Alan Evans - Ship of Force

Leading Seaman Buckley, who along with Garrick had served in the Pacific with Smith, would be an asset in any ship. But that was not why Garrick wanted him aboard Sparrow . Smith might need a familiar face on board, known and dependable. A man to look out for Smith if he did something reckless.

Smith guessed this but though his lips twitched as he hid the smile, he answered gravely, “Do that. But he must be quick. There are airmen in the sea out there and I won’t wait.”

He watched as the screw of the pinnace thrashed and she slid away into the night. He had been tempted to order Garrick to send one of his officers from Marshall Marmont to take command of Sparrow while he himself returned to the monitor. He should have done so. But then Garrick and the lieutenant taking command would have to be told the reason.

Smith swung on Sanders. The Sub-lieutenant looked nervous and unhappy, trying to hide both and failing miserably. Smith remembered that Sanders was almost as much a stranger aboard this ship as he was himself. His promotion from midshipman had brought his appointment to Bloody Mary just two weeks ago. Smith sensed those weeks would not have been easy. When he had visited Sparrow that afternoon he had weighed up her commander and her crew and decided they were a tight-knit band of highly competent, hard-bitten veterans. The fresh young Sub would have a hard time fitting in, being accepted.

Now Trist had ordered a bombardment and given Ostende to Smith and his tiny flotilla. He hardly knew a man of them except Garrick. And thank God for him, burly, solid, stolid, hardworkingly efficient and loyal. A good man. And Smith knew that even now Garrick would be worrying about his unconventional, unpredictable Commander, with his black moods and prickly temper, left aboard this old thirty-knotter among strangers. Hence the offer of Buckley. Smith found he was grinning again at the thought, saw the bewildered look on Sanders’s face and laughed outright. He saw Gow, the coxswain hauling his long frame up the ladder to the bridge, freeze at that laughter and peer aft, startled.

Smith said, “All right, Sub.” He walked forward to the bridge. As the parties collected fore and aft and the little bridge filled up they glanced sideways at him, curious, new rumours flying now on the heels of others that had no doubt preceded him. Never mind. They would soon find the truth about each other.

He looked around the bridge, crowded now with Gow at the wheel, the signalman ready with his lamp, the bosun’s mate at the engine-room telegraphs and the three man crew of the twelve pounder. The bridge was hardly more than a platform for that gun. Smith knew about thirty-knotters, he had commanded one as a very young lieutenant and the memory was green. Like coming home? To a thirty-knotter? Home ? That was funny and he was grinning again now. But this was his flotilla, his ships and his men, for better or for worse, and he was taking them to sea.

Sanders reported breathlessly, “Ready to proceed, sir.”

It was time to start learning about this young man. Smith said, “Take her out, Sub.”

Sparrow hove to outside in the Roads as Marshall Marmont’s picket boat bucketted out of the darkness on a rising sea, bringing Leading Seaman Buckley to join the thirty-knotter. As she rocked to the sea and the wind that pushed her, Smith had doubts about Trist’s confidence in the weather for the morrow. It was a pitch black night, overcast. The day might start clear enough for shooting, but later…

Gow glanced at Smith then quickly around the bridge. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Smith had not missed that careful glance. He stood at Gow’s shoulder. Sanders had shifted out to the wing of the bridge where he watched as the pinnace came alongside. The bridge was still crowded but Gow was close and only Smith would hear him above the sound of the sea. He said, “Go on.”

The coxswain said, “We’ve got a good ship’s company, sir. She’s a happy ship. I know the name she’s got and there’s no denying we’ve some hard cases that kick ower the traces and get intae trouble ashore, but at sea they’re the best.” He paused. When he did speak again it was as if he had changed his tack. “Yon Mr. Sanders, sir, is promising well. The skipper’s a wee bit hard wi’ the young officers but he likes them well enough. It’s just that he wants a job done right and he’s maybe a bit over strict and the young man takes it too much to heart. But I think he’ll dae fine if Mr. Dunbar’s left alone to bring him along.” He paused again, then: “The skipper’s a tough’un, sir, but fair. Well-liked. I reckon the Commodore has a down on him, sir. I think he doesn’t like the skipper; he should ha’ had promotion to a bigger ship long afore this. He’s been in Sparrow since 1914 and —”

Smith cut him off. “ That’s enough, Coxswain!”

Gow’s mouth shut like a trap and his eyes fixed on the compass. There came a yell from the waist and Smith, looking aft, saw the pinnace hook on and Buckley swing himself up to the iron deck of the thirty-knotter. The pinnace sheered off, spun on her heel with smoke streaming from her stubby funnel then the midshipman at her wheel straightened her out and sent her plunging away into the night. Smith’s eyes flicked over Gow as he turned back to the bridge, to Sanders coming back to con Sparrow . Smith swore under his breath, thinking that Gow had been rash to try to plead for his captain. He might have hardened Smith if the latter had been in doubt how to act over Dunbar. Smith had not been in doubt, had long ago made his decision, but — But? Gow did not seem a fool or a hasty man. So he had not been pleading but simply endorsing what he was certain was Smith’s decision, expressing his gratitude. And Brodie, too, had said, ‘Thank ye.’

Was it so obvious then that Smith intended to cover up for Dunbar? Was Smith’s nature so plainly written in his face? He did not want his emotions read so easily. He growled badtemperedly, “Let’s get under way, Mr. Sanders.”

“Aye, aye, sir! Half ahead both.”

Brodie came on to the bridge, enamelled mugs hooked on the fingers of one hand, a jug of cocoa steaming in the other. Smith took the proffered mug and sipped at the cocoa that burned his tongue. He asked Brodie, “Well?”

“Aye, sir. Empty and sleeping.” They were talking about Dunbar. Brodie had got the whisky out of him. He said, “It’s a bluidy shame, sir.” There was genuine concern in the steward’s voice. Gow had said Dunbar was well-liked. Smith watched Brodie clamber down the ladder from the bridge and head aft. The little man had been given some training in first aid because thirty-knotters did not ship a doctor. So Brodie did the best he could for sick or wounded until they could be put ashore. It was a responsibility Smith would not have wanted.

As he turned to face forward he saw a burly figure at the back of the bridge. Buckley was a big man but he had slipped in there unobtrusively. Smith asked, “All right?”

“Aye, sir, thank ye.” Buckley sounded cheerful and Smith reflected that life aboard a monitor swinging around her anchor in Dunkerque Roads would not suit Buckley and he was doubtless glad of this change.

Sanders conned Sparrow through the shipping anchored in the Roads and the shoals off Dunkerque. She slipped through the night past one shadowy, looming ship after another. Sanders’s orders to Gow at the helm were crisp, but Smith could sense his nervousness that jerked the words out of him. The Sub was handling the ship for the first time under the eyes of this new Commander — and Smith knew his own reputation as a shiphandler. So he kept his voice quiet behind Sanders, steadying.