They were faster and each of them carried eight 8.2-inch guns that were equal to Thunder’s 9.2-inch and she had only two of them. Sixteen to two. In a broadside fight they could fire twelve to two, even in a stern chase like this they would bring eight to bear against one. Between them they carried twelve 5.9-inch that out-ranged Thunder’s elderly six-inch guns.
Sarah Benson had said: ‘You can’t fight them.’
She was in the Elizabeth Bell.
There was a tap at the door and Horsfall entered with a tray. “That there Benks, he’s made sandwiches for all the gentlemen, bully beef an’ a bit o’ pickle an’ I thought you might fancy a bottle o’ pale ale.” He set the tray on the table and touched the glass lovingly, making sure it was safe. It was only half-full so that Thunder’s rolling would not slop the golden, white-collared contents.
Smith said, “You may as well have the rest of the bottle.”
“Thank you, sir.” Smith was prepared to bet the rest of the bottle had already gone. He was right. Horsfall said, “Looks as if we’ll be busy later on. Anything particular you want while I’m here?”
Smith shook his head. “No, thank you.” Except another ten knots, or that battle-cruiser.
“Well. Might see you later on, sir.”
Might. Smith looked up at Daddy’s long horse-face. Daddy was under no illusions. Smith tapped the book. “Know this class of ship?”
Horsfall breathed over Smith’s shoulder, then said simply, “Too bloody true, sir.”
“Good luck, Horsfall.”
“And the same to you, sir.”
Smith drank the beer thirstily but he could not face the sandwiches.
When ‘Cooks to the galley’ was sounded, Gibb queued up with the others and drew the meal for his mess: more bully beef and bread, scalding hot tea. Some wanted to eat, some did not. Some started voraciously then sickened. Nobody stayed on the mess-deck. They all crowded up aft, heavy sea or no heavy sea. The spray turned the hunks of bread to soggy lumps in their hands and diluted the tea while the wind cooled it, but they all got something inside them, if it was only tepid tea.
Gibb found Rattray alongside him champing hungrily and sucking at tea. Gibb ate nothing, drained his cup and was still thirsty. Gibb ventured, trying to be nonchalant, “Looks like we’ll have a scrap, hey?”
Rattray did not answer for a while, then he showed his teeth. “And we’ll see what you’re bloody made of, you and Smith together.”
Smith returned to the bridge and moved out to the wing, staring aft. The two big cruisers had overhauled the gunboat now. Ten miles away, maybe a little more. They were eating up the distance, racing down in line abreast so both could fire with all guns that would bear forward, which would be three each at least and four if he lay dead ahead of them. Dead ahead. Unfortunate choice of phrase. He grimaced and swung around, eyes seeking the coast. It looked no nearer and the sun seemed suspended, refusing to move down the sky. Neither sanctuary nor night to save them.
He ordered, “Sound ‘General quarters’.”
Thunder’s crew boiled into life and ran to their action stations. The reports began to come in as the guns’ crews closed up, magazines were manned and all the hundred and one posts necessary to Thunder’s functioning as a fighting ship were filled.
Garrick went to the fore-top. Thunder’s fire control like everything else about her was outdated. She did not have director firing, that is all guns being laid and trained from one central director high above the deck. She had a rangefinder and a device to calculate deflection and that was all. The guns received range and deflection through navy phones and from then on it was up to the layers and trainers to lay and train the gun. Garrick in the fore-top watched for the fall of shot and issued orders to correct it if it was over or short.
Smith stayed on the bridge. In the conning-tower below the bridge they would have the protection of that eleveninch-thick armour plate but Smith wanted to see as much as he could, had to see. But exposed as they were on the bridge, a hit on the ship might send scything splinters to wipe out Smith and everyone else up there, while a direct hit on the bridge — It was one more risk he had to take. If he could neither run nor fight with any hope then he would have to seek an alternative. He thought this was the place to seek it.
“Make to Elizabeth Bell: ‘Copy my changes of course’.” The signal was hoisted and broke out then the minutes dragged by as Knight muttered under his breath but finally reported. “Elizabeth Bell acknowledges, sir.”
The reports were finished and the ship was quiet, her decks deserted.
The sea was moderating, still heavy but nowhere near as bad as the night and improving every second. It was a lovely evening but Smith took no pleasure in it. Thunder could be running now but she was tied to the eight knots plug of Elizabeth Bell.
Smith stared at the two four-funnelled ships, eyes narrowed against the sun but still able to make them out under the thick black smoke. God! They were steaming! He wished Thunder was making smoke like that. He heard Wakely say to Knight, “Wonder how long before we get a shot at ’em?”
Smith lowered the glasses, rubbed at his eyes, looked again and answered the question himself: “Probably not very long now.” Light sparked from the bows of the cruisers, smoke puffed brown and was whipped thinly away. “Steer four points to starboard.”
“Four points of starboard wheel on, sir.”
Thunder’s bow swung through the arc, pointing away from Elizabeth Bell.
“Midships.”
“Midships, sir.”
Thunder steadied on the new course. Smith glanced at the Elizabeth Bell, opened his mouth to snap the order at Knight to signal her, then clamped it shut. She was turning to parallel Thunder’s course and was now on the port bow. Smith saw light flicker on the cruisers again and smoke shred. The first salvo would be falling now, past the culminating point of its trajectory three thousand feet up and plunging down on the target. On Thunder.
The report came down from the rangefinder on the upper bridge: “Range one-three-four-double-oh.” And as Smith thought: ‘Maximum range’, the first salvo howled down from the atmosphere and the sea erupted astern of Thunder in four tall columns and crashing bursts.
“Hard aport!”
“Hard aport, sir!”
“Midships!”
“Midships, sir!’’
Now Thunder was on the opposite leg of the zig-zag. Elizabeth Bell should follow. She had not. Had that salvo shaken them out of their senses? Smith snarled, “Come on, damn you!”
Knight stared at him, startled. The second salvo was on its way, plunging now. Smith snapped, “Make to Elizabeth Bell —”
He did not get the chance to finish. The second salvo rushed over them and burst, water lifting, noise beating at them. And Knight shouted, “Christ! She’s copped one!” The Elizabeth Bell had taken a direct hit amidships and another forward, each from a two-hundred-and-forty pound projectile plunging at a near vertical angle. She listed immediately and her bow went down; smoke billowed, sparks flying in it and flames leaping beneath it.
“Hard astarboard!” And: “Midships!” And Thunder raced down on the Elizabeth Bell, now laying like a log and going down by the head. Smith rattled off orders to a string of rapid acknowledgments. “Slow ahead both! Dead slow! I want to edge alongside …! Mr. Knight, I want lines over the side and strong men on them. Warn the Doctor to expect survivors.”