Dauntless (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Finlayson nodded. “He will command the operation.”

  “That’s good enough for me. I’ve heard a lot about the Commander.” Then Jeavons said bluntly, “Those lads of Major Taggart’s, they’re all right when you get to know them. There’s still a wall they keep around themselves, if you see what I mean, but I can’t hardly credit that they’re hiding a murderer —”

  “That will do!” Finlayson cut him short and looked sharply at Jackson who had shown no surprise. “Keep that to yourself.”

  Jackson drawled, “It’s a bit late, sir.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “About this battalion? Rumours.”

  “Stop them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Finlayson forced a smile. “Captain Jeavons has been a frequent visitor at these headquarters. I think everyone in Deir el Belah knows he has a cargo waiting for him at Tangier. In forty-eight hours, Captain, you will be on your way. You have my word on it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Then Jeavons added, “That ammunition in the after holds should be unloaded now.”

  “That it should.” Finlayson threw at an aide, “See to that as soon as it’s light.”

  Jeavons took his leave and the rest of them got down to detailed planning but it was an uneasy cooperation. Smith was not an insensitive man and became immediately aware of the hostility or mistrust that separated the three soldiers, Jackson, Taggart and Edwards. Taggart was guarded and Jackson spoke hardly at all but his dislike of Edwards showed clearly. Edwards’s description of the defences that would face Jackson and Taggart was detailed; he traced the route for the Australians and quoted the distance of every stage, the guns and men in every position. The man was an expert, had observed everything, forgotten nothing. But he spoke mechanically, reciting a well-learned lesson while his mind was clearly elsewhere. Smith wondered what he was scheming.

  They worked under the yellow light of the lanterns while the aides came and went. Each time the flap of the tent opened it let in a swirl of red dust, and all the while came the muffled tramping of the convoys of horses, camels and trucks that churned up the dust as they headed eastward through the night, towards Beersheba.

  *

  Jeavons walked down to the shore and as he came abreast of the locomotive in the siding he saw a small coal fire burning in a brazier with a kettle hissing atop of it. Charlie Golightly stood by the fire and called, “Evening, Captain! Fancy a nightcap? Mug o’ toddy?”

  It was not the first such invitation. Charlie knew Jeavons captained the Morning Star and so made a point of getting to know him because a ship, if she called regularly and if Charlie could get aboard her to seek out a kindred spirit, could bring him in more contraband.

  Jeavons shook his head. “I have to go back to the ship.”

  “Sailing?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Where are you bound?”

  Jeavons hesitated, then: “Tangier.”

  “Ah!” There went Charlie’s hope of an alternative supply route. But it had been a tiny hope and he accepted the disappointment philosophically. “Well, pleasant v’yage, Cap’n.”

  Jeavons said bleakly, “Thank you. Good night.” He passed on and left Charlie waiting by the fire. Albert was out on business and overdue. It was another ten minutes before he trotted out of the darkness.

  Charlie grumbled, “Where the ’ell have you been?” He took the sack that Albert carried over one skinny shoulder and peered inside.

  Albert said breathlessly, “Good business. Two pistols. But then man come and I hide. Come back —” He sketched a wide half-circle in the air, showing his roundabout route.

  Charlie said worriedly, “Same feller? Asking about the whisky?”

  Albert nodded definitely. “I saw him. Big man. Big nose.”

  Charlie muttered, “We’ve got a dozen bottles left but I’ll not risk selling them here. We’ll take ’em back to Port Said and keep them as stock-in-trade.”

  He would give it a rest. There was no point in stretching your luck and he didn’t like the sound of this feller with the big nose going around asking questions. What was his name? Jeffreys. Captain Jeffreys of the Provost Marshal’s staff.

  *

  When the conference broke up an aide said he had tents for Edwards and Smith. Edwards took up the offer and curtly ordered the aide to find him a bottle of whisky. He was a changed man, the arrogance and the mocking grin were gone. Now he stalked away, silent, sombre, withdrawn.

  Smith went to the Morning Star with Taggart to be met by Adeline Brett as they climbed aboard, her dressing gown wrapped around her.

  “David! That was you in the first seaplane?” He nodded and thought she seemed briefly pleased to see him, but then she turned to Taggart. “What did Finlayson say? Is he moving the men ashore?”

  Taggart said wryly, “In a manner of speaking.” He glanced around at the marine sentry at the head of the ladder.

  Adeline caught that glance and said quickly, “Come into my cabin.”

  She curled into the one big easy chair and the two men sat on the lower bunk. Smith leaned back against the bulkhead, his cap hooked on one knee. Taggart started to tell Adeline Brett of the Afrika Legion, the plans made and the task set the battalion. His voice was quiet and Smith closed his eyes as he listened and the words ran together to form a murmur of sound that lulled him.

  Adeline Brett’s whisper came, “It’ll be nothing short of murder putting those men ashore!”

  He struggled to open his eyes and saw her white-faced. Taggart said, “There’s no help for it, Adeline. There’s too much at stake and this has to be tried by somebody. If it wasn’t Jackson’s troopers and the battalion then they’d have to send somebody else to make the attempt. But we’re here.”

  Smith saw her eyes turn to him, pleading. “David? Isn’t there some other way?”

  He had to answer, “No,” and prayed that Taggart would not mention that Smith was to drive the battalion ashore by force if necessary.

  Adeline Brett lowered her face into her hands. Smith closed his eyes and his cap slipped to the deck. Taggart’s voice murmured on ...

  Adeline Brett feared for the pair of them as she listened to Taggart trying to reassure her and failing because he could not lie to her. She feared for all those who would be thrown ashore. Taggart ran out of words, was silent. She raised her face to look at him and the young commander sprawled limply, half-sitting, half-lying across the bunk.

  Taggart followed the direction of her glance and said softly, “I gather he’s only snatched what sleep he could when he could in the last few days.”

  The girl said, “Then let him sleep here.” And when Taggart hesitated, “You’re not worried about my reputation, John? I’ve been the only woman aboard this ship for days and the only woman with the battalion for months. No one will talk and I wouldn’t care if they did.”

  So he lifted Smith’s legs on to the bunk, pulled off his shoes and the girl spread the blanket over him. Taggart went out to lie on the deck among his men and she climbed to the upper bunk but could not sleep, and lay thinking of the man in the bunk below.

  *

  “David!” He woke muzzily, hearing her softly calling his name, just able to see in the faint moonlight from the open scuttle that she knelt by his bunk. He realised he was propped up on one arm, the other thrust out defensively and she held that outstretched hand.

  He asked, “What’s the matter?” His voice was thick and slurred. He wondered where he was, then remembered. He should not be here with this girl.

  “You cried out.” Her face was close, her eyes wide. The blonde curls were tousled but he thought she was beautiful.

  He said, “I must have been dreaming.”

  “What about?”

  Smith shook his head. “I can’t remember.” But he knew he had been afraid.

  She rose to sit on the bunk at his side. His tension eased. He could hear her breathing, the catch in it. He reached out and for a moment she he
ld back but then he drew her to him, felt the warmth of her body through the thin stuff of her nightdress. He forgot the morrow and his precious career, the crowded ship enclosing them.

  Later he did not care, for himself. He thought that for her sake, for appearances, he should rise and dress and go out to sleep on the deck. But she lay close on him, his arms about her, and he slept.

  *

  Maroc cruised off the Gulf of Alexandretta with the U.S. Submarine-Chaser No. 101 as the sun climbed above the Amanus mountains and struck sparks from the waters of the Gulf. Harry Petersen sat in a deckchair by the wheelhouse of the chaser, the chair’s canvas stretched under his weight, his pipe between his teeth and one big hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. Eyes squinted against the sun, he watched the R.E.8 reconnaissance plane flying back from the head of the Gulf.

  Young Ensign Cleeve came on deck, yawning and rubbing at his eyes, peered sharply up at the aircraft then saw Petersen relaxed and asked, “British, sir?”

  Petersen nodded. “Dawn reconnaissance from Cyprus. Went in ’bout a half-hour ago.”

  The biplane closed the ships, circled lazily and a signal lamp blinked from the observer’s cockpit. The chaser’s signalman read: “Walküre ... at ... anchor ... no ... steam ... Friedrichsburg ... staging aft ... making repairs ... see ... you ... tonight.” He lifted his lamp and flickered an acknowledgment. Another lamp on Maroc’s bridge winked up at the R.E.8 and it turned and headed westward.

  Cleeve said glumly, “It doesn’t look as though she’s coming out.” He glanced across at Maroc, at the long barrels of her twelve-inch guns and added, “Don’t know as I blame them.”

  Petersen chewed on the pipe and thought the captain of Walküre must know that time was running out for his ship, daily the blockading force would grow stronger and he must eventually be attacked. Walküre was no longer in the Sea of Marmara with the tortuous channels of the Dardanelles and the batteries and patrolling gunboats to protect her. Here she was vulnerable. But she had not broken out of the Dardanelles just for an airing. What the hell was she doing here?

  *

  Smith woke with the sunlight streaming through the scuttle to light the cabin. For a moment he was lost then remembered where he was, threw back the blanket and stood up. Adeline Brett’s dressing gown lay on the upper bunk but the bunk was made up. He dressed and splashed water on his face from the basin in the corner, stepped over the roaming and out of the cabin. The marine sentry at the head of the ladder had been changed, of course. This one glanced quickly at Smith then faced his front, face inscrutable under the round, flat cap. Smith returned his salute and growled, “Good morning!”.

  The deck aft swarmed with men of the Egyptian Labour Force working at unloading the ammunition from the after holds and stowing it in surf-boats alongside. Forward —

  He walked forward and halted under the bridge at Adeline Brett’s shoulder. She turned and they smiled at each other but there was a shyness between them now and she quickly turned to watching Taggart. He sat on the bulwark, legs dangling, talking to the men of the battalion who squatted around him on the deck and the hatch-covers. Only the R.S.M., wiry and Welsh and leather-faced, stood ram-rod erect, stick under his arm.

  Taggart was saying: “... so that’s what we’re going to do, and why. As soon as the chaps working aft have finished, we’ll be drawing arms.” He paused. The men sat very still and watched him grim-faced. He said, “I’m not calling for volunteers. As the R.S.M. says, ‘When I wants volunteers I’ll detail them.’” That got a smile. “Any questions?”

  In the silence Smith noticed a number of faces he recognised because he was getting to know these men. The youngster, Garrett, who always stood apart with that cold, bitter stare —

  A carroty-haired corporal at the front said flatly, “No questions, sir, but to me it looks a right bastard.”

  There was a long growl of agreement with a deep savage undertone of anger. Smith had wondered whether this battalion might prove more explosive than the ammunition aft, now had no doubt that only Taggart had prevented that explosion.

  Taggart nodded. “It is.” He waited, looked around. “No more? Then carry on.”

  The R.S.M. snapped to attention and bawled, “Eyes front!” The men scrambled to their feet and Taggart returned the R.S.M.’s salute. Smith stared at the faces, the eyes on Taggart, and knew that these men would follow him. They would go ashore sweating with fear and praying the soldier’s prayer: “Not in the face or the guts, O Lord!” But they would follow Taggart.

  He walked past Smith and Adeline Brett with a set expression. As he passed he said hoarsely, “Couldn’t blame them if they shot me!”

  Smith took his leave of Adeline Brett awkwardly, but gently. After a hurried breakfast in the saloon of the Morning Star he went ashore in a boat loaded with ammunition from the after holds. It had to pass the scrutiny of the guard-boat that still kept watch on the ship, though now only searching boats leaving the tramp, while others coming off from the shore were not stopped. A lighter was beached close by the jetty, its ramp coming out over its blunt bow like a hump-back bridge. Smith halted on the hump and stared down into the lighter: it was all one big hold, a hundred feet long and twenty wide, with an oil engine aft. A score of carpenters worked in the hold, hammering and sawing, setting up stalls to take the horses and hold them safe during the sea passage. Jackson moved among them and Smith went down to him, eyeing the work and testing the strength of it. He said, “It looks all right.”

  Jackson pushed back the slouch hat and rubbed sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “It looks right to me.” Then he added bitterly, “The only thing about this caper that does.”

  Smith thought that Jackson was a good soldier and as he gave orders so he would take them. Now he told Smith straight, “I wouldn’t trust that bastard Edwards an inch but I’ve got to and he’s been on the bottle all night. I’ve got a good bunch o’ blokes and I don’t fancy risking any one of ’em. But there’s a few thousand Anzacs an’ Tommies waiting in front of Beersheba tonight so if it’s possible to blow that dump and track then we will. I just wish there was another way.”

  Smith answered from the heart, “So do I.”

  He spent the rest of the morning in a rapid stalking of the beach and the camp at Deir el Belah, urging and hastening the work of unloading the Morning Star, the shipping of arms for the battalion and the conversion of Jackson’s lighter. He had another brief conference with Braddock and Finlayson, going over the same ground and liking it even less. The sweat turned the red dust that hung on the air into a paste on his face. Only at the end did he find a few minutes to go to the hospital. He did not see either of the injured fitters but their doctor told him, “They’re over the worst. The burns are extensive and severe but we can mend them. It will be a long business but fortunately their faces weren’t touched, nor their sight affected. In a month or so we’ll move them to Cairo and eventually we’ll ship them home. They know that and it’s cheered them no end.” Then as Smith was leaving: “You did well to bring them in so soon. We got them only just in time.”

  That was some comfort.

  *

  It was noon when Dauntless led Blackbird in through the gap in the anti-submarine nets and work ceased on the Morning Star and the lighter ashore. On the single monitor left in the anchorage (her twin was at sea and pounding Gaza) the men stood back from cleaning the 6-inch gun. All eyes in the anchorage and ashore turned to watch the two ships enter the harbour.

  The 6-inch gun right aft in Dauntless was a drooping, twisted wreck, the deck torn and buckled around it and the two remaining guns were blackened with muzzle flashes. Blackbird’s side wore a crude patch like some huge poultice slapped on her and the funnels of both ships leaked smoke from scores of holes punched by splinters. They were a battered pair but Smith was proud of them.

  A launch took him out to his ship and the pipes shrilled as he climbed aboard. Buckley, standing in the waist saw Smith’s grim face and tho
ught, “Christ Almighty! What now?”

  Smith told Ackroyd, “We sail as soon as possible.” So Dauntless disembarked her wounded over one side while the ammunition was taken aboard on the other. There was a brief hiatus when the bugles sounded the ‘Still’ and the dead, Cole among them, were lowered into the lighter alongside, the ship’s company standing at attention. Then the bugles blared again and the work went on.

  Part of that work was embarking sacks of mail for the ship’s company. The corporal issued it while the hands still worked, thrusting the letters into their pockets to be read later and in peace.

  It was some time afterwards that Smith went aboard Blackbird, his cutter slipping alongside her unnoticed while her first lieutenant was engrossed in rigging a staging to examine the patch on her side. Smith brushed aside his apologies. “Ceremony can wait. Where’s your captain?”

  “In his cabin, sir.”

  The door of Pearce’s cabin stood ajar. Smith tapped, pushed his head around it and saw Chris Pearce seated behind his desk. An oil bottle and cleaning rod lay before him and Pearce was loading a Webley pistol but he dropped it into a drawer and stood up as Smith entered.

  Smith told him about the planned operation. “I want Blackbird repaired and fully seaworthy by tomorrow. The admiral has promised any assistance you want.” He paused, watching Pearce and asked, “You think you can do it?”

  Pearce had changed and Smith wondered if it was for the better. If anything he was more gaunt and hollow-eyed than ever, but the nervous edginess had gone. His face was still, and there was a cold hardness about him that reminded Smith of Garrett, the young soldier in Taggart’s battalion.

  Pearce answered, “Yes, sir.” He was silent a moment, then: “I kept something back the other day when you asked if I was worried about anything. I was. I hadn’t heard from Livvy, —that’s my wife, sir.”

  Smith nodded, thought, “Oh, Christ!”

  Pearce said, “On top of that, for a long time I had —suspicions. Then about three weeks ago, the day we sailed on this lot, I got a letter from a so-called friend in Cairo ... and they weren’t just suspicions any longer. Since then I’ve been waiting for us to get back to Port Said so I could get some leave and go to see her. But there’s a letter from her today that saves me the trouble. She wants a divorce. There’s this bloody soldier —” He stopped there.