The Wake of the Gertrud Luth Read online

  THE SKIPPER

  He knew the China Sea, Hong Kong, Formosa, the whole smuggler’s route along the Yangtze, as few men did. But his ship was a freighter that had weathered too many typhoons.

  Suddenly he faced a challenge more dramatic than any in his adventurous career – tonight the storm-racked sea and enemy gunfire to save the lives of two desperate people …

  PATRICK O’HARA

  During his childhood, Patrick O’Hara was brought up by various people and in various establishments until he was old enough to run away to sea. At fourteen his first ship was a passenger-cargo liner out of London on the Latin-America run, on board which he washed crockery and polished silverware. Later he served as Quartermaster, Seaman and Fireman with Dutch, German and Danish ships — mostly in Far Eastern and Pacific waters — an area of the world with which he has formed a romantic and lasting attachment. He was introduced to books and writing by an East End priest whose father was a director of a well-known London publishing company. He now lives in Aberdeen, Scotland.

  –

  Patrick O’Hara’s other novels are: I Got No Brother; God Came On Friday; The Wohldorf Shipment; The Red Sailor; and The Yangtze Run.

  Any similarity or apparent connection between the characters in this story and actual persons, whether alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The Wake of the Gertrud Lüth

  The Luck of the Lonely Sea - US.

  1

  OUTSIDE it was hot and the sun was going down.

  They were sitting at a table in the bar. The girl sat watching him very carefully. It was some time now since he had said anything.

  “You want I get you another beer?” she asked, after a time, still carefully watching his face. The man went on looking at the table. She waited a little. “I must go now,” she said, rising from the table. “You get another drink. You will feel better.” Very quickly she put the tightly folded money into the pocket of his shirt.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he told her, but looking at her this time.

  “Please,” she said, stopping him taking the money from his pocket. “All this will go away.”

  This time he did not say anything, and then she was gone out through the beaded doorway to the street.

  The beer was warm now and he drank it off quickly then lit one of the cheap Chinese cigarettes.

  “Karl.”

  He turned in his chair and saw the old man beckon to him. Then the young man, whose name was Karl Schepke, and who was tall and wide and had a sunburned face, ran the long, ragged blond hair back onto his neck and rose and crossed the floor of the bar to the counter.

  “What is it?”

  “These gentlemen,” Tsung said, indicating two Chinese deck sailors along the counter with a grave nod of his head. “They have just told me that Tu Chin came ashore today with a broken leg. He was on the Sungari.”

  Karl Schepke rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw.

  “That’s one of Ling’s boats.”

  “You will go and see him?” the old man said.

  Karl Schepke looked back at him. “Maybe”

  “One can always try. There is nothing to lose with trying.”

  “Ask what they drink,” Schepke said, taking the tightly folded money from his pocket.

  The two Chinese deck sailors had a beer, and Schepke had a beer along with them. The beer was freshly from the ice-box and the condensation beaded quickly on the tall glasses.

  Some of the barrels had come in while they were talking and now the old man went out to the floor to take the orders from the tables.

  “Hallo.” She was smiling. “She’s out,” Schepke said.

  “I know,” the girl said, then still smiling, hitched the scarlet cheongsam about her hips and sat up onto one of the high stools. “What you going drink with me?”

  “You go ahead,” Karl Schepke told her.

  “Oh, why you not drink with me?” she pouted. “Hsiu-ju like you very much. Hsiu-ju much good-looking than Shuang-shuang.”

  Karl Schepke did not say anything.

  “Hey,” Hsiu-ju persisted. “What the matter you not happy tonight? Come on. You smile, heh?”

  The old man came along the counter, his waxed moustaches drooping below his chin.

  “Two beers,” Hsiu-ju told him, putting her money on the counter.

  The old man brought two small Tiger beers from the ice-box and poured them smoothly into the glasses.

  Schepke, not saying anything, pushed his money across the counter.

  “No. I buy,” Hsiu-ju said.

  The old man shrugged, smiling apologetically to Schepke. Then taking the girl’s money, said: “You seem very happy tonight, Hsiu-ju.”

  “Hsiu-ju always plenty happy,” she told him with a swift uplifting of her chin. “Only maybe I am more happy tonight because good business. Plenty American dollar. Three Matson sailors come my house last night.” She was very proud about the three sailors.

  The old man politely grinned his wide grin and rapidly bobbed his head in acknowledgement of this particular feat.

  Then suddenly Hsiu-ju smilingly raised her glass to Schepke. “Gottverdammnt!”

  “Sure,” Schepke said, and they drank a little of the ice-cold beer.

  “I speak good German, yes?”

  “You could go a long way,” Schepke said.

  Hsiu-ju sat upright, tilting her head slightly, her hands on her hips, her thighs bared where the cheongsam fell away. “Sure, sure. Hsiu-ju go plenty far, heh,” she said, smiling and very sure of herself and proud of the three sailors.

  Karl Schepke was looking far into his beer.

  “Oh, why you not be happy?” Hsiu-ju asked, suddenly herself again.

  He lit another of the Chinese cigarettes.

  Hsiu-ju sat close and put both hands around his arm. “You come my house, heh?”

  “A half-bottle,” Schepke told the old man and counted the money onto the counter.

  “Where you go now?” Hsiu-ju asked, watching him.

  “Upstairs.”

  “You go drink yourself?”

  “That way I appreciate it more.”

  “No. You come with me. You have best time.” She climbed down from the high stool with a great deal of movement.

  Schepke took the bottle from the old man and did not say anything.

  “Please,” Hsiu-ju said, her lips wetly shiny. “I give you everything like you never knew before.”

  “No thank you,” Schepke said. “I have more than my share of everything as it is.”

  She went with him toward the doorway at the back of the bar, her hands still around his arm. “Please. Please, you stay.”

  Schepke stopped and removed her hands from his arm. “I told you,” he said.

  She watched him pass through the beaded curtain and start upstairs. “Humph! Goddam squareheads!” she said and turned back toward the tables.

  2

  UPSTAIRS, Karl Schepke sat on the edge of the high bed and uncorked the bottle.

  Slowly, very slowly, the little man was drowning. Karl Schepke could feel the little man begin to struggle. It would take time though. But everything took time, no matter what it was. And the little man was worried now. It was beginning to swill around his chest.

  Then sitting on the edge of the high bed in the darkness, Karl Schepke drank another long one from the bottle.

  The window of the small square room overlooked the narrow street and from where he sat he looked directly out across the roof-tops on the other side of the street and it was dark above the roof-tops and with the moon some where down beyond the buildings so that the darkness of the sky was lighted by it, while the buildings remained deeply shadowed on the
nearside so that the neon signs of the many bars burned very brightly in the darkness.

  And then he drank another long one from the bottle, and waited. It was very dark out across the street and with the traffic very quiet as yet so that little noise carried in through the open window. Then he lit another cigarette while he waited, the match flaring briefly in the mirror of the dressing-table. And suddenly he stood up and went across to the window and pulled the paper blind down against the evening. Now it was very dark in the small square room and he lay his full length on the high bed, and waited.

  It was very quiet in the darkness of the room and the sound of voices and music carried up faintly from the bar. But even in the darkness he was unable to shut everything out. And upstairs the little man was still struggling. These days it was taking the little man longer and longer to get it over with. And the bottle was almost empty now. The little man no one could win over. He did not need any one of the bright boys to help him work that out.

  So he emptied the bottle and waited.

  3

  SHE saw the lights of the bar of the Hotel Aichau. It was late in the evening and she felt bad now after having been around most of the regular hotels and bars up in the city. The Hotel Aichau, standing on the Upper Coast Road, was the last place she was going to try before going home.

  There were only two Europeans and the barman in the bar when she entered. As she crossed to the counter she walked so the tight low-cut cheongsam opened wide with the movement of her hips.

  The barman watched her all the way, then watched her sit herself up onto one of the high stools.

  “A Jack Rose,” she told him in English, her chin held high, looking past him at the glittering array of bottles and mirrors.

  The two Europeans were sitting at a table against the far wall. They were talking very earnestly and had their Panama hats on the shelf under the table.

  Then as she waited, the barman politely set the Jack Rose on the counter and took the two single dollar notes and rang them into the register. There was no change. The barman went back to polishing glasses, then looked down at her. Although she was very angry she did not say anything, and the barman smiled. The barman was balding, and was tall and heavy, and he had seen all this many times before.

  Suddenly the girl heard a movement over the back of the bar and she looked into the mirror on the other side of the counter.

  “They are leaving now,” the barman said.

  She turned and saw the two Europeans going out through the swing-doors, neither of them looking back.

  “It is very quiet tonight,” the barman went on, polishing a glass, but watching her now, seeing the low-cut cheongsam and the smoothness of her skin.

  She did not look at him.

  “There will be nothing tonight now.” He had stopped polishing the glass and had set it with the others.

  She finished the Jack Rose and stood down from the stool.

  He was leaning on the counter, looking at her now.

  ”There is nothing in the Roads,” he said.

  She turned quickly for the door. “Wait”

  She stopped, turning slightly, but not looking at him. “I have a room upstairs.” She did not move.

  “Fifteen dollars,” he said, his voice changed.

  “Thirty,” she said very quietly, still not turning, still not looking at him.

  “Twenty. Nothing more.”

  She did not say anything, just waited, feeling herself beginning to tremble now.

  ”You want another drink? You can have another drink.”

  And this night it was quiet in the city.

  4

  THE old man was asleep in the narrow room at the end of the bar. It was not a loud noise, and if he had not known himself he would have passed it over and gone back to sleep. But now he was an old man and he no longer slept well in the night, and he rose and silently felt his way to the door.

  He was at the far end of the counter, tall and darkly shadowed against the greyness of the far wall.

  “Karl,” the old man said softly.

  “I’m sorry,” Schepke said. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “It is nothing,” the old man told him, and his eyes accustomed to the darkness of the bar, he saw the dull gleam of sweat on Schepke’s chest and shoulders in the pale light filtering through the wooden shutters over the street windows.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Schepke said very quietly. “I thought maybe another drink would help.”

  “I know how it is my son,” the old man said, finding his way along the narrow passage behind the counter. “We will both have a drink. You are not the only one who finds sleep difficult these nights.” He stopped, finding the bottles and the upturned glasses. The brandy he poured for him self, setting the large Dutch gin close on the counter to where Schepke stood.

  It was very quiet in the bar, and the night was quiet, and there was no sound of traffic passing now in the street.

  “Go on,” urged the old man, edging the gin toward Schepke. “It comes in this manner to all people at sometime. There are few lucky ones, my son. I have known this thing more than once. True, my troubles are not as they were. But for a man to live with himself is not achieved overnight. It is such a great pity that things can never be quite as we wish, but neither can they remain the other way too long. But we have a duty to others as well as to ourselves. As with Shuang-shuang. You are her main reason for life. At this time you have begun to despise both yourself and her because of something outside of yourselves. I do not believe such a thing can ever he held against any man in the circumstances. Shuang-shuang’s way of life is that she must give. It is no fault of yours that she has chosen to give to you. Take that away from her and she has nothing. Such a thing is not to be held against you. There are many more wicked things in the world than that. Think of all this that you give to her. But when the time comes, you must go. But go in such a manner you do not unfairly hurt her. At the same time let her see that it must be done. You should not have this one way too long.” He stopped talking and it was quiet again in the bar, and then he slowly sipped the brandy, feeling it go its burn-warming way into his chest.

  Then: “Come, drink, my son,” he said, and saw Schepke slowly raise the glass, not looking at him, to his mouth. He waited now until Schepke set the glass down. “I am sorry to have talked so much,” he said. “Forgive me.”

  “No,” Schepke said quietly. “There is nothing like that.”

  ”Then I think you should go back to bed now. Try to forget the thinking. Take this with you,” he said, offering the bottle of Dutch gin. “At this time it may help to ease the way of things.” .

  Schepke hesitated, looking at the bottle, then took it.

  “Thank you,” he said, and turned toward the doorway to the stairs.

  It was very quiet now and the bar, lit only by the pale light filtering through the wooden shutters over the street windows, was gloomy and the air heavy with stale cigarette smoke and the drying of the swabbed floor. The old man felt it was now time for some light and he lit a candle from the drawer and stood a while in the quietness of the bar.

  And this night it was quiet in the city.

  5

  THE old man, with the early morning Chinese newspapers spread out flat on the counter before him, looked up as she came through the beaded curtain.

  “He has not been down yet?”

  The old man shook his head, then watched her go quickly upstairs.

  The stairway was narrow and dark and heavy with the scent of smouldering joss-sticks. The room was already hot and lit by the sun through a yellow paper blind. He lay asleep on the high bed, still wearing the crumpled cotton trousers, the long, ragged blond hair fallen across his forehead. She stood looking at him a moment, feeling her heart quicken, then she reached her hand up high behind her back and brought the zip all the way down and brought the shoulders of the green cheongsam down over her arms and rolled it quickly off over her hips to the floor.

>   He came instantly awake with the sudden movement of the bed under her weight, and started to sit up and she put both arms around his neck, holding him to her.

  “Karl. Please, Karl.”

  He put his arm up between them and pushed her away and sat up, cupping his hand over his eyes against the brilliant light of the sun through the yellow paper blind.

  “Please, Karl,” she said again, very softly, her mouth against his cheek.

  He took her hands from him and held them. He was still waking and the night was still with him. Everything revolved sluggishly inside of his head and he could feel her breasts warm and softly touching his back.

  “Karl,” she said, her mouth still against his cheek.

  “The time,” he said. “What time is it?”

  “It is early yet. Come back to bed.”

  “What time is it?” he asked again.

  “You must go somewhere?” she asked.

  “I have to see a man. In the city.” He had not looked at her yet.

  “It is something important?”

  “Maybe I will go to work,” he said, then reached the crumpled packet of Chinese cigarettes from the floor and lit one. With the smoke came the waxy taste of the match. It had been a long night and now it was a bad morning.

  “You go to see him later. Please.”

  This time when the bed moved he stood up. “Please,” she said, pleading.

  “I told you I have to go,” he said, running his hair back onto his neck and taking his shirt from the corner of the dressing-table mirror.

  “Karl. Listen to me. Please,” she said. “I love you.”

  He went on buttoning his shirt.

  She swung her legs over the side of the high bed and her foot touched one of the bottles. Clasping her hands between her thighs, she watched him tuck the shirt inside the crumpled cotton trousers.