Aug 20, 1100 hours. Sailing ketch Narzisse, Barclay Sound, Vancouver Island.
Herman Mueller was a patient man, but even he was becoming possessed by the malady that the Canadians called cabin fever. He was a lifetime sailor, and like his son, a licensed pilot on this coast. So he was accustomed to long periods at sea. But the cabin of his boat had become like a prison. The Trade Commissioner sitting opposite him, Augustus Meyer, was a fussy, gregarious, bombastic man, accustomed to a frenetic pace of business deals in cosmopolitan cities. He was not holding up well at all. Meyer had given up on conversation with Mueller a week ago, over some trivial forgotten disagreement. Now, his every whistle, lip smacking, and throat clearing sound drove Mueller into a silent rage.
Meuller’s son Heinrich had taken to sitting on the deck all day, fishing. He almost never caught a thing. Mueller could not understand how anyone could be so unsuccessful at fishing. On this coast! The waters were packed with fish. Perhaps it was the young man’s nervous energy. Or perhaps it was the seals that seemed to have taken up residence under the boat. Heinrich’s poor fishing was of no consequence, however, because Tseshaht fishermen had discovered them on August 3, the day they had arrived, and appeared in a canoe daily around 2 in the afternoon to sell them salmon or rock cod.
The Narzisse was anchored, tucked into a cove on what his chart called Dodd Island, part of the Broken Islands Group in Barclay Sound. This anchorage was somewhat exposed, but it was as sheltered as Mueller could manage and still maintain a vista out through Newcombe and Felice Channels to the Pacific, surveiling the approaches to Ucluelet harbour at the north end of the Sound. All around the broad basin of Barclay Sound marched the green mountains of Vancouver Island. On the sailboat’s deck, the smell of salal was strong.
Mueller absentmindedly turned over in his hand an artifact he had found on the beach of Dodd Island while on an excursion to fetch fresh water. A rusted bolt encrusted to a stone, and overgrown with oyster shells. The Sound was cluttered with small treed islands and surf swept rocks. Every beach and rock cranny held remnants from some shipwreck, recent or a century old. Rusted fragments of iron, corroded and unidentifiable pieces of hardware, lengths of cable, worm eaten planks. Many a ship had lost her bearings in the fog, and overshooting the entrance to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, had ended up on these rocks. He was in the company of ghosts.
Mueller was waiting here for the arrival of the ships of His Majesty’s East Asiatic Squadron, the Nürnberg, or the Leipzig, or both. He had volunteered his services to the Trade Commissioner in Vancouver on the eve of the outbreak of war, now three weeks ago. Mueller figured that two pilots with intimate knowledge of the coast of British Columbia would be of great value to the Imperial German Navy in their imminent war against the British Empire. With no wireless, they had no option but to wait with Narzisse at the announced rendezvous point.
Commissioner Meyer said he had sent the information to the German Intelligence Service through secure diplomatic channels, before the British shut everything down. Now Mueller was less certain that the critical information been delivered. His faith in the Trade Commissioner’s capacity had diminished as the weeks passed. Meyer, the extrovert, deprived of his natural environment of business meetings and gatherings reported in the society pages, became increasingly erratic, and rambled on incoherently, or simply muttered to himself. Mueller did not understand why Meyer had not taken the opportunity to cross over the border to neutral America when he had the chance, and had opted instead for a long and perilous sea voyage back to Germany so unsuited to his nature.
On the day of their arrival in Barclay Sound Mueller had drawn up a list of military and industrial targets for the cruisers. He figured the he would wait here, unseen in his concealed location until the cruisers appeared a few days later. He was so startled when the Tseshaht fishermen knocked on the side of the Narzisse’s hull, he had actually eaten the piece of paper with the list. Still chewing, he had looked over the rail, expecting to surrender to a British naval officer, or perhaps a member of the Fisheries Patrol. Instead a short brown man in overalls stood in a sleek dugout canoe and asked him in a quiet voice, “Do you want to buy… some fish?”
Three weeks later, the brief daily interaction with the fishermen was such a relief to Mueller’s forced isolation that he found himself looking more and more forward to their afternoon meeting. Although the time was still hours away, he glanced up from the cabin table, and noticed a ship approaching the entrance to Ucluelet harbour. He stepped out into the cockpit, and picked up the binoculars hanging from their strap on the binnacle.
Mueller expected to see the CP Princess Maquinna, the coastal steamer that connected so many of the isolated communities on Vancouver Island. But instead of the Maquinna’s single funnel, he saw three funnels, and the unmistakable outline of the Princess Charlotte. This was odd to him. The Charlotte was too large and well appointed for this milk run. She was a racehorse, not a workhorse like the Maquinna. Nevertheless, the big liner entered Ucluelet harbour and left his line of sight.
Half an hour later, a green rocket arced up in front of the Ucluth Peninsula. Soon after, more ships appeared out in the open sea. Mueller’s view down Newcombe Channel was interrupted by a scattering of smaller treed islands and bare rocks, behind which the distant silhouettes disappeared and appeared again as they approached. Through his binoculars, Mueller could make out a large tanker with bridge amidships and funnel on the stern castle, a medium sized steam freighter, a much smaller steamer herding them along, and tucked in formation very close to the port side of the freighter, what looked like a warship.
Was this one of the East Asiatic Squadron’s cruisers? Could it be? Mueller had no sense of the military situation. He had had no contact with the outside world since the war started, save with the Tseshaht fisherman, who was not a loquacious fellow. Why was the warship keeping so close? Was it damaged? Was it coaling? As the ships drew nearer, he noticed that the cruiser, and it was a cruiser, flew the British White Ensign. But that was a ruse to be expected in commerce warfare. Or it could be the actual Royal Navy. But why the close formation? He could see the cruiser was not moored to the freighter, only steaming in its shadow. Like it was hiding from something… The Cape Beale lighthouse 18 miles to the south, had a distant view of the approaches to Ucluelet harbour. If the cruiser stayed behind the freighter, their outlines and smoke would intermingle. He could think of no other explanation, and it was the warship’s apparent attempt at stealth that finally convinced Mueller that the Imperial Navy had arrived.
“Heinrich!” he called. “Prepare to get underway!”