Alan Evans - Thunder at Dawn

“That’s nonsense. They should be told as much.”

Smith was hinting that this was the Consul’s job but Thackeray looked down his nose. “Suppose the Chileans agree?”

“ I wouldn’t. You can make that clear. If they try to intern this ship illegally they’ll have to do it by force.” And he looked around at the crowded port and the town.

Thackeray muttered, “It’s an indication of the trouble you’ve caused. Over the years I’ve built up good relations, very good relations with everyone in this port. Now my friends cut me and peasants shout at me in the streets!”

Smith caught Sarah Benson’s eye on him. Her face was impassive but one eye closed, opened. So Thackeray’s cosy little world had been upset and Smith was to blame. He’d get little more aid from the Consul than from the Chileans. It couldn’t be helped. He said, “The collier in this port. I want her interned. Where is she lying?”

“She isn’t.” Thackeray sniffed. “She sailed about nine hours ago, a half-hour after the telegrams began to arrive with the news of your — er — escapade .” He said the word with distaste but he was relieved. Smith could wreak no damage here. “She headed to the west.”

So there it was. Smith stood on his upper deck, aware that the picket-boat was in the water, smoke streaming from her stubby funnel, Somers at the helm and Aitkyne going down into her. He was not surprised that the Maria had fled because it was always a possibility, nor at the speed of her departure; she must have been lying with steam up ready to sail when called. Like Gerda . But it was a blow. It was one more piece of circumstantial evidence pointing to her guilt but that only added to his reasons for wanting her. He had considered the possibility of her running and her probable course and destination. There were several, scattered around half of the compass. North? South? West? She had steered west and that could mean she was bound for Juan Fernandez, a dot in the Pacific where raiders could coal in peace. Or was that merely a ruse to gain sea-room so as to swing north well clear of Thunder as she had run down to Malaguay. Or a ruse before she turned south.

The cruisers would not rendezvous to the north …

Garrick said, “The Port Captain wants to come aboard, sir.”

The words sank in slowly and then Smith said, “Yes. Due honours.” And he sent a messenger running to his cabin.

Maria was carrying coal to the cruisers but Smith stood on his quarterdeck and met the Port Captain, saluting at the head of the accommodation ladder.

The Port Captain was big and full of bluster. He protested. A neutral vessel sunk in a neutral port; insolent violation of neutrality; representations in the strongest terms were being made to the ambassador, to London …

South or west? Maria had nine hours start and she would be making eight, possibly nine knots. If Thunder sailed now and made fifteen knots she should overhaul Maria in nine or ten hours. If Smith was right about her course. If he was wrong he would have lost her.

The Port Captain paused for breath as the messenger returned, still running, and panting, and handed Smith the envelope from his desk. Smith handed it to the Port Captain with the words: “This is a copy of my report of the incident.”

“ Incident !” The Port Captain exploded the word.

“Incident.” Smith went on doggedly, “It details the reasons for my action, the evidence I had, that the vessel in question was not a neutral but a tender of war manned by a German crew.”

“A tender—” That set the Port Captain back on his heels.

“It is all in my report.”

The Port Captain turned the envelope over in his hands. “I will present this — document to the proper authorities. But meanwhile you are unwelcome in this port, you will receive nothing and no one from this ship will be allowed to land.”

It was Smith’s turn to protest. “Are you aware that this ship has neither coaled nor provisioned in a Chilean port for the last three months and that under international law —”

“In normal circumstances, Captain. These are not normal. Be sure you understand me. You receive nothing, no one lands, and you sail immediately.”

Smith shrugged. “Very well. Please believe me when I say I am sincerely sorry that our former excellent relations have deteriorated to this point and I hope they will soon return to happy normality.” If they wanted diplomatic waffle they could have it. “I have the greatest respect for yourself and your country. I have a little engine trouble, nothing serious, and my engineers are at work on it now.” That was true. Davies wanted to put out some of his fires and clean them of clinker. Smith might let him do it now. “I will be ready to sail in a few hours. Meanwhile I undertake that not one of my crew will be landed for any reason.”

After that came the stiff formalities of departure and all the time the alternatives competed in Smith’s head. South? West? And Maria already over seventy miles away. Within the stark choice between south or west there were sub-divisions: the Pacific was a large ocean. But the first basic choice was still south or west. Though Thunder was a slow warship she still had twice the speed of a collier, but he could not go in two directions at once. He had to commit himself to one. And Sarah Benson had bitten her lip — because she would not be seeing a young man she had met in the way of business? Thackeray was hovering uneasily, a troubled man. The picket-boat was plugging through the chop, the sky was low and heavy, the wind gusting with the first rain flying in it.

There would be three, maybe four hours of daylight. If he sailed now and guessed correctly, enormous assumption, it would be night when he came up with Maria . If he was wrong? He dared not be wrong. He had to shorten the odds somehow. Had to.

The Port Captain descended and Smith’s hand snapped down from his cap. “Miss Benson! Would you take me to your American friend, discreetly?”

For a moment she gaped at him, taken off-balance. “Well, I —”

He was aware of the risk she would be taking; Cherry had spelled it out. She would be aware of it, too.

She said, “Yes.” She did not ask ‘Why’ but the question was in her mind.

Smith swung on Thackeray. “Will you put us ashore?” And: “I am formally requesting your assistance as His Majesty’s representative.”

Thackeray hesitated. Smith knew the cause of that hesitation was only partly the promise given to the Port Captain but he said acidly, “My word given was that no member of my crew would go ashore. I said nothing of myself or Miss Benson.”

Thackeray admitted grudgingly, “It will be possible. I believe it has been done before.” Then he added, “But I advise you formally of my disapproval and I accept no responsibility at all.”

“Understood. A moment, please.”

Smith hurried aft to his cabin but returned quickly, uniform jacket and cap discarded and buttoning an old tweed jacket, cramming a soft hat on his head. “Mr. Garrick, you’re in command in my absence, of course.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Garrick thought that he was being left to his own devices in a port technically neutral but decidedly hostile to the ship. Something of this showed in his face.

Smith said dryly, “Don’t sail without me, Mr. Garrick. And arrange with Ariadne for Miss Benson to transfer to her as a passenger.”

Thackeray had gone down into his launch with Sarah Benson and Smith followed. Sarah crouched in the tiny cabin as it thrashed across the harbour while Thackeray remained standing in the well. Smith said, “You heard what the Port Captain had to say; I’ll get no coal in Chile and I must coal soon. The collier Mary Ellen is making for Guaya. Will you send for her to come here?”