Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

They tied up at the wharf at Dunkerque, much to their pleasure. Anchored or at a buoy in the outer harbour meant it was difficult to get ashore; moored alongside, all hands could be released for a couple of hours at a time.

“There’s a chocolate seller in the market again, sir. Not the same old biddy as ‘twas, sir. Good stuff though.”

“I’ll see what she’s got, Packer. Always pleasant to have a bar of chocolate to chew on in the middle of the night.”

“I got biscuits for the cabin, sir.”

Half a dozen chocolate biscuits on a plate were always welcome when officers came visiting.

As always, Simon spent more than he had intended at the stall, came back telling himself he would get fat. He was of a stocky build naturally, would need little excess to become pudgy. There was almost no chance to exercise aboard ship and it was always tempting to nibble on something during the long nights.

He heard the pipes sound as a senior officer was welcomed aboard, was surprised he had not been warned in advance.

The duty seaman at the brow called quietly to him.

“Captain Campbell-Barnes, sir.”

Captain of Lucifer, junior ship in the half-flotilla.

“’Afternoon, sir. Thought I should speak to you rather than send a signal. Quicker. One of my subs tripped over on deck an hour back. Running, for some reason, and caught his heel in a ringbolt. Hospital says he has broken both bones in the lower leg. On the sick list for months with that.”

“Right, he must be replaced, sooner rather than later. Come with me to Senior Naval Officer, Dunkerque, see what, if anything, he has available.”

There were three monitors and four predreadnought battleships in harbour, part of the bombardment squadron. With their far larger wardrooms it was commonly possible to pull an officer off them to fill a gap. A destroyer had so small a complement that a missing man would affect efficiency; on the big ships, which spent far more hours in port than at sea, one sub would hardly be noticed.

SNO Dunkerque was happy to assist, knowing that Simon was favoured by Commodore Tyrwhitt and had a record of success that reflected favour on Dunkerque as well.

“What do you want? A sublieutenant with a year or two in or a midshipman ready to make his step?”

Simon raised an eyebrow to Campbell-Barnes, left the decision to him.

“A bright young mid would be ideal, sir. Happy to pick up his commission and not had the chance to get into habits of idleness on a big ship like too many subs from the battlewagons.”

“Should be no difficulty, let me see… I have a list somewhere of mids due to make sub, sent in from the Bombardment Squadron. My responsibility these days, don’t send such trivial matters to the Admiralty for a decision in time of war. What have we got? Seven, no less, let’s take a look at their names.”

Campbell-Barnes instantly dismissed a plebian Smith and an appalling Higginthwaite, ended up undecided between a Cavendish and a Watney-Egglinton.

“Damned difficult decision, sir! Cavendish must be related to the Dukes of Devonshire, in the nature of things, while the other must have a daughter of the brewing family and a second or third son of the Earl of Cumberland as parents. No money in the Cumberland family, these days, sir, but a deal of political influence – related to everybody in the Party!”

Even Simon knew that the Watney family had pots of money, controlled half a dozen MPs and possessed a place in Society. The Devonshires were said to own half of Britain and to supply never fewer than a third of every Cabinet of either party. He knew nothing of the Cumberlands.

“A quandary, old chap! No telling what is best for the wardroom. You might enquire which was the better seaman?”

That course had not occurred to Campbell-Barnes.

“I say, sir, what an excellent idea!” He turned to SNO. “Do you know, sir?”

“The boy Watney-whatever is Dartmouth, has been three years a midshipman and only now put up for his commission. Young Cavendish is a wartime entry.”

That seemed decisive. Cavendish might be benefitting from influence pushing him forward early; the other lad was a dullard, one with every advantage and still likely almost the last of his year to be declared ready for his promotion.

“Cavendish it is, sir, if you please.”

“He will be on your deck within the hour, Campbell-Barnes.”

The young captain saluted and left, leaving Simon to shake his head in the company of the Senior Naval Officer.

“Aristocratic purity maintained, it might seem, Sturton.”

“He runs a tight ship, sir. Most junior of my three captains. A long way from least efficient – and the other pair are well better than average. That being the case, I put up with his nonsense, sir.”

“So you must, Sturton. Turning to business, I have seen your orders for tonight, obviously, and I am not sure I like them. Setting up two of the monitors as sitting ducks, if you ask me!”

“I tend to agree, sir. Do we have any indication of what is to hand at Zeebrugge, sir?”

“Aeroplanes went over earlier this week, bombing and reconnaissance. Far more the latter, of course – their little bombs are futile against ships or shore batteries. They saw almost nothing. Small launches and a pair of harbour defence craft carrying maybe a single six inch on something little more than a motorised barge.”

“The launches carrying torpedoes, sir?”

“No. A small gun, a two or three pounder sort of thing. Useful for chasing down small boats trying to make a clandestine landing of spies along the shoreline. It’s my opinion that they are relying on the shore guns for any defence. They are still building more batteries all along the coast. Some of the guns are massive.”

“Makes it impossible to bring an army ashore along the coast, sir, behind the Trenches.”

“I do not think the Army has even considered that course, Sturton. The generals are not very good at thinking about things, you know. Much better at doing, providing somebody else can tell them what.”

“Getting back to the sea, sir, any attack on the bombarding ships will come down the coast. Destroyers, one presumes, to make the speed to reach them.”

“Logical, Sturton. Bigger than your L-Class boats, all of them.”

“Hopefully, not expecting us, sir.”

They shrugged in unison and Simon returned to Lancelot with the intention of sleeping for a couple of hours before they sailed. He would be busy all night, would need to keep alert.

He sat for a few minutes signing the legal documents necessary to break the entail on the Perceval estates, possible only now that he had celebrated his twenty-first birthday, an event he had belatedly recalled as occurring in recent weeks.

His uncle, the current Viscount Perceval intended to place all of his farmland on the market and had little doubt of it selling even in wartime. There were still those members of the House of Lords who firmly believed that the Land was the bulwark of the aristocracy and snapped up any acreage close to their home estates. Even more land-hungry, so Simon had been told, were the newly ennobled, distinguished by their money rather than their blue blood and anxious to make a show of aristocratic probity.

He wished them good luck. Farmland was a burden to the go-ahead, producing small income and vast costs. Wheat for English bread was better grown on the American and Canadian Prairies; beef was cheaper in South America; sheep meat and wool came from South Africa and the Antipodes. The English farmer could not compete against the foreigners and too few were willing to turn their acres to those crops that could be grown at lower cost in Britain. The wise man was the one who washed his hands of agriculture. There was a temporary, wartime upsurge in prices, he had been told; the end of the war would finish that.