Ship of Force (3 page)

Now she threw back the covers, knelt on the bunk and peeped out of the scuttle. The quay was a foot from her face and in the half-dark the pave of it gleamed wetly but the rain was not heavy. She thought a walk to stretch her legs and to get some fresh air would do her good. The
Lively Lady
was not due to sail for three hours. She drew the curtains over the scuttles because she knew Frenchmen got on to the quay and everyone knew about
them
. She crawled stiffly out of the bunk, a stocky lady set solidly on thick legs, and lit the lamp. In its light she peered into the mirror with sharp blue eyes and scowled at the bird’s nest of grey hair. She brushed it severely, setting it ship-shape in a tight bun. That done she washed and groaned red-faced into her stays, made all fast with two half-hitches then squeezed her feet into the high-heeled shoes. The young flibbertigibbet of a girl in the shop at Dover had tried to sell her a size six when she had worn a size five for close on fifty years. She’d even had the sauce to mumble some rubbish about her feet spreading. Fool.

She pulled her dress on over her head. Her hat went on the grey bun with a pin rammed in either side to secure it. She picked up coat, fur tippet, handbag and umbrella and went on deck. “
George
!”

Her bellow brought a tall, thin, sad man popping up from the hatch leading to the saloon.

“Yes, missus?”

“Do up me dress, George, there’s a good lad.”

George stepped around her and fastened the buttons between her shoulders, helped her on with her coat. “There y’are, missus.”

“Thank ye, George. I’m going for a breath of fresh air. Mind you see we’ve got steam for sailing.”

“Aye, missus.”

“Don’t let that Purvis feller get ashore to get drunk.”

“No, missus.”

“See you later then.” Victoria put up her umbrella and walked across the plank to the quay.

George watched her go and said sadly, “Yes, missus.”

She walked very straight in the back. As a young girl she had carried baskets of washing on her head for miles but that was far behind her. Her cronies in the Kent branch of the Temperance League knew her only as a woman of independent means and temper.

She passed the destroyers tied up in the Port d’Echouage, some singly and others in trots of three or four, and came to
Sparrow
. She tip-tapped precariously over the pavé on her high heels and called out from under the umbrella, “Good evening, young man!”

A voice answered from the head of the gangway in broad Scots. “Evening, ma’am!”

She knew
Sparrow
and her crew and thought they were a nice enough lot of boys. A little bit wild, maybe, but boys will be boys. Through a gap in the buildings that faced on to the quay she could see H.M. Barge
Arctic
in the basin beyond with the Coastal Motor Boats nestling alongside and she wondered if Jack Curtis’s boat was in — was sure she saw it. She liked Jack Curtis and she missed her four boys, all of them at sea.

She walked on, crossed two locks and the fish-market and headed for the Rue de la Panne. Where it opened on to the quay was a small bar called Le Coq. Victoria was less than enthusiastic about the name but she had found the staff courteous and respectful and it was comfortable, though now the windows were shuttered and the door closed because of the black-out. She paused outside the door to shake the rain from her umbrella and to unpin her blue-ribbon badge of total abstinence from her coat lapel and put it carefully into her bag. A little of what you fancy did you good and what the ladies of Kent didn’t see wouldn’t hurt them. Besides, they didn’t have to take a tug to sea. She peered back along the quay at a gangling RNVR figure striding long-legged towards her, recognised Jack Curtis and waved the umbrella at him, then entered Le Coq.

“Good evening, M’sieur Jacques. Two large cognacs, please. Mister Curtis will be here directly.” And she settled behind her usual table opposite the door, sitting straight-backed as she had been taught with her hands in her lap, but surreptitiously easing the shoes from her feet.

She watched the door for Jack Curtis and thought absently that there’d been a lot of pinnaces and boats below the fish-market and then remembered that Commodore Trist would be giving his orders and the boats would have brought the officers. Trist. She sniffed. Bloody man? Bloody old woman! Then she boomed, “Ah! Jack!”

* * *

Trist’s headquarters was in a big house in the Parc de la Marine. Trist’s office was in a long, spacious room with tall windows that must once have been a ballroom or banqueting hall. There was a scattering of chairs around the walls but the highly polished floor was empty except for Trist’s big desk and the highbacked chair behind it. He received his callers there, rising straight and tall, impressive. The wall behind his desk held a huge chart of the Channel and the North Sea. Smith thought uneasily that the whole setting was designed for effect. The long stretch of floor, the big, empty desk, the vast spread of the chart — why behind him, where he couldn’t see the damn thing? Now it was evening, the curtains drawn across the tall windows, but there were only lights at the end of the room where Trist conducted his briefing like an actor on a stage before the little group of officers seated in a semi-circle around the chart. Smith wondered again if it was all arranged for effect — the thought came then: mere window-dressing like his flotilla.

Trist looked around at the assembled officers. He stood below the big chart holding a long pointer that he tapped in the palm of one hand and he looked very much the schoolmaster. His Flag-Lieutenant stood attentively by the chart, a thick file of instructions under one arm. Trist summed up: “So there you are, gentlemen. The main force under my command will fire on Zeebrugge while Commander Smith and his — flotilla, attends to Ostende. The tides are right and the weather forecast is — hopeful. There’s nothing we haven’t done before, but bombardment of these ports has driven the U-boats inland up the canals to Bruges and so hindered their operations.” He smiled coldly at Smith. “Offensive action is nothing new to this command.”

Smith did not respond.

Trist still watched him. “Questions, anyone?”

No one spoke.

“Comments?” And when still no one spoke: “Surely our new boy has some bright light from the world outside to shed on our little struggle here!” It was said jokingly but there was an acid edge to it. The Flag-Lieutenant smiled.

Smith’s face twitched and Garrick sitting beside him stirred uneasily. Trist’s eye was on them. Smith said reluctantly, “Bombardments help, sir, but they don’t stop the U-boats, only make it harder for them. It’s just more difficult and takes longer for them to make the passage to the sea. They still get out.”

Trist snapped, “Where the patrols are waiting!” And when Smith was silent, “Well?”

The schoolmaster again — ‘speak up, boy!’ But Trist seemed an uneasy schoolmaster, uncertain — wanting to demonstrate his authority as if unsure of it? Smith answered, “A vessel on patrol finds it difficult to catch a U-boat. And so does a blockading vessel. In both cases the ship is looking for a U-boat that could be under the sea and hunting
her
.” Trist was red in the face now but Smith pushed on. He might as well speak all of his mind and get it over with. “And blocking the entrance to a port is difficult if not impossible. A ship sunk in the entrance might stop a destroyer or cruiser getting out but a U-boat on the surface draws a lot less water and will get around the obstruction. No, sir. Since you asked my opinion, convoys I think are the —”

“Convoys!” Trist chuckled, seeming relieved. “We have a prophet of the convoy faith among us, gentlemen.” He smiled tightly at Smith, confident now. “Convoys served in the days of sail but this is a modern war and the U-boat is a modern weapon. A convoy puts all your eggs into one basket. What a risk! Suppose a U-boat comes on a convoy of twenty ships, twenty fat targets? She’d wreak havoc!”

Smith thought the schoolmaster was trotting out phrases he had learnt from another, determined to play safe, take not a step beyond the rigid letter of his instructions. Smith said doggedly, “I don’t believe that. It can be a well-escorted basket. If the same number of escorts patrol seaways they have thousands of square miles to try to protect and the U-boats pick off the merchantmen as they like.”

And Garrick put in, “I agree, sir.”

Trist looked at him, sniffed. “You would, of course, you’re a disciple. I’ve explained to Commander Smith the arguments against convoy, that it is too great a risk. However, the decision to be taken is not ours. We simply do our duty as best we can. But I respect your loyalty although in this case it is misplaced! And talking of loyalty —” His eyes slid back to Smith. “I do not see Mr Dunbar. Is there any good reason for his absence?”

Smith had no answer. “I don’t know, sir.”

“I see.” Trist smacked the pointer into the palm of his hand. “Well. Dunbar is your affair.” He said it with dislike. “See to it, please.”

It was a rap across the knuckles for Smith before the other officers and he stared woodenly at the chart as Trist said, “Very well, gentlemen — until we sail.”

* * *

Smith did not speak as he walked rapidly down to where
Marshall Marmont’s
pinnace lay. Garrick strode along gloomily at his elbow. He was not an over-sensitive or imaginative man but it was clear to him that Trist had his knife into Dunbar and Smith. And now he himself was classed as a ‘disciple’. He said savagely, “Damn it to hell!”

Smith glanced across at him. Poor old Garrick. Promoted and given a command but all of it turned sour. He halted on the quay as a door opened to show a lighted bar and a table opposite the door where a man sprawled, head on his arms that were spread on the table. His naval cap rested by his head. The door closed and it was as if an eye had opened then shut. Smith was not sure, but was that Sanders, the young Sub-Lieutenant from
Sparrow
?

He hesitated, thinking about
Sparrow
— and Dunbar, then said to Garrick, “You go on. I want to walk around to
Sparrow
. You might take me off in about twenty minutes or so.” He watched Garrick stride away and then turned again to the bar, crossed to its door and entered. As he walked the length of the room, threading between the tables, he put his cap under his arm. He had seen Sanders only once but a glance now told him this sprawled Sub-Lieutenant was not Sanders, who was regular Navy. This man looked to be taller and the thin gold ring on his cuff was the wavy one of the RNVR. Opposite him and facing out on to the room sat a stiff-backed, red-faced old lady. She watched Smith approach and her gaze was truculent.

Smith halted by the table. There were several empty glasses and two half-full, one before the officer and the other in the hand of the lady who sipped at it with little finger genteelly crooked. Smith asked, “Is this officer unwell?”

Victoria regarded naval officers with suspicion. She considered half of them too old for their posts and the other half too young, and none of them would order
her
about. An order she treated as a request that she criticised but complied with. A new officer was suspect until he proved himself and that to Victoria’s satisfaction. This one was properly respectful but he had a cold eye and a stiff neck. She set her glass down and said tartly, “Don’t see that it’s any o’ your business — but no, he’s not
unwell
. An’ he’s not drunk either, if that’s what you mean.” Smith’s gaze drifted to the empty glasses and she saw it. “The empties are mine. That’s his first. Got halfway through it, the poor lamb, and then fell asleep. He was out on patrol for near thirty-six hours and he’s wore out.”

Victoria’s voice was pitched in her conversational tone but it carried. The young Sub stirred and lifted his head to peer blearily around him. His eyes stopped on Smith, blinked, screwed shut then opened again and now they were aware and he climbed to his feet. It was a long climb. He was a very tall young man with a thatch of black curly hair that needed cutting and sleepy dark eyes. He said, “Curtis, sir. CMB 19.”

Smith now recognised him as the commander of the boat that entered the Trystram lock and thought he also recognised the drawl. “Canadian?”

“No, sir. American.”

Smith’s eyebrows lifted. There were a number of Americans flying for the Allies before America had entered the war, and some in the Army — but in the Navy? “That’s — unusual.”

“Yes, sir. A little.”

“You come from a Naval family?”

Curtis grinned. “Hell, no, sir. We’re all farming stock. But I learned to handle a boat on the lake. Wisconsin, that is. Started in the creek near as soon as I could walk and moved out on the lake soon after.” He paused, then: “A farmer turned sailor. Now that’s unusual, sir.”

“Not altogether.” Smith was a country boy, brought up in a Norfolk village. But he did not elaborate. Instead he asked, “How long have you been in command?”

Victoria put in deeply, proud. “They promoted him into her. Should ha’ had a medal but for that damn’ red tape again.”

Curtis shifted awkwardly, embarrassed at the interruption. “Now Mrs Baines it wasn’t like that a-tall. Fact is, sir, I was on vacation over here when the war started an’ I just joined and got a temporary commission.”

Smith thought it would not have been that easy, that Curtis under his country boy, innocent exterior must hide a shrewd brain and an ability to wangle. He said nothing.

Curtis went on: “We had a forty-footer and I was midshipman in her till along about the fall of ’16 when we got shot up and the Sub-Lieutenant caught it so I sort of — inherited. Seems I ran her all right so they promoted me to command her permanent and later on they gave me 19. But anything I know about fighting a CMB I learned from Charlie…that was the Sub. He was a regular officer, a great guy.”

Smith was interested by the tall, sleepy-eyed young man but he had a duty to carry out aboard
Sparrow
, an unpleasant duty but one that had to be done. Still, he asked one last question. “You like the boats?”

“Wouldn’t change, sir.” That was definite, but then Curtis added, “Except —” He stopped.