by Alan Evans
Once more the hail from the masthead: “She’s that German! Leopard!” The look-outs had all seen the gunboat more than once when she lay at Malaguay.
Smith said, “Mr. Knight. Make to Ariadne: ‘Proceed independently at best speed’.”
Knight was startled because Smith had not spoken a word that day. But Smith again caught the interchange of glances between Garrick and Aitkyne. There was only one gunboat, only just escaped from internment, unarmed. He could be sending Ariadne away in panic flight while the Germans laughed at the success of their bluff.
“Ariadne acknowledges, sir.”
“Very good.”
“And Elizabeth Bell signals: ‘Am making best speed’.”
He was only too well aware of it. “Acknowledge.” Another man might have contrived a humorous reply but he did not feel humorous.
Ariadne’s smoke thickened and she swung out to starboard and surged past the tramp and on towards the distant coast.
“Masthead! Smoke bearing red one-seven-oh! Astern of the gunboat!”
The hail was whipped away on the wind. Smith turned slowly to face aft. They waited, all of them on the bridge and he could see the rest of his officers grouped on the after bridge with glasses and telescopes.
“Masthead! Looks like a four-funnel ship!”
Garrick bawled up, tight-nerved, outraged, “What the hell d’ye mean? Looks like?”
“She’s near bows-on, sir, an’ the smoke what she’s making —”
Garrick fumed.
Then the look-out bawled again, aggrievedly sure now, “She’s a four-funnel ship!”
There was the end of doubt. A four-funnel ship meant a warship was closing on the gunboat. No doubt at all now. Smith thought that somehow they had got the word from Malaguay of the course he had taken out to sea and they had spread out in a wide, sweeping line with the gunboat taking the inshore station. The other cruiser would be ten miles farther out over the horizon and would take time to come up, so it would be one-to-one for that length of time. One-to-one. But she had a broadside of six big guns to Thunders two and an edge in speed. Once he stopped to fight he would never escape.
“Masthead! Two four-funnel ships!”
His head jerked back to stare up at the look-out then his eyes came slowly down. The other cruiser must also have been closing on the gunboat, possibly the squadron concentrating for the night or to run into Guaya. Whatever the reason, Thunder faced impossible odds.
He found he was staring at Garrick and that the First Lieutenant was grinning like an overgrown schoolboy. Aitkyne smiled broadly. And Knight. All his officers seemed delighted, and then he realised it was for him, because he had been right. Wolf and Kondor. He caught a glimpse of young Wakely, flushed with excitement and laughing. The elder officers were hardly more serious. Garrick said, “God knows who they’re chasing in the Indian Ocean.” He guffawed. There were few hours of daylight left but Smith thought they could all be dead by sunset.
He turned from them and climbed slowly, steadily to the fore-top, the big glasses bumping on his chest. There was no hurry. The cruisers would not go away. He stood in the fore-top holding on against the wild sweep of the mast as it swung like an erratic metronome. He lifted the glasses, aware of Garrick behind him.
He saw them coming up under the smoke, a great deal of smoke, they were steaming for all they were worth. Bows on and superimposed as they were he could not distinguish their silhouettes, but he knew them. He lowered the glasses fractionally until the bucketing gunboat lurched into focus. Only nine hundred tons and with barely ten knots of speed, Leopard only carried a pair of four-inch guns. Except for them, with her flush deck she might be taken for a rich man’s yacht. Yet she had sighted them, had pointed the finger. Without her he might have got away.
He let the glasses fall against his chest. Garrick held the silhouette book. He frowned at it. “I’ll lay odds they are Wolf and Kondor.”
“I know.” Smith started down. He had seen more than enough. He was pursued by an enormously superior force but Thunder plodded on at a leaden eight knots while the pursuit roared down on her at more than twice that speed. The reason, of course, was the Elizabeth Bell, rusty and dirty and shabby. She hung around his neck like an albatross. In half-an-hour or less …
He could abandon the Elizabeth Bell.
Looked at coldly and logically it was the obvious course but he knew he could not do it. The sun was going down, it was already in his eyes as he turned aft again to stare at his fate rushing down on him, his nightmare come to appalling life. The sun was going down but it would not set soon enough to save them.
Very well, then. “Number One!”
“Sir?” The reply was jerked out of Garrick. The jubilation on the bridge had turned to a façade that could not hide the tension that was a palpable thing and Garrick was not immune.
Only Smith felt cold. “I will want steam for full speed, and I want every man fed. There’s time for a quick bite, say twenty minutes.”
Garrick ran from the bridge and Smith started to follow him but paused by Aitkyne to say casually, “I’ll be in my cabin, pilot. If there is any change in the situation no doubt you will let me know.” He took the silhouette book from Aitkyne and made his way to his cabin in leisurely fashion.
Boat-deck and upper-deck were crowded by the watch below, the eyes of all of them astern. One or two of them saw him stroll by and nudged each other, grinned. He was a cool one! But once in his cabin, alone, he opened the silhouette book and stared at it. That was not necessary. Now he could have drawn the silhouette faithfully from memory.
They were faster and each of them carried eight 8.2-inch guns that were equal to Thunder’s 9.2-inch and she had only two of them. Sixteen to two. In a broadside fight they could fire twelve to two, even in a stern chase like this they would bring eight to bear against one. Between them they carried twelve 5.9-inch that out-ranged Thunder’s elderly six-inch guns.
Sarah Benson had said: ‘You can’t fight them.’
She was in the Elizabeth Bell.
There was a tap at the door and Horsfall entered with a tray. “That there Benks, he’s made sandwiches for all the gentlemen, bully beef an’ a bit o’ pickle an’ I thought you might fancy a bottle o’ pale ale.” He set the tray on the table and touched the glass lovingly, making sure it was safe. It was only half-full so that Thunder’s rolling would not slop the golden, white-collared contents.
Smith said, “You may as well have the rest of the bottle.”
“Thank you, sir.” Smith was prepared to bet the rest of the bottle had already gone. He was right. Horsfall said, “Looks as if we’ll be busy later on. Anything particular you want while I’m here?”
Smith shook his head. “No, thank you.” Except another ten knots, or that battle-cruiser.
“Well. Might see you later on, sir.”
Might. Smith looked up at Daddy’s long horse-face. Daddy was under no illusions. Smith tapped the book. “Know this class of ship?”
Horsfall breathed over Smith’s shoulder, then said simply, “Too bloody true, sir.”
“Good luck, Horsfall.”
“And the same to you, sir.”
Smith drank the beer thirstily but he could not face the sandwiches.
*
When ‘Cooks to the galley’ was sounded, Gibb queued up with the others and drew the meal for his mess: more bully beef and bread, scalding hot tea. Some wanted to eat, some did not. Some started voraciously then sickened. Nobody stayed on the mess-deck. They all crowded up aft, heavy sea or no heavy sea. The spray turned the hunks of bread to soggy lumps in their hands and diluted the tea while the wind cooled it, but they all got something inside them, if it was only tepid tea.
Gibb found Rattray alongside him champing hungrily and sucking at tea. Gibb ate nothing, drained his cup and was still thirsty. Gibb ventured, trying to be nonchalant, “Looks like we’ll have a scrap, hey?”
Rattray did not answer for a while, then he showe
d his teeth. “And we’ll see what you’re bloody made of, you and Smith together.”
*
Smith returned to the bridge and moved out to the wing, staring aft. The two big cruisers had overhauled the gunboat now. Ten miles away, maybe a little more. They were eating up the distance, racing down in line abreast so both could fire with all guns that would bear forward, which would be three each at least and four if he lay dead ahead of them. Dead ahead. Unfortunate choice of phrase. He grimaced and swung around, eyes seeking the coast. It looked no nearer and the sun seemed suspended, refusing to move down the sky. Neither sanctuary nor night to save them.
He ordered, “Sound ‘General quarters’.”
Thunder’s crew boiled into life and ran to their action stations. The reports began to come in as the guns’ crews closed up, magazines were manned and all the hundred and one posts necessary to Thunder’s functioning as a fighting ship were filled.
Garrick went to the fore-top. Thunder’s fire control like everything else about her was outdated. She did not have director firing, that is all guns being laid and trained from one central director high above the deck. She had a rangefinder and a device to calculate deflection and that was all. The guns received range and deflection through navy phones and from then on it was up to the layers and trainers to lay and train the gun. Garrick in the fore-top watched for the fall of shot and issued orders to correct it if it was over or short.
Smith stayed on the bridge. In the conning-tower below the bridge they would have the protection of that eleveninch-thick armour plate but Smith wanted to see as much as he could, had to see. But exposed as they were on the bridge, a hit on the ship might send scything splinters to wipe out Smith and everyone else up there, while a direct hit on the bridge — It was one more risk he had to take. If he could neither run nor fight with any hope then he would have to seek an alternative. He thought this was the place to seek it.
“Make to Elizabeth Bell: ‘Copy my changes of course’.” The signal was hoisted and broke out then the minutes dragged by as Knight muttered under his breath but finally reported. “Elizabeth Bell acknowledges, sir.”
The reports were finished and the ship was quiet, her decks deserted.
The sea was moderating, still heavy but nowhere near as bad as the night and improving every second. It was a lovely evening but Smith took no pleasure in it. Thunder could be running now but she was tied to the eight knots plug of Elizabeth Bell.
Smith stared at the two four-funnelled ships, eyes narrowed against the sun but still able to make them out under the thick black smoke. God! They were steaming! He wished Thunder was making smoke like that. He heard Wakely say to Knight, “Wonder how long before we get a shot at ’em?”
Smith lowered the glasses, rubbed at his eyes, looked again and answered the question himself: “Probably not very long now.” Light sparked from the bows of the cruisers, smoke puffed brown and was whipped thinly away. “Steer four points to starboard.”
“Four points of starboard wheel on, sir.”
Thunder’s bow swung through the arc, pointing away from Elizabeth Bell.
“Midships.”
“Midships, sir.”
Thunder steadied on the new course. Smith glanced at the Elizabeth Bell, opened his mouth to snap the order at Knight to signal her, then clamped it shut. She was turning to parallel Thunder’s course and was now on the port bow. Smith saw light flicker on the cruisers again and smoke shred. The first salvo would be falling now, past the culminating point of its trajectory three thousand feet up and plunging down on the target. On Thunder.
The report came down from the rangefinder on the upper bridge: “Range one-three-four-double-oh.” And as Smith thought: ‘Maximum range’, the first salvo howled down from the atmosphere and the sea erupted astern of Thunder in four tall columns and crashing bursts.
“Hard aport!”
“Hard aport, sir!”
“Midships!”
“Midships, sir!’’
Now Thunder was on the opposite leg of the zig-zag. Elizabeth Bell should follow. She had not. Had that salvo shaken them out of their senses? Smith snarled, “Come on, damn you!”
Knight stared at him, startled. The second salvo was on its way, plunging now. Smith snapped, “Make to Elizabeth Bell —”
He did not get the chance to finish. The second salvo rushed over them and burst, water lifting, noise beating at them. And Knight shouted, “Christ! She’s copped one!” The Elizabeth Bell had taken a direct hit amidships and another forward, each from a two-hundred-and-forty pound projectile plunging at a near vertical angle. She listed immediately and her bow went down; smoke billowed, sparks flying in it and flames leaping beneath it.
“Hard astarboard!” And: “Midships!” And Thunder raced down on the Elizabeth Bell, now laying like a log and going down by the head. Smith rattled off orders to a string of rapid acknowledgments. “Slow ahead both! Dead slow! I want to edge alongside …! Mr. Knight, I want lines over the side and strong men on them. Warn the Doctor to expect survivors.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Open fire!”
He heard that last passed to Garrick. Seconds later the after 9.2 recoiled, spat flame and smoke and the crack! racketed through them, the shudder ran through the ship.
Thunder closed the wreck of the Elizabeth Bell, slowing. He could see a party on her superstructure just forward of the gaping hole in her deck that poured forth smoke. They were trying to lower a boat and making a hash of it in the smoke as the ship tilted under them, her bows already under water and the sea reaching up greedily for the superstructure. He snatched the megaphone and ran out to the port wing of the bridge. Close now. “Starboard a point!”
“Starboard a point, sir!”
“Midships!” He lifted the megaphone as a salvo crashed down and plummeted into the sea beyond Elizabeth Bell, hurling more tons of water aboard her and starting a few more plates to hasten still further her already horribly swift end. She was awash as far aft as the superstructure and sinking before his eyes. Thunder’s bow slid by her stern, creeping along her starboard side. Thunder rolled in the beam sea but the little tramp lay steady with the stillness of a corpse. Thunder’s funnel smoke coiled down around them and she rubbed against the other ship and ground along her side to side. Knight and his men were swarming along the rails right forward and hurling the lines far ahead, fishing for the survivors on the tramp’s heeling settling superstructure. Smith picked out the flutter of a skirt. The Benson girl. He bellowed through the megaphone, “Take the lines! We’ll haul you aboard!”
He moved up to them, over them, as Thunder, dead slow, ground forward. Through the swirling blanketing smoke from Thunder’s four funnels and the huge hole in the deck of Elizabeth Bell he saw the skirt fly like a flag then flicked away on the wind and the girl seized a line.
The after 9.2 roared again. The stern of the Elizabeth Bell lifted and Smith saw Sarah Benson tying the line around a man who lay on the deck. He saw through the smoke another man leave the deck of Thunder at the end of a line and walk down her side, or rather ran, going down in great bounding leaps as the seamen above him paid out the line. It was Somers and Smith saw him lunge at the girl as the man she helped was whipped away from her on the line and as the stern of the tramp reared and she went down.
A salvo burst and Wakely said behind him, “Short!” And: “That one was short, sir!”
They had dawdled only minutes but that was too long, far too long.
The Elizabeth Bell went down as the 9.2 shook their ringing ears. She stood on her head with her rusty stern and idle screw perpendicular, slid down with a roar of escaping steam and dull thumping internal explosions. Leaning far out he could see only six, no seven, figures swinging on the lines as they were hauled in and one of them was Somers and the other Sarah Benson.
The salvo roared over and burst in the sea in high spouts of upflung water, off the port bow and over by less than a hundred yards.
One under, one over. It was time; high time. He bellowed through the megaphone, “Mr Knight! Get ’em aboard!” Knight and the men with him were doing their best but he could give them not a second more. “Full ahead both! Hard a’starboard!” He strode across the bridge as the helm went over.
*
Corporal Hill had fumed and chafed internally from the moment the after-turret closed up through the long waiting when the glimpses he had of the big cruisers showed them overhauling Thunder hand over fist. He only caught glimpses because spray burst continually across the deck, misting his layer’s telescope and because Thunder was trailing her own smoke, wreathing and rolling around the after-turret, blinding him. But finally the speed fell away until Thunder rolled in the swell and the spray was less. The crew of the turret eyed each other, not understanding it, not liking it. Why were they lying like this, a sitting target? Then the concussion came throbbing through the hull to reach them in the turret as a tremble of steel under their hands.
Somebody asked, “What was that?”
And somebody replied, “They dropped one close.”
Day, Lieutenant in command of the after-turret, snapped edgily, “Shut up!” But then the order to open fire broke the tension.
Hill’s long fingers laid the gun, eye clapped to his telescope, swearing softly as the target came in view, was obliterated by smoke, swam blearily into the telescope again. Bowker, the trainer on the other side of the breech, glared into his own telescope and matched Hill’s cursing.
