted in silently, then stole up to the peat shed and pushed the note under the bottom corner turve before rowing back, his strokes fast and powerful.
“You took your time,” the watch said with another frown, when Oskar was back on deck.
“As I suspected, the cable was foul. I had to see it clear,” Oskar replied calmly.
In the morning, Adler read the log, noting Oskar’s unusual activity, and his time out and back, which seemed longer than necessary. “Did Leutnant Bauer speak to you about inspecting the anchor chains?” he asked the watch when he caught him alone.
“Yes, Herr Kapit?n.”
“And was there a problem with the chain?”
“Not that I noticed, sir. The cable was not bar-tight, and the angle was normal. I felt the lead and there was no vibration. Neither did I feel nor hear the anchor dragging.”
“I see. And you saw him lower the boat, and return?”
“Yes, Herr Kapit?n.”
“I calculate from the log that he was gone for almost an hour. Would that be correct?”
“Yes, Herr Kapitan. I questioned him about that. He told me that the cable was foul, and that he had to clear it.”
“I see,” Adler said. The man’s account matched Oskar’s log entry, but the first prickle of doubt started to percolate within him.
Oscar’s second note alluded to something far more sinister than a simple Danish trader lurking off the Scottish west coast. I saw a strange pipe in the water when I was walking on the hills, and then it submerged, was all it said.
The paper had been folded twice, tucked under the usual, corner peat turve, where only her hand would find it.
She took it inside and burned it at once, then stood, still in shock, as she watched the flames turn the scrap of paper to ash.
A submarine - silent, and deadly. She threw a shawl over her shoulders, then set out for Invermory, and Calum’s cottage.
He was outside, making a creel, his sleeves rolled despite the cold, his rough and sunburned hands scarred from decades of rope and salt. “Hullo lassie! he said, looking up, surprised. “It’s no soup day. What brings ye?”
“I know. I’ve not come to bring soup.” She hesitated only a moment before stepping closer. “You told me to tell you if I saw something.”
He stopped what he was doing. “Aye lass. What’ve ye seen?”
“Calum,” she said quietly, “I saw something strange early this morning.”
“Oh? What sort o’ somethin’?”
She swallowed. “Can we go in? I don’t want to talk about it out here. The DORA restrictions.”
“Aye, of course.”
Settled inside his tiny living room, she continued. “It was out when I was walking on the hills,” she continued. “I don’t know if it has anything to do with that trader I told you about.”
“Aye, an’ I’m sorry I was too late getting’ oot tae that boat. It went before I could.”
She smiled, shaking her head, understanding.
“Oh, no matter! That wind – the sea was far too rough!” she replied.
“But this morning, there was…” She forced a small frown, as if searching for the right description.
“I saw a strange pipe in the water when I was walking on the hills, and then it submerged,” she said.
He straightened slowly. “A pipe? Ye mean a mast? Broken off?”
“No. It definitely wasn’t a mast.”
“Driftwood?”
“No. It was vertical, then it submerged. Straight down, with no splash. Just… gone.”
For a long moment he said nothing. “Ye’re sure ye saw it submerge?” he asked at last.
“Yes.”
“No a seal?”
She shook her head. “I know seals.”
His old eyes held hers. “How far oot?”
“Beyond the shoal. Barely visible, in deeper water.”
“And ye’ve telt no one else?”
“No. I came straight here.”
“Good. Ye did right, lassie.” He got up stiffly then, and once again went to his small window, staring at the sea visible through the gap between cottages. “When?” he asked, without turning.
“An hour or so after dawn.”
He inhaled sharply. “That’s when they move,” he muttered.
“They?”
He turned and looked at her with a hard, bright awareness. “Submarines,” he said quietly. “U-boats.”
A chill slid through her, the spoken word sounding foreign. “You think - ?”
“I know,” he interrupted. “There’ve been reports doon the coast. A trawler off Skye sighted one the other week. Thought it a trick o’ the light until a steamer went doon two days later.”
Her fingers tightened on her shawl. “Went down? You mean sank?”
“Aye. Ye’re certain of what ye saw?” he asked, his voice low.
“I wouldn’t trouble you if I wasn’t,” she lied.
“I’ve said it before - ye’ve sharp eyes,” he said. “I trust yer vision.”
“What will you do?” she asked.
He did not answer immediately. He turned back to the window, his regard drifting towards the now-calm sea, a sheet of dull pewter stretching between the dark shoulders of the cottages. “If there’s a submarine workin’ these waters,” he said, “then that trader wasnae idle.”
Her heart gave a heavy beat. “You think they’re working together?”
“I think no vessel lingers in wartime withoot purpose.” He drew a long breath. “I’ll take the boat oot as soon as ye leave. The sea’s calm.”
“Calum – ”
“I’ll no go chasin’ it,” he assured her. “But I’ll watch, then row on tae Gairloch tae report.”
She nodded; that was what Oskar had wanted, yet hearing the plan spoken aloud made her skin crawl.
“Ma laddie telt me in his letter,” Calum said after a moment, “that the worst thing in France was no the shells. It was the waitin’.
Knowin’ something might be there beneath the mud.
” He looked out over the water again, lying innocent under the pale winter sky.
“Noo it’s here beneath ours.” There was a long pause. “Lassie,” he said suddenly.
“Yes?”
“If ye see it again, or anythin’ like it, ye come straight tae me.”
“I will.”
“Ye’re alone away oot there,” he added. “Ye’ve reason tae be wary.”
She forced a small smile. “I am wary.”
“Aye,” he said. “Ye are. An’ I’ll no speak yer name when I report it,” he said.
She nodded. “Yes, alright. That’s maybe for the best.”
“If it’s what I think it is,” he went on, “the navy’ll want tae know how it was sighted. I’ll say I seen it maself.”
She nodded again. “Thank you.”
The air was strangely still as Calum Macrae pushed his rowing boat off the shingle. Anyone watching from the village would see only what they had seen a thousand times before: an old fisherman going out to check his creels.
He carried bait, a coil of rope, a short gaff, and, wrapped in sailcloth beneath the thwart, a pair of binoculars, rare for a villager to possess. They had belonged to his son - field glasses issued before embarkation, and returned with the rest of his kit.
Calum rowed steadily along his usual line at first, lifting two creels with methodical patience.
There was lobster in one, the other was empty.
He rebaited and reset them, as he always did.
Only when he had established an appearance of normality did he angle the boat further out, towards the deeper water beyond the shoal.
Then, far off, he saw the trader, its grey hull and low profile, lying far too still.
Calum rested on his oars and let his boat drift, drawing the binoculars slowly from beneath the thwart.
They were cold against his brow as he brought the boat into focus.
He looked for nets drying, or deck cargo shifting – but could not make out any visible trade.
He read the name on the stern — Freja, and saw the Danish registry painted beneath.
There was crew visible on deck, but not many, dressed in civilian clothes.
One figure stood apart near the bow, scanning the coastline with what looked like naval precision.
Calum adjusted focus, frowning. The vessel rode at anchor, but not like a trader unfamiliar with local ground; this boat’s anchor line lay at an angle, suggesting calculated placement.
He shifted the glass slightly, spying a small boat secured amidships.
To his experienced eye, it was too clean, too ready.
The vessel did not display the usual clutter of working fishermen; this was the order of men who expected movement.
Calum lowered the binoculars slowly. He had fished these waters for sixty years, and knew that ships that belonged there behaved differently.
He lifted the lenses to his eyes again, this time noticing, just beyond the Freja, the faintest disturbance further out where the sea loch deepened before narrowing towards the open sea.
It was not a whale surfacing, but a line, low and dark, lying almost flush with the water.
For a moment he thought it a trick of light, then it shifted, moving forward with a smooth, unnatural glide.
He held his breath, watching, as the shape held for several seconds, before dipping.
For a long moment, Calum did not move, then he lowered the binoculars carefully and placed them back beneath the thwart, and the loch resumed its innocent face.
He turned his back on the motionless Freja, and began to row, not home towards the village, but south, to Gairloch.
It took him the better part of the morning. He beached his rowing boat closed to the road and secured it without comment to the two lads gutting mackerel nearby.
“Crabs no good?” one called, noticing the stack of creels in the boat.
“Good enough,” Calum replied, then turned to hurry as fast as his old legs would carry him along the road to the Gairloch harbour.
Harbourmaster Donald McGeachie looked up from the ledger on his desk as Calum entered. “Macrae! Ye’re far from your end!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“Aye,” Calum replied, out of breath.
McGeachie closed the book slowly. “What is it?”
Calum took off his cap. “There’s a trader lyin’ offshore in oor loch.”
“There’s plenty o’ traders aboot,” McGeachie replied.
“No like this one.”
McGeachie began to drum his fingers, as if impatient. “What d’ye mean?” he frowned.
“She’s Danish by paint. But she doesnae fish, or trade. Doesnae move at all.”
“And?”
Calum’s eyes remained on the man’s. “I glassed somethin’ else. A shadow beyond her, low in the water, movin’ under its own power.”
The harbourmaster’s fingers froze on the desk. “Ye’re certain?”
“I’ve seen seals. I’ve seen whales below the surface. I’ve seen drift. I’ve seen every trick the sea plays.”
“And this?”
“This was no trick.”
McGeachie rose slowly. “Ye’re aware what ye’re implyin’?”
“Aye.”
“And ye’re prepared tae stand by it?”
“Aye, I am.”
McGeachie fell silent. “A naval patrol passed through here three days ago,” he said at last, “an’ asked aboot unusual anchorage. I told them I’d neither seen nor heard anythin’ unusual.”
“You’ll tell them noo,” Calum said.
McGeachie studied him carefully. “Who else has seen this?”
“No one, at least that I’m aware o’.”
“Ye understand, Macrae, if this proves nothin’, there’ll be questions,” McGeachie reminded him.
Calum’s old eyes flashed. “Ma laddie died in the mud in France! I’ll no have somethin’ stalking oor own waters because we feart embarrassment!”
McGeachie stared at him in silence, then nodded. “I’ll telegraph Fort William,” he replied.