Alan Evans - Thunder at Dawn

No. At a point in time he would have to acknowledge that he had made a mistake and turn back. That time would be soon. They should have caught her by now but she would be running for all she was worth. He would have to set a time. He did a little sum in his head, involving the speed of Thunder and the probable maximum speed of Maria , and the relative times of sailing, and he arrived at an answer.

Noon.

If they had not sighted her by noon he must turn. He must return to Malaguay and give clearance to Ariadne and Elizabeth Bell . And make his report by cable.

Then wait for the cable in reply that would relieve him, break him.

Garrick, unable to sleep, came onto the bridge.

Smith felt bleakly, briefly, sorry for him, for the mess he would inherit. Then he remembered again what his own state would be and grinned wryly at himself. Sorry for Garrick. That was almost funny.

Garrick caught the grin and misconstrued it. “Sighted her, sir?”

Smith shook his head and saw the worry that dragged Garrick’s mouth down at the corners and the glance he threw at Kennedy. Smith said, “There’s time yet, Number One.”

There was neither hope nor resignation on Garrick’s face, just worry. He did not know whether they would come up with the collier nor how it could help if they did. She had happened to sail before they arrived at Malaguay and that was all. Smith was just jumping to conclusions.

Garrick had said it all before and now Smith could read it on his face, and on the other faces. In a casual glance Smith covertly examined expressions on the bridge and decided they were not fools and had done their sums as he had. They knew that any chance of a sighting had slid into improbability and was sliding fast towards impossibility.

At 11.30 the weather worsened in a belt of squalls, visibility fell to less than two miles and spray burst continually over the bridge.

At 11.50 the bridge was ominously silent and they were all waiting as they had waited all through that long morning, but now they were waiting for the change of course. All of them were immobile as statues except that they rocked and swayed to Thunder’s rolling that now seemed as heavy and sullen as the atmosphere on the bridge. Smith was cold to the bone.

At 11.55 the squalls swept by and visibility marginally lifted to possibly five miles.

At 11.58 the masthead look-out howled: “Masthead! Ship bearing green two-oh!”

Smith fumbled at the glasses hanging on his chest, swept the arc of sea over the starboard bow and thought he saw something through the rain and blown spray, a shadow, a shape, but could not be sure.

“Masthead! I think she could be the Marigher !”

Smith could make out a ship now but what ship he could not tell. She was ploughing into the seas, gamely but slow and they hid all but her superstructure. The man at the masthead had a better view from his perch high above the deck Smith lowered the glasses. “Steer two points to starboard.”

Thunder edged around and started to close the ship ahead and to starboard. She slowly came up through the rain until she was within a mile and they could see her with the naked eye, but Garrick used his glasses. “It’s her, sir. The Maria .”

If he expected Smith to be delighted and relieved then he was disappointed. If anything Smith looked grimmer. “Very good. Make: ‘Heave to’.”

The signal was hoisted and on Smith’s orders a searchlight repeated it in morse.

Garrick said, “Of course, we have right of board and search, sir, but launching a boat in this sea —”

“Yes.” A boat would not live a minute. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Garrick blinked and Knight said, “She’s flying ‘I am a neutral’, sir.”

Maria maintained her course and speed.

Smith said deliberately, “Make: ‘Heave to or I will sink you’.”

Knight swallowed. “Aye, aye, sir.”

The signal broke out, the flags laid flat as boards on the wind. The collier steamed on.

Smith said, “Close up the starboard twelve-pounder battery.” And as the guns’ crews scrambled to the guns and the ‘Ready’ reports came in: “Put a shot across her bows, Number One.”

A twelve-pounder cracked and sea spurted ahead of Maria . She sailed on.

A messenger came staggering. “Wireless reports signalling, sir. Very close, they think it must be this ship an’ it seems to be in code.”

“Very good.”

So Maria was signalling furiously to someone out of his sight, quite possibly out of range of her wireless anyway because this weather would play the devil with wireless. Or whoever it was could be within a few miles. The eternal guessing game. The two ships ploughed heavily on through the breaking seas, the driving rain, lost in a little world of their own that was bounded by Smith’s vision. But there was a world outside this where diplomatic protests were flying concerning a naval officer who had flouted International Law and sunk a neutral vessel in a neutral port. Where two big, fast cruisers hunted. Somewhere.

Smith’s thoughts crystallised, ending his hesitation. He had known what the end of this would be and that hesitation was only a faltering of nerve. He had been right in his reasoning from the start and he was right now. Or had been wrong, ‘A wolf sneaking into the fold to murder a lamb’.

May as well be hung for a sheep.

“Close up the upper deck six-inch batteries.” The maindeck guns were unusable in this sea. “And sink her.”

“ Sink her, sir?” Garricks’ voice rose on the word, the heads on the bridge jerked around.

Aitkyne said, “Sir, if I might suggest, we could lay right alongside and hail her. I’ll take a party of volunteers —”

Smith cut brutally across the protests. “They’re playing for time! First hours, and now for minutes! Sink her and quickly!” His voice was harsh and flat, denying argument or delay.

The men waded and clawed their way across the deck through the seas that washed it and manned the six-inch casemates. They reported ready. Garrick exchanged an agonised glance with Aitkyne, Kennedy, Knight — and Smith saw those exchanges. Garrick tried once more: “Sir —”

But Smith would not wait. “Open fire!”

The two starboard six-inch guns bellowed bass to the tenor cracking of the twelve-pounders. At that range, the trajectory near flat, hitting was almost inevitable, a miss inexcusable. The six-inch bursts were clearly seen, one forward and one aft on the Maria , opening great holes in her on the waterline. She seemed to stop dead in her tracks and fall away before the sea. There were men forward and aft of the super structure, struggling waist-deep in the seas that swept her, attempting to lower boats.

The messenger again: “‘Sparks’ reports she’s still sending, Sir.”

“Very good.” One brave man sticking to his post in the egg-shell protection of a wireless-room in that exposed superstructure. One man calling down the pack on Thunder . “Concentrate fire on the superstructure!”

Another exchange of glances on the bridge, sick. His own face showed nothing but — it had to be done!

The salvo crashed out, a hammer to crack a nut, the guns recoiling with the tongues of flame licking long and orange over the sea, the smoke blossoming dirty yellow to shred and disperse on the wind. Smith did not see it, his eyes on the Maria so he saw the superstructure burst open under that concentration of fire, the funnel lean and fall. She was listing badly and Thunder was drawing ahead of her.

“Starboard ten!”

Thunder swung ponderously around to head across the bows of the sinking collier. There was a boat in the water, a dozen men in her and thrusting away from their ship. Then the third salvo hit her, the effect instantly seen and appalling at that range. She broke in half, bow and stern lifting as the coal in her belly dragged her down, and sank. A billow of smoke and steam and she was gone.