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.
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.
Returning to the bridge he called for kye; there was a chilly breeze whipping across the North Sea and the watchkeepers would benefit from something hot.
“How are we stocked for additional chocolate and cocoa, Mr Canning?”
“Not much more than official issue, sir. I have been able to accumulate a little in the normal way, putting requisitions into the Stores at Harwich and here in Dunkerque at the same time. They are getting wise to that, sir. The two sets of storekeepers are starting to talk to each other.”
“Pity! Don’t try it again. Too big a risk. I’ll think of something else.”
Simon knew that Canning had only a small private income, insufficient for him to purchase stocks himself. He, on the other hand, had a huge income in Naval terms, could easily afford to do so. It would be wise to find a way to cover his expenditure – the hands should not know that he was spending his own money on their comforts. Even more so for the wardroom – his officers might be humiliated. It should not be too difficult – gifts of various sorts turned up frequently from the various organisations and committees that had formed in almost every town in the country to provide comforts for the troops and sailors. He had heard even of ships being adopted by women’s groups in towns along the coast and a regular trickle of cigarettes and sweets and such turning up.
He made a mental note to talk to his uncle to make the arrangements with a wholesaler in London. A City of London charitable committee could act as cover for a lorryload, a ton and more of the best split between the four destroyers.
“Toffees, Mr Canning! Not just chocolate.”
“Yes, sir. Exactly.”
Captains were never wrong on their own bridge.
“Time to our turning point?”
“Two hours and twenty-three minutes, sir, to reach a position one mile off Dutch waters. Monitors should commence bombardment in two hours and fifteen minutes from now, sir.”
The plan assumed that anything in the German-held harbours would be on one hour’s notice for steam.
“What if they have smaller petrol engined launches and boats, Canning?”
“Could be a problem, sir. To my limited understanding, it is a matter of winding up a starter and then kicking in a clutch, sir. Five minutes at most, not having boilers to bring up to temperature. I think any such would be out of their harbours well before we came along, sir.”
“If they have petrol torpedo boats, then the monitors are in trouble.”
“Or diesel, sir.”
Simon had heard of diesel, was not sure what the difference was between that and petrol. Fortunately, Canning did not know either, was able to avoid being wiser than his captain.
The hot cocoa arrived, delivered to all positions around the small ship and obviously welcome. It was definitely the case that they must have greater stocks than officially issued. Even in the summer months, the sea was chilly at night and a warmer was a pleasant extra, the sort of thing that made the hands feel valued.
“It’s a bribe, perhaps, Canning. Not a bad idea, though. Better than the way the Russians do things!”
There had been a report in the newspapers of a mutiny on a Russian naval vessel and of wholesale floggings and hangings as a response. The Navy had generally felt no more than contempt, for mutineers and the Russian authorities both.
“Very much so, sir. Strange thing is, the Russian Navy seems to be doing well in the Black Sea, despite their peculiar habits. Disaster in the Baltic, of course. I hear a rumour that we are to send submarines into the Baltic, sir.”
“Not with me aboard, Mr Canning! Horrible bloody things! The very idea of going down beneath the surface of the sea, deliberately shutting down a hatch and plunging under! Not for me!”
“No. I doubt I shall be volunteering, sir. I thought about the RNAS last year, when they were calling for bodies. I might like going up in the air. Not under the water, though.”
“I didn’t see the request for men, Mr Canning. Busy on Sheldrake and enjoying myself far too much in any case. Don’t know that I am a bold aviator myself – particularly after the way we dealt with that poor chap earlier.”
“Good poin
t, sir. All very well flapping along at a thousand feet. Bit of a bugger when your wings drop off!”
“Light at twenty degrees, starboard bow!”
The lookout’s call brought them back to business. The Dutch, being neutral, had kept all of their lights and buoys, making navigation easier off their shores.
“Five minutes to our turning point, sir.”
“All hands, Mr Canning.”
Lancelot had been at action stations, all of the crew at their places of duty, but half had been permitted to sit or lay down if there was space, to rest as much as they could. No doubt some few had even managed to sleep, to the admiration of their mates who could not rest in the tense minutes leading up to a night of fighting.
Chapter Four
“What are those, ‘Major?”
“Tin cans, sir. Empty. Condensed milk, the little ones, sir. Bully beef the big. Hang a small one inside a big ‘un, sir, on a bit of string, you might say, and attach them to the wire, a few yards apart, high and low, sir.”
O’Grady displayed the finished product, ready to be strung up. He shook it and achieved a set of melodious chimes.
“Sing low in the wind, so they will, sir. Loud if any mischievous hand should chance to cut the wire in the night, hoping to be silent.”
“That’s clever, ‘Major!”
“Not, I am forced to say, my own invention, sir, though not so well known as yet. I was informed by an acquaintance of the trick. A South African man, sir, who had set tripwires in the war they had there, before your time. He was one of them Boers then, is now a virtuous soldier, so he says.”
“Times change, ‘Major! I had understood the Kaiser to be a friend of the Boers.”
They shook their heads, accepting that politics and statecraft was something beyond their comprehension.
“If he is as good at killing the Hun as his compatriots were at shooting us down in that unfortunate conflict, sir, then he will be very welcome.”
The Death of Hope Page 6