Garrick was rambling. Smith, desperate to be away, to find a few moments of solitude, of peace, snapped irritably, “Get to the point, man!”
“One of the loaders in the port after six-inch collapsed from fumes and they brought him out to take him down to the sick-bay. That was when we were hit. There were three of them, the man himself and two carrying him. This section of plate must have richocheted and passed them by inches and flew in the open door of the casemate.” Smith stared at Garrick as he fumbled for words. “A chance in a million, sir. Young Somers …” Then he put it brutally simply, finding no other words for it. “It cut him in half.”
“Signal from the shore station, sir.” Smith became slowly aware of Knight, speaking his piece, repeating it for the third time to an unheeding Smith. He realised he still stood, halfturned at the head of the ladder. Knight’s face was drawn like Garrick’s and he read the message to Smith: “Kunashiri in collision two hundred miles north. Entered dock for repairs, estimated two days.”
Smith said mechanically, “Very good. Acknowledge.”
He turned and descended the ladder.
Somers.
That last hit aft. If he had turned away before …
Two days for Kunashiri’s repairs and then she would still be near a day’s steaming away. She might as well be on the moon for any help she could be to Thunder. In twenty-four hours she would have to face the cruisers again, and alone.
They had cheered, those men of his because if they had not won at least they had not been beaten, they had survived.
Survived to be smashed to pieces.
It was as if he had climbed a mountain only to find he stood on the edge of an abyss.
There was a marine sentry at the door of his cabin who said, “Begging your pardon, sir —” And even lifted a hand.
Smith snarled, “Get out of my way.” He thrust past and burst into the cabin.
Sarah Benson was in there, though for a moment he did not recognise her. A heap of clothing lay on his table and a blanket on the deck. She was rubbing at her hair with a towel. She wore that barbaric medallion on the thin gold chain, it dangled, sparking light, in the valley between the taut-drawn breasts and that was all she wore.
X
Sarah Benson’s arms snapped down, spreading the towel before her, clutching it to her. Her hair hung stringy and tangled and the first sound she made as she moved was a squeak but then she shouted outrage and arrogance at Smith. “What are you doing here!”
Smith gaped at her, choked but finally grated out, “This is my cabin.” Then all the pent-up strains and tensions took brief and furious charge. “Get dressed, woman, and get off my ship!”
He flung out of the cabin and charged away, oblivious of the wooden-faced sentry and unaware of the whistling blowout of that sentry’s breath: “Strewth!”
Smith strode the upper deck until he walked the rage away and they kept out of his way. He had blown off steam. He was sick at Somers’s death and bitter over the Kunashiri but these were facts to be faced. He had a duty.
He went to the sick-bay and Albrecht greeted him with, “Oh, sir. The girl we picked up from Elizabeth Bell. Purkiss dug up some clothes for her, stuff that she left behind; she went over the side at Malaguay at short notice.” Purkiss was the sick-berth rating. Albrecht went on: “I put her in your cabin to get dressed. Hope you don’t mind, but there was nowhere else, a lot of the cabins are in a mess and I could hardly ask …”
Smith grunted.
Albrecht was relieved. He had heard of Smith’s baleful pacing and the reasons for it. He would not have been surprised to have his head chewed off. He said, “She’s in good shape, sir.”
Smith snapped a sharp look at him. What was behind that remark? But it was impossible that Albrecht should know — yet. But he would, because Smith could not, or would not, order that sentry to hold his tongue so it would be all over the ship in no time. Then the humour of it struck him and Albrecht saw his bleak-faced Captain suddenly break into a grin.
“Have I said something, funny, sir?”
“Wait and see, Doctor, wait and see.” Smith got down to business. “What have you got?”
“One crushed finger and two cases of mild concussion. That’s the crew. The crushed finger has returned to light duty and the concussion cases will be all right after a night’s sleep. There are five survivors if you include the girl. One deck officer and three deck-hands. Shock, all of them. Except that girl. She’s tough.”
A picture of her standing in the cabin rose in his mind. Tough? He came back to the matter in hand. He saw the cases of concussion and the survivors and spoke to them briefly. To his crew: “Well done.” To the survivors: condolences, awkward sympathy and a promise to get them ashore and into hospital as soon as possible. The officer was a tubby little man of fifty-odd, balding, with big hands that clasped and unclasped. “Poor old George. Our skipper, you know. Due for his pension, only stayed on because of the war. Bloody shame.” His plump cheeks sagged miserably. The hands would not stay still.
Smith said, “I am very sorry.”
“Not your fault, sir. Nobody could ha’ done more than you did. It was just bad luck.”
Thackeray, that twisted, bitter man was not among the survivors.
He paused for a final word with Albrecht. “Thanks, Doctor. It’s a funny sort of war for you.”
“Funny?”
Smith corrected hastily. “I should say, strange. Being shot at by your former countrymen.”
“Ah!” Albrecht nodded and smiled thinly. “I suppose there is a certain ironic humour about it. And it is conceivable there might be a distant relative of mine out there now.” He paused, then added bitterly, “They’ll be gloating, I suppose.”
Smith shook his head. “Not them. Exhilarated, yes, like our chaps are, but for slightly different reasons. Their commander will be annoyed that he did not sink us. But not gloating. They are brave, determined men. They know that they can never get home, that at the end of the day they will be hunted down and destroyed. That makes them even more dangerous. There can be no turning back for them.”
“And us?”
“Nothing has changed, Doctor.”
Albrecht stared after his retreating back. Nothing changed? They were no longer discussing hypothetical situations: if the cruisers existed, if they appeared.
Thunder was caught in Guaya like a rat in a trap.
Smith returned to the deck. Thunder cruised steadily up the deep-water channel past the little scatters of lights that marked villages. The ship was not darkened now. Garrick had lights rigged forward and aft and men milled in urgent, disciplined confusion. He encountered Wakely. “I want the fires lit in the pinnace, Mr. Wakely, ready to put her in the water as soon as we anchor.”
“Already seen to that, sir. Manton thought you might want the puncher.”
“Good.”
Both forward and aft the damage was at first sight horrendous, as it always was, as it might be expected from the blows of eight-inch projectiles of two-hundred-and-forty pounds apiece. Forward a hole gaped in the deck and below it the mess-deck was a devastated area, filthy with soot from the fire, dripping with water. Aft a huge bite had been taken out of deck and side. There was a great deal of work to be done, most of it ultimately dockyard work, but there was nothing that could not be patched by Thunder’s crew well enough to render her a fully effective unit, appearances not withstanding. He found the work well in hand, which he had a right to expect, but when he ran into Garrick he made a point of saying, clearly and loudly, with a score of men in earshot: “Very good, Number One. The ship’s company have behaved in very satisfactory fashion.” It sounded pompous to Smith as he said it but it could not be called back and Garrick seemed pleased, as did the men who listened.