“I can’t see a thing now,” Abe retorted in frustration.
“It’s a big hazy down there. They might be some of the old ships the Hispanics periodically recover from the scrap yard!’
Many Europeans called the Spanish on Santo Domingo ‘Hispanics’, New Englanders just called them ‘Dominicans’ or simply ‘Spaniards’… or worse. The farther north one went or the farther out into the interior of the North American continent, the generic appellation ‘Dagoes’ was in common usage, apparently a corruption, or a derivation, depending upon one’s conscience, of the Spanish name ‘Diego’.
The ‘old ships’ of the Santo Domingo Colonial Navy were in every respect, very old, a handful of ironclad cruisers with a miscellany of different calibre main battery armaments and powered by antiquated Spanish-made, inefficient◦– even when brand new◦– triple expansion reciprocating engines incapable of driving them through the waves faster than fifteen or sixteen knots. The ‘destroyers’ on the Dominican Navy List were better described as ‘torpedo boats’, sub-one thousand-ton greyhounds in their prime but by modern standards, feebly armed and not best suited for oceanic operations. All of those ‘old’ ships had coal-fired boilers.
“I don’t think those ships can be that ancient, Abe,” Ted Forrest offered. “I’m not seeing clouds of black coal smoke.”
Between the haze and sun dazzle on the sea in the direction of the original sighting neither men could see a great deal for some minutes.
Abe checked the altimeter.
Five thousand feet.
He began to ease the Sea Fox lower, relishing the odd obedience of the ‘float-less’ sea plane. Not that the bombs slung under her wings and the fixed undercarriage offered an altogether negligible drag on the airflow streaming over the aircraft.
“What…” Abe grunted as the Sea Fox bucked like an angry mule.
Something hit the aircraft, rattling against the low windscreen in front of his face.
“Somebody’s bloody shooting at us!” Ted Forrest yelped over the intercom.
Two or three hundred feet above the aircraft and directly along the course Abe had been flying less than thirty seconds before, ugly balls of expanding grey smoke filled the sky.
Abe swung the Sea Fox around and dipped her nose into a shallow dive to the west. He had no intention of hanging around presenting an easy target for what probably had to be ELDAR-directed anti-aircraft fire.
“Ted,” he decided. “Break radio silence and report to Achilles that we have come under fire from as many as three unidentified warships. Send them our position. Tell the ship I plan to loiter hereabouts; hopefully, out of range.” He realised he was getting breathless. He took a couple of deliberately long, calming breaths. “You best ask them what they want us to do.”
His friend acknowledged this.
Then quipped: “I’m not going to remind Achilles we’ve got bombs on board. Those beggars have already made a couple of holes in the top wing and we were miles away at the time!”
Abe elected not to amend his orders.
The last time he had tried to ‘dive bomb’ a ship at sea he had nearly killed them both and on that occasion, nobody had actually been shooting at them!
Chapter 33
Wednesday 5th April
Hacienda de Cortés, Navalperal de Tormes, Avila
Melody Danson had awakened that morning to discover Henrietta De L’Isle keeping watch over her. Her lover was lying on her side, her gaze sleepily, contentedly amused. She kissed Melody, who reciprocated while attempting to suppress a giggle. The women hugged tight together and sank deeper into their nest of blankets.
Melody began to doze off to sleep again until the call of nature whose twinges had been what had roused her in the first place, reminded her it was a need which had, and was not about to go away. She groaned, began to disentangle herself.
It was only then that she realised that she hurt all over.
She was so stiff and sore, down to the marrow of her bones with every joint seemingly aching in mutual complaint, that she found it hard to sit up the first time she tried it. Her legs felt like wooden sticks even though◦– although she had no memory of it◦– her feet were bandaged and the stinging agony of yesterday’s blisters was gone when eventually, she staggered upright.
She was wearing a long white cotton nightdress.
No, I don’t remember putting that on either…
Fresh clothes were hanging on hooks by the bedroom door and folded over the back of chairs near the bed. Not the fancy court dresses they had been wearing right up to their desperate escape from Chinchón, no these were practically, crudely tailored workmen’s or male below stairs household staff fatigues. That made sense, with their hair short and the way they had slewed off every last ounce of superfluous flesh in the last couple of weeks, they hardly looked like ladies of leisure anymore!
Somebody had had their walking boots cleaned and polished overnight.
And there was a tray on the floor near the bed with hard doorsteps of fresh bread◦– the smell gave it away◦– cheese, a jug of water and crystal glasses.
Briefly, the women forgot their pains and attacked ‘breakfast’.
Under the window of their large, white-walled chamber there was a big bowl of tepid water, soap and towels which they employed in a vain attempt to make themselves look ‘half-way presentable’ before dressing and creeping down a wide staircase to the ground floor where they interrupted a conversation between Paul Nash, Albert Stanton◦– Melody had thought she had dreamed their meeting the previous evening◦– and a large, distinguished man in his sixties who introduced himself as Don José Cortés, Alcalde of Navalperal de Tormes.
All three men had side arms strapped to their hips.
Paul Nash had his grey automatic pistol, the others old-fashioned silvery revolvers of the type still, allegedly favoured by cowboys on the great ranches of the New England west, and all manner of ne’er-do-wells and ‘free spirits’ in the fast-shrinking wildernesses beyond the Mississippi.
The women became aware of the intense activity outside, the sound of horses, and of vehicle motors running up.
“We had hoped to let you ladies rest a while longer,” Don José apologised, mortified that their restorative slumber had been prematurely disturbed. “Paul has told us of the privations of your journey and of your remarkable fortitude.”
Melody smiled and thanked the old man and his family for ‘taking us in’.
Don José beamed with pleasure.
“I had heard that you were both fluent speakers of our ancient language,” he chortled in native Castilian.
“It has been our great joy to hear again the music in that language these last few months,” Henrietta interjected with a girlish smile.
Melody had quickly accepted that the daughter of a Viscount was, as was to be expected, a lot better at social small talk than she was ever going to be, and wisely, since they had been in Spain she had often deferred to the younger woman in public settings.
Don José was instantly charmed to the point of distraction, his mind momentarily diverted from the troubles he and the other men had been discussing.
“We need to be on the road in the next couple of hours,” Paul Nash declared, matter of factly.
The women waited for him to elaborate.
“There is an Army patrol in the next village,” Albert Stanton explained, throwing a frown at Nash. “We think the road to the west is still clear but the authorities seem to be getting their act together.”
Melody’s heart sank.
Don José and his people were about to become fugitives too.