The Perceval money would be sensibly invested, he had no doubt, quite possibly guided by the Isaacs interest. His uncle intended to retain a few acres in Kent, little more than a park surrounding the country house he had chosen to create in place of the great mansion down on the borders of Devon and Dorset. That would provide a pleasant location for the family, close, but not too much so, to London. Inevitably, thought of a family led to consideration of his possible, perhaps probable, future wife.
An attractive girl, Alice Parrett, and well bred to the post of a gentleman’s lady. She was not of the aristocracy herself but could step up as easily as he could, possibly more so. Pretty rather than beautiful, with enormous eyes that a man could drown in… Not as bright as Baker’s Primrose Patterson, few were; more intelligent than the average, that was for sure. Add to that, he was increasingly sure he had fallen in love with her, something he had never done before. He was fairly certain she loved him, too. The end of the war or promotion to commander would be time to propose and then a rapid wedding – no point to delaying longer than he must.
“Packer! These to the post, please.”
The legal documents came with their heavy envelope, pre-addressed to his trustees, now his lawyers as he was of age, Aitkens, Aitkens and Trim, one of the leading legal lights of the City, he had discovered.
Packer, who had unearthed the documents and placed them prominent on the desk, said nothing, took them to the ship’s postman to go ashore with his bag before they sailed.
It was too late to sleep, he had taken up one of his two hours on more or less necessary personal business. He stretched his legs as far as the bridge, found Canning there, tacking a chart to the small table available on the larger destroyer.
“Latest minefields, sir. Getting thicker every week. Useful to us, of course. Anything bigger than a gunboat has to stick to the channels if they are within five miles of the shore.”
“Don’t know that I would fancy driving a gunboat in a straight line across a field, Mr Canning.”
“Some of these new boats are said to draw no more than three feet, sir. Very fast with it. A single torpedo or a six pounder or its equivalent and a mass of machine guns, how many unclear. The torpedo boat could be a menace.”
“Don’t see a lot of point to a little gunboat. A six pound shell is too small to do harm to a sloop even. I suppose a flotilla together could be a nuisance, not a lot more than that to us. They would do nothing to a monitor or predreadnought.”
“Designed to kill invasion barges, I suspect, sir. As we don’t intend to invade anything, not a great deal of point to them.”
“Prevents our making a landing behind the Trenches, or so SNO said.”
“Makes sense, sir… Do you think they might be considering the same?”
“I hope so, Number One! Think of the killing we would make between us, the old battleships and the Harwich and Dover Patrols. It would take a lot of submarines and torpedo boats to hold us off.”
The predreadnoughts could use their mass to plough through barges at fifteen knots, perhaps more, ramming some and overturning more in their wake, possibly not needing to fire their twelve inch guns.
“A massacre, sir. The torpedo boats can’t be sufficient escort for a landing.”
Neither chose to speculate further.
“Crew to the Maxim and the Lewises tonight, Number One.”
“Full alert, sir.”
“I think so. Mr Rees!”
The Commissioned Gunner appeared almost immediately, a trick of his, it seemed.
“Some reason to expect small torpedo craft tonight, we are told, Mr Rees.”
“As well to mount the Hotchkisses, sir. They outrange the Lewises, not that that matters too much in the night. Can’t see to aim straight in the darkness. Handy to have extra firepower if anything comes close.”
“Very good. Rifles and revolvers to the deck, I think.”
“Issue revolvers, sir? Selected hands to carry them at their hip. Rifles to stands at the normal locations by the tubes, sir?”
The voice said that was not a question.
“As you think best, Mr Rees.”
The monitors sailed with a pair of old sloops in attendance, their function being to tow the big ships back if it became necessary, as was too frequently the case.
“Bloody monitors, Mr Canning! Built in a hurry with no thought given to their eventual displacement. The engines they installed were far too small.”
“The First Lord had a brainwave, they say, sir, and overcame all opposition to get his pets into service without wasting time on designing them.”
“Bloody Churchill!”
Canning very wisely made no comment.
An hour and the destroyers left harbour on the line for Harwich, turning northeast up the coast only when out of sight of land. Fifteen minutes later a lookout called a seaplane.
“Hands to action stations. Mr Rees! Aeroplane!”
Rees yelled and two of his gunners’ party ran up from below with the Hotchkisses, hidden in the movement of hands to tubes and guns, hopefully unnoticed by the observer in the seaplane. They set up their guns and waited out of sight behind the bandstand that carried the Maxim.
“Mr Higgins! You and four men with rifles to show yourselves on the forecastle.”
The seaplane made its slow way towards them, the observer visible, hanging out of his cockpit with binoculars to his eyes.
There was a large, black Maltese Cross clearly visible on the fuselage.
“Can’t be making fifty knots, sir. What would you say? A thousand feet? A little less?”
“Damned if I know, Mr Canning! How do you estimate height? Mr Rees, fire at will.”
Rees raised a hand to acknowledge the command as the plane turned to come in from off the port bow, taking a close look at the flotilla, losing height to get a better view.
“Distant two cables and at a thousand feet and dropping, Mr Canning.”
“Roughly, sir. We ought to have some sort of aerial rangefinder, sir. Shouldn’t be impossible to bodge something to take a triangle.”
Rees stood and shouted to Higgins to open fire with his rifles, presumably to draw attention away from the midships area where his guns were located. A few seconds and the Hotchkisses fired in bursts of about twenty rounds, tracer giving an aim. The first shots were astern and below the seaplane; after that they hit into the fuselage around the cockpit. They saw the pilot fall to the side.
“It’s going down, sir! Rees has got it!”
“So he has. Close the wreckage when it splashes and launch a boat, Number One. If it floats, salvage it – we can take it home to be examined.”
The aeroplane did not float, going into the sea nose first, dragged under by its heavy engine. The pilot and observer went down with it.
“No reports going home with that one, Number One.”
“Yeoman, make to the half-flotilla, ‘set additional lookouts to watch for aeroplanes’.”
Simon wondered if their gunners had unofficial extras as well.
He went below for a few minutes to make the first notes for his report. ‘Enemy seaplane destroyed by machine gun fire. No survivors. Single engine. Observation machine. No evidence of bombs.’ Short and simple. He added a precise time and position. No need to mention that Lancelot had used unofficial weaponry to make the kill – what Their Lordships did not know about would cause them no anguish.