Ship of Force (22 page)

Braddock said harshly, “You know what will happen to you if you’re wrong, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Then Smith added, “But what may happen if I’m right and do nothing?”

“Nobody could blame
you
.”

“No. The dead blame no one.”

Braddock digested that and made his decision. “All right.” He pushed out of his chair, looked at his watch then fumbled in his pocket, produced two slips of coloured paper and handed them to Smith. “I’ll get in touch with your Colonel Hacker and I’ll do what I can. You can do nothing, so go away and try to forget about it for a bit. There are a couple of tickets for
Maid of the Mountains
. They tell me it’s a good show and I was going to take my wife but now it seems I’ll be busy.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“No, you’re not. And don’t worry about my wife. She’s used to this kind of last minute cancellation and I’ll take her some other time. Now clear out and let me get on with it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

* * *

Smith used one of the tickets as he was told because he did not know what else to do. He left his bag at his hotel and went out to Daly’s. There he sat through the first twenty minutes of
Maid of the Mountains
. It was a good show and the house was packed but he saw none of it. He saw a dark coast, the sea breaking gently on a shallow-shelving, long beach with a sharp lift of dunes beyond. And beyond them the loom of woodland, dark, silent. Secret.

He left the theatre and walked, lost in thoughts that revolved in his mind and threw up possible solutions to the mystery that he probed and worried at, but that remained just possibilities. There might be other possibilities that he could not dream of. It was a long time before the shrilling of the air-raid whistles brought him back to the present and he found he had been walking east. It seemed only minutes but his watch would have told him he had walked for an hour. He did not need to look at it because he knew where he was and that he was close to the little house belonging to Eleanor Hurst. But Eleanor was still in France. And besides, she wanted nothing more to do with him…

A fast-striding policeman, an elderly man, a ‘special constable’, peered at him and said, “Air-raid, sir. There’s a shelter in the street you’ve just passed.”

The warning was superfluous and the policeman looked at Smith curiously. There was gun-fire all around the eastern perimeter of the city, searchlights sweeping the sky and now the far-off but familiar whistle, glow and
crump
! Of an exploding bomb.

The ‘special’ said, “I suppose it’s the Gothas again, sir.” And then he shouted, “There y’are!” He pointed. In the sky to the east of the city the wavering beam of a searchlight had locked on to an aeroplane, a very high, tiny thing of silver in the light. But it was a Gotha. They were big biplanes, enormous compared to aircraft like the Harry Tate, with the range to reach London with a half-ton of bombs each. They had a ceiling of fifteen thousand feet but this one looked lower than that as it twisted and turned, but still the light held it and the gunfire burst around it.

“Go on! Blast the bleeder!” The ‘special’ ground it out.

But then the Gotha side-slipped out of the light. The searchlight beam swept the sky, searching, but did not find it again.

‘The ‘special’ muttered savagely under his breath then glanced at Smith. “Be wise to take shelter, sir.” He was disapproving. He obviously thought an officer should have more sense than to be walking the streets in an air-raid for no good reason.

Smith could not explain his presence but air-raids in the streets were the business of firemen and ambulancemen, and of the volunteer patrols formed in each street. He was none of these. If he could not help, then: “I’ll go back to my hotel.”

“You watch out then, sir.”

Smith turned back. He had not covered fifty yards and was approaching a side street when he heard a far-off hiss climb quickly to a shriek and he threw himself down close by the wall. The pavement heaved under him and the blast sucked out the windows above his head to shower him with falling glass as the roar of the explosion battered his ear-drums. He saw the dust roll out in a cloud from the side street just ahead. The pavement heaved under him again and there was the
thump
! Of another bomb exploding but this one sounded further away. Dust still boiled out of the street ahead of him. He started to rise and was on hands and knees when the house groaned above him. He stared up and saw the whole wall of it toppling like a falling tree; he went down again with his hands over his head, pressed in tight against the wall. Then it burst about him and that was all he remembered.

* * *

There was light and there were voices. He heard the murmur of them as far away, deep but with a lighter tone among them, the voice of a woman. Eleanor Hurst? He heard them in the drowsy moments of slow awakening. Then there was a rustle as of a woman’s skirts and the voice said softly, “Yes, I think he’s waking.”

He opened his eyes. She was young and pretty but she was not Eleanor Hurst. She was a nurse, a VAD and she stooped over him with a half-smile on her face but watching him intently. He thought she had a nice face, young, anxious. He turned his head on the pillow. There were screens around his bed and on a chair at one side sat Hacker, who now shot his cuff to glance at a gold wrist-watch and drawled, “About time.” But he looked relieved.

Smith lay still for a moment thinking about it, drowsy but not tired, just waking slowly and drawing his world together again. He remembered the bomb, the toppling wall. He asked, “What is this place?”

Hacker answered, “A hospital for officers. One of those houses given up for the duration. Near Regents Park.” He was shaved, neatly uniformed, buttons and Sam Browne belt gleaming but there were dark smudges under his eyes. “I went to your hotel this morning and found you hadn’t got back last night and started searching. Had a hell of a job finding you. Wasn’t till the forenoon —”

“Forenoon!” Smith jerked upright in the bed, fully awake now. He stared at Hacker and asked, “Well?”

Hacker nodded. “I’ve got your orders in my pocket. What you wanted.”

And Smith thought that he had been sleeping the day away while time ran out — wasted!

The nurse returned. “I can’t find Doctor Blair.”

Smith asked quickly, “My clothes, please?”

“Well, the doctor will have to see you before —”

“But I’m all right! What was wrong with me?”

“You were unconscious and bruised. A few minor lacerations.”

“That’s nothing. I’m all
right
.” He was. He was stiff and sore but he felt as though for once he had slept well; he was eager to be away.

The girl explained patiently, “A doctor must see you before you can be discharged.”

“He has. Colonel Hacker is a doctor and he’s just been looking at me. Right, Colonel?”

The girl looked at Hacker and he looked at Smith then said gruffly, “That’s right.”

The girl hesitated. “But the Colonel isn’t Medical Corps —”

Smith said quickly, “Seconded for Staff duty.”

Hacker nodded and smiled at the nurse.

The girl blushed and gave way. “Well, I suppose in that case —”

Smith jumped in. “Fine! Fetch my clothes, nurse, there’s a dear girl.”

She brought them and he saw someone had cleaned his uniform tolerably well and his boots had a shine to them. He dressed rapidly.

At the front door she admonished him, “But you must take care, sir. A wall fell on you. You looked an awful mess when they brought you in.”

“I will.” Smith could see Hacker’s car waiting at the kerb with the driver at the wheel, the engine running and Hacker gesturing urgently from the rear seat. Smith added sincerely, “And thank you.”

She looked over his shoulder. “Why, here’s Doctor Blair now.”

Smith saw him, a grey-haired man in a white coat walking across the road from a house opposite. “My compliments to him.” Smith was across the pavement and into the car. He waved to her as it pulled away.

Hacker grumbled, “You really are the bloody limit, Smith.”

“Well, you told me you were a doctor.”

“Of
philosophy
, dammit! If they report this —”

Smith grinned. “You might get your name in the papers.”

Hacker was not amused. “Along with the other dirty old men who impersonate doctors. Thank you. Oh, well, I’ll go in and apologise when I get the chance.”

“So will I. Where are my orders?” He ripped open the envelope Hacker gave him.

Hacker said, “We had to see a lot of people — that Admiral of yours is a demon! Had to do a lot of talking, a lot of persuading. But they came around. Mind you,” he added cautiously, “they weren’t enthusiastic. In fact they are just covering themselves.”

Smith scanned the orders. He was required forthwith to reconnoitre with the force at his disposal the coast south of De Haan and take any requisite action. He was to be careful of hazarding his ships or his men.

It was sufficient, all he had hoped for because he knew his case was hard to argue; he had argued it enough to know. The Navy was fighting desperately against mounting losses of merchant shipping from U-boats and with one eye always on the German High Seas Fleet where it lurked, waiting, in its North Sea base in the Jade river. To the Admiralty the threat hidden in the woods south of De Haan was a problematical one and a sideshow at that.

He stuffed the orders in his pocket as Hacker said, “There’s a train for Dover in half-an-hour. And I’ve sent a signal asking for another reconnaissance flight.”

Smith said, “I don’t think you’ll get it. I talked to one of the pilots at St. Pol and he said it wasn’t on. His Squadron Commander won’t have it.”

Hacker said, not looking at Smith, “It’s worth a try.” He thought there was only a slim chance that Smith might succeed. He did not say it but Smith could read the thought behind Hacker’s face. He went on, “I intend to go myself as observer. I’ve done a bit of that.” He settled back in the corner and tipped his cap forward over his eyes. “It was a long night, as the young lady said to the Colonel. Call me at Victoria.”

Smith grinned but became serious as he stared forward, eyes vague and his thoughts racing ahead.

They were bound for Dunkerque and the war.

They got a passage in a destroyer bound for Dunkerque and sailed from Dover under clear skies. As she approached Dunkerque Roads, Smith, standing on her bridge with her captain and Hacker, saw there were yet fewer monitors at anchor in the Roads — but
Marshall Marmont
was out there. He grinned at Hacker. “They’ve worked hard on her!” And as Hacker raised his eyebrows “The engineers told me it was a full day’s work for the dockyard but she’s out again already.” Things were going right at last.

At his request the destroyer hoisted a signal and minutes later he saw
Marshall Marmont’s
pinnace following them into port. The destroyer was going on into the basin but she stopped and lowered a boat to set Smith and Hacker ashore on the quay where
Sparrow
was tied up in the Port d’Echouage. As he climbed the ladder to the quay he noted that some of
Sparrow
’s damage had been made good. There was a lot of raw, new paint and she had a whaler again but the wrecked wireless shack was still a wreck. As he strode along the quay towards her he saw Garrick climb up from
Marshall Marmont’s
pinnace that had hooked on near the Trystram lock and they met at the foot of
Sparrow’s
brow. Smith returned his salute and said, “Congratulations. You’re ready for sea.”

Garrick’s face was set. He said bitterly, “No, sir. We’re not. After you’d gone we received a signal from the Commodore. The ship wasn’t to be put into the dockyard here. She’s to go to Chatham instead. There’s a tow arranged for tomorrow morning.”

Smith stood on the quay taking it in, conscious of the orders in his pocket and a feeling of foreboding. As if to match his mood the clouds were breeding now and a shadow fell over them on the quay, the breeze turned chill. He could hear the gun-fire from the lines at Nieuport as always, but today it seemed louder and more continuous, a constant, distant thunder.

Hacker strode up and said, “The Naval Air Service people have sent a car. There’s a Harry Tate waiting for me at St. Pol.” He hesitated, then said, “Maybe we could get together for a drink. Afterwards.”

Smith answered, “That’s a good idea.” Looking beyond Hacker he could see the familiar Rolls Royce. He shook the hand that Hacker stuck out and watched the soldier cross the quay and duck into the car. It pulled away.

He heard Garrick say, “Of course, I went to see Trist and told him you’d ordered me to see the repair carried out immediately. He only said that
he
was responsible for priorities. So I had a quiet word with the dockyard and they’ve got plenty of work but they would have taken us if Trist hadn’t stopped them. Maybe you could put it to him better than I did, sir.”

Smith said, “I doubt it.” It would be too late, anyway. He needed the monitor to sail with
Sparrow
tonight. He wondered why Trist had done it. Surely not spite? No. Caution. Trist did not want to risk the ships, did not believe, or want to believe that the woods at De Haan were anything other than what they seemed. After all, he had not listened to the Kapitänleutnant gasping out his threat with the last of his life. Smith took a breath. “I’m going to see the Commodore anyway.”

“Good luck, sir. I’ll wait aboard
Sparrow
and have a jaw with young Sanders.”

Smith nodded. “I’ll see you there.”

As Smith left him, Garrick called back, “Buckley asked to come along in case you wanted him, sir. He’s in the pinnace.”

Smith lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Buckley. Garrick. Loyalty. He walked on to meet Trist, crossing the locks and striding along past Le Coq and the other little bars up to the house at the Parc de la Marine. He thought that he had trodden this path too often but, one way or another, this would be the last time. After tonight he would not have this command, of that he was certain. He had stirred up a hornets’ nest to get his way and Trist would see to it that he paid the price. Trist would get rid of him, somehow.

* * *

The Commodore received him in the long room. He sat in it alone, behind his desk at the head of it, an impressive figure as Smith walked the length of the room, heels clicking on the polished floor. Trist sat upright in the high-backed chair but he seemed relaxed.

He kept Smith standing.

Smith said, “I have orders from the Admiralty, sir.”

He held out the paper and Trist took it, glanced at it casually then flipped it back. He smiled thinly. “Yes. I know all about it, of course. Their Lordships sent me a signal. As it should be, how thin should be done. I may not have gone crawling to the seats of the mighty but I know more than you think.”

Smith started, “Sir, with respect I did not —”

But Trist held up a hand. “Never mind. That’s all behind us now. I had two signals. The second informed me that I am being, not promoted, but given another appointment. With a decoration, of course.”

“I’m very glad, sir.” Smith said it without expression.

He wondered if others had gone behind Trist’s back. Had whispers reached the Admiralty from Trist’s Staff? He remembered the unhappy faces of some of them when Trist had ordered
Sparrow
to make her ‘offensive’ patrol of the coast.

But Trist was saying, “My successor will find the affairs of my command in order. I have always contrived to keep up to date, with the help of a
loyal
Staff. It only remains for me to write my report and my reports on officers and make my recommendations.”

Smith knew what that meant. Trist would report on him and it would be there in black and white, or knowing this devious, cautious man, dirty grey. Forever.

Trist said softly, “So. I have my orders and you have yours and your flotilla. Carry on with my blessing.”

Smith stood in silence for a moment. Now he had to ask. Trist knew it and was waiting for him. He said slowly, “Sir.
Marshall Marmont’s
engines —”

“Will be repaired at Chatham. I have issued the orders.”

“Yes, sir. I know. But I need a monitor. My orders call for me to take appropriate action depending on what I find.”

“Your orders call for you to act ‘with the forces at your disposal’,” Trist quoted. “Those forces you have.”

“That’s only Sparrow, sir! There are twelve-inch monitors lying in the Roads. If I might have one of those —”

“There are monitors in the Roads because I ordered them there. They are there for the defence of this port. This command has already been stretched thin by the appropriation of ships. You know of the monitors already detached. What you don’t know is
why
they were detached. I will tell you, in strict secrecy. A landing is planned on the coast north of Nieuport. It is timed to link up with a big push on the Ypres front. That is why the General and his Staff were here yesterday. We were taking the planning a stage further. The intention is to capture the entire Belgian coast and deny the enemy the use of that coast and the ports of Ostende and Zeebrugge as bases for U-boats. These are matters of strategy which lie outside your sphere unless or until you are involved but I tell you for a reason.”

Trist paused. Smith thought he was boasting, demonstrating his power, that he was privy to the innermost secrets of the conduct of the war. Why?

Trist went on: “I tell you because more ships are being demanded for the landing. The only ones I can spare are
Marshall Marmont
and the two other destroyers I promised you. Those two are at this moment sailing for convoy duty from Hook of Holland to the Thames; the convoy assembles off the Hook a couple of hours after first light tomorrow. When they return they and
Marshall Marmont
will be detached. I have made this commitment. My successor will have to honour it.”

So he had destroyed Smith’s flotilla. He was left with nothing but
Sparrow
. Trist had created it out of paper and now he had destroyed it with paper. Smith was silent. To attempt to carry out his orders with a single, old torpedo-boat destroyer would be madness. Trist knew it and was having his last laugh.

But the Commodore had not finished. “For the present — well, you can ask your friends to try to obtain further orders to augment your force but I don’t think they’ll find it easy. I told you I knew more than you thought. Quite simply, your mystery has been exploded. The enemy bombarded the lines at Nieuport for twenty-four hours, starting yesterday evening. You may know that. What you probably don’t know, because you were scheming in London, is that they attacked today, and successfully. They’ve pushed forward to the Yser river. Not an attack inland but on this coast. There’s your stab in the back! I expect the reserves they used were hidden in the woods by De Haan and brought up in the night.” He smiled. “You have the satisfaction of knowing that you were at least partly right, there
was
a plan.”

He was almost laughing. Smith thought Trist was relieved because a weight of responsibility was being lifted from him. And Smith, who had been a thorn in his side? Trist could stop him by just doing nothing. It was a perfect Trist solution. Smith rubbed at his face. Through the window he could see the leaden sky, rain spattered the panes. The room was a place of shadows.

Trist said, “The Admiralty knows this of course. I would not be surprised, therefore, if you were to receive further orders shortly. I suggest you return to
Marshall Marmont
and wait for them.”

Trist was wrong. The attack on Nieuport was just another attack. Why should a U-boat commander be involved? Had the woods hidden nothing but the reserves for this one attack, and for weeks on end? No. The precautions, guards and Albatros fighters, were too elaborate. Trist was right in one respect: his information would raise doubts again in London and there would be orders coming for Smith to countermand those in his pocket. He could do nothing.

* * *

Sunset was three hours or more away but there was no sun. There was the lowering sky and the rain that drove in on the wind from the Roads, though the Roads were hidden in the rain’s grey murk. He was striding blindly along, tramping through puddles that sprayed mud from under his boots when the shaft of yellow light blinked across the quay and was gone as the door closed. He came to a dead stop and stood under the rain with legs braced as if he was at sea and stared at the door. It was not the same door, not the same bar but — He stood irresolute for a moment, contemplating the risks, bearing the distant rumble of the guns at Nieuport but today there was also another, natural thunder and the tight that flickered out to sea was not gun-me but lightning. The rain beat on him and he made his decision, then moved on, walking quickly again but now with a new purpose.

* * *

Victoria Baines parted the curtain that hung over the door of the bar and peered out through the chink at the quay. The rain was still falling but she thought she’d finish the glass and go back to the
Lively Lady
and tell them to stand down. She had told them to keep steam up and they’d wanted to argue about that because they weren’t on call but she had refused to listen or explain. They could call it a woman’s whim if they wanted but she commanded
Lively Lady
and if she wanted steam up she’d damn well have steam up. She did not know why. She was just — restless, uneasy in her mind. That Hurst girl with her calm face hiding her misery — but it was not only that. There was something brewing…she had felt like this the night before the captain was lost at sea and she prayed the boys were safe…

A band of yellow light from an opened door stretched pale across the quay in that early evening. Beyond it showed a solitary, slight figure seen like a wraith through the blurring rain. The light blinked out. For a moment she still stared out into the rain, then she closed the curtain.

* * *

Smith pushed in through the door of Le Coq, shut it behind him, shook water from his cap and looked to the back of the room. She sat at the same table, stiff-backed and red of face. She wore a black hat that was circled in flowers and sat slightly askew on the grey bun. She was sipping from a glass, daintily, and her little finger was fastidiously crooked. Again he hesitated, remembering the story he had been told of how she had bawled at an officer, “Put a poor old widder woman on the beach, would you? Take away her livelihood?” There could be more than a grain of truth in that and he did not want to be that officer but…

He went to her slowly and said, “Good evening, Mrs. Baines.”

“Evening, Commander. Thought you’d gone to London.”

“I did. May I?” He laid his hand on the back of the chair opposite her.

“Welcome, I’m sure.” The china-blue eyes sharpened as he lowered himself into the chair. “You’re looking peaky. Too thin and too tired. You youngsters are all the same, don’t look after yourselves proper. I told Jack Curtis so the other day. Jack, I said —”

Smith broke in, “Where is he?”

“Gone over to St. Pol. That flying friend of his asked him over there. Some ‘do’ in the mess.”

“What about his crew?”

“They’ll be ashore. There’s nowhere to sleep aboard those motor-boats so they’ve got billets just down the quay. I’m just drinking off. I can show you the house where Jack and his Snotty sleep but I’m not sure about the men.” She paused, then asked, “Is that all you wanted? To find out about Jack?”

Smith said, “No. I want a great deal more than that.”

She met his gaze and after a moment asked, “Are you in some sort o’ trouble?”

“No. But I’m going to be.”

She stared at him and he said, “Can we talk as we go?” And stood and offered her his arm.

He talked with Victoria Baines as she led him along the quay, walling cautiously on the pave in the high-heeled shoes. He had seen her squeeze her feet into them before they left Le Coq. She held up her umbrella against the rain and Smith had to look out for his eyes. She had paused once to stare at him incredulously. Then they walked the last yards in silence and she stopped before a house, neatly painted, the windows shuttered. “This is the place.” And then, “I hope you know what you’re doing…” She went on to warn him, but — “You’re set on it, aren’t you?” And when Smith nodded, she said, “All right, I’ll do it.”