German nationals – in particular the increasing number of sailors of the Kriegsmarine who found themselves washed up on her shores.
Prager, having spent twenty years in the country, and being acceptable in high places, had been left behind to cope with that. There were, after all, five thousand miles of ocean between Brazil and Germany so no need to set up expensive internment camps. The Brazilian government was content with the monthly reports he presented on his fellow citizens. As long as they were gainfully employed and not a charge on the state, everyone was happy.
Mendoza said, ‘I’ve been harbourmaster here for two years now and for most of that time the Deutschland has been coming in regularly. Say every couple of months.’
‘So?’
‘A boat of that size usually manages with a master, mate, bosun, probably six foremast hands and a cook.’
‘That is correct.’
Mendoza sipped a little of his wine thoughtfully. ‘According to my information, Berger has a crew of something like twenty this trip.’
He smiled genially, but the eyes in the fat face were sharp. Prager said carefully, ‘There are many German seamen in Rio.’
‘And more each day. The war, my friend, does not go well for you.’
‘Berger is probably trying to employ as many as possible.’
Mendoza smiled beautifully. ‘But of course. That explanation had not occurred to me. But I mustn’t keep you. Perhaps we’ll have time for another drink tomorrow?’
‘I hope so.’
Prager went out quickly. Richter was waiting on the verandah by the steps. Beyond, the rain hammered relentlessly into the ground. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ Prager told him. ‘He knows something’s going on. But how could he possibly suspect the truth? No one in his right mind would believe it.’ He clapped Richter on the shoulder. ‘Now let’s get moving.’
The bosun said, ‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you inside, but there was someone asking for you.’
There was a movement behind and, as Prager turned, a nun in tropical-white habit stepped into the light. She was a small woman, not much over five feet tall, with clear, untroubled eyes and a calm, unlined face.
‘Sister Angela,’ Richter said.
‘… of the Sisters of Mercy from the mission station on the Rio Negro. Introductions are not necessary, Helmut. Sister Angela and I are old acquaintances.’
He took off his panama and held out his hand which she clasped briefly in a grasp of surprising strength.
‘It’s good to see you again, Sister.’
‘And you, Herr Prager. I think you know why I’m here.’
‘Why, yes, Sister.’ Otto Prager smiled warmly. ‘I believe I do.’
An anchor light hung from the Deutschland’s forestay, as required by marine regulations, and this they saw first as Richter worked the dinghy across the harbour. Then suddenly she was very close, her masts and spars dark against the sky.
Prager looked up with conscious pleasure as he climbed the Jacob’s ladder. She was a three-masted barquentine built by Hamish Campbell on the Clyde in 1881 and built with love and understanding and grace, with an elegant clipper bow to her and an extended jib-boom.
She had spent a lifetime in trade; Newcastle-on-Tyne with steam coal for Valparaiso; Chilean nitrates for America’s west coast; lumber for Australia; wool for Britain … an endless circle, as sail died in a doomed attempt to combat steam, one owner after another through three changes of name until, finally, she had been bought by the Brazilian firm of Mayer Brothers, a family of German extraction, who had rechristened her Deutschland and put her to the coastal trade. Rio to Belém and the mouth of the Amazon – just the craft for such waters, having a draught of only eight feet fully loaded.
Prager went over the bulwark and extended his hand to Sister Angela. Richter was close behind on the ladder. Three seamen by the main mast gazed in astonishment as the little nun came over the side, and one of them hurried forward to take her other hand.
She thanked him, and Prager said to her, ‘I think it would be better if I spoke to Captain Berger alone to start with.’
‘Whatever you think best, Herr Prager,’ she said tranquilly.
He turned to Richter. ‘Take the good sister down to the saloon, then wait for me outside the Captain’s cabin.’
Richter and Sister Angela descended the companionway and Prager went aft towards the quarterdeck. Berger’s cabin was underneath. He hesitated, then braced himself, knocked on the door and went in.
The cabin was small, spartan in its furnishings – narrow bunk and three cupboards and not much else except for the desk behind which Berger sat, making a measurement with parallel rulers on the chart spread before him.
He glanced up, and there was relief in his eyes. ‘I was beginning to get worried.’
He was at that time forty-eight years old, of medium height with good shoulders, his wiry, dark hair and beard flecked with grey, and his face weathered by sea and sun.
‘I’m sorry,’ Prager said. ‘We ran into a bad electric storm on the flight from Rio. The pilot insisted on touching down at Carolina until the weather cleared. We were there for four hours.’
Berger opened a sandalwood box and offered him a cheroot. ‘What’s the latest war news?’
‘All bad.’ Prager sat in the chair opposite and accepted a light. ‘On the fifteenth of this month American and French forces landed on the Mediterranean coast. Two days ago French tanks entered Paris.’
Berger whistled softly. ‘Next stop the Rhine.’
‘I should imagine so.’
‘And then Germany.’ He stood up, crossed to one of the cupboards, opened it and took out a bottle of rum and two glasses. ‘What about the Russians?’
‘The Red Army is on the borders of East Prussia.’
Berger poured rum into the glasses and pushed one across. ‘You know, Otto, we Germans haven’t had to defend the soil of the Fatherland since Napoleon. It should prove an interesting experience.’
‘Brazil might be the best place to be for the next year or two,’ Prager said. ‘A hell of a time to go home.’
‘Or the only time,’ Berger said. ‘It depends on your point of view. Have you got the papers?’
Prager put his briefcase on the desk. ‘Everything needed and I’ve checked again on the barquentine you mentioned when you first spoke of this crazy affair, the Gudrid Andersen. She’s still in Gothenburg harbour. Hasn’t been to sea since the first year of the war.’
‘Excellent,’ Berger said. ‘Plain sailing from here on, then.’
‘You
