Alan Evans - Ship of Force

And they were trapped below. There was an uneasy shifting among them that died away as the guard pushed away from the bulkhead, eyes flicking over them, hefting the rifle, reminding them. He eased back on to the bulkhead, balancing to the movement of the ship. He was a tough-looking, horny-handed seaman. He looked wary, as well he might, a Daniel in that crowded den of lions, but not worried. He had the rifle. His finger was laid along the trigger guard, not on the trigger, not after the nearcalamity on deck.

Smith was prepared to bet the hatch was not locked. The guard would not be happy with it locked with the prospect of a shell smashing out of the night, and why should it be? He had them under his rifle and Smith was sure he would use it. He looked a solid, determined man. A respectable husband and father and kindly, but at this moment he was guarding his enemies…They had been excited on deck, startled, curious — but not triumphant. There had been no expressions of hatred…An attack on this man would fail but…

Feet thumped on the deck, the hatch opened to admit grey light and a hoarse voice, the skipper’s, called down to the guard. Then the hatch slammed down but the guard relaxed slightly, settled himself more comfortably.

So it was light enough now for the skipper to see there was no British ship in sight. That would be the reason for the grin. What had happened to Sparrow ? But this was the time, if ever.

It was worth a try. They had to try.

He said quietly, “Eleanor. Shiver.”

She looked up at him, then shuddered. He started to tug off his jacket, talking to her, but he said, “Don’t any of you look at me. I’m supposed to be talking to the lady.” The glances shifted away. “Buckley. Get ready.”

The guard was suspicious now. Smith was not looking at him but at the edge of his vision he saw him once again push away from the bulkhead. But a respectable, decent man…Smith said, “Take off the blouse.” It was no longer sodden but it still clung to her. She was still a moment, seeing the men’s eyes turn away. Then she started to unfasten the buttons, peeled the blouse away from her as Smith held out the jacket.

The guard averted his eyes. A decent man.

Smith had no time to be sorry. He slashed the jacket across the man’s face and threw his weight into him, hurling him at Buckley. “Get the rifle!”

Buckley grabbed at the man, wrapped arms around him and grasped the rifle. It fired, once, the shot smashed into the deck-head then the others were piling on to the guard who went down under them kicking and fighting and bellowing in panic.

Smith was already on the companion, thrusting open the hatch and bursting out on to the deck. The light seemed bright in those first seconds and for one of them he hesitated. Then the skipper came hurrying aft around the wheelhouse and the man with the second rifle came running from the bow. He was shouting, lifting the rifle and Smith threw himself at the skipper. They wrestled clumsily, the skipper taken off guard and no more than trying to fend Smith off. Smith had to keep his feet and hold on to the skipper, hold him between the rifle and himself. The skipper’s eyes squinted at him and his mouth gaped as he panted, breath smelling of tobacco in Smith’s face. Beyond him, over the skipper’s broad shoulder, Smith could see the man with the rifle. He was stopped short of them, the muzzle of the rifle a yard or so away, weaving as he tried to get in a shot. He edged to one side, shouting, but Smith heaved the skipper over, stopping his attempt to break free, stopping the rifle from firing. But the skipper was setting his feet now, seeing the object of Smith’s wrestling and Smith could see the knowledge on his face. Where the hell were…

He saw Buckley suddenly straighten from the hatch and step up behind the man with the rifle.

Buckley also had a rifle.

The man was still. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder at the rifle Buckley had rammed into his back and stood so to let McGraw step up and twist away his weapon. Smith thrust the skipper towards Buckley then pointed a finger at McGraw. “Engines. Watch ’em. Make ’em see they do as they’re told or else!” McGraw ran for the engine-room hatch. Smith threw at Buckley, “Get ’em all below and put a guard on them.”

The cook was out of his galley, mechanically wiping fat hands on his apron as a pair of Sparrow ’s men hustled him below to the saloon. The man from the wheelhouse followed him similarly escorted Smith finished, “And make sure they don’t get out!”

“That they won’t, sir.” Buckley was grimly determined on that. He jerked the rifle at the skipper and his other prisoners.

“’Ere, you! Get below! Sharpish!”

Smith swung himself up into the wheelhouse and found Finlay at the wheel. Smith had watched him stand a trick at the wheel aboard Sparrow .

“Course, sir?” asked Finlay.

Course? Smith stared at the morning, grey, clouded, a fine drizzle falling, trying to catch his breath. He rubbed at the rain and sweat on his face as he took in the scene. They had seized the chance of escape only just in time — if in time. The sun was not up, but Ostende stood vague a bare mile away off the port bow. If this ship had not stopped and turned to pick up Smith and his men she would have reached Ostende at first light or before.

He ordered, “Starboard ten! Steer two-six-oh!” They were not going to Ostende. Not if he could help it. There were shore batteries that could sink them easily but this ship flew German colours. They might wonder at her change of course but they would know her because this was unlikely to be her first trip. They would not fire. There was a guard ship, what looked like one of the old torpedo-boats, patrolling slowly between the ship and Ostende. They were showing no interest. He stuck his head out of the wheelhouse and looked up at the yard at the hoist of flags there. Probably the skipper had run them up just before the escape and they were the identification. The coaster’s bow had swung away from the port and now pointed out to sea. He bent to the voice pipe.

“McGraw!”

“Sir!”

“Full speed ahead!” He found Eleanor Hurst beside him, tucking in the blouse, pushing at a tendril of hair. She suggested, “ Schnell .”

He said, “Tell ’em schnell !”

“ Schnell ! Aye, aye, sir.” Smith heard him bellow, “ Schnell ! D’ye hear? Schnell! Schnell !” There came the scrape and clang of a shovel.

Smith straightened. Lorimer stood at the wheelhouse door, red in the face and panting with excitement, brandishing a cook’s carving-knife like a cutlass. “We’ve searched the ship, sir. Nobody aboard.” Smith had seen them at it, scurrying like terriers.

Buckley appeared. “All secure under guard, sir. An’ the cook had a pot o’ coffee going and there’s bread an’ sausage. Foreign stuff o’ course, but it smells good. Come to that, anything would.” He was not looking at Smith. Now he said, “That torpedo-boat sir. Reckon she’s signalling to us?”

Smith grunted. He had no doubt of it. She lay astern of them now and she would be curious as they steamed away out to sea. “Run up a hoist.” And as Buckley looked at him questioningly, “Any flags. Doesn’t matter what it means, if anything. They’ll think the skipper’s got his signal-book upside down and try us again.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The engines were thumping away at a faster beat now and the coaster was slowly increasing speed. This was not Sparrow , though she was no ocean greyhound. This ship that had been toddling along at five or six knots might now slowly increase to eight. They were nowhere near running. But they were gaining time, gaining distance. The torpedo-boat still patrolled and was being left further and further astern.