Thunder at Dawn

by Alan Evans

  Smith thought he had done his homework.

  The Flag-Lieutenant came to the end of the titles and the ranks, the long, aristocratic-sounding names. Then he stumbled, “And Commander —” Only then he realised he did not know the name.

  Smith supplied it for him, tersely. “Smith.”

  And Donoghue remarked on that contrast, too, and grinned to himself. He said, “You didn’t exactly interrupt. We were having dinner when we heard the firing, but in the tradition of Drake we finished the meal. Then we came down to see what we could.” His eyes moved from Smith to Thunder lying in a circle of light out in the pool, aswarm with men. Through the hole torn in her side he could see the men labouring, tiny figures inside the smashed and mangled interior. His eyes moved back to Smith.

  One more contrast. Donoghue was tall and broadshouldered, deep-chested, strongly handsome. An aristocrat. He could trace his family back three hundred years to a house in New England and before that to a castle in Ireland. It was a family that had always held rank, in the last hundred years it had enjoyed rank and privilege and wealth. It was now considerable wealth.

  Smith had nothing but his pay. No family.

  Donoghue saw a slight, young man, too thin, the face drawn. He cut a frail and lonely figure as he faced them all. And yet — there was something about the man, a restlessness, an energy that could be sensed even now when he stood unmoving.

  They had a great deal in common and they eyed each other warily.

  Donoghue said, “I see you brought your consort safe to port.”

  “Ariadne? Yes. But we lost a merchantman, the Elizabeth Bell. She was hit and sank in minutes. I’m glad I was able to take off some of her crew before she sank, but the others were lost.”

  Donoghue thought about it. So did his Flag-Captain, Corrigan, lean and vinegar-faced, vinegar-tongued, puritan. Smith had been able to take some off before she sank? Both of them thought there was a deal left unsaid.

  But that saw the end of the courtesies. Encalada asked, “What is your business here, Captain?” His face was set. He was angry, or rather still angry. Forty-eight hours before he had been outraged.

  This was the attack Smith had come to meet. He met it coolly. “I escorted Ariadne to this port. As you know and can see, I have been inaction and I need to make repairs and coal —”

  Encalada brushed that aside with a wave of his hand. “Your presence here is effrontery!”

  “My presence here is of necessity, I assure you.”

  “You have flagrantly violated the neutrality of this port!”

  “This port had harboured a belligerent for —”

  “That has not been proved.”

  The Herr Doktor put in quickly, “I reiterate, neither my government nor myself accept responsibility for the collier, whose ever she was.”

  Smith rapped at him, “Responsibility or no, the Gerda was a belligerent and that was proved by the action of her sister ship, the Maria. She ran when I approached Malaguay.” Muller smiled thinly, and shrugged. Smith said, “I caught her and sank her.” This time the Doktor’s eyes flickered, his head twitched on his neck. Small signs but enough for Smith, who went on, “And before she sank I intercepted signals between her and a German warship and two German cruisers lie outside this port now. That is a fact, Herr Doktor.” He swung on Encalada. “As was also the matter of the Leopard, a German gunboat supposed to be interned at Malaguay but allowed to slip away to fight again and she is outside now! What kind of neutrality is that?”

  “Do not lecture me!” Encalada shouted it. He swallowed, took hold of himself and said more quietly, “She was not allowed to slip away. She escaped because of gross negligence and indiscipline on the part of one junior officer and he will be dealt with. And that gunboat’s violation of neutrality does not excuse yours, which preceded theirs and I believe made theirs possible. Cruisers there are but I refuse to accept their presence as proof that Gerda was a belligerent.” He took a breath. “I tell you this, Captain. Under International Law you may claim shelter in this port for twenty-four hours to make your repairs. That you may have, but nothing else. You will not be permitted to land nor to receive supplies of any kind, coal, water — nothing!”

  Smith said equably, “Very well.” He would not beg. No, that was a lie. He would have begged for his ship and his crew if it would have done any good. But they did not need water or supplies. He had coal for only twenty-four hours’ steaming but that was sufficient because he would not be allowed to steam for twenty-four hours or anything like it. The cruisers waiting out in the darkness of the Pacific would see to that.

  Encalada took his watch from his pocket and clicked open the case. “The time is twenty-one-ten hours. At this time tomorrow you will get under way and quit this port.”

  “That is understood. I ask for nothing, except —”

  “No exceptions!”

  Smith carried on as if he had not heard. “There is a boy — a man — I must bury. He was killed in today’s action.”

  Encalada stared at him. Smith’s face was grey under the lights, a tired face, a hard face, closed now, seeming to give nothing away, yet the Port Captain felt the stirring of an alien sympathy. But he kept his voice hard as he replied. “I see. That will be permitted but only a small party, the minimum necessary for due honours. Officers may wear swords, but other arms will not be permitted.”

  “That, too, is understood.” Smith thought there might be an element of sympathy lurking in the eyes of Donoghue and Corrigan. It was obvious in their Flag-Lieutenant but his seniors were an impassive pair. The Port Captain’s fire and fury had turned to ice. Muller looked pleased.

  The idea floated, bizarre, into Smith’s mind and he acted on it before cold propriety could make it look ridiculous as it was. He said straight-faced, apologetic but patiently sincere, “I’m afraid I’ve spoiled a very pleasant evening for many of you. In normal times I would have extended the hospitality of my ship, at least to attempt to make some recompense, but these are not normal times. However. Despite the times my officers and myself will be taking tea tomorrow afternoon and we would be delighted to welcome all of you. At, say, four in the afternoon?” Then he added, “With, of course, one obvious exception.” He grinned at Muller.

  Those who understood him looked suspicious, as if this was some sort of practical joke, or like Encalada suspecting a trap, but not Donoghue and Corrigan. As Smith saluted and went down into the pinnace Donoghue thought it was almost an actor’s exit. An unusual young man. Corrigan wasn’t going to drink their goddam tea, but he wanted to look at that ship and her crew.

  The pinnace sheered off and headed out towards Thunder, still functioning with a jaunty efficiency despite the dents in her stumpy funnel and her woodwork down one side showing charred-black through the blistered paint. Smith took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Donoghue became aware that the women were a-twitter and gazing after the pinnace and he thought with surprise: Well, now.

  *

  Smith said, “They’ve given us twenty-four hours and at the end of that we sail. That’s all they’ll give us. No coal, no supplies, no assistance — nothing. It simplifies matters, anyway.”

  Garrick breathed heavily. “They know what’s waiting for us outside and they’ll send us out with barely enough coal —”

  “It will be enough.”

  “Damn their bloody eyes!”

  Smith blinked at this explosion from the stolid First Lieutenant, and said mildly, “You can’t blame them, you know. On the facts as they see them, as they know them, they’re more than justified.”

  Vincent called, “Boat coming alongside, sir.”

  It was Cherry, and Smith took him to the little sleeping cabin under the bridge. There was a certain amount of peace there. The deck cabin aft and the main cabin in the stern would be ringing like great bells to the hammering.

  “I didn’t see you at the party.”

  “No.” Cherry shrugged. “The British are in bad odo
ur at the moment. But I heard and saw your meeting with Encalada.”

  “Oh?”

  Cherry nodded. “Twenty-four hours. And the rest of it. I’ll intercede and protest, of course. As soon as I’m ashore I’ll telegraph to Santiago, but frankly, I think their government will back him up.”

  “So do I.”

  Cherry said helplessly, “Well, is there anything I can do?”

  Smith grinned sardonically, “You couldn’t rent Kansas for a couple of days?”

  Cherry refused to be cheered and muttered, “And that damn battle-cruiser. Of all the luck!”

  “One or two ways you can help —”

  “Yes?”

  Somers. They discussed the matter in practical terms and Cherry said he would see to all the necessary arrangements. “Anything else?”

  “Newspapers, as always. Any English papers you can get hold of, we’ll be delighted to see.”

  “Can do.”

  “And last, but most important, the Gerda. The Chileans regard my action as indefensible, but if I can prove she was German they might change that to excusable.”

  Cherry nodded agreement. “No doubt of it. They’d still hum and haw and they’d want an apology but the sting would be gone. Their old-fashioned looks would all be for the Herr Doktor.” He went on, “All her crew were in one hotel for one night only. Next day they were gone. I never had a chance to talk to any of them. I’ve sent word to Argentina but when, if, they find out anything there, it’ll be too late. I reckon the skipper might be in the German consulate but the others tucked away somewhere up-country, maybe on somebody’s farm so went out and scratched around but had no luck. I was on the way back tonight when I heard guns.”

  Smith told Cherry the details of the boarding and sinking of the Gerda and the papers they had taken from her. “Somewhere aboard that ship there must be proof. Has a diver been down?”

  Cherry shook his head, puzzled. “No. One of my men has been watching her. Nobody’s been near her.” He finished definitely, “But tomorrow I’ll see somebody goes down. If the proof is there we’ll have it.”

  Cherry left, on his way to see Sarah Benson.

  *

  She was aboard Ariadne in a cabin of a comfortable size with a comfortable bunk. It called to her but she walked the deck away from its temptation and waited for Cherry, knowing he would come.

  Smith had left her open-mouthed and speechless but when she went to Albrecht her protest was blistering. She received an icy reply, an apology, but: “The man didn’t know you were there for a start. He’d just fought a difficult and dangerous action, he’s been driven into a corner and there’s no help for him and he risked his ship to save yourself and a few more. On top of that he’d just learned that the boy who dragged you off the Elizabeth Bell had been killed. He may owe you an apology. You owe him a damned sight more than that, young lady.”

  She had swallowed it, digested it, then meekly asked for more and he had told her about the desperate shortage of coal and about Kunashiri.

  Now while she waited for Cherry she thought hard and when he came aboard he gave her more to think about. He told her what he had told Smith, was silent a moment, then said quietly, “They’ve given him just twenty-four hours. That’s all. But mark you, he didn’t ask for that. He asked for nothing. I was in the crowd and I saw him. He couldn’t see me, but, by God I saw him! Stood there on his own, coated in filth and dead beat, eyes like — like windows in a dark room with a fire back in there, somewhere.” He paused, then said self-consciously, “Well, that must have been a trick of the light but that’s how it looked. Stood there with his head up … One man.” He shook his head. “That’s an extraordinary man. Extraordinary.”

  He asked her what had happened and she told him about the seaplane and Jim Bradley and Thackeray, but she was abstracted, merely reporting, her mind elsewhere.

  There was a silence and he glanced at her. “Was it very bad?” He had to repeat the question before she heard it and then she looked at him blankly. He said, “On the ship — Thunder, mean.”

  She shuddered. “It sounded like all hell let loose. It —” She stopped. “I can’t describe it.” But she could hear it and see it and she shuddered again.

  *

  They had set Gibb to work with the others in the clanging bedlam forward and every hammer blow was a nerve-wrenching echo of the hits on Thunder. There was no peace. And once he had found Rattray’s eyes on him and knew that Rattray only waited his time. Gibb walked away from it.

  He needed solitude and he could only think of one place in the ship where he would find it. He slunk around and into the fore-turret and in the airless steel gloom he found the solitude of a cell. Light came in faint bands through narrow slits set high and reflected dully from the massive breech of the gun. There was the smell of oil and steel and the residual tang of burnt cordite that still clung from the recent action. He sniffed it, as he had sniffed the baking smell when he opened his mother’s front door but that was only an aching memory now. He felt hounded, bedevilled and the turret shut him in but there was nowhere else to go. He squatted on the deck under the breech of the gun, arms round his drawn-up knees, head down, eyes closed trying to blot it all out.

  Rattray. It was quiet in the turret, there was that at least to be said for it and for the first time in hours his thoughts found some clarity. Or maybe it was only the crystallisation of one emotion from many. But he hated Rattray. He was no longer puzzled by, or wary of, or frightened by Rattray. Now it was one single, simple emotion: hate. And at that point light flicked briefly over him where he crouched in the gloom, a second’s searching beam of the light from outside that lit him up and then was gone. The door had quietly opened, clanged shut. Gibb blinked and focussed on the figure that stood smacking right fist into the palm of the left hand.

  Rattray.

  He took two long strides to stand over Gibb and he said with savage anticipation, “Home from home. Just you and me and a bit of peace and quiet where we can sort things out without a lot of interference from nosey parkers, nor your God Almighty Captain Smith.” The words meant nothing to Gibb.

  Rattray reached down and grabbed Gibb by the front of his overalls, lifted him from his hiding place under the breech of the gun and swung him out. Gibb came slackly, stumbling, and Rattray thought there was something odd about his vacant stare, not showing fear, not showing anything. So he hesitated for a second with one hand gripping Gibb, the other pulled back, and in that second he saw Gibb’s face contort beyond recognition. It was a fatal second.

  Gibb exploded in his hands. Gibb himself could never recall the few seconds that followed. It was a moment of black-out for his mind that under torment and stress briefly ran away from its duties. The body functioned on its own. It functioned without the meagre advantage of the little boxing science the Navy had striven to teach him.

  Rattray’s own recollections were confused and curtailed. A flailing fist took him in the eye and another in the lower abdomen, a boot smashed against his right shin and knocked that prop from under him. Almost blinded, hurt and staggering he instinctively tried to hold on to something, anything. He held on to Gibb, clawing blindly now with the right hand and getting that also twisted in Gibb’s overalls. That was the second and final mistake. If he had fallen or hurriedly backed away he may have gained a breathing space both for himself and Gibb that might have brought hesitation to the latter or let his wildly flailing fists connect on nothing but air. But he held on, right on top of Gibb, within easy reach and vulnerable.

  A fist hit him between the legs with excruciating agony, crippling. It was finished at that point but Gibb did not know it any more than he knew what he was doing. Another fist slammed into Rattray’s windpipe, choking, and another boot kicked his right leg away for good. Or ill. He had released Gibb, trying to curl over to hold himself and was falling, for an instant free of those thrashing fists and feet. Then his back banged against the breech of the gun and he bounced from it into anothe
r hail of blows and kicks that landed at first on his body and then, as he fell, on his face and head. He was already unconscious and toppled back limply, loose as an empty coal sack, tossed one way then the other as Gibb’s blows thrust him. He ended on his back, his head and shoulders propped awkwardly against the side of the turret.

  Gibb had nothing to hit. The curtain lifted and he was first aware of pain in his hands. He lifted them and saw the knuckles skinned and oozing tiny beads of blood. He put them to his mouth, sucking, and then he saw Rattray. He stared, with the thick, sick, salt of his own blood in his mouth, retched and ran blindly from the turret.

  He stumbled aft along the boat-deck away from the light and the milling crowd of labouring men forward. But another crowd worked aft and he swung away and brought up against the rails, staring at the lights of Guaya.

  Rattray was dead and Gibb had killed him.

  Voices shouted hoarsely in the clamour forward, sounding like a pack at his heels but the water moved oily black below him. He went over the rail and dived. He would have dived from the masthead if he had to.

  There was a crowd on the waterfront staring at Thunder out in the pool so he had to swim a long way downriver before he could drag himself out of the water without being seen. He was an excellent swimmer. He skulked across the quay and into the shelter of an alley, found a dark corner and collapsed there. The water ran off him. He sat with his knees curled tight under his chin and shuddered spasmodically.

  Now at least he had quiet but he knew he had to have shelter, to get away from prying eyes. He had never been in Fizzy’s out-of-bounds Bar but he knew where it was. He made his way through the alleys until he found the rear of Fizzy’s Bar and climbed the wall to drop down into the urinal. From there he went to the back of the house and tapped at the first window he came to. He was lucky, a girl was in the room but alone. She was patting powder on her face when he rapped at the window and she pulled back the curtain and stared at him, a hand to her mouth. Then came recognition that he was a seaman and she smiled.