The men waded and clawed their way across the deck through the seas that washed it and manned the six-inch casemates. They reported ready. Garrick exchanged an agonised glance with Aitkyne, Kennedy, Knight — and Smith saw those exchanges. Garrick tried once more: “Sir —”
But Smith would not wait. “Open fire!”
The two starboard six-inch guns bellowed bass to the tenor cracking of the twelve-pounders. At that range, the trajectory near flat, hitting was almost inevitable, a miss inexcusable. The six-inch bursts were clearly seen, one forward and one aft on the Maria, opening great holes in her on the waterline. She seemed to stop dead in her tracks and fall away before the sea. There were men forward and aft of the super structure, struggling waist-deep in the seas that swept her, attempting to lower boats.
The messenger again: “‘Sparks’ reports she’s still sending, Sir.”
“Very good.” One brave man sticking to his post in the egg-shell protection of a wireless-room in that exposed superstructure. One man calling down the pack on Thunder. “Concentrate fire on the superstructure!”
Another exchange of glances on the bridge, sick. His own face showed nothing but — it had to be done!
The salvo crashed out, a hammer to crack a nut, the guns recoiling with the tongues of flame licking long and orange over the sea, the smoke blossoming dirty yellow to shred and disperse on the wind. Smith did not see it, his eyes on the Maria so he saw the superstructure burst open under that concentration of fire, the funnel lean and fall. She was listing badly and Thunder was drawing ahead of her.
“Starboard ten!”
Thunder swung ponderously around to head across the bows of the sinking collier. There was a boat in the water, a dozen men in her and thrusting away from their ship. Then the third salvo hit her, the effect instantly seen and appalling at that range. She broke in half, bow and stern lifting as the coal in her belly dragged her down, and sank. A billow of smoke and steam and she was gone.
“Cease firing! Midships!”
“Midships, sir!”
Smith rubbed at his eyes and lifted his glasses again. “Stand by to pick up survivors.”
Thunder straightened on a course that took her down towards the wreckage and reduced speed until she rolled to the seas, barely making headway. There was flotsam: the wreckage of the life-boat, a few splintered planks, a cap. Maria would have carried a crew of twenty or so but there was not one survivor.
The guns’ crews had stood down and Thunder’s company braved the seas to line her rails, staring silently. There was no jubilation.
The crew of the forward 9.2 made a little group in the shelter below the bridge. Chalky White, the gun-trainer, muttered, “He’s gone off his rocker.”
Fanner Bates, Leading-Seaman and the gunlayer, snapped edgily, “Oh, shut it!”
“I mean it. Do you reckon he knows what he’s doing?”
Farmer was silent a moment. Both Benks and Horsfall talked to him and he knew the feeling in the wardroom. “I hope so.”
Gibb opened his mouth to speak but found Rattray’s hot eyes on him and stayed quiet. Rattray was making his life a misery. In any rare, brief moment that they were alone Rattray would crowd him, face shoved close. “Bright boy. Smith’s little pet. He thinks you’re a boy wonder but I’ll see what you’re made of one o’ these days.” The words changed slightly but the message was always the same. If they met on a crowded mess-deck or companion then Gibb got Rattray’s elbow in his ribs or Rattray’s foot crushing his own. And Gibb did not know why. He was afraid to tell anyone and so reveal his fear of the man because he was very young. It was wearing him down.
Rattray’s eyes slid away and up to the bridge. Smith. Shoving his neck in a noose. They would break the bastard and Rattray would laugh in his face and break Gibb.
Garrick did not look at Smith, nor did anyone else on the bridge. Then the messenger came running. “Wireless reports she’s stopped sending, sir.” Smith glared at him. Was this some macabre attempt at wit? The man flinched under that glare but carried on: “Reports another signal, sir. Distant and it’s stopped now, but they think it was Telefunken.”
Telefunken transmissions were distinctive. And they were German.
Smith took a breath. “Thank you.” Now they were all looking at him but he had had enough. “Pilot, a course for Malaguay. Revolutions for fifteen knots.”
He staggered to his cabin to stretch out on his bunk and pull a blanket around him. He was cold, cold, and his body ached with the constant strain of those hours on the bridge. There was a tap at the door and he groaned softly. What now? He called, “Come in!”
Albrecht entered, in one hand a glass that held three fingers of golden liquid. “I took the liberty of prescribing for you, sir.” He held out the glass. “Brandy.”
Smith jerked onto one elbow and rasped, “I don’t need Dutch courage, Doctor!”
Albrecht did not acknowledge the over-reaction, nor did he argue. “No, sir. You led a night attack only thirty-six hours ago, yesterday you smashed into the sea in an aeroplane and today you were more than six hours on the bridge and then —” He broke off, then finished, “It will warm you and help you to sleep.”
“I have nothing on my conscience, either.”
Albrecht did not answer but he did not look at Smith.
Smith sighed. “Doctor, I had to sink that ship. They were signalling and they got a reply. I had to.”
Albrecht said, “The surgeon’s knife.” And: “You’re still certain that these cruisers —”
He stopped. Smith’s weary grin stopped him. “If I say that they are after us, that they are sailing ten thousand miles to hunt us, you’ll think I’m mad.” He reached out and took the brandy and sipped at it and sighed. Albrecht saw in that weary smile a deal to frighten him but no madness at all. Smith said, “Because this ship can offer them a smashing victory, and then they can annihilate British shipping along this coast and that will draw forces to hunt them, not just from the West Indies but from the Atlantic and, Scapa Flow. It will take a lot of ships to track them down and ships of force to deal with them. At best they can lengthen the war and at worst they can, by weakening the Grand Fleet, win it. But first they sink this ship.” Smith drained the glass and handed it back to a staring Albrecht. “Goodnight, Doctor. And if you can’t sleep, try a drop of brandy. It’s all the thing.”
But left alone, Smith did not smile. The brandy had warmed him, burning down into his stomach. His body was exhausted but his mind was only too active. He closed his eyes and saw them coming up over the rim of the horizon, murderous.
‘Distant.’
The signals had been distant. That might mean a hundred miles or more or even, flukily, a thousand; but surely not so far in these conditions. No.
A ‘distant’ signal that the men on Thunder’s wireless thought might be Telefunken. It was still not evidence of the presence of a German ship, let alone two warships. Garrick and the rest did not believe in their existence while Albrecht? He — was uncertain now.
Smith was certain.
On the bridge, Aitkyne said quietly to Garrick, “What chance that our wild man may be right? After that wireless report? Thousand to one against?”
Garrick grimaced and shook his head. He muttered, “And if he’s wrong we’ve just been witnesses to murder. Or accessories to it. By God, after the things he’s done he’d better be right!”