Alan Evans - Ship of Force

“Yes, sir.” Sanders looked disappointed. Had he hoped to be going in the whaler? But Dunbar would have need of him.

“Get on with it, then.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Sparrow was running near twenty knots now, the wind plucking at them on the bridge and her engines pounding away, thick smoke rolling astern of them. They would make an easily-seen target but that was a risk that had to be taken. Curtis had said that time was important and it would be a close-run thing at twenty knots. Less would not do.

They raced on through the night and the report came up from where young Lorimer was hunched over the chart. “Ostende on the starboard beam.”

No doubt it was but there was nothing to see, only the lowering black clouds that merged in the darkness with the oily sea, a sea split white by Sparrow ’s bow wave that spread out on either side of her in phosphorescent silver to be swallowed by the wash from her whirling screws.

With Ostende astern Sparrow turned at Smith’s order and closed the shore. “Half ahead both.” Sparrow slowed and the vibrating of the frame eased. And later, “Slow ahead.”

Sparrow was creeping on to her station but that station should have been taken by Curtis’s CMB and she only drew three feet. Sparrow was drawing nine and Dunbar had a man in the chains just below the bridge with the lead going. His voice came up to them: “Quarter less three!” Sparrow had barely sixteen feet of water under her. She was not running aground but it was close enough.

Smith nodded at Dunbar and he ordered, “Port five.” He stood by the compass as Sparrow ’s head came round. “Steady…steer that.”

Smith said, “Look out to starboard. For two lights.” As if to frustrate them the darkness became impenetrable blackness as a squall swept over them, rain lashing down to drum on oilskins and wash over their faces as they strained their eyes into the night. Then the squall was gone but the darkness still hid the shore from them and nobody cursed that. Sparrow nudged steadily through the sea, a quiet ship now so they could have talked in normal tones but voices were hushed. The nearest of the German batteries at Ostende was barely three miles away to the south and the guns at De Haan no farther north. If Sparrow had ventured into the enemy’s backyard before, now she was at his back door. Only the night protected them from that cross-fire.

Smith looked at his watch again. It was twenty-one minutes after midnight and Sparrow must turn soon, creep back along her course…

“Abeam!” Dunbar snapped it as Smith saw it — no, them. Two lights, almost in line and still closing…? Yes.

Smith said, “Stop her when they’re in line! Stand by the whaler!” He saw the boat’s crew milling aft, the whaler swung out on the davits. He told Dunbar: “Patrol along this line. You won’t see that marker buoy we’re putting over, nor hear it, but we’ll find it. When we see you we’ll flash a K and that’s what you’ll answer. Take care you don’t run us down,” he finished dryly.

Dunbar grinned tightly. “I’ll watch it.”

“It shouldn’t take more than an hour. If we’re not back in two then clear out and head for home. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, sir.” Not looking at Smith, both of them looking out to starboard at the twin pinpoints of light that were close together now — Dunbar ordered, “Stop both.”

The way came off Sparrow as Smith slid down the ladder to the deck and hurried aft. Stroke and bow were already in the whaler, standing between the falls. He saw that stroke was McGraw, the tough. He was right for this job. He heard Lorimer order, “Lower away,” and the boat was lowered into the sea and her crew dropped down into her. As Smith came up Lorimer held out a bundle and said breathlessly, “Pistol, sir. Checked as you said an’ Mr. Sanders checked all the others himself. Compass is aboard, and here’s a torch.”

“Very good.”

Lorimer went over the side and into the whaler and Smith stripped off his oilskin, belted the big Webley pistol around his waist and jammed the torch in his pocket. He could see in the stern-sheets of the whaler the grating with the lashed-on drum. He looked up at the bridge for Dunbar but instead saw Sanders there. Then Dunbar stepped out of the shadows to say gruffly, “Look out for yourself, sir.” Smith glanced at him, taken aback. Dunbar said, “You’ve done a hell of a lot for this gimcrack flotilla; you’ve made it work. You’ve done a lot for the men. And for me. I’m grateful.”

Smith could not see Dunbar’s face and hoped Dunbar could not see his. He muttered, “Rubbish!” And turned and climbed down into the whaler.

Dunbar shook his head and grinned to himself, said under his breath, “You hard-faced bastard.” And lifted a hand.

As the whaler pulled away from Sparrow , Smith remembered he had told Trist that Dunbar was a good officer. He had meant it. He knew as the boat turned to point at the unseen shore that he could depend on Dunbar. That was reassuring, as was the crouched bulk of Buckley, set solidly right forward in the bow.

Once clear of Sparrow they stopped briefly to drop the grating over the side and saw that it rode to its anchor. From inside the drum came the metallic clunk ! as the sea set the crutch, an iron row-lock dangling inside it on a length of twine, swinging to bang against the side. Smith saw Sparrow was under way and heard the beat of her engines. He turned away from her. Lorimer had the helm and was peering into the binnacle of the boat’s compass. Smith asked, “Bearing?”

“Lights bear 132 degrees, sir.”

Smith nodded. That checked with the bearing he had taken aboard Sparrow . He ordered, “Steer for the lights.” And: “Tide’s nearly full. Watch it doesn’t set you to the south.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Smith stared ahead over the rhythmic bending and lifting of the men’s heads as they pulled at the oars, and he watched the lights, looked for the shore.

The lights went out.

He looked at his watch. Thirty-five minutes after midnight. The men who set the lights had been as good as their word. He could imagine them crouched in their lofts with the lanterns, telling themselves the lights should only be seen at sea, but suppose a land patrol somehow caught a glimpse of them? Or a cruising German torpedo boat? Wondering if at any minute rifle butts would hammer on the door…

He shifted restlessly. Too much imagination.

Lorimer was steering by the compass now, the faint light from the binnacle on his face and showing it taut with concentration. Smith wondered if he was more afraid of the approaching enemy coast and its waiting guns — or of making a hash of the job with the Commander sitting by him. Smith remembered his own youth and thought it was an even bet and grinned, chuckled. He saw McGraw’s startled face as he leaned forward on the oar and saw that grin, heard that chuckle. Smith straightened his face. The man would think him mad at a time like this.

He stared ahead and thought — at last he was sure he could see the shore. The phosphorescent line that marked the break of the surf on the beach was clear enough but now he could also see the lift of the dunes, a low black cliff against the sky. He called softly, “Oars.”

The boat drifted.

There was the slap of small waves against the side of the whaler, the faint regular sigh of the surf on the beach. And still, though distantly and only a mutter now, the sound of the guns at Nieuport. How long must he wait? Was the party ashore lying hidden, waiting for some patrol to trudge past and away? Or had they been discovered? Were the enemy waiting in the dunes for the whaler and her crew?