Thunder at Dawn (11 page)

But Smith would not wait. “Open fire!”

The two starboard six-inch guns bellowed bass to the tenor cracking of the twelve-pounders. At that range, the trajectory near flat, hitting was almost inevitable, a miss inexcusable. The six-inch bursts were clearly seen, one forward and one aft on the
Maria
, opening great holes in her on the waterline. She seemed to stop dead in her tracks and fall away before the sea. There were men forward and aft of the super structure, struggling waist-deep in the seas that swept her, attempting to lower boats.

The messenger again: “‘Sparks’ reports she’s still sending, Sir.”

“Very good.” One brave man sticking to his post in the egg-shell protection of a wireless-room in that exposed superstructure. One man calling down the pack on
Thunder
. “Concentrate fire on the superstructure!”

Another exchange of glances on the bridge, sick. His own face showed nothing but — it
had
to be done!

The salvo crashed out, a hammer to crack a nut, the guns recoiling with the tongues of flame licking long and orange over the sea, the smoke blossoming dirty yellow to shred and disperse on the wind. Smith did not see it, his eyes on the
Maria
so he saw the superstructure burst open under that concentration of fire, the funnel lean and fall. She was listing badly and
Thunder
was drawing ahead of her.

“Starboard ten!”

Thunder
swung ponderously around to head across the bows of the sinking collier. There was a boat in the water, a dozen men in her and thrusting away from their ship. Then the third salvo hit her, the effect instantly seen and appalling at that range. She broke in half, bow and stern lifting as the coal in her belly dragged her down, and sank. A billow of smoke and steam and she was gone.

“Cease firing! Midships!”

“Midships, sir!”

Smith rubbed at his eyes and lifted his glasses again. “Stand by to pick up survivors.”

Thunder
straightened on a course that took her down towards the wreckage and reduced speed until she rolled to the seas, barely making headway. There was flotsam: the wreckage of the life-boat, a few splintered planks, a cap.
Maria
would have carried a crew of twenty or so but there was not one survivor.

*

The guns’ crews had stood down and
Thunder’s
company braved the seas to line her rails, staring silently. There was no jubilation.

The crew of the forward 9.2 made a little group in the shelter below the bridge. Chalky White, the gun-trainer, muttered, “He’s gone off his rocker.”

Fanner Bates, Leading-Seaman and the gunlayer, snapped edgily, “Oh, shut it!”

“I mean it. Do you reckon he knows what he’s doing?”

Farmer was silent a moment. Both Benks and Horsfall talked to him and he knew the feeling in the wardroom. “I hope so.”

Gibb opened his mouth to speak but found Rattray’s hot eyes on him and stayed quiet. Rattray was making his life a misery. In any rare, brief moment that they were alone Rattray would crowd him, face shoved close. “Bright boy. Smith’s little pet. He thinks you’re a boy wonder but I’ll see what you’re made of one o’ these days.” The words changed slightly but the message was always the same. If they met on a crowded mess-deck or companion then Gibb got Rattray’s elbow in his ribs or Rattray’s foot crushing his own. And Gibb did not know why. He was afraid to tell anyone and so reveal his fear of the man because he was very young. It was wearing him down.

Rattray’s eyes slid away and up to the bridge. Smith. Shoving his neck in a noose. They would break the bastard and Rattray would laugh in his face and break Gibb.

*

Garrick did not look at Smith, nor did anyone else on the bridge. Then the messenger came running. “Wireless reports she’s stopped sending, sir.” Smith glared at him. Was this some macabre attempt at wit? The man flinched under that glare but carried on: “Reports another signal, sir. Distant and it’s stopped now, but they think it was Telefunken.”

Telefunken transmissions were distinctive. And they were German.

Smith took a breath. “Thank you.” Now they were all looking at him but he had had enough. “Pilot, a course for Malaguay. Revolutions for fifteen knots.”

He staggered to his cabin to stretch out on his bunk and pull a blanket around him. He was cold, cold, and his body ached with the constant strain of those hours on the bridge. There was a tap at the door and he groaned softly. What now? He called, “Come in!”

Albrecht entered, in one hand a glass that held three fingers of golden liquid. “I took the liberty of prescribing for you, sir.” He held out the glass. “Brandy.”

Smith jerked onto one elbow and rasped, “I don’t need Dutch courage, Doctor!”

Albrecht did not acknowledge the over-reaction, nor did he argue. “No, sir. You led a night attack only thirty-six hours ago, yesterday you smashed into the sea in an aeroplane and today you were more than six hours on the bridge and then —” He broke off, then finished, “It will warm you and help you to sleep.”

“I have nothing on my conscience, either.”

Albrecht did not answer but he did not look at Smith.

Smith sighed. “Doctor, I had to sink that ship. They were signalling and they got a reply. I
had
to.”

Albrecht said, “The surgeon’s knife.” And: “You’re still certain that these cruisers —”

He stopped. Smith’s weary grin stopped him. “If I say that they are after us, that they are sailing ten thousand miles to hunt
us
, you’ll think I’m mad.” He reached out and took the brandy and sipped at it and sighed. Albrecht saw in that weary smile a deal to frighten him but no madness at all. Smith said, “Because this ship can offer them a smashing victory, and then they can annihilate British shipping along this coast and that will draw forces to hunt
them
, not just from the West Indies but from the Atlantic and, Scapa Flow. It will take a lot of ships to track them down and ships of force to deal with them. At best they can lengthen the war and at worst they can, by weakening the Grand Fleet, win it. But first they sink this ship.” Smith drained the glass and handed it back to a staring Albrecht. “Goodnight, Doctor. And if you can’t sleep, try a drop of brandy. It’s all the thing.”

But left alone, Smith did not smile. The brandy had warmed him, burning down into his stomach. His body was exhausted but his mind was only too active. He closed his eyes and saw them coming up over the rim of the horizon, murderous.

‘Distant.’

The signals had been distant. That might mean a hundred miles or more or even, flukily, a thousand; but surely not so far in these conditions. No.

A ‘distant’ signal that the men on
Thunder’s
wireless thought might be Telefunken. It was still not evidence of the presence of a German ship, let alone two warships. Garrick and the rest did not believe in their existence while Albrecht? He — was uncertain now.

Smith was certain.

*

On the bridge, Aitkyne said quietly to Garrick, “What chance that our wild man
may
be right? After that wireless report? Thousand to one against?”

Garrick grimaced and shook his head. He muttered, “And if he’s wrong we’ve just been witnesses to murder. Or accessories to it. By God, after the things he’s done he’d better be right!”

Aitkyne’s brows lifted. “Better? Unfortunate choice of word, old cock. My will is with the family solicitor in Gloucester. If you haven’t made yours then I suggest you get on with it, just in case the thousand-odd to one shot comes off and he
is
right. Hedging your bets, old cock.”

Garrick swung on him sharply. He found Aitkyne smiling, but very serious.

VII

They called Smith at dusk. Garrick’s voice came urgent down the voice-pipe: “Captain, sir! Ship in distress off the starboard bow! I’m altering course!”

“Very good!” Smith could feel the heel of her as she turned tightly onto the new heading. Still stumbling from legs asleep, he yanked his oilskin from its hook and dragged it on as he climbed the ladder, the folds of it streaming out behind and clapping as the wind tried to tear it from him. The rain ran down his face and he was wide awake when he stepped onto the bridge gratings.

Garrick pointed. “There she is, sir.”

Smith wrapped an arm around a stanchion to steady himself against
Thunder’s
pitching and rolling. Her engines still rammed her on at that punishing and coal-devouring fifteen knots because Smith was certain the cruisers were somewhere astern of him and
Ariadne
and
Elizabeth
Bell
waited in Malaguay for
Thunder’s
protection. Such as it was.

He lifted his glasses, steadied them, focussed, swept and found. She was a black ship on a wild, dark ocean as the night came down on her, and close inshore.
Thunder
was racing down on her.

Garrick said, “We signalled her by searchlight and she answered, She’s only got a poor signalling lamp but we made it out. Her engines have broken down and she’s sprung plates all along her bottom. She’s sinking but she reckons she’ll go ashore first. She lost one anchor and the other’s dragging.”

Aitkyne butted in, “Damn all chance she has either way. I know this coast. She’ll break up in minutes when she goes ashore.”

“What ship is she?” Smith asked, absently surprised that Garrick had not told him already. He stared at the image that danced in the glasses, thinking of the men aboard her, of their thoughts at this moment with that awful sea waiting to swallow them. Whatever the cost he would take them off. He lowered the glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I asked ‘what ship?’”

Garrick’s face streamed water but he licked his lips. “She’s the
Mary
Ellen
, sir.”

Smith lowered the hand from his eyes and peered at Garrick, eyes strained, or wincing. “The
Mary
Ellen
? Our collier?
That
Mary
Ellen
?”

“Yes, sir.” And Garrick lowered his voice. “We — we’re only a couple of hours or so out from Malaguay but we’ll barely have coal to go on to Guaya, sir. At fifteen knots —”

“
I
know
!” Smith snarled it at him. He peered at the
Mary
Ellen
not wanting to believe it was her and ground out, “What the
hell
is she doing here? I told Thackeray I wanted her at Malaguay not —” Then he clamped his mouth shut. It would do no good to bewail the fact as it would do no good for him to plead excuses when they broke him for leaving
Thunder
powerless and helpless. The collier was here before him and sinking, that was the fact. And she carried a crew of frightened men who would be hoping now. He pounded softly on the rail with his fist. Aitkyne looked from him to Garrick and there was sympathy in their exchange of glances. Smith’s fist was still, the knuckles white. Then he stared through Aitkyne and said huskily, “So you know this coast. Show me the chart.”

They went into the chartroom and stayed there long minutes. When they emerged Smith clung to the stanchion again and scowled stone-faced at the
Mary
Ellen
as they closed her.

Then at last he came alive. “Slow ahead. Make to her: Stand by for a line. I will tow you.” He swung on the gaping Garrick. “Make ready to tow her.”

They could not believe it. Garrick looked at the shore and the sea then saw his thoughts mirrored in Aitkyne’s stare: It was impossible!

It was dark now, the
Mary
Ellen
a tossing black bulk. There were lights on her bridge and there were lights on
Thunder’s
deck now and men milling aft where they worked frenziedly to rouse out the big towing hawser. From the
Mary
Ellen
a signal-lamp faltered through a reply.

Knight read: “She says: Ship is sinking. Will you take off crew?”

Smith had read the signal himself and his answer was ready. “Reply: Negative. Stand by for my line.”

There was a shifting behind him on the bridge, a restive ripple that ran through the men there. He was aware of it, ignored it, eyes fast on the
Mary
Ellen
. The lamp blinked again, still stumbling but faster now with a desperation about it. He watched and read it: Boats gone. Urgently request —

He did not wait for the rest of it. He could see for himself that her boats were smashed. She had taken a beating as she lay powerless under the storm. “Make: Negative. Stand by for line.”

Again that shifting, that ripple.

Garrick knew their eyes were on him, that if anyone should speak to the Captain it should be he but he was learning about this Captain, had learned a deal today as the
Maria
exploded and sank. He hesitated.

Smith sensed that hesitation as he had been aware of the shifting. “Everything ready aft, Mr. Garrick?”

“Yes, sir.”

The use of boats was out of the question in this sea. Ideally he should hold
Thunder
safely clear of the collier and drift a line down to her fastened to a cask. But
time
was against all of them. He said, “I want a man to throw a line from the stem. What about that big leading hand of yours —’’ he turned on Manton, “Buckley? Is he good?”

“V-very good, sir.”

Smith turned back to Garrick. “We’ll want fenders over the stern and this must be done handsomely. Better go aft yourself and see to it.”

So Garrick took himself aft and his uneasy conscience with him.

Smith ordered, “Port four points.”

“Four points of port wheel on, sir.”

“Midships.”
Thunder
steadied on the new course that would take her alongside of the collier. There was a light in the bows of the
Mary
Ellen
now and figures moved on her fo’c’sle, crouched as the seas burst over them in spray. He could see the cable of the anchor she had tried to use to save herself. He snapped, “Starboard a point!” He would have liked the hawser made fast aboard the
Mary
Ellen
to a length of her anchor cable. The towing hawser was wire, immensely strong but with little elasticity except that given by the curve in its length. The anchor cable was far heavier and would steepen that curve and give more spring, more elasticity to the tow to prevent it breaking. But there was no time for that operation. It was up to him not to break the tow. He edged
Thunder
closer as she drew abreast of the collier and crept past her.
Thunder
rolled and pitched and the
Mary
Ellen
soared and fell and wallowed.

Smith was out on the starboard wing of the bridge now, eyes on the collier, gauging
Thunder’s
crawling progress against the collier’s dead rolling, narrowing on the strip of water that separated them. He was aware of the pale blur of faces on the bridge of the
Mary
Ellen
and of one man who had to be her master, his mouth opening and closing and fists lifted and shaking at Smith.

Smith tore his eyes from the man and back to the task in hand. He shouted against the wind, “Port four points!” And: “Midships!” And: “Ease on port engine!”
Thunder’s
bow swung around to point seawards and her stern swung to pass across the bow of the
Mary
Ellen
. “Close.
Close
!”

From behind him Aitkyne’s voice came strangled, “Christ Almighty! She —”

But Smith knew she wouldn’t strike. The figures on the collier’s fo’c’sle scrambled away from the sudden towering steel cliff of
Thunder’s
stern hanging over them but that cliff eased away from them as the weighted line was hurled. It landed right across the men on the fo’c’sle and they tailed on to it and dragged it in. Both ships were driven towards the shore now, the
Mary
Ellen
by the storm,
Thunder
because Smith held her close on the collier as if that thread-like line dragged her. The sea was setting
Thunder
down quicker than the collier because it exerted more pressure on
Thunder’s
vastly bigger hull and she wasn’t dragging anchors. Smith had to keep just enough way on her to balance that pressure. “Slow ahead together! … Ease on port engine! … together! …”

A messenger cable of grass rope was bent to the line and drawn over to the collier because the line would not take the strain of hauling in the weight of the wire towing hawser. A donkey engine, the auxiliary engine to power her windlass, hammered faintly on the collier and hauled in the messenger cable and then the towing hawser that was bent to it. And all the time came the stream of orders to engines and helm as Smith juggled with them and the pressures of wind and sea on
Thunder’s
twelve-thousand-ton bulk and the three-thousand tons of the
Mary
Ellen
. A mistake could throw
Thunder
astern on to the collier — or send her lunging away to yank the tow from the collier before it was secured and leave the whole painful business to be done again. Outside of the dancing, swinging lights on the cruiser’s stern and the collier’s fo’c’sle the night was a howling darkness.

But they could see the shore and it was close, the breaking surf marked by a line of phosphorescence.

A lamp blinked morse from the collier’s fo’c’sle. The donkey-engine was silent. In confirmation of the signal Aitkyne called, “First Lieutenant reports ‘Tow secured’, sir.”

“Very good!” Smith did not take his eyes off the tow. “Slow ahead together. Cox’n! Watch for the strain coming on!” Because the
Mary
Ellen’s
weight would act like a huge sea-anchor dragged astern of
Thunder
. “Ease on port engine … Slow ahead together.”

The strain came on. He saw the hawser slowly straighten, the slack loop of it lifting from the sea. It tautened as
Thunder
eased away from the collier, and they all felt the shudder and an instant’s check before
Thunder
paid off again. Smith’s orders went on as he watched the tow for the first signs of the collier yawing and ordered again and again to correct it. Someone aboard the
Mary
Ellen
was doing his best to steer and that was helping but while
Thunder
pulled her one way sea and gale tried to shove her the other.

It took over an hour to tow her out and around the headland into the little bay beyond. Smith grew hoarse. Someone brought him a mug of cocoa, hot so that it burned his fingers and scalded his tongue, grease floating on the top of it. He gulped it down when he could and then was hoarse again.

“Rig fenders and boarding nets. When we secure I want a party of men forward and another aft, both under a good Petty Officer who knows what he’s about on this kind of business.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” And Aitkyne hesitated then burst out, “Congratulations, sir!” He still could not believe they had plucked the
Mary
Ellen
off the shore. Smith saw no reason for congratulations. He had done what had to be done. Had to be done. He said tiredly, “For God’s sake get her people off as soon as you can.” And: “Hands to coal ship!”

*

In the, only comparatively, sheltered waters of the bay Smith laid
Thunder
alongside the
Mary
Ellen
and anchored fore and aft. The ships were bound together forward and aft with securing warps, and ground on the fenders hung between them. The searchlights crackled and blazed out, beams flooding on the collier’s hatches and the working parties swarmed on to her deck.

Smith squinted against the glare. If the cruisers came up with them now —! But they were not so close — if they were there at all. He thrust aside the recurring doubt and shouted, “Mr. Garrick! Use the boat derrick as well!”

Garrick lifted one hand in acknowledgment.

Normally the collier’s derricks were rigged with the cruiser’s the winches of both of them working together to hoist the coal from the collier and swing it across and inboard. That would only work so long as the collier had steam for her winches. The big boat derrick that hoisted in the pinnace was the only one long enough to reach out over the collier’s hold and hoist out coal on its own. The hands were still setting up the rigging between cruiser and collier of the other derricks when the boat derrick yanked out the first load.