“He’ll not open fire without a parley of sorts. We’re in no immediate danger in my opinion. I understand your concern for your ship and crew, of course. Our best defence is to make all the speed we can, and keep ahead, so as to frustrate von Merkatz’s desires for speech. I’ll go aloft and see for myself, and in the meantime I, suggest you use your engines. They may give us an extra knot or two that could make the difference.”
Graves agreed and sent down for his engineer. Halfhyde made his way to the foretopmast crosstrees, where he levelled his telescope astern. After a while he was able to identify the fighting-tops of warships: von Merkatz’ squadron without a doubt.
He returned to the bridge and reported. Graves asked, “Suppose he makes a signal ordering us to heave to?”
Halfhyde gave a tight grin. “Can you read flags or the Morse code on a lamp?”
“Morse, no. Flags used in the International Code—yes, of course.”
“Then emulate the great Lord Nelson, sir, as I shall do, and turn a blind eye. In any case, the reading of a signal lamp was something I never managed to master aboard the Queen’s ships.” Halfhyde paused, pulling thoughtfully at his long jaw, a hight of excitement in his eyes at the thought of another sea-clash with Vice-Admiral Paulus von Merkatz. “It’s possible, if ignored for long enough after he has overtaken us, he’ll put a shot across our bows, and that will be difficult not to see or hear.”
“Exactly!”
“But we’ll not despair,” Halfhyde said cheerfully. “I spoke of a stratagem, did I not, sir?”
Graves said sardonically, “You did. Has it, by any chance, arrived?”
“Indeed it has, just at this very moment, precisely when needed! Have you a Blue Ensign aboard?”
Graves shook his head. “I’m RNR myself, as you know, but have not the required percentage of reservists in my crew to be entitled—”
“Yes, I see. Then we shall go one further, sir, with your permission. I’d be grateful if you’d have your sailmaker construct a White Ensign by cannibalizing such other flags as he’ll need for the job.”
Although looking surprised, Graves passed the order without comment or question: Halfhyde’s manner had changed. It was as though he were in command himself, and Graves felt a title out of his depth in the possible confrontation of a German cruiser squadron from the bridge of a peaceful merchantman. Once again Halfhyde levelled his telescope astern. The smoke was now beginning to be visible from bridge level, and that was evidence that the ships were closing, however slowly. He turned to the Master. “How long before we have steam, sir?” he asked.
Graves shrugged. “As soon as my engineer can make it. He tells me his furnaces can’t be hurried. The shortcomings of steam…but I know he’ll be doing his best.” Graves’ tone was sardonic; he was no more a lover of the black gang than was any other master mariner. But miracles were being achieved below; soon thick smoke began to emerge from the funnel, wreathing up through the rigging and the sails, and all along the decks the seamen began ostentatiously to cough their lungs up. No one liked the engines.
SERGEANT CANTLOW alias Jesson appreciated his sundowner, and more than that; the going down of the sun in the west to bring splendid colours to the sky and the Pacific, to glint red and gold through the network of rigging and bring fire to the yards, was Jesson’s signal to begin the evening’s drinking. He took it slow to start with, savouring the fine taste of McRafferty’s Dunville’s. McRafferty, leaving the watch to the First Mate, was in his cabin engaged upon some paperwork and the writing up of the fair log from the deck log. Fiona was sitting at the saloon table doing some petit point needlework.
Jesson said, “What’s that you’re making, then, Miss McRafferty?”
She looked up, flushing a little. “A sampler, Mr Jesson.”
“For your young man?”
“No,” she said. “For my father.”
“The only man in your life?”
Her blush deepened but she didn’t answer. Jesson said loudly, “I said, the only man in your life. Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said defensively.
“A trifle dull.”
“I do not find it so.”
“Hah!” Jesson reached for the bottle and poured another whisky, splashing in just a touch of water. He sat with the glass cupped in his hands, brooding at the girl. She was an attractive filly if rather too virginal for his taste, which ran more to barmaids of a forthcoming nature and well endowed as to the breasts and buttocks. Jesson sprawled back on the leather settee and reflected upon women he had known and bedded in his time at home and overseas. A sergeant of dragoons, which he must take much care not to appear to have been, was a sought-after person around the military camps and barracks spread throughout the world in the Queen’s name. A swashbuckling person was any sergeant of dragoons, and as Sergeant Cantlow he had outshone them all when wearing his uniform of the Sixth Dragoon Guards. With his black-plumed brass helmet, he had been a fine figure of a man, a fine fellow, and still was. The sap still rose in him; the whisky tended to make it rise more. He had found women easily in South Africa, he had found them in Chile too, but Chile was many days behind him now while Australia was yet a very long time ahead. The man Bullock had warned him, it was true, and he had seen for himself that Captain McRafferty was not to be trifled with and kept a very close eye on the filly. Caution was needed but a time would come. He could bide that time a little longer; meanwhile there was pleasure in anticipation and in imagination. Seeing himself back once again as Sergeant Cantlow of the Sixth Dragoon Guards, Jesson saw other things as well: creamy breasts bared of the massive constriction affected by young women, eager limbs,
