by Alan Evans
*
Smith tried to put her out of his mind and concentrate on the information she had given him. Bradley — a good man. Then as he climbed to the upper deck he met Garrick, who said, “Young Wakely had a sack of stuff he brought aboard from the Gerda, sir. He’s in the Captain’s — your deck cabin with it, sir.”
Smith ignored the slip but it was a sign of the newness of his command; he was a stranger here still. “Right. You’d better come along and give a hand with it.” And as they went: “I will mention them in my report. Manton, Wakely, Somers, Kennedy, Burton. They all did well.” He did not mention Somers particularly but the boy impressed him. He said, “And I’ll mention your loyalty and the objections you raised.”
“Sir?”
Smith paused outside the cabin and his smile was lopsided. “Just in case. It will keep your nose clean if it turns out I have been a bloody fool.”
Half-an-hour later the law of probabilities insisted he had been just that. The sack held the Gerda’s log, her master’s diary, copies of manifests, letters from owners and agents and his wife, personal papers. Smith, Garrick and Wakely sifted through it painstakingly and Albrecht was sent for because there was a great deal of German in the papers. The master of the Gerda had been born in Argentina but as Albrecht explained, “No doubt he spoke German at home and with his friends.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing at all in that. We often spoke German at home.” And there was nothing at all to cast doubt on Gerda’s neutrality.
Nobody wanted to look at Smith. He dismissed them. Later Aitkyne asked Garrick, “Well? Anything?”
Garrick shook his head worriedly. “Nothing at all. As far as evidence goes that collier was as neutral as a Swiss hospital ship.”
Aitkyne said, “The general opinion is that he’s mad as a hatter.”
“Nonsense!” Garrick snapped it, but he peered uneasily at the navigator.
Aitkyne smiled wryly. “Don’t jump down my throat, old lad. I didn’t say it was my opinion. But it could be his salvation.”
“What?”
“If he’s lucky they’ll decide he’s mad — and they won’t shoot him.
V
They made Malaguay in the late afternoon, Thunder trudging in over a slow, leaden swell under a grey and lowering sky. There was a strong, gusting wind that snapped the crests from the waves in spitting spume. The weather was worsening.
Thunder came to anchor in the bay but before she was stopped the boat carrying the Consul ran alongside and he jumped for the dangling ladder, clawed at it desperately and clambered up. He was obviously in a hurry. Smith spoke to the bridge messenger. “My compliments to Miss Benson and I would be grateful if she would spare me a few minutes of her time.” And then he added, turning the seeming request into a command, “Immediately.” He might also have added that the lady was right forward in the bow but there was no need. The messenger was as aware of it as everyone else on the bridge and no doubt as appreciative. The wind moulded the dress to her body and whipped at the skirt around her ankles. Looking for her American?
Thunder rode to her anchor. Garrick said, “Can’t see any Maria, sir.”
Smith had already made his inspection of the vessels at anchor. “No. She must be up-river.” Ships lined the wharves in the river that ran into the bay, a small forest of masts but it was impossible to pick out a particular ship at that angle and that distance. He could see two British ships at anchor, one a commonplace tramp but the other bigger, smarter. They called for another decision.
Garrick said, “That’s Ariadne, sir. Commodore Ballard. This is her regular run, right up the coast to Vancouver. Usually around forty or fifty passengers and cargo.”
“And the other one.” Smith lifted his glasses and read the tramp’s name. “The Elizabeth Bell?”
“Don’t know, sir. She’s a stranger to me.”
“My compliments to both of them as well. I want someone to explain the situation to them and that I request neither will move without my protection.” He paused. That smacked of arrogance. He added, “I will go myself if I can, but if not then Aitkyne shall go. Tell him to be tactful.”
But Aitkyne was behind them, looking pensive as well he might because the explanation would be difficult and they wouldn’t want to believe him when they heard what Smith wanted; that might mean delay and time was money to both skippers. And Aitkyne did not believe it himself. He said unhappily, “Aye, aye, sir.”
Smith said, “Be tactful.” But he finished definitely: “But firm!”
He left the bridge and Aitkyne muttered, “They’ve had the news from Guaya, that’s sure. See the Consul come aboard? Like a scalded cat. This is where the sparks start flying.”
Smith met Sarah Benson and the Consul on the upper deck. Thackeray was a thin man, thin-lipped. He eyed Smith severely. “You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, Captain, if reports are correct.”
“I don’t know what reports you’ve heard. The truth of the matter is that there was a German collier lying at Guaya, masquerading as a neutral. I sank her.”
Thackeray jerked as if struck and glared at Smith. “You can prove she wasn’t neutral?”
“I can’t prove it, but she wasn’t neutral. You know about the cruisers? Wolf and Kondor?”
Thackeray did because Cherry had telegraphed to him and Smith went on to explain why he had sunk Gerda. Thackeray listened impatiently, lips pursed. At the end he shook his narrow head. “They’re outraged and I’m not surprised. It will get worse, I’m sure. The Germans are playing it up with all their might, of course. They’re bandying around phrases like the wolf sneaking into the fold to murder the lamb.”
“An unusual lamb — fitted with brand-new wireless!”
“So you say. Did you know they’ve had a gunboat, the Leopard, interned here since 1914? Now they’re demanding her release or the internment of this ship.”
“That’s nonsense. They should be told as much.”
Smith was hinting that this was the Consul’s job but Thackeray looked down his nose. “Suppose the Chileans agree?”
“I wouldn’t. You can make that clear. If they try to intern this ship illegally they’ll have to do it by force.” And he looked around at the crowded port and the town.
Thackeray muttered, “It’s an indication of the trouble you’ve caused. Over the years I’ve built up good relations, very good relations with everyone in this port. Now my friends cut me and peasants shout at me in the streets!”
Smith caught Sarah Benson’s eye on him. Her face was impassive but one eye closed, opened. So Thackeray’s cosy little world had been upset and Smith was to blame. He’d get little more aid from the Consul than from the Chileans. It couldn’t be helped. He said, “The collier in this port. I want her interned. Where is she lying?”
“She isn’t.” Thackeray sniffed. “She sailed about nine hours ago, a half-hour after the telegrams began to arrive with the news of your — er — escapade.” He said the word with distaste but he was relieved. Smith could wreak no damage here. “She headed to the west.”
So there it was. Smith stood on his upper deck, aware that the picket-boat was in the water, smoke streaming from her stubby funnel, Somers at the helm and Aitkyne going down into her. He was not surprised that the Maria had fled because it was always a possibility, nor at the speed of her departure; she must have been lying with steam up ready to sail when called. Like Gerda. But it was a blow. It was one more piece of circumstantial evidence pointing to her guilt but that only added to his reasons for wanting her. He had considered the possibility of her running and her probable course and destination. There were several, scattered around half of the compass. North? South? West? She had steered west and that could mean she was bound for Juan Fernandez, a dot in the Pacific where raiders could coal in peace. Or was that merely a ruse to gain sea-room so as to swing north well clear of Thunder as she had run down to Malaguay. Or a ruse before she turned south.
The cruisers would not rendezvous to the north �
��
Garrick said, “The Port Captain wants to come aboard, sir.”
The words sank in slowly and then Smith said, “Yes. Due honours.” And he sent a messenger running to his cabin.
Maria was carrying coal to the cruisers but Smith stood on his quarterdeck and met the Port Captain, saluting at the head of the accommodation ladder.
The Port Captain was big and full of bluster. He protested. A neutral vessel sunk in a neutral port; insolent violation of neutrality; representations in the strongest terms were being made to the ambassador, to London …
South or west? Maria had nine hours start and she would be making eight, possibly nine knots. If Thunder sailed now and made fifteen knots she should overhaul Maria in nine or ten hours. If Smith was right about her course. If he was wrong he would have lost her.
The Port Captain paused for breath as the messenger returned, still running, and panting, and handed Smith the envelope from his desk. Smith handed it to the Port Captain with the words: “This is a copy of my report of the incident.”
“Incident!” The Port Captain exploded the word.
“Incident.” Smith went on doggedly, “It details the reasons for my action, the evidence I had, that the vessel in question was not a neutral but a tender of war manned by a German crew.”
“A tender—” That set the Port Captain back on his heels.
“It is all in my report.”
The Port Captain turned the envelope over in his hands. “I will present this — document to the proper authorities. But meanwhile you are unwelcome in this port, you will receive nothing and no one from this ship will be allowed to land.”
It was Smith’s turn to protest. “Are you aware that this ship has neither coaled nor provisioned in a Chilean port for the last three months and that under international law —”
“In normal circumstances, Captain. These are not normal. Be sure you understand me. You receive nothing, no one lands, and you sail immediately.”
Smith shrugged. “Very well. Please believe me when I say I am sincerely sorry that our former excellent relations have deteriorated to this point and I hope they will soon return to happy normality.” If they wanted diplomatic waffle they could have it. “I have the greatest respect for yourself and your country. I have a little engine trouble, nothing serious, and my engineers are at work on it now.” That was true. Davies wanted to put out some of his fires and clean them of clinker. Smith might let him do it now. “I will be ready to sail in a few hours. Meanwhile I undertake that not one of my crew will be landed for any reason.”
After that came the stiff formalities of departure and all the time the alternatives competed in Smith’s head. South? West? And Maria already over seventy miles away. Within the stark choice between south or west there were sub-divisions: the Pacific was a large ocean. But the first basic choice was still south or west. Though Thunder was a slow warship she still had twice the speed of a collier, but he could not go in two directions at once. He had to commit himself to one. And Sarah Benson had bitten her lip — because she would not be seeing a young man she had met in the way of business? Thackeray was hovering uneasily, a troubled man. The picket-boat was plugging through the chop, the sky was low and heavy, the wind gusting with the first rain flying in it.
There would be three, maybe four hours of daylight. If he sailed now and guessed correctly, enormous assumption, it would be night when he came up with Maria. If he was wrong? He dared not be wrong. He had to shorten the odds somehow. Had to.
The Port Captain descended and Smith’s hand snapped down from his cap. “Miss Benson! Would you take me to your American friend, discreetly?”
For a moment she gaped at him, taken off-balance. “Well, I —”
He was aware of the risk she would be taking; Cherry had spelled it out. She would be aware of it, too.
She said, “Yes.” She did not ask ‘Why’ but the question was in her mind.
Smith swung on Thackeray. “Will you put us ashore?” And: “I am formally requesting your assistance as His Majesty’s representative.”
Thackeray hesitated. Smith knew the cause of that hesitation was only partly the promise given to the Port Captain but he said acidly, “My word given was that no member of my crew would go ashore. I said nothing of myself or Miss Benson.”
Thackeray admitted grudgingly, “It will be possible. I believe it has been done before.” Then he added, “But I advise you formally of my disapproval and I accept no responsibility at all.”
“Understood. A moment, please.”
Smith hurried aft to his cabin but returned quickly, uniform jacket and cap discarded and buttoning an old tweed jacket, cramming a soft hat on his head. “Mr. Garrick, you’re in command in my absence, of course.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Garrick thought that he was being left to his own devices in a port technically neutral but decidedly hostile to the ship. Something of this showed in his face.
Smith said dryly, “Don’t sail without me, Mr. Garrick. And arrange with Ariadne for Miss Benson to transfer to her as a passenger.”
Thackeray had gone down into his launch with Sarah Benson and Smith followed. Sarah crouched in the tiny cabin as it thrashed across the harbour while Thackeray remained standing in the well. Smith said, “You heard what the Port Captain had to say; I’ll get no coal in Chile and I must coal soon. The collier Mary Ellen is making for Guaya. Will you send for her to come here?”
Thackeray nodded woodenly and Smith ducked into the cover of the cabin as the launch drew into the river.
Thunder had coal for six days of economical steaming but for the last ten hours she had steamed at fifteen knots and at that speed she ate coal.
Smith heard Thackeray speak briefly to the man at the wheel in rapid Spanish, and the helmsman nodded, smiled as Thackeray made a promise, a bribe. Smith thrust his other problems behind him. The launch slowed as it entered the river, puttering gently past the ships moored there. Thackeray, without a glance at the cabin, said clearly, “We’ll soon be passing a line of boats tied up below the wharf. There is a ladder. This boat will be tied up a hundred yards further up-river from that point and will wait there for you.”
“When I give the word … Now!”
Smith plunged head-down out of the cabin and saw the line of boats sliding past only a foot or two away on the brown, murky flow. He vaulted without straightening over the side of the launch into the nearest boat and scrambled across the thwarts towards the wharf. Right under it he paused just long enough to see Sarah Benson scrambling after him, skirts held up with one hand, and the launch sliding away. He was close to the ladder and in a moment was climbing. His head rose above the edge of the wharf and he saw it was empty except for a little knot of men working at a stacked pile of bales about thirty or forty yards away. Their backs were to him. Dust swirled on the wind and rain spat briefly into it. He felt Sarah Benson on the ladder behind him, climbed up onto the wharf and held down a hand for her. They walked across the wharf, down a gap between two warehouses and emerged in a cobbled street of chandlers and little bars. Sarah tucked her arm inside Smith’s and they walked up the street to the broad thoroughfare that ran across the head of it. There was a hotel and two cabs, each drawn by a head-hanging scarecrow of a horse, waiting for hire outside it. The pressure of Sarah’s arm urged Smith over to the cabs and into the first. Sarah spoke briefly to the driver then joined Smith inside. A whip cracked and the cab jolted away.
They drove for barely fifty yards and then stopped. Sarah said, “I can get Bradley out to you, getting you in to him would be risky.” They were outside a shop, its window crammed with farm tools and beyond them Smith could see the counter with a man behind it facing a customer and to one side a stairway. Sarah said, “He has a room upstairs …”
Smith saw her pass through the shop and climb the stair. He leaned closer to the window of the cab so he could see the windows above the shop and waited, watched. After a minute he saw a curtain pulled aside. He co
uld not see the face beyond it but he lifted his hand and took off his hat, stared up at the window.
The curtain fell back. He waited.
The Maria was getting away from him with every passing second. He might well lose her altogether.
If he was wrong, if the cruisers were five thousand miles away in another ocean, or lying at anchor again in the Jade with the rest of the High Seas Fleet, then it would have been as well if he had lost both Gerda and Maria.
*
Bradley had been up and about for almost an hour. He had been involved in a long game with some miners and landowners from upcountry that had lasted all night. At the end of it he had counted his winnings, eaten a huge breakfast and then slept. Now he had brewed himself coffee on the pot-bellied stove, heated water and shaved and washed. He was still naked to the waist, drying his face and smoothing the full moustache, when Sarah entered.
He gaped at her then surprise gave way to pleasure. “You’re just in time. Come on in.” He tossed aside the towel and held out his arms to her.
She fended him off. “Not now or any other time. Get dressed. I want you to meet somebody.”
“Who?”
“Commander Smith.”
“Who?”
“The Captain of H.M.S. Thunder.”
“The Captain — Thunder?” Bradley snapped his long fingers, remembering. “Hold on. While I was eating breakfast there was a lot of hoo-haw going on among the local boys about a British ship and a British captain. They were raising hell over him but I gather he raised it first. They reckoned he raided into Guaya and blew a neutral ship to bits.”
“Rubbish!” Then Sarah admitted grudgingly, “He sank a collier that claimed to be neutral.”
Bradley whistled softly. “That’ll do. Boy! The Navy can only shoot you once and that’ll do! Where is this lunatic?”
“He’s not a — He’s outside. In a cab.”
Bradley crossed to the window. “I’d better take a look at this character while he’s still around for viewing! If they catch him ashore they’ll lynch him!” He twitched back the curtain, stared down and saw the face at the window of the cab that returned his stare. It was a thin face, young but drawn. He said, “That’s him? Young feller, sort of —” He stopped, not knowing how to put it into words. “He’s not what I expected.”