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“is different and you know it. Which one you Number One Washboy?”
    They looked at each other and suddenly erupted in giggles, struck out at each other’s shoulders, collapsed in a general hug and fell among the washing, kicking and screaming with their feet in the air.
    â€œIs no One. No one Number One. One no live. Joseph he just takee dollar for Number One.” They screamed in hilarity.
    Lauterbach looked on them with love. He liked Chinese. He sat down on the laundry or rather their luggage. Something cracked sharply inside beneath his weight but he ignored it. It was the moment to let them actually see money to focus their minds. He dug in his pocket and extracted a pile of Mexican silver dollars, lined them up on his fat knee, counted them out. They immediately fell silent and looked grave, eyes fixed on the silver, the way chickens are said to stare at a chalk line drawn on the ground.
    â€œOkay. Maskee. I fixee. Likee this way. Number Two getee six dollar, Three getee four, Four getee three dollar. I givee dollar chop-chop” They put heads together, brooded darkly under bobbing pigtails. NumberTwo turned back, clasped his hands together primly.
    â€œHow bout One?” he asked. Lauterbach grinned.
    â€œNumber One still workee for us. One getee six dollar. Me takee half. You takee half.” They relaxed. This was a world they recognised. If he had killed off non-existant Number One Washboy they would have lost all respect for the white man. They nodded, content. Four whispered an overlooked objection. There was another outburst of quarrelling static.
    â€œOne thing-lah.” Two looked worried. “Six dollar only not enough. You payee me six dollar. So you payee Number One eight dollar. He number One Boy – cannot getee same as me, cannot losee face.” Lauterbach held his gaze, stared into the unblinking black pupils. There was no quiver of irony there. He really liked Chinese.
    Von Mueller returned silently from the Scharnhorst and slipped, without particular gratitude, into a cool, freshly laundered and ironed tropical tunic. That night, the entire squadron raised anchor and set sail. The bustling lagoon was suddenly empty, haunted by a ghost of black smoke that was the end of German imperial possession, for another message from Tsingtao announced that Japan had declared war on Germany and that its vastly superior fleet was on its way south towards them with a force of occupation. The natives did not yet know that they would now have to throw away their relatively new German grammar books and learn to speak Japanese.
    â€œ Emden detached. Good luck.”
    Lauterbach read the signal flags on the Scharnhorst and watched carefully as a further signal detailed the collier Markomannia to attend them.
    He was reclining in his new cane-backed planter’s chair with its adjustable headrest, extendable footrest and armrest pierced to receive a reviving glass. It had been specially strengthened to bear his weight. Prudence had required that he send an only slightly less desirable example to the captain with his compliments. Von Mueller had taken to it at once, installed it on the bridge, lived in it, slept in it. God knows, with over four hundred men aboard, there were takers enough for a spare cabin. On the captain’s chair, the drink receptacle held ruthlessly sharpened pencils, not gin.
    Both ships wheeled south south-west in a smear of foam, as the rest of the squadron steamed off to their rendezvous with destiny. In November they would annihilate the British naval squadron in Chile. In December the same would happen to them. Thousands would go down in a neat balance of slaughter that would be a matter of simple pride to both navies.
    Lauterbach knew at once what it all meant. They had all argued their options in the vomit-green wardroom. The Emden was to become a lone raider, preying on enemy merchant shipping in the great British lake that was the Indian Ocean, living