by Alan Evans
Bradley put the seaplane into the turn. The period of release and soaring elation had passed. The gut-tearing terror had not returned but neither was he uncaring. He was alert to danger and there were plenty of signs. The day was dying; the sun, wherever it was behind the masking cloud, dropping down into the sea. They had an hour of daylight at best and the cloud ceiling was lowering.
They were down to four hundred feet and cloud wisped around them when the coast loomed, darkening now, within two miles of them. Bradley turned and flew along it. It would not do to miss Malaguay because that was the only place on this coast where they might put down and it was now no better than ‘might’.
Visibility fell to barely a mile with the coast-line a black silhouette against the dirty grey of cloud. Rain was continuous now, thrumming on the fabric, sluicing over them in the open cockpits. Flying was a nightmare but Bradley was unruffled, totally absorbed, except for a nagging regret that he had not found the collier; he had failed Smith. And he owed Smith so much. He held the seaplane on its course, riding the weather, eyes straining against the gathering gloom, straining even more when his watch told him the headland of the bay should be coming up. It was dusk now and they were down to two hundred feet, the coast was right under them as creamy phosphorescence of breaking seas on a rocky shore and visibility was only hundreds of yards and closing in.
He sensed the loom of the headland before he saw it and was already pulling back on the control column as the black mass rushed at them out of the rain-filled dark. The engine roared under power as he set it climbing, the seaplane seeming to stand on its tail but still the mass towered above the spinning circle of the propeller, a pinnacle. He knew they could not crest it and threw the seaplane into a banking turn that dragged them away and around the pinnacle, so close that Smith could see the thrusting rocks and the wiry scrub that grew among them and a goat that rose from them and hurled itself, terrified, down the hill. The seaplane scaled past the pinnacle standing on one wing-tip, the pinnacle slipping away beneath the floats and more rocks below reaching for that dragging wing-tip. Then they had cleared the headland, were flying level and Bradley took them down through the cloud in a shallow dive.
They burst out of it; a thinning of the murk then it was ripped into flying ribbons and they thrust through them as if they were a curtain. Visibility was instant but only comparatively good. It was still good enough to show them the water very close under them and even as Bradley eased back the stick and levelled off he had to bank again to avoid Thunders bulk that was suddenly ahead of them in a strung necklace of lights blinking at them out of the dusk. They skimmed past down her starboard side and Smith saw Garrick clearly, standing on the wing of the bridge and looking down at them. They also passed through the smoke that trailed from Thunder’s funnels on the wind and Bradley saw the direction of that wind and swore.
It had swung through a quarter-circle and now it blew at an angle across the breakers. The shore came up as he climbed to gain height for the turn and he saw a little group of figures outside the box of the hangar and he thought: Welcoming committee. Richter would be there, and the mechanics. If they were unarmed he would be lucky to get off the beach alive, while if they were armed —
He made the turn, swept out around the curve of the bay and came in again from the sea. Smith turned his head for a second and Bradley glared grimly and mouthed against the bellow of the engine: “Hang on!” He saw Smith’s nod of comprehension, then he was taking her down, intent on landing out in the bay, carefully clear of the wrecking shore and the waiting Richter.
He took her down gently until he could see clear water below and ahead. This was not a hatching of lines on a crinkled surface far below but the surface of the bay, close under them, waves snapping like teeth. He held her off for a second, steadying her against the wildly quartering wind, picking his place and time. Then he eased her down so the floats kissed gently and the spray flew. They were almost down, the floats flicking through the snapping teeth and Smith started to exhale, ready to shout congratulations, because although he was no flyer he could recognise a near impossible feat superlatively accomplished. Then the wind gusted and blew them over, one wing slammed into water suddenly as substantial as concrete and the seaplane twisted and dived forward on its nose.
There was a ripping of fabric and the twanging of parting wire stays. Smith had crashed his head against the cockpit coaming. Through the whirling, blood-tinged kaleidoscope he was aware that the seaplane was tipping further nose down into the vertical and only the seat belt saved him. Saved him? The seaplane was sinking, jerking from side to side as the sea shook it but settling all the time. The belt would take him down with it. His vision cleared as realisation came and he clawed at the belt. He could see the waves breaking and sucking on the fragile hull and that Bradley was out, standing with one foot on what remained of the upper wingstrut above water. One hand lifted Smith off the cockpit coaming and the other tugged at the belt with practised fingers. The belt slipped away and Smith fell out of the cockpit as the seaplane rolled, sea-thrust, over on to its back. He fell on Bradley and they went down into the watery darkness together, the seaplane slamming down over them like a trap-door.
*
The fuselage forced Smith under but he kicked and turned, Bradley beside him but Bradley was not kicking, he lay sluggish and drifted. Smith grabbed him, kicked again as his lungs clamoured for air, clawed at the fuselage and dragged the pair of them to the surface. He managed to get his head out, paddling with his feet, fingertips of one hand clamped on the fuselage and the other around Bradley so the pilot’s face was lifted back, just clear of the water. The sea slapped over them and Smith coughed and spat it out, coughed and spat again. He could hear Bradley coughing but he still lay inert, a rapidly increasing weight as his clothes took on water, as were Smith’s. The weight was dragging him down. He clawed his way, inching desperately, further up the fuselage but it did no good. The seaplane was sinking. The sea washed the blood from Bradley’s face but it oozed again from a cut on the head. Smith thought it would be all up to Garrick. God help him. The dark was closing in.
He saw the light but felt rather than heard the beat of propellers as the picket-boat’s prow thrust up high above him then swung away as she turned. Her side came down towards him and he saw Buckley, Robinson, Exton and Lambert all kneeling there. As Exton and Lambert reached down to grasp the hand he lifted from the fuselage, Buckley plunged in beside him and lifted away Bradley’s weight. They hauled Smith out of the bay and he fell over the side to sprawl in the well like a stranded fish. Seconds later they brought Bradley in to join him, Buckley crawling in after, spitting and swearing. Somers spun the wheel and the picket-boat swung away, straightened out. Smith got his legs under him and stood up, holding on to the cabin’s coaming and peered back through the gathering darkness to where the seaplane lay. He was in time to see the tail slide down as the water rushed up inside the hull and the weight of the engine dragged the wreck to the bottom. It left a little vortex and a crowd of bubbles that held brief life and died. The sea closed over the place; it was as if the seaplane had never been.
He turned away. They had rushed Bradley into the cabin and he could see Buckley in there; still dripping wet but helping to wrap blankets around the limp body. Smith called, “How is he?” He was furious that his teeth chattered.
Buckley replied cheerfully, oblivious to his own wetting, “He’s alive all right, sir, but he’s still out. Looks like he took a clout on the head.”
Somebody tried to drape a blanket around Smith. It was Lambert. Smith shrugged it away impatiently, “Use it in the cabin.” He moved to stand between Somers and Quinn, who was clicking the hand signal-lamp. The clicking stopped and he saw the answering blink from Thunder.
Somers said, “I told them to expect survivors, sir.”
“Very good.” Smith’s clothes were clammy against his skin, seeming to freeze in the wind. He was an impatient fool. He should have taken the blanket.
He was cold to the bone. He said, “You all did very well. You were very quick.”
Somers kept his eyes on Thunder as she came up. “We saw the aeroplane take off, sir, and where it came from. Then when Miss Benson came off a while ago and said you were up in it, well, we hung about more or less ready to bring you off.”
“On whose orders?”
“It just seemed like a good idea, sir, and Mr. Garrick said I could do it.”
“I’m glad you followed me.”
Somers said absently, preoccupied with the business of bringing the pinnace alongside, “Follow you anywhere, sir.” And was instantly embarrassed by his own sincerity.
Somers swung the pinnace alongside the ladder, Lambert and Quinn hooking on. Smith snapped, “Get that man aboard as quick as you can.” And ran up the ladder.
Albrecht was waiting for him with a little group of hands with stretchers and blankets. “If you’ll come this way, sir.”
Smith pushed past him. “See to the man coming aboard.”
“Your head, sir.”
Smith ignored him. Garrick was there beside a number of others. He stepped close to Smith and muttered, “Ariadne and Elizabeth Bell, both masters here to see you, sir.”
Smith said, “Prepare to get under way.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Garrick left and an instant later the pipes shrilled to his bawled order. Smith turned to the group that waited on him on his quarterdeck. Sarah Benson was there and she looked drawn, eyes fastened on the head of the ladder. He turned his back on them briefly while he saw Bradley brought aboard and hurried forward to the sick-bay but not before Smith said, “Word at your earliest, please.”
Albrecht answered, “Aye, aye, sir.” He did not lift his eyes from his patient.
Smith turned back to the group. “Miss Benson. Gentlemen. I don’t want to appear perfunctory but you’ll realise my time is limited.”
Hands were shaken. Smith’s was wet and the water dripped from him to form a widening pool around his feet. His face was very pale and his hair was plastered to his skull. A thread of water and blood ran thinly down over his temple.
Ballard of Ariadne was hefty and handsome, his uniform well-cut. He looked the picture of what he was, the commodore of a line. Graham of Elizabeth Bell was short and solid with a little round paunch that shoved out his waistcoat with its looped watch-chain. He carried a bowler hat in his hand to go with the blue serge suit and his hair was a halo of fluffy white round an island of pink scalp.
Ballard said, “One of your officers brought us word that we couldn’t, or shouldn’t sail. Some story about German cruisers being loose in these waters!” He grinned.
Smith nodded. “My information is that two cruisers are out and I expect them on this coast at any time.”
Ballard’s grin faded. “That’s what he said. They’ve been sighted?”
“No, they have not.”
Ballard looked relieved but puzzled. “Then what makes you think they are bound for these waters?”
Smoke billowed and rolled around them as Thunder raised steam. Smith eyed that smoke, pleased to see it. “I haven’t time for a lengthy explanation, but among other factors I received information that two colliers were on this coast, loaded steam coal and manned by Germans. There is no doubt in my mind that the cruisers have this coast as their objective.” His voice was hard with certainty.
Ballard glanced at Graham. Neither seemed happy. Graham said, “Understand, Commander, we don’t want to be unreasonable nor rash but in the merchant service time is money. If I waste time idling here my owners will take a loss and they’ll want to know why. All you’re saying is that you think those cruisers are headed this way.”
Smith nodded sympathetically. “I appreciate your difficulty.” But he went on firmly, “I’m certain about the cruisers. Now look here, gentlemen. I expect to return to this port within thirty-six hours. If I do not then you may decide at the end of that time whether or not to sail in the light of the situation then. If you sail before without my escort then you do so against my advice.”
Ballard glanced at Graham then turned to Smith. “Well, that seems reasonable. It will give us time —”
But Albrecht appeared and Smith asked quickly, “Yes, Doctor?” He was conscious of Sarah Benson, intent.
Albrecht said, “Slight concussion and shock but nothing serious, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Can he be moved?”
“He can.”
“Get him up here.” And to Ballard: “Can you take Miss Benson and that injured young man as passengers? Neither would be welcome ashore. I’d be grateful.”
The request was also a broad hint that it was time to leave. A party was already hovering, waiting to stow the accommodation ladder and both skippers knew what they were waiting for.
Ballard said, “As I’ve told your First Lieutenant, I’m already overcrowded. I will disembark a number of passengers at Guaya, but until then — I can put the man in the sick-bay, of course. Graham?”
Graham said immediately, “I’ve a cabin for the young lady and she’s right welcome, but we’re no liner, miss.”
Sarah grinned at him. “Lor’ love you, I’m no fine lady, either.” She winked at him impudently but Smith saw Graham smiling.
Smith sighed with relief. “Excellent.”
Sarah looked at him ironically but Graham was addressing Smith. “Only one more thing, Commander. There are a lot of rumours flying about ashore and those fellers spin a yarn a bit and we can hardly credit … they say a neutral ship was boarded in Guaya last night by a British naval party, and blown up.”
“That is not a rumour. She was German though claiming to be neutral but I’ve explained that. I sank her.” He waited as they stared at him then: “Anything else?”
Graham sucked in his breath. “No.” He thought, “That’ll do to be going on with.”
Smith shepherded them to the head of the ladder and as he handed Sarah on to the ladder he said awkwardly, “Thank you, I’m grateful — we’re all grateful for all you’ve done.”
“No more than my duty, Commander.” But she added, “Good luck.” And he saw her fingers touch that barbaric medallion. So they parted.
*
Before Bradley on his stretcher went down into Ariadne’s boat he managed a fragile smile at Smith. “Seems I bust one more airplane so nobody can straighten it out again. But I’ve been thinking: if I hadn’t smashed it up you would ha’ done because you wouldn’t have left it for Richter to fly reconnaissance for those cruisers. Right?”
Smith nodded. “Right. But it was a gallant piece of flying. No one could have done more.”
Bradley shook his head and winced. “They were right. You’re mad.” But his grin took the sting out of the words. He said seriously, “For you I’d try it again. I’m just damn sorry I didn’t find that ship for you.”
“I know where she isn’t and that will be enough.”
Bradley went down and the boats pulled away. Smith found Garrick and Aitkyne on the bridge and retired Aitkyne to the chart-room, leaving Garrick to take the ship to sea.
He stared at the chart and fiddled with a pencil, shivered with the cold of the wet clothes. He was unaware of Aitkyne watching him.
He ‘knew where she was not’. That ruled out one of a long list of possibilities that Maria had sailed west for Juan Fernandez. But there were still a thousand places spread over the hundreds of miles of coast to the south, seamed as it was with channels and inlets, where the collier could hide. If she could hide. What if she had a rendezvous to keep at all costs, with cruisers that had traversed the Atlantic and rounded the Horn, coaling secretly and precariously from colliers like the Maria? They would want to meet without delay. And there was a place the Germans knew and had proved in the far-off days of 1914 when Von Spee had cruised this coast. His fingers were tight on the pencil now.
It was logic allied with intuition and faith.
It was all based on his conviction
that the cruisers would come.
He jabbed the pencil down at the chart. “A course for the Gulf of Peñas, pilot. Revolutions for fifteen knots.”
Thunder headed south.
VI
Thunder ploughed out of Malaguay and into the night and the storm. She was rolling and Smith was grimly aware that rolling was made worse by the lightness of her bunkers. The seas were black mountains in the night, capped with the snow of driving spray. Thunder thrust her bow into those seas to lift then fall, bow going down and stern lifting and all the time she rolled.
He stood by Garrick on the bridge and Garrick glanced sidewise at him and said, “Coal, sir.”
“I know, I asked Thackeray for help. The Mary Ellen will be waiting for us here.”
Garrick chewed worriedly at his lip and scowled out at the humping seas. “Going to get worse before it gets better.”
He referred to the storm but Smith thought of the cruisers, out there, somewhere, in the all-surrounding darkness.
Smith said, “Yes.” Garrick thought they were on a wildgoose chase, that there would be no cruisers to meet the Maria. Smith knew they were there. He said again, but tiredly, “Yes,” and, “Call me at first light or immediately anything, anything, is sighted.”
He went to his cabin below the bridge, stripped and towelled himself dry, holding on to his bunk with one hand against Thunder’s pitching and dressed in dry clothes. A hot meal had been cooked while they lay at Malaguay, a stew of corned beef. Horsfall had kept some warm for him and brought it now, even managing to keep it warm through the journey forward, Smith sent Horsfall away and wolfed the meal. He laid himself down fully-dressed. He might get a few hours sleep before first light.
But he knew that sleep was impossible. Thunder’s rolling and pitching and the continuous hammering of the sea on her hull would see to that if his thoughts did not and they were black enough.
