Chapter 14
At first light the following morning, a distant plume appeared at the mouth of the inlet - the smoke of a British destroyer, lean and fast. Her iron-grey hull sliced the water cleanly, and her twin funnels cast a dark plume that trailed low in the morning air.
Another patrol craft tailed her. They did not head straight for the Freja, but angled strangely, sheering away and then back, as if for final observation.
Adler felt the final piece fall into place. “This is no coincidence,” he said quietly through gritted teeth. He turned, his voice level and controlled. “Strike the Danish ensign!”
The crew did not hesitate; the red field with the white cross was lowered, and for a moment, the mast stood bare against the sky.
Then, from a canvas-wrapped bundle grabbed from a deck locker, the black, white, and red tricolour of the Imperial German Navy was hoisted cleanly into the wind, cracking sharply as it unfurled. There could be no more pretence.
“Signal readiness! Quietly!” Adler ordered. “Don your uniforms!” He turned to Oskar. “Not you!” he barked.
Oskar stood still, his stomach cold. This was it - his note, and Rachel’s part in the message, had done their work. But so had the captain’s suspicions.
Around them, the crew scattered, moving quickly, but with practised efficiency.
Panels along the inner bulkhead were opened, exposing hidden compartments.
From within, folded naval uniforms emerged - dark blue wool, shining brass buttons, and impeccable peaked caps bearing the Imperial cockade.
The men stripped off their outer garments and dressed with speed, the transformation complete in minutes.
Moments earlier, they had been Danish traders in coarse civilian wool.
Now, they were disciplined sailors of the Kaiserliche Marine.
Adler adjusted his cuffs. “If we are to be taken,” he said evenly, “we will be taken as what we are, uniformed officers and sailors of the Imperial German Navy, and as such, treated as lawful combatants and prisoners of war, not spies!” He turned back to Oskar.
“I wish to talk to you privately!” he snapped, his tone cold.
In his cabin, Adler turned on him, his composure gone. “We are about to be boarded!” he shouted. “Who did you speak to!” he spat angrily. “On your reconnaissance missions ashore!” he added.
“Ashore?” Oskar frowned, with a shake of his head.
“Do not pretend that you did not conduct missions ashore!” Adler snapped, in an attempt to call Oskar’s bluff.
“I spoke to no one,” Oskar lied. “I saw no one.”
“You deny that you went ashore?”
“I have nothing to deny.”
The captain stepped closer, his voice low and threatening. “It seems,” he said menacingly, “that someone has been speaking! And you’re the only one to whom I have relayed false wireless communication, to which the British navy has responded!”
Oskar’s eyes did not leave Adler’s. “I’ve spoken to no one,” he repeated coolly.
“If this ship falls because of internal betrayal,” Adler said quietly, “I will know, and I’ll know it’s been you! If the British find falsified registry, our intelligence charts, there will be no Danish illusion to hide behind!”
Oskar calmly returned the captain’s glare. “I’ve spoken to no one,” he said again.
The destroyer drew nearer, its guns visible, black smoke trailing from its funnels.
“Don your uniform immediately!” Adler ordered. “You’re dismissed!”
“Sir,” Oskar replied, then turned and left.
On the British destroyer, a signal flag climbed swiftly up the mast, a sharp burst of colour against the grey morning sky – its yellow and black blocks snapping in the wind.
Behind it, a second signal pennant, long and narrow, streamed from the destroyer’s mast, the meaning unmistakeable. Heave to! Prepare to be boarded!
The desolate inlet, once quiet and forgotten, now held three ships, and an unravelling secret.
And, far off, close to shore and unseen among the rocks, in a rowing boat stacked with crab traps and lobster creels, an old fisherman watched through field glasses that had once belonged to his dead son.
The net had closed: now, it would tighten.
On the deck of the Freja, no one spoke. Kapit?nleutnant Adler stood very straight at the rail, his binoculars lowered in his gloved hand, looking every inch the German naval captain, his features serene. “So,” he said quietly. “At last, the enemy arrive.”
Peterson swallowed nervously. “They are within hailing distance, Herr Kapit?n.”
The destroyer slowed, its engines throttling down. A sharp whistle carried across the water, then, through a megaphone, a crisp British voice carried cleanly across the morning water. “German vessel, heave to and stand by to receive boarding party!”
Adler stepped forward, his own megaphone in hand. “This is the auxiliary cruiser Freja, commissioned Imperial German Navy!” he called back in precise, rehearsed English. “We comply!”
The anchor chain groaned as the destroyer swung closer, keeping careful distance, her guns trained. A cutter was lowered smartly from her side, and six men descended into it - five armed sailors and one officer. They approached slowly.
“Where’s Leutnant Bauer?” Adler asked quietly.
Petersen glanced towards the companionway. “He was below, sir.”
“Fetch him. I may need him to translate.”
Petersen descended and returned moments later, looking concerned. “Sir, he’s not in his cabin.”
Adler’s lips thinned, and his eyes flicked towards the inner passage. “Search,” he said quietly. “But first - tell Herr Schnabl to send a coded transmission to naval command – the Freja has been compromised, the crew captured, and one officer – Bauer – is missing.”
“Sir!” Petersen replied, before disappearing again.
The cutter bumped against the Freja’s hull, and the hooks were secured. Boots mounted the ladder. The British officer who stepped aboard first was in his early forties, tall, and fair-haired. His cap bore the insignia of a lieutenant commander. “Kapit?nleutnant?” he asked.
Adler nodded. “Heinrich Adler. Imperial German Navy.”
The British officer returned a curt nod. “Lieutenant Commander James Ashcroft, Royal Navy. You are operating under false registry.”
Adler did not flinch. “We were operating under disguise, yes. As is common practice in wartime auxiliary operations.”
Ashcroft’s gaze moved across the deck, noting the uniforms. “You were flying Danish colours.”
“Until challenged by a warship.”
“You are aware that improper use of neutral flags may constitute perfidy.”
“We struck our own flag prior to engagement. That satisfies the conventions of war,” Adler replied smoothly.
There was a pause. “We will conduct a full search of your vessel,” Ashcroft said then, gesturing slightly.
“Of course.”
The British sailors spread out, their rifles slung but ready.
Hatches were opened, crates examined, and charts requested.
Ashcroft himself accompanied Adler below deck.
In the chart room, a table lay spread with nautical maps.
Ashcroft leaned over them. “These waters,” he observed mildly, “are not typical commercial routes for Danish traders.”
“We are not Danish traders,” Adler replied.
“Indeed.” Ashcroft studied the soundings marked in careful pencil. “Tidal notations,” he said. “Anchorage depths. Rock shelves. Interesting for a merchantman.”
Adler did not reply.
In the passageway, boots thudded as British sailors examined bulkheads, opened storage lockers, and tapped for hollows. One paused at a section of wall panelling near the aft compartment. He struck it lightly with the butt of his rifle; a dull sound resulted. He frowned. “Sir.”
Ashcroft turned. The sailor knocked again, harder, producing a slightly different tone. Ashcroft approached, his fingers brushing the seam. “Open it.”
The sailor searched for a latch, but there was none visible.
“Crowbar,” Ashcroft ordered calmly.
Above deck, Petersen felt sweat gather beneath his collar despite the chill air.
Two British sailors returned below, carrying tools.
Metal bit into wood. The panel resisted, then splintered, swinging outwards.
Behind it were uniform hooks, folded civilian coats, and one solitary, full German naval uniform, also neatly folded, cap atop.
Ashcroft stepped closer, examining the cavity thoroughly, running his hand along the interior, only to find it empty.
He looked at Adler. “You were thorough.”
Adler gave the faintest hint of a smile. “We are naval officers, Commander. Not smugglers.”
The search continued. Coal bunkers were inspected, water casks opened, personal trunks examined. One British sailor emerged holding a small object. “A notebook, sir.”
Ashcroft took it and flipped through the pages, finding it blank. He held it up to the light, but nothing pressed through. “Whose?” he asked.
There was silence, then Petersen stepped forward. “Mine.”
Ashcroft studied him briefly, then returned the book. “Continue.” Time stretched. The British were methodical. They opened the captain’s cabin, examined his correspondence, reviewed the signal logs, and compared handwriting.
They’re not fools, Adler concluded, as he watched.
But neither are we. Everything incriminating has already been removed.
The true intelligence compartment lies elsewhere, behind a false coal chute, accessible only from beneath the lower deck hatch, which I ordered sealed last evening.
Our codebooks and a wireless apparatus lie hidden. He suppressed a smirk.
Ashcroft eventually straightened. “You are operating as an auxiliary cruiser,” he said. “You are within British territorial waters.”
Again, Adler nodded. “Then you will intern us as prisoners of war.”
Ashcroft studied him. “Indeed.” A long silence ensued as Ashcroft’s eyes moved once more around the cramped space. “How many crew?”
“Twenty-three.”
Ashcroft gestured to one of his men. “Count them.”
The sailors assembled on deck as the riflemen observed, and the counting began. The British petty officer frowned. “Sir. Twenty-two present.”
Ashcroft turned to Adler. “Your manifest states twenty-three.”
“One officer below, perhaps,” Adler replied, his face unmoving.
“Sir, Leutnant Bauer is unaccounted for,” Petersen said.
“Find him,” Adler replied.
The German sailors dispersed again, checking the cabins and examining the storage holds, even inspecting the engine compartment, but found nothing.
“You’re certain he was aboard when we signalled?” Ashcroft asked.
“He was aboard this morning,” Adler told him.
“Has he taken a boat?”
“There is no boat missing,” Adler replied truthfully, for all boats hung intact in their davits.
Ashcroft walked to the rail and scanned the water, seeing the loch lying quiet and undisturbed. He turned back slowly. “If your officer has entered the water to avoid capture, he will not last long. This is January.”
Again, Adler did not reply, and Ashcroft’s tone shifted. “Or,” he said, “he was not aboard when we arrived. Or…you’re hiding him deliberately.”
“You may search again,” Adler replied evenly.
Ashcroft’s men complied, this time more aggressively, lifting floorboards, slashing mattresses, and shovelling coal aside. Again, they found nothing; there was no hidden man, and no recently disturbed compartment large enough to conceal one.
After nearly an hour, Ashcroft stood once more before Adler. “You will come with us,” he said. “All of you.”
Adler nodded, and the British sailors began to organise the transfer.
The German officers surrendered their arms, and their imperial naval flag was lowered.
As the men prepared to descend into the cutter, Ashcroft paused beside Adler.
“If your lieutenant is ashore,” he said quietly, “we will find him.”
Adler’s eyes rested on the distant shoreline for the briefest moment. “I can imagine,” he replied, “that you will try.”
The cutter pushed off. One by one, the crew of the Freja was taken aboard the destroyer, and the disguised trader, temporarily left at anchor, now sat empty, silent, and claimed by the British.
Behind her splintered inner panel and empty cavities, secrets remained.
Somewhere between ship and shore, Leutnant Oskar Bauer was gone.