Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“More luck than judgement, Crewe. We were shut down listening in the night and heard her engines revving high to charge her batteries. Managed to creep up on her on the surface and shell and ram her. The trawlers were set up for the Arctic, had bows reinforced for ice.”

“That’s the same trawlers they sent into the Red Sea, is it?”

“Exactly, Crewe! Unbelievable, except that I will now believe anything of the Admiralty. Shocking the things they will do unthinkingly. Incapable of thought, more likely. Jacky Fisher did a lot of good for the Navy in getting rid of deadbeat ships; a pity he could not do the same for the men.”

Crewe was shocked. Some of the old-timers were out of date, perhaps, yet they had the right ideas fundamentally.

“Still makes more sense to capture the enemy than to sink them, old chap. In Nelson’s day, more than one in ten of the Navy’s ships were French or Spanish or Dutch or Danish originally, captured in battle and used to our advantage. Good idea to close and capture, you know, Adams.”

“It is impossible with modern guns, Crewe. The explosive shell is a ship sinker. That’s why we should be practicing at ten miles and more, using the big guns as they should be. In Connaught, earlier this year, we opened fire on destroyers at twenty-eight thousand yards and drove them back to port before they had reached twenty-four. That’s how the guns should be used.”

“Good God! How did you do that? Never tried a target over five thousand, myself, and far more inclined to wait for three. Ridiculous sort of thing to do, when you consider it. How are you going to take their surrender at that distance?”

“You are not, Crewe. You must sink them. A destroyer that takes one of our nine point two inch bricks won’t survive very long, anyway. In these days of torpedoes, one must keep the small ships far distant. That means sink them at least five miles out.”

“Ten thousand yards? Hit a tiny destroyer at that range, old chap? Not sure that I would like to try, you know. No, blast them with six inch when they come to a reasonable distance. Open sights at half a mile is best. Can always dodge their torpedoes, you know.”

Christopher gave up the unequal argument. Crewe was incapable of assimilating any new ideas, it seemed. God help Black Prince if she ever went into battle.

“Not to worry, old fellow. Sun’s over the yardarm, is it not?”

Crewe agreed it was. A pink gin would be just the thing to set them up for the day.

The Atlantic was pleasantly calm, as it could be in summer, long low swells and little wind and a bright sun. Pleasure cruise weather. Black Prince made her way north, the west coast of Ireland just in sight and the lookouts scanning the sea for periscopes or anything out of the ordinary.

“Sailing vessel, four-masted barque, nor’west. Fifteen miles.”

Christopher put his glasses on the speck, picked out the masts and sails and little else. He waited for the officer of the watch to act.

Lieutenant Chalmers took up a large, old telescope, inherited from a sailor grandfather most likely, certainly of higher magnification than Christopher’s binoculars, had a little trouble finding the merchantman, finally settled onto her.

“Swedish flag. Two thousand tonner, thereabouts. Big. Four masts. All fore and aft sails. No topgallants. Smoke from a boiler on deck…”

He seemed puzzled by his last observation.

“Power winches, Holmes, to set sail. She can probably make do with a dozen deckhands.”

“Never heard of that, Adams.”

Holmes seemed faintly offended as if it were somehow wrong that a sailing ship should make use of steam power.

“Course from the States to France, perhaps, Adams?”

It was legitimate to ask the navigator’s advice on such matters.

“Or to Portugal – salt fish from the Grand Banks, maybe. Could be to Spain with American or Canadian wheat. Might be bound into the Med. Unlikely to be heading for an English port. Just possible she’s bound for Cork. What tack is she on?”

“Starboard, easy on the wind. Not beating up.”

Holmes was at a loss for what to do next, did not want to ask for advice on the actions he should take. Christopher made no attempt to say anything – he was not a watchkeeper.

“Captain to the bridge!”

Holmes had finally given an order. The wrong one in Christopher’s opinion, refusing all responsibility and taking no action.

Captain Gilpin-Brown appeared within the minute, assessed the situation within seconds, called a series of commands to respond.

“Close up main armament. Ten of port wheel. Increase revolutions for twenty knots. Yeoman, make the challenge.”

The merchantman raised another Swedish flag to the maintopmast in response.

“No signalling lamp. Don’t know the flag code. Typical merchantman. Any deck cargo?”

Deck cargo would be shrouded in tarpaulins, which might be concealing guns or torpedo tubes rather than crates if she was a commerce raider in disguise.

Christopher scanned her decks, saw them to be clear from bows to stern. No deck cabins; no cargo. He waited for Holmes to give the confirmation, there being no urgency.

“Clean, sir. Just a boiler by the mainmast.”

The Swedish flag was painted large on her hull, the gold and blue shining bright.

“Steer to pass within hailing range at five knots, Holmes.”

The Captain left it to Holmes to translate that command into a precise set of orders, noticed how long it took him to do so.

Christopher suspected that Mr Holmes’ personal report would have a couple of sentences added before evening, that he would be a long time waiting on his promotion.

A brief conversation with an English-speaking officer confirmed the Swede to be an innocent neutral bound for Cadiz with grain. She had made a quick passage and had seen nothing, which was normal for a neutral which had no business giving information to belligerents, possibly compromising their own status.

Black Prince returned to course, a brief note in the log saying only, ‘spoke Swedish barque Helga off Irish coast’.

Holmes spoke to Christopher later, looking much ruffled and calling for a brandy.

“Captain was a bit shirty, Adams! A lot of damned fuss and nonsense for a neutral! Nothing to concern ourselves about there, I would have thought.”

“There are a few commerce raiders out, Holmes. Not many and far less of a worry than the submarines might be but we need to keep an eye out for them. Not likely to be sailing ships, I will admit.”

Holmes was hardly placated; he thought he had done well enough that there was no need for the Captain to abuse him. He supped his brandy and calmed down, Christopher doing little to ease him. He had better things to do than calm the ruffled feathers of the incompetent.

“Off Londonderry, sir, by thirty miles. Course change for Bass Rock.”

“Very good, Adams. Make it so.”

Christopher gave the orders. They had seen no signs of submarines off the Irish coast and were not displeased to be on their way out of waters that might contain such unpleasant beasts. The likelihood was too high that the first indication of a submarine might be the plumes of water rising as its torpedoes struck their hull. All of the advantage lay with the hidden boat in the absence of any means of detecting them underwater.

The north of Scotland was far less stormy than normal and they made the anchorage at Scapa in good condition, entering through the Hoxa gate and saluting more than twenty ships senior to them before taking up an anchorage next to Duke of Edinburgh, of the same class as them.

“Connaught not here, sir?”

“In the yard, I believe, Adams, for the guns. Our turn when she comes out. Chance for leave then, as well.”