The cabbie complained, “Look ‘ere, guv’nor —”
“All right! Get on!” The violence in the tone jerked the cabbie back in his seat. Smith glared ahead. That was that. Now there were only the ships, his command. But he would not forget her. Besides, he had recognised the officer, the tall young man in the red-tabbed uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel on the Staff: Hacker…
It was only much later, staring out of the window of a train crowded with troops that he thought he was no nearer guessing the meaning of Schwertträger. And now a new dimension had been added: Spring tide. If the tide was significant then a time was set. But what time? And what was the threat? It was as if Eleanor Hurst’s casual words had set a clock ticking. And there was nothing he could do about it.
She had run down the stairs with her robe clutched about her carelessly, thinking the knock at the door meant Smith had returned. Then she said, “You’d better come in.”
Hacker stood by the table and said, “I have to go back to Dunkerque. What is your answer?”
She wondered if Smith had known she was afraid and did not believe so. He had taken what he wanted and what he needed and because she had not summoned up a brave smile to speed him on his way he had gone away miserably certain he had hurt her. She had learned a lot about him, knew that he wanted to be gentle. Well, she just wasn’t feeling very brave, he had been leaving her alone and at the end her nerve cracked and she lashed out at him.
But she wouldn’t crack again. She pulled the robe closer about her, looked up at the tall soldier and nodded. “Yes.”
For Smith it was back to sea and the grind of patrols. Marshall Marmont he used as a floating base as she swung to her anchor in Dunkerque Roads. Sparrow always had a sprinkling of men from the monitor aboard her, giving some of Sparrow’s crew a comparative rest aboard Marshall Marmont. And that was just as well because Sparrow did more patrols than any other ship in Trist’s command. And some of the monitor’s men got firsthand experience of patrol work and even tasted the excitement of a U-boat stalk, though it was unsuccessful. But as McGraw told them philosophically as they stood down after the action, weary and deflated, “Still, the bastard didn’t get us, either.” The torpedo had missed Sparrow by scant feet.
Always now when she sailed she did so with Galt playing his mouth-organ. ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the sea-side!’ Again that was at Smith’s order but Dunbar grinned at it. That was a rare sight. Dunbar was a more patient man these days but taciturn, unsmiling. He never mentioned his wife and child in all the long hours he shared the bridge with Smith. And Smith was aboard Sparrow on every patrol, with Buckley as a lookout or taking a trick at the wheel.
There was a bombardment when a dozen of Sparrow’s crew worked in Marshall Marmont’s turret and tasted the swallowing claustrophobia of entombment in an anchored ship under fire from big guns. The monitor made excellent shooting.
Finally Sparrow and Marshall Marmont formed part of the escort of a ‘beef’ convoy. Those convoys from neutral Holland to the Thames and the East coast carried beef but also butter, cheese and other foods. There was a theory it was purchased to stop the Germans buying it, an extension of the blockade, but Britain needed that food. The monitor was there only because the ships of the convoy were so old and slow that she was able to keep up. They joked that it was the slowest convoy of the war, or any other war, but when one ancient tramp was torpedoed it was Marshall Marmont who took the crippled ship in tow and Sparrow who shepherded them home.
McGraw bawled across from Sparrow when once during the tow she ran close alongside the monitor. “Ye cannae fool me! Yon tramp’s pushin’ ye!” And the men of Marshall Marmont laughed. They knew McGraw now as he knew them.
When they returned to Dunkerque the monitor’s engines broke down, she had to be towed to her anchorage in the Roads and her engineers said it was a job for the dockyard, but still they were a happy company. The ships were the same but the men were changed.
It was close to noon on what should have been a summer’s day. It was the 9th of July, but a light rain fell steadily and a ground mist covered the land as Smith stood on the monitor’s bridge and she was towed in. He was wearily content. He thought of Eleanor Hurst as he sometimes did and it still hurt. Sparrow had been laid up for another boiler-clean since Smith returned from London but he stayed aboard Marshall Marmont and sent Garrick on leave instead. He thought it was almost a month since he had seen her. It struck another chord of memory and he asked of the bridge at large, “When is the next spring tide on the Belgian coast?”
There was a stir on the bridge behind him, muttering. Smith grinned to himself. Did they think it was a trick question to keep them on their toes? Then Chivers, the gunnery officer, said, “Next spring tide is early on the 12th, sir, at 4.16 a.m. local time. That’s just after first light, sir.”
“Thank you.” The Kapitänleutnant had said, ‘Soon the blow will fall,’ and it had not seemed an empty threat. He had spoken in the knowledge that his death was upon him…One spring tide had come and gone since he had died. Smith wondered uneasily if Naval Intelligence had solved the mystery or whether it would only be solved when the blow fell — and it was too late?
Soon.
But when? Where?
Brooding set him pacing out to the wing of the bridge but as he did so he caught Garrick watching him. Smith realised he was scowling at his own thoughts but Garrick must be wondering what he had to scowl about. He tried to throw off the mood because there was no point in worrying over a problem he could do nothing about. “I think the hands can keep to their own ships from now on.”
Garrick nodded eagerly, emphatically, glad to see Smith smiling and to be able to agree. “It’s worked, sir. The men didn’t like being swapped about to start with and I was doubtful, but it worked. Dunbar is of the same mind.” Garrick was happy with his ship now. But then he said, “There are rumours the Army are getting ready for another big push.”
Smith grimaced. A ‘big push’ meant a big casualty list but that was the only thing certain about it. It might gain a few miles of ground or only a few yards.
Garrick said, “Wonder what the Commodore’s got for us? But whatever it is,” he added with satisfaction, “we’re ready.”
Smith thought that now, maybe, they were.
He knew he was sorry about Eleanor Hurst.
Part Three — From a Check…
Chapter Five
That evening Trist sent for Smith, the signal flickering out at Sparrow as she steamed up the channel and into the port of Dunkerque. Smith had transferred to her as Marshall Marmont anchored and now he watched the hands as Dunbar took her alongside. They were dog-tired but working cheerfully. He told Dunbar, “Coal and ammunition.” They were the only reasons Sparrow had got into the port. “Tell ’em I’ll give shore leave if I can but, of course, it will depend on what orders we’re given.” They all knew he thought they had done well; he had told them so.
If he had expected congratulations from his Commodore he would have been disappointed. He found Trist in a black mood, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and scowling at the big chart at the end of the long room, his Staff gathered around him. Or rather, scattered. They stood about in silence. As if they waited for Smith’s arrival? He thought he saw glances exchanged that were relieved or uneasy. Relieved that the whipping-boy had come? Smith was angry that he thought of himself as such but the feeling persisted. And the uneasy ones, who did not meet his eyes?