There was no room for doubt. Gibb’s clothes lay on a chair. But to be absolutely certain: “You’re a deserter.”
Gibb did not answer.
Phizackerly yelled at him, with an old man’s shrillness, “You’re off the cruiser!”
Gibb muttered, “Yes.”
Phizackerly chewed it over and his toothless jaws moved in time with his thoughts. He had to get the bugger out of it. That was the first thought that formed, because if the law found him here there would be a hell of a row. They might even close the place. Then he thought it was more difficult than just throwing him out on the street. His capture then would be certain, he would be questioned and he would say he had spent the night at Fizzy’s Bar.
His head ached.
Thunder lay out in the pool and the cruisers waited outside.
This was a personal matter between Englishmen.
He said to Olsen, “Fetch the rum.” And when it came, “Give us a half-hour. Keep that girl’s mouth shut an’ everybody else out of here.”
Phizackerly poured the rum, got Gibb to drink it and saw him shudder, nodded to himself as he refilled the glass. It was an investment. Gibb would not be the first man to be taken unwillingly or unwittingly and dumped on a ship that waited for him out in the pool. Phizackerly had done that before now to oblige a skipper and turn an extra penny. This was a different situation altogether, mind, but his back was against the wall. Sometimes you had to use force and Olsen carried a blackjack but Phizackerly judged that this time the rum would suffice, that and a good talking to.
He poured and he talked, about England, the Navy, duty, honour, comradeship and the rum gave him a marvellous sincerity. But his sharp little eyes watched Gibb keenly and saw despair give way to bewilderment and then stupor as the words flowed over him and the rum ran down to sink its teeth into his empty belly.
Olsen returned and together they got Gibb into his clothes. He moved slowly, dazedly, as he was told. Olsen brought a coat to hide Gibb’s working dress and Phizackerly muttered, “Right. He’s going back. I’ll see to him. You hold the fort here. Tell nobody nothing till I come back, only I’m out on business.”
Olsen said, “He is good boy after all.”
Phizackerly stared at him. “He’s a mug. You wouldn’t get me on that old bucket for all the tea in China! Now clear off!”
He heard the distant popping of musketry, a salute and the lonely call of the bugle and knew what it meant. He glanced furtively at Gibb as he worked the coat on to him but the young seaman had not noticed. The rum had him. It was going to be hard work getting him back to his ship. Phizackerly swore under his breath.
He turned as the window was thrust open and he saw a burly, grizzled man in overalls swinging a leg across the sill. Another half-dozen crowded behind him. Phizackerly said, startled, “’Ere! What’s all this?”
Farmer Bates said placidly, “All right, Fizzy, me old son. It’s the Navy claiming its own.” The others climbed in after him except one who stood on watch.
Phizackerly blew out his cheeks. “Cripes! I’m glad to see you.” And as Burton crossed to the door, opened it a crack and peered out, “Don’t worry. Nobody’ll bother us. You won’t have no trouble.”
Burton closed the door and grinned at him. “Good. We don’t want no trouble.”
Phizackerly knew a tough bunch when he saw them but he was a much relieved man. It was going to be all right.
When the pinnace reached Thunder Smith said, “Stay alongside, Mr. Manton. I’ll want the picket-boat in ten minutes.” He ran up the ladder, returned Garrick’s salute, went to his cabin and shifted out of his dress suit and into his shabby old uniform. He snatched his binoculars and as he stepped into the pinnace he asked Manton, “You’ve got the boat lead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Take her to sea, Mr. Manton. I’m curious to see our friends outside.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The pinnace swung away and headed out of the pool and downriver. Once more they ran down the broad deep-water channel with its steep, forest-clad walls, down to where Stillwater Cove opened up to port and opposite, to starboard, a bare quarter-mile beyond the old channel, stood the signalling station on its little hill. Smith saw light wink there as a telescope or binoculars was trained on them. They would be reported by telephone. He shrugged and lifted the glasses to his eyes. The cruisers were in sight.
One lay close outside Chilean waters and the gunboat was alongside her. The limit of Chilean waters was clearly defined because the Chilean destroyer Tocopilla was steaming slowly back and forth along a line outside the mouth of the river, marking that limit as if with a rule and chalk. That was a deadly monotonous business, patrolling that line like a sentry pacing his beat and they would be at it till morning. Smith thought the Chilean Captain probably consoled himself with the thought that he would have a grandstand seat when the morning came.
The pinnace plugged on out to sea against the flowing tide, lifting and falling now as it met that sea but the weather of recent days was only a bad memory. True, the sky was totally overcast but the sea was near calm and the pinnace rode it easily.
He picked out the other cruiser, standing a mile or two further out to sea, hove to. Saving her coal. She was running on a short rein that got shorter with every minute. Smith had seen to that when he sank the colliers.
He lowered the glasses and rubbed at his eyes. They were still a threat. They could still get coal after they had settled with Thunder. Some. They could coal in the port of a neutral country once in three months. Ringing the changes on the neutral countries that lined this coast, they might survive some little time. And they might, if they were very lucky, capture an Allied collier. But every time they put in for coal their position would be known. They had lost the element of surprise; Smith had wrested that from them, too, with the sinking of the colliers. Now there would be no quick, easy pickings and there would be almost immediate and increasing pursuit, starting with that battle-cruiser.
Theoretically they could well have entered Guaya at Thunder’s heels and coaled there. That would have put the Chileans in a dilemma with their refusal to supply Smith. They had not done so because of the twenty-four hours rule. If the cruisers had entered Guaya, and then Thunder had sailed, they would have had to give her twenty-four hours start. That was international law.
So they waited outside, for Thunder, and an annihilating victory that would shake the world with the length of the German Navy’s arm, and its strength.
Manton said nervously, “Chilean destroyer’s signalling, sir.”
Smith realised he was glaring sightlessly out to sea and cracked his stiff face in a smile. “No doubt.” They were close to Tocopilla now and she was heading, still on that rigid line, to pass close across the bow of the pinnace. She was warning them to keep clear, that they were close to leaving the sanctuary of neutral waters.
Smith said, “Hard a’starboard. Copy her course, Mr. Manton. Half ahead.”
The pinnace slowed and came around to run parallel with Tocopilla. The officers looked down on them curiously from the bridge of the destroyer as she forged past then left them tossing in her wake. Smith lifted the glasses again as the destroyer’s smoke rolled away. He could see the nearer cruiser and the gunboat alongside her, clearly now. He watched for a minute then handed the glasses to Manton and took the wheel himself. “Take a look.” He waited until Manton lowered the glasses and then asked him, “Well?”