Alan Evans - Thunder at Dawn

Thackeray nodded woodenly and Smith ducked into the cover of the cabin as the launch drew into the river.

Thunder had coal for six days of economical steaming but for the last ten hours she had steamed at fifteen knots and at that speed she ate coal.

Smith heard Thackeray speak briefly to the man at the wheel in rapid Spanish, and the helmsman nodded, smiled as Thackeray made a promise, a bribe. Smith thrust his other problems behind him. The launch slowed as it entered the river, puttering gently past the ships moored there. Thackeray, without a glance at the cabin, said clearly, “We’ll soon be passing a line of boats tied up below the wharf. There is a ladder. This boat will be tied up a hundred yards further up-river from that point and will wait there for you.”

“When I give the word … Now !”

Smith plunged head-down out of the cabin and saw the line of boats sliding past only a foot or two away on the brown, murky flow. He vaulted without straightening over the side of the launch into the nearest boat and scrambled across the thwarts towards the wharf. Right under it he paused just long enough to see Sarah Benson scrambling after him, skirts held up with one hand, and the launch sliding away. He was close to the ladder and in a moment was climbing. His head rose above the edge of the wharf and he saw it was empty except for a little knot of men working at a stacked pile of bales about thirty or forty yards away. Their backs were to him. Dust swirled on the wind and rain spat briefly into it. He felt Sarah Benson on the ladder behind him, climbed up onto the wharf and held down a hand for her. They walked across the wharf, down a gap between two warehouses and emerged in a cobbled street of chandlers and little bars. Sarah tucked her arm inside Smith’s and they walked up the street to the broad thoroughfare that ran across the head of it. There was a hotel and two cabs, each drawn by a head-hanging scarecrow of a horse, waiting for hire outside it. The pressure of Sarah’s arm urged Smith over to the cabs and into the first. Sarah spoke briefly to the driver then joined Smith inside. A whip cracked and the cab jolted away.

They drove for barely fifty yards and then stopped. Sarah said, “I can get Bradley out to you, getting you in to him would be risky.” They were outside a shop, its window crammed with farm tools and beyond them Smith could see the counter with a man behind it facing a customer and to one side a stairway. Sarah said, “He has a room upstairs …”

Smith saw her pass through the shop and climb the stair. He leaned closer to the window of the cab so he could see the windows above the shop and waited, watched. After a minute he saw a curtain pulled aside. He could not see the face beyond it but he lifted his hand and took off his hat, stared up at the window.

The curtain fell back. He waited.

The Maria was getting away from him with every passing second. He might well lose her altogether.

If he was wrong, if the cruisers were five thousand miles away in another ocean, or lying at anchor again in the Jade with the rest of the High Seas Fleet, then it would have been as well if he had lost both Gerda and Maria .

Bradley had been up and about for almost an hour. He had been involved in a long game with some miners and landowners from upcountry that had lasted all night. At the end of it he had counted his winnings, eaten a huge breakfast and then slept. Now he had brewed himself coffee on the pot-bellied stove, heated water and shaved and washed. He was still naked to the waist, drying his face and smoothing the full moustache, when Sarah entered.

He gaped at her then surprise gave way to pleasure. “You’re just in time. Come on in.” He tossed aside the towel and held out his arms to her.

She fended him off. “Not now or any other time. Get dressed. I want you to meet somebody.”

“ Who ?”

“Commander Smith.”

“ Who ?”

“The Captain of H.M.S. Thunder .”

“The Captain — Thunder ?” Bradley snapped his long fingers, remembering. “Hold on. While I was eating breakfast there was a lot of hoo-haw going on among the local boys about a British ship and a British captain. They were raising hell over him but I gather he raised it first. They reckoned he raided into Guaya and blew a neutral ship to bits.”

“Rubbish!” Then Sarah admitted grudgingly, “He sank a collier that claimed to be neutral.”

Bradley whistled softly. “That’ll do. Boy! The Navy can only shoot you once and that’ll do! Where is this lunatic?”

“He’s not a — He’s outside. In a cab.”

Bradley crossed to the window. “I’d better take a look at this character while he’s still around for viewing! If they catch him ashore they’ll lynch him!” He twitched back the curtain, stared down and saw the face at the window of the cab that returned his stare. It was a thin face, young but drawn. He said, “That’s him? Young feller, sort of —” He stopped, not knowing how to put it into words. “He’s not what I expected.”

Sarah’s lips twitched. “What did you expect? Somebody with a beard and a cutlass between his teeth? There’s only one man in the cab. Smith.”

Bradley stared down and the eyes below held his. He said, “On second thoughts, maybe …” He let the curtain fall and shrugged his broad shoulders so the muscles slid under the brown skin. Sarah watched him. He asked, “What does he want with me?”

“I don’t know. But he needs all the help he can get.”

“I’ll go along with you on that.” Bradley reached for his shirt and pulled it on. “Well. Let’s go see the little Admiral. Can’t do any harm.” He would remember the words with bitterness before long.

Smith saw Sarah returning with a tall man who, hat in hand, opened the shop door for her and handed her into the cab after speaking to the driver. The cab moved off.

Bradley sat beside Sarah, facing Smith. He eyed Smith with obvious interest and grinned broadly when he saw that interest returned. “From what I hear you’re in trouble up to your neck, Admiral, and sticking that neck out at this very moment.”

Smith saw he was bronzed with strong white teeth. Not handsome, but it was a good face with a reckless cut to it. Smith suspected this man would live up to first impressions, and hoped so. He said, “A man called Medina has a seaplane, or the Germans have one, I think it comes to the same thing. I also think you may know something about it.”

Bradley replied blandly, “No more than anybody else around here with a tongue in his head.” Then he added, “Provided they knew what they were talking about and listening to, Admiral.”

“And what did you see and hear?”

Bradley shrugged. “It’s a Curtiss twin-seater seaplane. Observer sits up front and the pilot behind him. Maximum speed around ninety knots.”

“The pilot told you this?”

“Richter? The hell he did! I’ve seen it and that’s enough. Richter told me he was a real flyer with combat experience, not a feller who found the money better or easier on the ground.” It was said easily and the half-grin was still there, but fixed.

Smith asked, “Where is it?”

“Just outside of town in a little inlet, really a wide creek. They’ve fixed up a hangar there.”

“Guarded?”

Bradley chuckled. “Who could steal a seaplane around here?”

Smith chuckled in his turn. Then he said. “You.”

Bradley straightened in his seat. “Me! Why should I —”

“To take me up. You can fly it?”

“How should I know?” Bradley glanced, amused, at Sarah, a glance easily interpreted: Mad or drunk! I’ll humour him.