He went and sat on the rocks as far out as he dared. The spray rose in front of him. The noise of the wind was matched by the dark waters hurling themselves in vain against the rocks. It’s like a siege, Powerscourt thought. The sea is laying siege to this little patch of Ireland. The waves are the artillery, pounding relentlessly, night and day, against the enemy ramparts. The defenders try to close their ears to the onslaught. The defenders are going to win. The rocks are refusing to give way.
Nobody could come into the little harbour on a night like this, he felt sure. However big the mother ship, no little boat with its deadly cargo could make the journey from those great seas into Greystones.
But he didn’t sleep. All through the night he kept watch from his windows on the empty grey sea, flecks of white on top of the waves. On the beaches the sea pounded in, crashing up the shore, leaving a trail of dirty foam in its wake. Nothing moved in the streets of Greystones. Even if you had wanted to give or receive a signal, it would have been lost in the fury of the night. Powerscourt was thinking of where he could take Lady Lucy when this case was over. Verona perhaps, city of doomed lovers, Vicenza with all those buildings by Palladio. He felt sure Lucy would like Verona. He could buy her a copy of Romeo and Juliet to read on the train. Or would she have read it already? She might have forgotten it.
As dawn broke the rain had come. It was now sweeping in from the mountains, lashing the little town, rattling off the roof of Powerscourt’s hotel like gunshot. Powerscourt dreamed of battles at sea as he fell asleep, the terrible carnage of Trafalgar where the smoke of the carronades hung in thick curtains across the sea, and a sniper high up in the rigging of a French ship took careful aim at the one-armed Admiral in his gold braid on the deck of the Victory. Snipers. Something told Powerscourt that snipers were terribly important and he should remember them when he woke up.
By then he was in another country. The rain had stopped. The wind had died down. The little town, its grey buildings, its grey beach with the hills behind, were bathed in sunshine. The hotel gardeners were busy under Powerscourt’s windows, clearing away fallen branches, tending to the roses that threatened to fill one whole wall with red. Along the sea front the more adventurous citizens were promenading round the bay, commenting excitedly to each other about the change in the weather. ‘Isn’t it grand, just grand,’ floated regularly up to his room.
Powerscourt reached for the binoculars. Johnny Fitzgerald’s timetable for the German invasion was nearly finished. Surely they must come today, or tonight. He had no doubt that they would have to land under cover of darkness, sending their deadly packages into the tiny harbour while Greystones and County Wicklow slept. He scanned the horizon. A couple of cargo ships could be seen far out to sea, trudging steadily towards Howth or Dublin. The seagulls were flying regular sorties across the rocks in front of the hotel. A pair of small yachts seemed to have set out from Bray or Killiney further up the coast for a day’s sailing. They looked too small to have made the journey across the North Sea.
At two o’clock he went for a walk. He patrolled the streets of Greystones, his binoculars round his neck, pausing from time to time to fix his glasses on the birds. He made polite conversation with some of the local people. Yes, the weather was much better today. Hadn’t it been terrible the last few days. Did they get many big yachts coming into Greystones, putting in for supplies or to visit the local attractions? No, sir, they did not. Birdwatchers, he decided, were almost as innocent as fishermen in the eye of the beholder. But all the time he knew that his counterpart must also be watching the seas beyond the town, hiding behind some curtains in an upstairs room, lurking in the heather on the coastal path to Bray, rebellious binoculars scanning the horizon.
It was five o’clock when he saw it. Far out to sea, moving gracefully south towards Wicklow, was a large yacht. It was so much bigger than the ones he had seen earlier in the day. Tiny dots of sailors could be seen through the glasses moving about their business. He couldn’t see a name. Maybe it had been removed. The visitor did not even move in towards the shore as it passed. It sailed serenely on as if it had a rendezvous in some other harbour far far away. But Powerscourt was sure. He was certain. This yacht would turn round when it was dark. It would come back to anchor some way from the harbour. A small boat would be lowered from the side. Packages and people would follow. The rendezvous between the German paymasters and quartermasters and their Irish clients was about to begin.
He ate a hearty supper. He ordered with some amusement a main course described as Powerscourt lamb. His father, he remembered, incarcerated with his account books in the corner of the great house, would often remark that at least the lamb sold well. He checked the horse he had rented from the hotel stables, thick sacking wrapped round its hooves to ease the noise it might make on the roads or tracks of Wicklow. As the sun set behind the mountains in a mass of pinks and reds that promised a fine tomorrow, he settled in his observation post on the top floor.
He made a regular orbit with the binoculars. Harbour. Nothing there. North towards Dublin, nothing moved. South towards Wicklow and the mountains inland. Nothing there. The streets of Greystones itself, hosts already perhaps to Irish insurrectionaries who could have come south from the capital to collect their booty. Nothing moved. The moon was full now, weak at first but growing stronger as night settled over Ireland. There were a few clouds that caused a deeper darkness. Moonlight was a mixed blessing. It could show you where your unknown adversaries were going. It could show them they were being followed, a lone agent perhaps of the intelligence networks directed with such deadly precision from Dublin Castle on their trail. A couple of dogs were on manoeuvres, sniffing hopefully around the rocks and the cottages. Far out to sea nothing stirred. There was a slight wind, enough to fill a sail. The waters, sometimes grey, sometimes black, seemed to mock Powerscourt at his lookout post on the top floor of the Imperial Hotel.
It was a dog that gave the first clue. Far off in the distance, probably on the road from Bray, came sounds of barking. Ten minutes later a horse and cart trotted carelessly into the village and stopped outside a shop just fifty yards from the harbour. There was a quantity of hay and what looked like tarpaulin sheets in the back. Nobody stirred. No inhabitants of Greystones peered sleepily from their windows at this strange apparition of the night. Turn your faces to the wall, While the gentlemen go by. There were two men with the cart. Both were wearing dark clothes. Powerscourt checked his watch. It was a quarter to two. He wondered if even on secret and dangerous missions the Germans had a timetable. The boat will come at two o’clock in the morning. Loading will be complete by two fifteen. The mother ship will depart at two thirty. Thank you, gentlemen.
He swung his binoculars out to sea again. He could see nothing at all. The clouds had obscured the moon. Perhaps the timetable even extends to periods of cloud cover. Wait. Check the focus again. What was that, out there on the right? There was a smudge, a blob on the sea. The blob appeared to be moving. Moving towards Greystones. At five to two the weather turned against the invaders. The clouds passed on. In the moonlight Powerscourt saw the yacht, moving gracefully towards him, a couple of miles out to sea. Shortly after two it veered sharply in towards the coast and stopped about eight hundred yards from the harbour.
Powerscourt checked the reception committee by the shop. Nothing stirred. Perhaps the timetable said two thirty or even three. He could see the yacht more clearly now. A boat was being lowered from the deck. Three men in dark jerseys settled into it. Then followed a series of heavy-looking packages. Powerscourt couldn’t see what they were. He thought suddenly of British sailors on cutting-out expeditions in naval wars of the past, dangerous nocturnal missions to capture a fort or blow up some enemy vessels while the soldiers or the sailors slept. But this was no friendly mission. Her Majesty’s enemies from overseas had come to give aid and assistance to some more of Her Majesty’s enemies at home. The boat set off. Powerscourt thought they must have muffled oars. He could catch no noise at all as two men rowed steadily towards the quays.