Chapter 15
When Oskar left Adler’s cabin, he had no intention of donning his uniform.
He emerged on deck, to a scene of sudden transformation.
His fellow crewmen were barely recognisable in their smart, dark German naval uniforms and square caps, their brass buttons catching the thin light.
He saw the British cutter being lowered from the destroyer’s davits, and was aware of curious glances as he passed, the only officer summoned to the captain’s quarters, and still dressed like the Danish civilian he was supposed to be.
He continued in the direction of where the uniforms were stored, and waited until the crew’s attention was once again consumed by the sight of the approaching cutter before ducking behind stacked crates near the stern.
In less than a second, he had swung himself over the Freja’s rail on the far side from the approaching cutter, and dropped.
The cold of the sea bit like fangs; the shock stole his breath. For one violent second, his body refused command, then instinct forced him to move.
The Freja carried two small boats slung from davits - a dinghy, and a slightly larger jolly boat. In the dimness beneath the overhang of the stern, their hulls cast deep shadows against the water. Oskar struck out silently, his boots dragging, his thick woollen jumper swelling with water.
He reached the nearest boat and groped for purchase.
The hull was slick with salt and weed. His fingers found the iron ringbolt near the keel where a painter line was secured.
He slid beneath, his chest pressed to the curved planking, his arms hooked over the keel.
He hung there below the boat, his body floating horizontally, hidden in the black stripe of shadow between hull and sea.
“Boarding party away!” he heard someone shout from the destroyer, and the splash of oars approach.
The jolly boat shifted as the Freja adjusted slightly on her anchor cable, rocking gently with the swell, the movement transmitting through Oskar’s forearms into bone, and he tightened his grip.
Above him, English boots and voices thudded onto the Freja’s deck.
If the British were thorough, they would lower the boats and search them for hidden men and contraband.
If they swung this very hull out on its falls, he would be exposed, dangling beneath like a drowned rat. He closed his eyes.
Footsteps thundered overhead. The hollow knock of boots on planking reverberated down the hull into his cheek. He heard an English voice, crisp and authoritative.
“Captain?”
German-accented English answered - Adler now playing his part as a belligerent officer of the Kaiser’s navy, rather than a neutral trader.
The cold became a willful, patient presence, sharp at first, then it crept inward, into his very bone marrow, it seemed.
Oskar clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from knocking against the wood.
Water lapped against his ears. He dared not move, not even to wipe the salt from his eyes.
The minutes lengthened grotesquely. His fingers began to lose sensation, pain giving way to a thick numbness that concerned him more.
He flexed them subtly against the iron ringbolt, testing that they still obeyed.
Then he heard a new sound - the clatter of a davit being handled, and his heart lurched.
“Lower away!” he heard a too-close English voice command.
The boat above him creaked, the rope blocks complaining as weight shifted. They were lowering it.
Oskar’s mind narrowed to a single white dot of fear. If the boat descended fully, he would be crushed between the hull and the sea. Or he would be revealed, clinging beneath. The boat dipped an inch, then two.
“Hold!” the voice ordered then, sharply. “Not that one. The port boat will do.”
The tension eased as suddenly as it had come - the ropes slackened back into place, and the hull settled.
Oskar bit his lip hard, tasting blood. They were lowering the other boat.
He could hear it now: the splash of oars being shipped, the creak as it was swung out and down.
Orders barked. He heard the scrape of boots as officers descended to inspect it.
“Nothing here, sir!”
The boat was raised again. Oskar exhaled slowly through his nose, his breath steaming faintly in the dimness beneath the hull.
The interrogation above grew louder at intervals - questions about cargo, about their presence in these waters, about signals sighted in the night.
The tone shifted from suspicion to one colder, and more methodical.
A search was underway. He heard wood thudding, crates shifting, and panels being tapped, then splitting.
Once, a heavy blow landed against the hull so close to his head that the vibration rang through his skull.
He clung harder, his forearms trembling.
Time dissolved into ache. His body began to shake uncontrollably as the cold burrowed into muscle, and his boots dragged at his feet like anchors. He knew the signs: first the shivering, then the apathy - then sleep. Do not sleep. Think of your beloved.
He thought of Rachel’s cottage - their little home - by the sea, peat smoke curling from its chimney at dawn.
He imagined her standing at the window, looking out over the water, believing him faithless, to have betrayed her.
The image burned like a coal in his chest. He shook his head, and forced himself then to see her standing before him, his brave Scottish lassie, smiling and beautiful, her eyes full of love for him.
Voices shifted again. A whistle shrilled from the destroyer; the boarding party was withdrawing.
The jolly boat above him jerked as men left the Freja.
Once again he heard the splash of oars, the dip and pull as they rowed towards their ship.
A final exchange of shouted words carried over the water, formal and clipped.
He heard the destroyer’s engines throb to life, the vibration travelling through water and wood into his very bones.
The wash struck the Freja broadside, setting her to a sudden, violent rocking.
The small boat above him heaved and slammed against its chocks, causing Oskar’s right hand to slip.
For one horrifying instant, he hung by his left alone.
His numb fingers screamed with sudden, returning sensation as the wake surged again, wrenching his body sideways.
His shoulder struck the hull. He lunged blindly, scrabbling for the ringbolt.
His fingertips skidded across iron slick with algae.
Hold! he screamed to himself. He found the edge, caught it, and clung on.
The destroyer passed close enough that he heard the rush of water along her hull, the churn of her screws beating the loch into froth.
The wake rolled under him in savage pulses.
Twice more his grip faltered. Then, gradually, the violence diminished.
The engines receded, the throb becoming a murmur, then nothing but the ordinary hush of tide against wood.
He waited, not daring to release too soon. If the British had left a prize crew aboard, intending to tow the Freja out, he would be discovered the moment he climbed up. Minutes stretched again, but all he heard was silence. They had not taken her.
With what remained of his strength, Oskar shifted his weight and reached upwards for the boat’s gunwale.
His fingers felt like wood, clumsy and detached.
Twice he failed to hook his arm over the edge.
On the third attempt he managed it and dragged his torso up, his chest scraping along wet planks, and he lay across the thwart like a landed fish, gasping.
Then he rolled over the side and onto the deck of the Freja.
He collapsed against a coil of rope, shaking so violently that his teeth clattered, loud like porcelain.
Oskar did not at first understand what he was seeing.
He lay sprawled on the deck where he had dragged himself over the stern rail, his cheek pressed to wet planking, his lungs dragging air in ragged pulls.
The world tilted and swam. His huge hands, white, swollen, and useless, scraped faintly at the boards as he tried to steady himself.
There were no voices, no German curses, and no clipped English commands, only the mewling of gulls and the slow slap of the tide against the hull. He lifted his head; the destroyer was receding. To the west, a smear of smoke marked her course, already diminishing.
The Freja seemed eerily deserted. There was no sentry at the rail, nor movement on the bridge, nor boots crossing the deck.
The hatch to the companionway stood open, swinging faintly with the swell.
For a long moment he could not comprehend it, his thoughts coming thick and slow, as if moving through solid ice.
They’ve taken them. All of them. Adler. The engineer. The signalman. Every crewman.
He tried to rise and failed, his arms buckling. He dropped heavily back onto the planks, the impact jolting a weak groan from his throat. Cold surged through him again, deeper now that the adrenaline was draining away. Move, he told himself.
He forced himself onto hands and knees. His entire body shook violently, great tearing spasms that ripped his breath from him.
Water streamed from his hair and sleeves, forming a dark halo around him on the deck.
He got unsteadily to his feet and staggered towards the companionway, nearly missing the top step, and catching himself against the frame.
Below decks, the air was stale, still, and silent.