James Philip

________

REMEMBER BRAVE ACHILLES

________

A.D. 1978

________

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1

Historians will tell you – sometimes in good faith although not always, that the last days of peace are often the final flowering of ages of innocence. That had people known what they were about to get involved in, the if we knew now what we knew then argument, that they might have drawn back at the very brink and not, subsequently, fallen over the edge into the abyss yawning before them.

In 1978 none of the parties could honestly claim not to have known that the outbreak of war was going to plunge an awful lot of people into a world of pain.

Ignore the siren calls of New Englanders who had convinced themselves that they were in some way ‘special’, that the normal rules did not apply to them and that somebody else would always pick up the tab in terms of blood and treasure. They had been sheltered too long beneath the imperial umbrella and besides, all that was soon to change. That it had not been appreciated that 1978 was not 1878 was not the Old Country’s or the rest of the Empire’s fault, it was a thing that was deeply embedded, canker-like in the psyches of the elites of the First Thirteen.

It had been Imperial policy, accepted wisdom, if you like, that the way to keep New England ‘sweet’ was to treat it like the spoiled child of the Empire. In India the largest standing Army on the planet kept the peace and defended the borders of the Raj. True, the vast sub-continental fiefdom was ruled and administered by an unholy alliance of tame captive princes and thousands of District Officers, only loosely regulated by the various regional and the one supreme Governor – the Viceroy – in Delhi but actually, it was the six hundred thousand men of the Indian Army, plus the hundred thousand or so men of the Air Force which really kept the peace, sometimes with ruthless, brutal severity. That sort of thing had been quietly phased out as long ago as the 1790s in North America; after all, the New Englanders and the few thousand loyal Canadians were, at that time, more English than the English and by most standards, as law-abiding if not more so than the hoi polloi back in the Old Country. Thus, the New World became a recruiting ground for the Army and the Navy, not garrisons because a little occasional local misunderstanding with the native Indian tribes apart, there really was not a lot for an army to do in New England. Thus, the great, straight trees of New England, particularly Maine, Vermont and New Hampshire became the raw material from which generations of the Empire’s wooden walls were built, and later, the rich iron and coal deposits of the interior fed the maw of the British, and in no time at all, New England industrial revolutions which changed the World forever in the nineteenth century.

The business of New England became business, its society very nearly self-regulating, a giant extension of the Old Country three thousand miles away across the North Atlantic; unlike Australasia which was always just that little bit too far away, too alien to be England transported abroad, New England was somehow inextricably tied to the apron strings of the Empire. The peoples of the British New World did not, like others, become in time Australians, or New Zealanders, Indians or Ceylonese, Maltese, Gibraltarians, or South Africans, they remained English; the clue was in the name of their vast, over-mighty colony, New England.

After 1776 there was no further rebellion. Well, not one of note, assuming one forgets the ones the French and the Spanish attempted to foment in the early nineteenth century and the doomed attempts of various regimes in Nuevo Granada, Cuba, Santo Domingo and Hispaniola to cause trouble in the south down the years. Essentially, 1776 was the last time the ‘English’ of New England united – albeit in no little disharmony, the revolution is often after all referred to as the ‘American Civil War’ – in common cause against the perfidy of Albion. Englishman had not fought Englishman in the First Thirteen since the last dregs of George Washington’s shattered Colonial Army was ‘mopped up’ in the course of General William Howe’s ruthlessly prosecuted Hudson Valley campaign of 1776–77.

Two hundred years later visitors to Virginia or up-colony New York, or the landscapes of the middle colonies – Connecticut, Massachusetts and New Hampshire might be struck by how the patchwork of fields and farms, the woods and dells, the babbling brooks and picturesque country hamlets reminded them of the English Home Counties. The only thing a visitor would take home with him, or her, was the overwhelming impression that everything in New England was bigger, that there was more of it, and that when they returned home the United Kingdom seemed, crowded, and a little faded in comparison.

Even that was a matter of pride to New Englanders.

They were God’s own people, blessed with a land that was endlessly fecund, limitless in its expanse and so rich in mineral wealth that one only had to put a shovel into the ground to turn up one or other kind of gild.

So, why on earth would the Treasury back in London have ever thought it was a good idea to turn this new Xanadu into an armed camp?

There was also, perhaps, a nagging remembrance of what had been the root of all that unpleasantness back in the 1760s and 1770s.

Taxation, with or without representation…

In Whitehall the movers and shakers of Empire could never quite forget that all those English gentlemen farmers back in the eighteenth century, and nowadays, great captains of industry, magnets and entrepreneurs, the owners of the great mines and blast furnaces, shipyards and railroads, the cotton kings, tobacco planters and merchant bankers, really did not like paying tax.

Historically, New England had never been taxed according to its means, or its wealth. Indian subsistence farmers in Bengal in the middle of a famine were still expected to pay their due, even the gold and diamond kings of the Witwatersrand in South Africa paid their due, sheep farmers in New Zealand – even under Imperial Preference – were taxed as would be an Englishman on a hill farm in Northern England or Wales. But that was not for New Englanders; not for them parity with other citizens of the Empire. So, when war or global trade impinged elsewhere, New Englanders were insulated. The Colonies borrowed against Imperial guarantees, piling up mountains of debt safe in the knowledge that sooner or later the British taxpayer would pick up the tab; and business went on as normal in the First Thirteen.

In London, successive governments had known for over a century that if there was ever a second Great War, or even a major conflict in the Americas, then their exchequers could not stand the strain; and that New England would have to step up to the crease, stand tall and face the music.

Unfortunately, by the time a government was in power in Westminster with the moral fortitude and the native gumption to address the issue war was already in the offing, and the debate with the colonies of New England never happened.

Unlike the taxes, which did… happen.

The great imponderable was: would the New Englanders’ patriotism survive the test of the taxation required to defend their modern Eden?

Of course, the answer to the conundrum was complex.

Neither did the consequences immediately become evident.

Two hundred years of complacency takes a long time to unravel.

Thus, destiny determined that April 1978 was the month when assumptions, so ingrained that they had seemed immutable, as if carved in the very living rock upon which New England was founded, were tested as never before.

Sir George Horace Walpole

[Extract from ‘A History of New England, Volume V: 1957–1982’ printed in July 1983].

Chapter 2

Thursday 6th April

SMS Breitenfeld, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

Fifty-four-year-old Rear Admiral Erwin von Reuter watched from the port wing of the eighteen-thousand-ton cruiser’s compass platform, as the last of the most seriously wounded men were brought up from below in the first light of dawn.

It was no mean task to transfer men maimed by blast and fire, their stretchers, drips and monitors from the sick bay and the emergency casualty handling stations deep within the ship, up and through the smoke-blackened passageways of the aft superstructure and onto the quarterdeck where doctors and nurses from the armed fleet auxiliary, SMS Weser did what they could to make the injured men as comfortable as possible before their transfer to their own ship’s hastily expanded hospital wards.

Fifty metres away the flag of Nuevo Granada, the Mexican lands, fluttered limply from the flagship’s halyards in the early morning breeze like an ever-present reminder of the undying shame von Reuter’s Government – he prayed that the shame was the mad old Kaiser’s alone, not of those around him, whom he still hoped and prayed clung to their sanity in Berlin – had brought down upon the Imperial flag that, until the last day of February, had previously flown with untrammelled honour from that same main mast halyard. Time and again in recent days he had tried, and failed, to imagine what his old friend Crown Prince Wilhelm must be thinking at this moment, of the abject disgrace of the Kaiserliche Marine.

Wilhelm must be tearing out his hair…

“Ah, there you are!”

Von Reuter did not turn, knowing his face would be like thunder beneath the still bloody bandage swathing his badly gashed brow. He planned to have that wound looked at properly when his wounded were safely on board the Weser. A surgeon’s mate had put several hurried, crude stitches in the shrapnel gouge across his neck, and the superficial tear across his scalp, injecting some kind of local anaesthetic which had worn off several hours ago.

“I thought I’d find you skulking up here!”

Forty-year-old Vice Admiral Count Carlos Federico Gravina y Vera Cruz, a man used to easy living and tending toward corpulency, the Chief Minister and Commander-in-Chief of the Amada de Nuevo Granada, was still basking in the warm inner glow of his latest promotion, as the High Admiral of the Fleets of the Triple Alliance. In theory, he was Erwin von Reuter’s commanding officer.

Or at least, he thought he was.

Personally, so far as von Reuter was concerned, he remained a German officer and the only man he had ever sworn an oath of allegiance to was the man elected to rule the Empire that sunny day in Berlin in July 1937, by the grace of the twenty-four ‘Electors’ – kings and princes of Germany – and mad or not, it was to him, his Kaiser, that his unconditional fealty was due.

Unlike von Reuter’s officers, most of Gravina’s senior staffers had retired to their cabins. Well, those who still had cabins. The bastards had actually complained about the passageways being crowded with the overspill from the main and emergency sick bays! With leaders like that it was hardly surprising that the majority of the ‘Mexican’ – that had been a surprise, that none of the people in Vera Cruz called themselves Spaniards, or even New Granadans – crewmen who had come aboard, some four hundred men, almost entirely conscripts, among them scores of natives from the countryside with few or any words of Spanish, meaning that not even their own officers could communicate with them, had been little better than terrified passengers during yesterday’s battle!

That von Reuter had had to send nearly one in three of his well-trained, good Germans home in the days before the ‘Allies’ into whose hands his fleet had been delivered, insanely, just weeks before he had been ordered to trade broadsides with the Royal Navy, defied all logic!

Predictably, although the newcomers had not – so far as he could tell, only a proper analysis of the recent action would prove it one way or the other – obviously impaired the gunnery of his ships, mainly because he had not permitted any of the new men to get anywhere near the main batteries of his ships, the presence of so many ‘passengers’ had half-crippled the Breitenfeld’s damage control, fire-fighting and casualty handling teams, the performance of which had, at times during the battle and in the hours since had been nothing short of… deplorable.

Even now, there were scores of Mexicans wandering around like lost souls – basically, getting in the way – while their officers got drunk in the Wardroom celebrating the ‘great victory’.

“Do we really need so many men attending to the injured?” Vice Admiral Count Carlos Federico Gravina y Vera Cruz inquired, his dark, aquiline features, belying his girth, creased with impatience.

Very few of von Reuters officers and men spoke Spanish, and experience had revealed that the Castilian dialect common in the West Indies and Central America often took a little getting used to even for a native of Old Spain. The ‘American tongue’ of the Spanish throughout the lands of New Spain, was shot through with corruptions of old words picked up from the languages of the indigenous peoples of the long-conquered lands, and its syntax subtly altered – some said improved – by seemingly random interjections of pigeon Portuguese.

Fortunately, as was to be expected of naval officers world-wide, Gravina and his officers, if not many of his petty officers and other rates, spoke passable English. Thus, if nothing else, both men at least understood the language of their enemies.

Except, von Reuter, for all that he had been an ardent pro-nationalist, ‘imperial German’, his whole adult life and had no reason to doubt that his friend and sponsor in Berlin, the Crown Prince, shared all those ‘Grosse Deutschland’ dreams of a World Order in which the Empire was the equal, not forever the supplicant to Britannia, suspected that somewhere along the line there had been a dreadful error in translation.

Von Reuter’s anger simmered and seethed just beneath his icy self-possession.

Dammit, the bloody British drove him up the wall!

Their insufferable air of superiority was like a slap in the face with a wet fish every day of his life!

Much as they might claim they did not own every bloody inch of every bloody ocean!

But did he imagine, want, think it was remotely sane to trade broadsides with the British…

Of course not!

That was insane!

He and the Crown Prince had both, independently, sought clarification of the Kaiser’s ‘Vera Cruz Decree’, and the orders subsequently issued with regard to the terms of the transfer of von Reuter’s West Indies Squadron to Las Armada de Nuevo Granada.

Unambiguous clarification had arrived back in February.

He was to transfer his ships into the hands of, and report to C-in-C Vera Cruz. The ship’s crews were to be rotated home over the next ten months in three approximately numerically equal groups; all commanding officers were to retain day to day operational control of their ships until notified to the contrary. The idea was that his people were supposed to stay long enough to train the Mexicans how to steam and fight the ships; although, from what he had seen of the quality and competence of the officers and men posted to the squadron thus far, ten months was not going to be anywhere like long enough.

While some of the officers seemed to have a little bit of savvy about them, they were as a group well-educated and some had spent time at staff colleges in Germany after all, they might learn the technical ropes fairly quickly. Their ‘men’ were another thing altogether. Half of them could not read or write, most of them had never been to sea before and generally speaking, they seemed to react badly to the discipline essential to safely and efficiently run any ship, heaven forfend, ones as hideously complicated and potentially lethal as those of the Vera Cruz Squadron.

However, Von Reuter knew that this was not what the other man actually wanted to talk about. He dragged his mind away from professional, naval considerations.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he retorted brusquely. “Unfortunately, with so many untrained supernumeraries aboard, many men who might otherwise be engaged on repair and other work making good battle damage, must be detailed to care for the wounded.”

Gravina blanched at deliberately pejorative use of the word supernumeraries.

“It was always anticipated that it would take a little while for men of Las Armada de Nuevo Granada to ‘bed in’, Admiral Reuter,” he said testily.

What really worried von Reuter was that on some of the smaller ships of the squadron, the influx of idle hands and the exodus of so many veterans had had a near disastrous impact on discipline, efficiency and combat-worthiness.

And shortly he was going to be confronted by the entire might of the British Atlantic Fleet!

Von Reuter still found it very hard to believe – incomprehensible, in fact – that a couple of ancient float planes had managed to cripple a modern cruiser like the Karlsruhe. But then a lot of things about yesterday’s battle had come as a very, very rude shock even to a man like he, who had never, not for a moment, underestimated the war-fighting prowess of the English.

Gravina’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“The Governor-General of Cuba has received representations from the Lord High Inquisitor of Havana demanding to know when the British survivors will be transferred ashore into his,” the Minister of the Las Amada de Nuevo Granada hesitated, “safe keeping?”

Von Reuter gazed past the Mexican’s shoulder to where the SMS Weser rode at anchor.

The Weser was an old Hamburg-Atlantic liner converted for navy-service as a general supply, troop-cum-hospital ship some years ago which had served as a base ship at San Juan, for visiting Kaiserliche Marine ships and squadrons. It was at the naval base at San Juan that she had been secretly converted for commerce raiding last autumn, equipped with four concealed, main deck mounted 6-inch guns and quadruple torpedo tubes installed below the waterline. A fortnight ago, she had been quietly moved to Guantanamo Bay, the intention being to transfer her to Kingston, Jamaica, as soon as things quietened down, using her modern electronics suite to act as a communication relay for rest of the fleet, or, if circumstances warranted, to range the Caribbean as a commerce raider. It was typical of the Admiralty in Berlin’s parsimony to attempt to combine the wholly discrete re-supply, hospital ship and commerce raiding roles in a single ship.

It was too late to do anything about that now…

Nobody imagined that the Royal Navy was going to allow reinforcements, further ships from Germany to arrive in the foreseeable future. So, the ships that von Reuter had to hand were, bluntly, it for the time being.

“The surviving members of the crew of the Achilles surrendered to German officers, Your Grace,” von Reuter reminded the other man. “In the absence of guarantees from the authorities onshore I cannot, in honour, abrogate my responsibilities under the conventions of the Treaty of Paris. They will remain on board the Weser and on the other ships for the moment. Until, the situation is clearer.”

“I command this fleet,” Gravina smiled thinly.

“Yes. But I command my men.”

Problematically, although the then Spanish King-Emperor, Alfonso XI, had ratified the Treaty of Paris in its entirety, including the conventions relating to prisoners of war and non-combatants caught up in battlefields, or other so-called ‘contested areas’, back in the late 1860s and early 1870s, none of Madrid’s American crown colonies had followed suit. A century ago, nobody had thought this was important. Unfortunately, given that in recent decades the ever-more nominal ‘crown colonies’ had become openly self-governing, self-determining entities which paid little or no lip service to Old Spain, right now this was suddenly a matter of the utmost significance to anybody who was considered a ‘prisoner of war’ or an ‘enemy non-combatant’. Basically, if you fell into either category you had no rights; you were literally, at the mercy of your captives.

“Presumably,” Gravina went on, “you plan to hold the British prisoners as hostages? Insurance, in the event your government disowns you?”

The German glared at the other man.

“If we were in Berlin,” he rasped, coldly, “I would demand satisfaction on the field of honour of any man who besmirched my name, and the name of my family, with such a slur, Your Grace.”

The Mexican thought this was some kind of joke.

“Well, we’re not in Berlin now, Admiral Reuter.”

“No, we’re not!”

Gravina shrugged.

“You don’t look too well, Admiral?”

Von Reuter had no intention of retiring to his sick bed for forty-eight hours – a half-hearted, half-serious suggestion from the ship’s over-worked surgeon – because by the time he returned to duty it was odds on, that Gravina and the gang of sycophantic political place men masquerading as an admiral’s staff, would have sunk the flagship by then!

“As to the matter of the treatment of Europeans,” von Reuter declared, fed up with sparring. “It was written into the concordat covering the handover of my ships to Las Armada de Nuevo Granada, that Europeans, that is, the crews of my ships and other parties who might come aboard on legitimate Navy business, will be unconditionally exempted from local theocratic authority…”

“That form of words was never designed to cover prisoners, apostate enemies of the one true faith.”

“There was never supposed to be a war, Your Grace!”

“You and I are but servants of greater princes, Admiral von Reuter. You would do well to remember that.”

“I need no man to remind me of my duty.”

Gravina thought about this.

“As you wish. I must go ashore and pay my respects to the Provincial Governor.” The other man made as if to go, hesitated, and observed with unusual respect: ‘You were right about that ship. The Achilles was indeed a most formidable foe!”

The Mexican turned on his heel and, with his over-large entourage falling into step headed down to the main deck where a barge waited alongside the midships gangway.

Von Reuter turned and gazed over the armoured crests of the forward main battery turrets, past the cruiser’s clipper bow at the verdant low hills beyond the sprawl of port buildings and the shanties where most of the workers lived, despoiling what might otherwise be a second, tropical Eden. The tallest buildings were the churches, the tower and spires of two attracted his eye, reminding him of the inherent disconnect between the rational men of the Wilhelmstrasse, the Navy Ministry and within the Royal Palaces of Berlin, and the essential irrationality of the religious zealots in charge in Cuba, Santo Domingo, Hispaniola and probably, in New Granada, also. What looked so simple, pragmatic if one contemplated any map of the region was anything but when an overdose of theocratic fundamentalism was thrown into the mix.

Von Reuter’s head hurt.

Not just from his wounds.

Yesterday had been the great test of his naval career and he had an awful, sinking feeling that he had failed – abjectly – his Kaiser, and the men on his ships.

Von Reuter had half-assumed, and if he was being honest with himself, hoped that the Achilles would use her speed and agility to attempt to escape the trap he had laid for her in the Windward Passage. Had the British cruiser’s first manoeuvre been to reverse course and run north at her best speed – probably at least thirty-two or three knots – and if he had not been able to hit her hard enough to slow her down in the first minutes of the action, after an hour, maybe two, he would have been obliged to call off the stern chase. The danger of coming upon a more powerful Royal Navy Squadron in these waters was far too great. Not least, because the Cuban and the Dominican Air Forces had ignored his increasingly urgent requests, and then pleas, for systematic aerial reconnaissance of their northern waters, particularly the approaches to the Windward Passage south of Great and Little Inagua Islands.

Pertinently, if he had been Admiral Lord Collingwood in Norfolk, Virginia – the closest thing the British had to a master strategist – surveying the map of the Gulf of Spain and the Caribbean, he too, might have viewed those two sparsely populated, otherwise half-forgotten islands as the keys to the first stages of the coming conflict.

Even the Dominicans had recognised as much!

That was how obvious it was…

However, in the event the Achilles had not run to the north; not even when that bloody scout plane stumbled upon the Karlsruhe task force guarding the southern reaches of the Passage.

Von Reuter had stationed the Karlsruhe – the only ship in his squadron equipped with the latest long-range centimetric air search and gunnery ELDARs – to the south in case Achilles somehow slipped past the Breitenfeld and the Lutzen and their three screening destroyers. However, far from ‘running away’, the Achilles had raced into action at top speed!

Then, when von Reuters heavy cruisers had emerged out of the ELDAR clutter of the mainland, Achilles had poured on the revolutions and brazenly, repeatedly crossed his ‘T’ – as he closed the range with only his ships forward main battery guns able to bear on their target – and for the first twenty minutes of the fight rained murderously accurate ELDAR-directed fire upon the Breitenfeld, the flagship, virtually ignoring the Lutzen in the interests of not confusing Achilles’s fire control, intent on doing the maximum possible damage to at least one of von Reuter’s big ships. A demonstration of such gunnery discipline, of such unwavering single-mindedness from an outnumbered, massively out-gunned adversity which had made no attempt to save herself despite being confronted by impossible odds, was a living testament to the unofficial motto of the Royal Navy.

No Captain can fail in his duty if by laying his ship alongside his foe he engages the enemy more closely…

In those minutes before his cruisers finally turned to the north to cut off the Achilles’s only route of escape, the Breitenfeld had taken nine direct hits and it seemed, been constantly bracketed by salvo after salvo. Although Achilles’s shooting had become erratic soon after both Breitenfeld and Lutzen had finally opened up their ‘A’ arcs to bring all sixteen of their eight-inch guns to bear, she had never at any time shifted her main battery fire from the flagship.

Von Reuter had been briefly knocked unconscious by a direct hit on the unarmoured compass bridge. He hated being cocooned in the conning tower, a Krupp-steel encased ‘sweat box’.

A second hit on the bridge while he was briefly hors de combat had disabled the flagship’s bridge telegraphs and the wheel-to-rudder linkages, so she had had to be conned thereafter from her auxiliary steering position deep beneath her quarterdeck.

Coming around a few minutes later von Reuter had discovered that Gravina had ordered the Lutzen and one of the destroyers, the Z59 type SMS Albrecht von Roon, to close with the by then crippled and burning British cruiser.

This blunder had had two immediate consequences.

Firstly, the Lutzen was no longer able to slave her main battery firing table solutions to those of the flagship, a doubly misguided decision because her fire control ELDAR had been damaged in a storm shortly before the squadron had transferred to the service of New Granada, and therefore had had to continue the engagement with her eight-inch rifles under local, turret control.

Secondly, this had brought the Lutzen, and the destroyer Albrecht von Roon, into range of the Achilles’s three-inch dual-purpose auto-cannons, seemingly undamaged at that stage of the battle.

Even as the range decreased the Lutzen’s gunnery had remained largely ineffective, despite being until then, undamaged. Shortly after she abandoned her station on the Breitenfeld’s port beam the cruiser had found herself steaming through salvoes of shells arriving every two-and-a-half to three seconds. True, her armour had kept the relatively small 3-inch calibre projectiles out of her vitals; but the men manning positions above her armoured main deck had been less fortunate. Like her sister ship, the Breitenfeld, the Lutzen’s hull and superstructure was pocked and here and there, fire-scorched.

Having sustained no casualties until she separated from the flagship, in the final phase of the battle, Lutzen had suffered nineteen dead and forty-four seriously wounded to add to the flagship’s thirty-one dead and sixty-eight badly wounded.

Whereas, Breitenfeld’s damage was par for the course; Lutzen’s injuries had been entirely avoidable. There were areas in both ships – unprotected bow or stern compartments, mess and equipment stores, workshops, boat decks, open anti-aircraft gun mounts above the main (armoured) deck level – which were so comprehensively wrecked that it might, given the capabilities of the facilities available to the fleet in the Caribbean, take up to two to three months in dockyard hands to put right all the damage.

Among the flagship’s catalogue of woe, a direct hit by a six-inch shell had destroyed the Breitenfeld’s seaplane catapult, and a three-inch round had – somehow – penetrated the two-inch armour plate of one of the Lutzen’s secondary battery four-inch twin turrets, killing everybody in it. Worse, early in the action a six-inch round had entered the Breitenfeld’s bow, and although it passed through without detonating, nevertheless caused the starboard anchor chain to run out and have to be explosively jettisoned, setting fire to the fo’c’sle paint store and allowing around three hundred tons of sea water to flood into the surrounding underwater compartments.

Breitenfeld’s clearance divers were still attempting to weld a patch over the hole two metres below the waterline on the starboard plating.

As for the unfortunate Albrecht von Roon…

The Achilles’s had ‘played dead’ until the destroyer was manoeuvring to launch torpedoes, then, at a range of significantly less than fifteen hundred metres, point blank range for the cruiser’s long three-inch rifles, she had opened up a withering fire on the unarmoured destroyer.

At a little after midnight, while under tow to Guantanamo Bay by the Lutzen the Albrecht von Roon had sunk. The most recent reports from the two destroyers searching for survivors in the shark-infested waters of the Windward Passage was that only sixty-three of her one hundred-and-thirty-seven-man crew had been recovered alive.

Meanwhile, the news from Jamaica was hardly comforting.

Shore batteries had registered hits on both the Emden and the Breslau and as yet no attempt had been made to enter Kingston Harbour. Elsewhere, the multiple landings by Cuban and Dominican troops seemed to have achieved lodgements on the island. It seemed that the initial bombardment must have caught the British completely off guard because the ‘Jamaica Division’ had reported no hostile air activity.

Von Reuter felt dirty.

He told himself that if he had refused to carry out his orders, as communicated to him by Gravina, the voice of the Grand Council of the Triple Alliance – actually a combination of five Crown Colonies of Spain: New Granada (Mexico), Cuba, Santo Domingo, with Hispaniola and Anguilla in the role of Dominican allies, egged on with varying degrees of enthusiasm by most of the other Spanish protectorates and concessions ringing the southern Caribbean – then Gravina would have found somebody else to command his ships and his men. It hardly mattered now that he had known, and reported as much to his superiors back home, that the proposed interim command structure, covering the transition period up until the last German departed for home, or transferred to one of the Kaiserliche Marine’s regional supply, maintenance or communications facilities ashore, was ‘an accident waiting to happen’. He had made those qualms known with his customary forcefulness.

Even the Crown Prince had echoed his misgivings.

Unfortunately, nobody had done anything about it.

And he, therefore, had been the man on the spot when Gravina’s Staff had submitted the plans for Operación Cruzada Uno – Operation Crusade One – had dropped in his lap.

Von Reuter had viewed the whole enterprise as some kind of bizarre, rather eccentric staff exercise; which had been what the reaction of the Oberkommando der Kaiserliche Marine (OKM) in Berlin had been at first, too. Berlin concurred with his assessment that even if Operación Cruzada Uno was no more than an attempt to document a scenario, or a proposal for future operation planning, it had so many obvious flaws and inconsistencies that it was going to need an awful lot of ‘professional’ staff work done on it, before anybody mentioned it to the Kaiser. For example, any notion of co-ordinating large-scale fleet manoeuvres with the Dominicans and the Cubans, or their other allies without first establishing common standard operating procedures and communications protocols, or doing something to address the inherent incompatibility of their respective weapons systems, and the steaming capabilities of the vessels optimistically assigned to Operación Cruzada Uno, was plainly nonsensical. Also, nobody in Berlin could see where the triple Alliance was going to find sufficient seaworthy or battleworthy, naval assets to mount the four concurrent, widely separated strikes, each many hundreds of miles from the next, in the given operational timescale of just thirty days.

And where was the ‘air’ element to support these operations?

Moreover, nobody in Berlin had given anybody in Havana or Mexico City the all clear to deploy any, let alone all of the submersible assets jointly designed and constructed over the last decade. Yet without those submarines guarding their flanks the Triple Alliance’s fleets, even supported by the five modern cruisers of von Reuter’s squadron would be at the mercy of roaming British surface patrols…

This was why von Reuter had demanded to be copied in on all current Triple Alliance planning documentation. Operación Cruzada Uno was a naval suicide note without a meaningful air component, and or, every single submarine in the navies of Nuevo Granada and Cuba. Not that even this would make the insane scheme remotely viable, politically or militarily. Each ship sunk or damaged by a torpedo fired from a ‘Spanish’ submarine would run down the clock on a general war…

And that was unthinkable!

While he waited for OKM’s veto to scupper the lunatic plans of his Spanish allies, Von Reuter had had no option but to rely on delaying tactics, seizing upon the arrival of HMS Achilles in theatre to unilaterally cancel, for ‘operational reasons’ the Breitenfeld and the Lutzen’s ‘planned’ strike on Bermuda.

Gravina had violently resisted this at first.

‘The Achilles is a very capable weapons platform commanded by the most experienced captain in the Royal Navy,’ von Reuter had argued, ‘quite a match for any one of my three smaller cruisers, or for any other single vessel the Alliance can field against her!’

Gravina had wanted him to leave the Karlsruhe and the flagship’s destroyer screen to guard the Windward Passage and if necessary, to intercept the Achilles while his two heavy cruisers raced north to bombard Bermuda.

Insanity did scant justice to the plan.

‘If your big ships encounter her on your northward strike so much the better,’ Gravina had declared.

Countering this, von Reuter had taken the Mexican to the Breitenfeld’s chart room, drawn his ship’s circles of ELDAR coverage within the confines of the Windward Passage – albeit conservatively – to illustrate how easily Achilles might evade his ships during her southern transit.

‘Then the British would have two cruisers at Jamaica,” he had observed. “If that happens, nothing short of the whole Vera Cruz Squadron would be required to dislodge them.’

Thus, von Reuter had split his ships between covering Jamaica, the southern approaches to the Windward Passage, and Guantanamo Bay, where, for some weeks he had hoped to dry dock the Lutzen to address a problematic bearing on her starboard shaft.

Neither he, nor his captains, had seriously believed that they would be engaged on war fighting missions against the British colony of Jamaica, or Royal Navy warships at sea until about thirty-six hours ago. Even then, nobody had really believed what was happening until the first shots were fired.

In the distance he heard the pumps thumping.

Both the Breitenfeld and the Lutzen had had hull welds cracked by near misses, the flagship was drizzling a small leak of bunker fuel from somewhere aft beneath her belt armour.

Well, Erwin von Reuter thought silently, now at least, he was going to be able to tell the hotheads back home exactly what a war at sea with the British looked like!

It was not a pretty sight.

HMS Achilles was one, relatively small, lightly armoured old-fashioned trade route cruiser and yet she had given his two big, heavily protected ‘modern’ cruisers a very rough handling and sunk one of his destroyers, inflicting some two hundred casualties. Not to mention writing yet another glorious page in the Royal Navy’s illustrious annals.

As to whether or not he was ever going to get the chance to tell those idiots in Berlin what a war with the British might look like in person, well, that was now something of a moot point.

Neither he, nor his ships, were going back to Germany any time soon, if ever. One did not have to be any kind of mystic or clairvoyant to realise that the Vera Cruz Squadron had stamped on a giant wasp nest and that it was only a matter of time before the inevitable reckoning!

Chapter 3

Thursday 6th April

Puente de Congosto, Castile and León, Spain

It might have been delayed shock, or perhaps, just simple emotional and physical exhaustion but the two women had slept, fitfully, until the light of dawn began to explore the sky and a cold flecking rain began to fall. The boy, Pedro, whom they had rescued from yesterday’s ambush at El Barco de Ávila, whom they now guessed to be three to four years old, had nestled between them beneath their single, damp-smelling blanket.

“We can’t stay here!”

Melody Danson blinked myopically up into Albert Stanton’s bruised and scarred face. The Manhattan Globe’s star reporter’s steel-rimmed spectacles, still rested at a slightly odd angle on his nose, broken, or certainly re-aligned in his recent insanely courageous parachute jump.

“What?” She muttered, still half-asleep and seemingly, aching from head to foot, not to mention suddenly chilled to the bone. Next to her Henrietta De L’Isle began to stir as the two women started, unconsciously to untangle their limbs, one from the other.

“We can’t stay here,” the man pointed out. “We’re virtually out in the open. Anybody could come along and find us!”

Melody was aware of the rushing of the river now.

Last night the stream had bubbled and gurgled, gently carried their two flat-bottomed punts along. Something had changed overnight.

The rain began to fall harder, persistently.

She looked around.

Everything came back in a flash.

The two teenage boys, Jesus and Felipe, who had steered the boats downstream well into the night had insisted they haul the skiffs ashore above the town. In fact, they had refused, point blank, to go any further. They had ‘people’ who depended upon them back ‘up river’. And besides, within a few hundred yards the waters narrowed to a rocky, twisting channel where the river passed through the nearby town, and beyond the ‘dangerous reach’ there was a high weir, and below that lay several more impassable rapids.

Albert Stanton had angrily accused the kids of betraying them.

Melody had stepped in to avoid an unpleasant scene.

The boys had families up river, they needed to know what had happened to them in the fighting at El Barco de Ávila, after the Cortez family convoy had been attacked and the survivors scattered. Whereas, in the heat of the moment it had been everybody for themselves; understandably, the boys needed to know if their loved ones and dependents were still alive.

Henrietta had followed Melody’s conciliatory lead. The women had hugged the boys – young men for all that they could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen – and thanked them for coming this far.

‘God rewards men of good heart,’ Melody had told Jesus and Felipe and shortly thereafter, the party had split up on good terms, mutual goodwill fortified by her insistence that Albert Stanton surrender both the hand guns to the kids as a token of their thanks for rescuing them from the previous day’s battle.

The man had been fuming as he watched the boys disappear into the night.

‘They didn’t have to help us, Albert,’ Melody had gently reminded him. ‘We’re still alive because they risked their lives to help us, strangers.’

Actually, she had been more than a little vexed by the newspaperman’s attitude, realising then how much better she understood the people of this benighted country. She had after all, spent over three years in Spain as a child, watching, learning, exposed to the rhythms and nuances of many aspects of the daily lives of ‘ordinary’ people. Very few Spaniards of the country were likely to bear them, even if they knew them to be foreigners in a time of civil war, any particular malice. To the contrary, the reaction of most of the people they were likely to encounter might be to offer what, little, hospitality they could afford. Particularly, to two women with a small child in their care…

‘These people owe us nothing,’ she reminded the Manhattan Globe man. ‘We have no right to demand anything of them.’

A little later Albert Stanton had apologised.

‘Look. I feel responsible for your safety. I feel as if I have let you down.’ The man still had the German sub-machine gun but after a brief discourse, the women prevailed upon him to throw it in the river.

‘Honestly, Albert,’ Melody had comforted him, ‘if you ever had to use it, we’d already be well… screwed.’

Now, in the light of the new day, she was looking meaningfully at his wristwatch.

“That has to go, too. Sorry. It shouts NEW YORK and people around here don’t have any kind of timepiece smaller than a dinner plate…”

Albert Stanton did not argue.

The designer watch, expensively personalised by an Albany jeweller disappeared into the river along with the evil-looking gun.

“So,” the man had asked, “what’s the plan?”

“I don’t have a plan,” Melody had confessed, too tired to think straight anymore.

They had no food, the wrong clothes – Henrietta and she were dressed like boy farm labourers, from a distance with their shorn heads they had to look decidedly androgynous but that was not going to work close up – no documents, no friends, strangers in a strange land…

“Pilgrims,” she yawned. ‘’You,’ she had decided patting Albert Stanton’s arm, “and Henrietta are in mourning, travelling under an oath of silence to seek comfort for the loss of your daughter to small pox, at Santiago de Compostela.’

‘What about you?’ The Manhattan Globe man had, not unreasonably, asked.

“I am your sister. I will do all the speaking from now on.”

The others had been too tired to argue.

“We can’t stay here,” Albert Stanton hissed.

Melody sat up.

“Yes, we can. We’re pilgrims, remember? We have placed ourselves in God’s hands for so long as we walk the Camino de Santiago, the way of Saint James, in humility, poverty and penitence.”

Henrietta had sat up, hugging Pedro to her breast.

The child was still traumatised, clinging desperately, uncomplaining to Henrietta, despite the hunger which had to be gnawing at his belly the way it was with the three adults.

Melody reached over and ruffled the kid’s hair.

Henrietta kissed the top of Pedro’s head and he clung on harder, shivering.

Albert Stanton pulled off his jacket and gallantly spread it about the younger woman’s shoulders. She gathered it tight about herself and the boy.

“Thank you…’

The man blushed, feeling horribly guilty for not having offered the jacket sooner.

“Okay,” he decided, fixing Melody with a determined look. “You’re in charge. What next?”

Melody Danson frowned.

“I’m not ‘in charge’,” she objected. “All I did was suggest what I believe might be a way to go…”

Her voice trailed off.

Why deny it?

She was in charge and she was pushing at an open door. By stepping in to the ‘situation’ with the two boys last night she had taken upon herself the slim mantle of authority which the Manhattan Globe man had previously been hanging onto like grim death – almost entirely for the benefit of Henrietta and her – and now it was up to her to step up to the mark.

It made sense for her to ‘take over’.

She knew the country better than they did; understood ‘the Spanish’, something of the ways of the ‘ordinary people’, even a little of the rhythms of life outside the big cities, albeit her experience was of travelling on her parents’ coat tails as a child and young adolescent and more than twenty years out of date.

“Pilgrims,” she announced, this time with modicum of certainty. “People go on pilgrimage for all sorts of reasons, and in all sorts of ways. Practically anything will seem plausible to many of the people we meet on the road. Any of the people we meet may once have been, plan to be, or simply will be, pilgrims. Catholicism is at its purest out here in the rural heartlands.”

Without consciously thinking about it she was conducting an abbreviated case briefing; bringing the others up to speed in a crashing hurry because, self-evidently, time was short.

Tomorrow, there would be a new case, new priorities for the detectives she was leading today…

A wry half-smile quirked at her lips.

“What is it?” Henrietta asked.

“Nothing, I just had a really weird moment,” Melody shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, I must be getting a little light-headed.”

Hunger was cramping her stomach.

Melody touched her head.

“Hen and I look like supplicants who have had their heads shaved in penitence, that works well on two counts. One, women on pilgrimage frequently put themselves through that sort of thing as a sign of humility. Two, if anybody ever gets photographs of the two missing British-New England women the authorities want to speak to that might be circulated out here in the back of nowhere, or even in any of the towns and cities we will need to go through, neither of us will look remotely like the women in the pictures.”

The other man and woman nodded.

“Santiago de Compostela,” Albert Stanton murmured. “Why there?”

“Because the line between here and there, so far as I can remember, goes within a few miles of the north-eastern corner of Portugal,” Melody retorted. “Well, when we get past Salamanca, anyway, which has to be our first aim. Hopefully, once we get to the city we can rest up, be anonymous for a few days. We might even be able to catch up with what’s going on in the rest of the World. I think we need to try to do that.”

“Salamanca?” Henrietta chimed in, softly. “Won’t that be dangerous?”

Melody contemplated complete frankness.

No, there is a time and a place for that and this is not it.

So, she told a white lie.

“I don’t think so,” she replied, eying Pedro, “we have a long way to go, and we have to think about that young man, now.”

Melody could sense that Albert Stanton was itching to be practical, to suggest that the best thing for Pedro was perhaps, for him to be handed over to somebody, someone better able to take care of him.

“Look,” he began, horribly uncomfortable. “About Pedro…”

Melody could feel Henrietta starting to bristle with outrage.

“No,” she said, forestalling a scene that they could not afford to have, now or at any time in the days to come if they were to have any chance of surviving. “Pedro’s not going anywhere. That’s final. Besides,” she went on, mostly to mollify the Manhattan Globe man’s somewhat guilty unease, “the Policia and the Inquisition are going to be looking for two women, not two women, a man and a young boy.”

Sensing that they needed to be doing something before still more questions prompted delay and likely, inertia, Melody made a show of clapping her hands together.

“Let’s go into the town.”

The others hesitated.

“Come on! We’re pilgrims, we’re cold, we’re hungry, we’re good Catholics in need, on a blessed holy journey. If that doesn’t work, we’re going to have to beg. Remember what I said; you and Hen have taken a vow of silence, I am your sister, I lost my husband a couple of years back, and together, we are all walking the way of St James to atone for our sins and to pray for redemption. Our lives have become grief-stricken thus, we are prepared to bear the unbearable a little longer to seek remission from purgatory. You two have sworn silence, I have foresworn to devote my life to God, to enter a Holy house for the rest of my days. Okay, are we clear about all that?”

The others nodded mutely.

“What’s so special about Santiago de Compostela?” Albert Stanton inquired, very nearly under his breath as they set off, ever the curious journalist.

Melody was sorely tempted to tell him that: “It just is!”

However, she contained her impatience; she needed to start getting into character.

I plan to be a nun, after all.

She realised that she had forgotten something very important.

“In public, or anywhere that anybody might possibly catch sight of us, do not speak to me. Just nod or shake your heads if I talk to you. Vow of silence, remember?”

“Yes…” Henrietta blushed and lowered her eyes.

Albert Stanton nodded mutely.

“Good,” Melody declared. “Follow me, there has to be a track or something that follows the river into the village.”

She set off up the bank. Downstream the riverside was even rockier, more precipitous than the two boys had warned, as the Rio Tormes narrowed and began to run faster.

“Santiago de Compostela is all about the alleged burial place of Saint James, aka ‘son of Zebedee and Salome’, one of the earlier Apostles. He was one of the fellows standing on the shore when Jesus gave the pep talk about being a fisher of men, and invited him to follow him. Sorry, I was never religious, so if I sound a bit trite about all this, I apologise in advance.”

The others had trailed after her.

She halted and they caught up with her.

“James is a fairly important Apostle. He was one of the three picked to witness Christ’s transfiguration, I think. Anyway, famously, he was one of, if not the first of the Apostles to be martyred, sometime between AD forty-two and forty-four when he was so ill-advised as to return to Palestine. Herod, not the one who killed all the first born, this Herod was a son or grandson, although I might be wrong about that, and anyway there is a lot of historical debate about him, Herod Agrippa, I mean, had James executed ‘by the sword’, which is generally taken to mean he was beheaded. Legend has it that the poor fellow’s remains were brought back to Galicia and buried on a mountainside pretty much where Santiago de Compostela, as a result, now stands. Are you both still with me?”

Melody was satisfied when her companions contented themselves with acknowledging nods.

“Okay, so, all that happened, supposedly, in the First Century. Subsequently, everybody forgot all about it for the next seven hundred years until a hermit called Pelayo had a vision. He saw a shining light, which he described as a ‘Campus Stellae’. The Latin was later abbreviated to ‘Compostela’; hence we get ‘Santiago’ the Spanish for ‘Saint James’ and the name of the village, then town, then city which developed in the vicinity. I know we get terribly intellectual and sniffy about these things; but back in the Eighth Century in a world lit only by fire, hundreds of years before the Renaissance, people needed their superstitions and their faith to get by. Which was probably why the King of that part of Christian Spain, Alphonse II, hearing about Pelayo’s vision, promptly made Saint James the patron of his kingdom and started building several chapels, to James, Saint Peter and of course, to the Christ. For good measure he persuaded the Augustinians to found a monastery in the area. Hence, Santiago de Compostela was born. Within a very few years the place was well-known throughout the entire Catholic communion, basically most of the known, so-called ‘civilised’ world in those days, stretching from the Byzantine Levant to the Atlantic coast of Ireland.”

Melody saw what looked like a path through the trees ahead of her. Taking a breath, she had been gabbling and very nearly turning blue with oxygen starvation, she ploughed on.

“We’re currently in Santiago de Compostela’s second great age of pilgrimage. The first went on for six or seven hundred years before it petered out somewhat in the fourteenth and fifteenth century and more or less came to a complete halt in the nineteenth century. Part of this was to do with Roman politics, part of it was because by the early middle ages there were alternative attractions. By the eleventh century Santiago de Compostela possessed one of the great cathedrals of Christendom but the coming of the Black Death, and the great churches of Rome itself, Jerusalem and Constantinople, and elsewhere, were all contributory factors in the decline. It was not until about a century ago that a modern Pope, I forget which one, re-affirmed his infallible belief in the ‘miracle of Pelayo’s vision’ that the pilgrim trail to Galicia began again to emulate its former glory.”

Melody discovered that the ‘path’ was actually a narrow, potholed road carving straight through the trees and scrubs above the river.

She turned to the others.

“I’d say start looking hungry,” she grimaced. “In the circumstances the ‘trying’ bit of that is superfluous. We’re going to go straight to the church, go inside if it is open and ask for alms. We are poor pilgrims. We have given up all our earthly goods to go on pilgrimage. We are in God’s hands…”

“We get it,” Albert Stanton muttered.

“Good,” Melody sighed. “One last thing, Albert. Whatever happens, don’t start getting brave on us. People who take vows of humility don’t pick fights and they don’t punch people out because they hit on their womenfolk.”

The man’s brown furrowed.

“Hen and I know you’re a gentleman. And as brave as Hell, heck you jumped out of a bloody aeroplane and ran back into a firefight back there in Barca de Avila to save us, so you’ve nothing to prove. Okay?”

The journalist shifted uncomfortably on his feet, nodded.

Melody leaned towards him, touched his arm and planted a pecking kiss on his unscarred, unbruised left cheek.

Albert Stanton took off his glasses and distractedly wiped at them with a shirt-tail. They were all weaker than they knew, a little winded from clambering up the river bank.

“Do you think the kid would let me carry him, you look all in, Henrietta?” He inquired.

The women were a little surprised when Pedro meekly acquiesced to being gently disentangled from Henrietta De L’Isle’s arms.

They set off again.

In the full light of the morning the three adults and the child cut a dusty, weary, rather sorry sight as they trudged across the narrow ancient, hump-backed stone bridge into Puente de Congosto on the western bank.

“Bow your heads, don’t make eye contacts!” Melody hissed.

The village was no more than a collection of sun-bleached stone houses on the western slope of the valley clustered beneath a ruined castle and a plain, square-towered church. The streets were cobbled. Here and there women were brushing dust away from the doors to houses, or a cart drawn by a donkey rumbled noisily past the strangers who were careful to step over and around that day’s deposits of dung underfoot. The remnants of the Puente de Congosto’s medieval walls were visible here and there between the one and two storey houses, many of which looked derelict. The scent of fresh baked bread wafted into the sham pilgrim’s faces.

Melody felt a little faint.

She kept walking up the hill towards the church.

The bridge had been too narrow to allow a motorized vehicle any larger than a cycle access. No car could negotiate the streets of the village, even though she knew the settlement must lie across the path of the medieval road between Ávila and Ciudad Rodrigo.

The lichen eroded stone by the gate at the top of the village said: Nuestra Señora de la Asunción.

The Church of Our lady of the Assumption.

The place looked like it had been abandoned years ago.

The door, a gnarled, still very sound, oaken construct was locked.

Melody thought about knocking on it, decided it was a waste of time and energy that she no longer had. Instead, she sat down on the well-worn, smoothed step of the ages. Resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands she smiled wanly at the others, inviting them to sit with her.

I need to think this through…

Henrietta leaned against her and she put her arm about her shoulders. The Sun had broken through the high clouds, splashing them with its pale morning warmth.

Melody tried to organise her thoughts.

Four strangers in a place like this; people will talk.

We must have walked past the village pump; an old walled village like this must have a pump…

The place has a bakery; we will have to beg…

A shadow passed across her.

Melody blinked, looked up into the kindly, perceptive eyes of a heavily bearded man of indeterminate middle years in a brown habit. The man pushed back his hood.

“You were seen on the riverbank,” he said in an accent which sounded vaguely Aragonese to Melody’s well-tuned ear.

She made no attempt to mimic it.

In her head the backstory was all about her, her brother, his wife and their surviving child from Mérida. They were walking the Way of St James after the rest of their extended family had been taken from them by the well-publicised, even in the Government-controlled Spanish press, outbreak of small pox, escaping the confusion of a city and a region briefly quarantined from the rest of the country on account of the typhus and cholera which had followed hard on the heels of the pox. It happened that the town of Mérida, in distant Extremadura, some miles from the recently nominated provincial capital of Badajoz, was a place known to her from her time in Spain as a child, an essential thing if she was to speak with confidence and substantiate what was at best, a tenuous back story…

“We walk the Way of St James, Padre,” she said, struggling to her feet and genuflecting with the ineptness of one who is afraid one’s legs will buckle beneath one.

“I am Brother Mariano,” the priest said. “I live among my flock in the village. I pray with my brothers and sisters in this church. A Holy Father visits us when he may.” He eyed Melody and her companions thoughtfully. “These are dangerous times for pilgrims.”

“My brother and his wife, and I, gave all our earthly possessions to the Mother Church before the ‘trouble’ in Madrid, and other places, began. It matters not to us…”

“No, no, of course not. They say that there is fighting only a few miles from here, in Barca?”

“We heard distant thunder in the night,” Melody shrugged. “Last night we went down to the river to quench our thirst,” she glanced to Albert Stanton who held Pedro in his arms again, “our only worry is for my nephew. He must have clean water, and we have no bread to give him…”

“They say that there are bandits in this country. It is not safe to walk the Way at present.”

“We have nothing for bandits to steal.”

Brother Mariano did not belief she was that naïve.

“There is always something precious that bandits may steal from the women they come upon.”

“I have promised myself to God after we have walked the Way,” Melody said defiantly, as if this answered each and every question.

The man did not press the issue.

He seemed to come to a decision.

“I don’t know how,” he said regretfully, “but you should know that the Inquisition in Salamanca knows to look for two women with shaven heads dressed like boys.”

Melody gawped at him.

The others opened their mouths to ask questions which froze upon their lips.

Brother Mariano held up his hands.

“Fear not. You are among friends. We can hide you for a day, maybe two but then you must move on again.”

Chapter 4

Thursday 6th April

Little Inagua Island, West Indies

Surgeon Lieutenant Abraham Lincoln, RNAS, gently dripped brackish water from the one surviving canteen into Sub-Lieutenant Ted Forest’s mouth, careful not to waste a single drop. He had drunk his fill at the rain pool – well, more of a puddle – he had found the best part of a mile inland, knowing that his friend needed every molecule of life-preserving moisture he could cart back to him.

He doubted if he had slept more than an hour or so last night. The pain from his shoulder wound, the biting cold each time the wind sheered to the west, and his anxiety to keep Ted warm, protected, had made real sleep impossible.

His head hurt, more sometimes than others and bouts of dizziness came and went. No more than concussion, he hoped.

At first light he had stumbled back to the wreck of the Sea Fox, maddeningly hampered by his virtually immobile left arm – wound inflammation had swollen everything around the injury in place, the body’s way of telling a chap not to move the afflicted limb – and fumbled around for whatever was left of the second, pilot’s emergency medical kit. Yesterday, he had focused on the intact box still miraculously intact in the observer-gunner-navigator’s rear cockpit.

A couple of times he had walked past something dull black and sticking up out of the sand. It looked like one of the small bombs they had dropped on that German cruiser…

His memory was not working too well, forgot the damned thing was there as soon as he moved on. Probably, because a bomb was no damned use to him or Ted Forest.

He had retrieved more bandaging, a small tub of what he hoped was sulphonamide powder, and to his disbelief two more intact morphine ampoules. He would have danced a joyous jig had he not passed out shortly after the discovery, coming around again some minutes later wondering what had happened. That morning everything was moving in hurtful slow motion. His head ached angrily, his left shoulder throbbed with hammer-like persistence and just walking was an exhausting effort. If he had not had to look after Ted he might easily have given up; lain on the sandy coral beside the wreck of the Sea Fox and surrendered to the inevitable.

Not that giving in was in his nature.

“God, Abe,” Ted Forest muttered feebly, “I know I’m pretty knocked about but I hope I don’t look as bad as you do!”

Abe chuckled: “That’s pretty much the way I feel about you, too, old man,” he retorted, collapsing onto the ground beside him. He knew he was going to have to get up and find that rain pool-puddle again. Soon, while he was still strong enough.

“I thought I heard braying in the night,” Ted gasped.

“There are donkeys and goats on the island, and all sorts of birds…”

“Oh, right.”

The two men lay panting, utterly spent for some minutes.

“Have you ever eaten goat?” Ted Forest asked.

“Yes, once or twice. Not as tender as deer or Elk…”

“Oh, right…” Then. “Where are we again?”

Although Abe had retrieved Ted’s charts from the aircraft, he had not attempted to unfurl any of them, let alone decipher what they could tell him about their situation.

“I think we’re on Little Inagua Island.”

“Little?”

“Yeah…”

“Big island on the southern horizon, yes?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

A bullet had grazed Ted Forest’s skull, another had passed through his abdomen, and his lower left leg had been broken in the crash. Abe had tidied him up as best he could, staunched the bleeding from his belly and reset his leg, which was now encased in an ad hoc splint made from bits and pieces of wreckage. The morphine Abe had administered to his friend before he went in search of water was beginning to wear off, sharpening the injured man’s wits albeit at the cost of all his ills coming home to roost again.

Abe forced himself to sit up.

Last night he had immersed himself in the surf, it was the only way he could clean out his shoulder wound.

At the time those German sea planes had barrelled past with all their guns blazing he had felt a plucking, punching sensation high in his left shoulder, and not realised he had been shot until much later. After the crash, in fact. The bullet had gone straight through muscle and flesh, mercifully missing his left clavicle, or anything really important. Nevertheless, like his friend he ought to be in hospital.

Not going to happen any time soon…

Which meant they simply had to get on with it, make the best of a very bad deal.

“The bad news is that the island is probably uninhabited,” Ted Forest mused out aloud. “The good news is that we’re closer to the Turks and Caicos than we are to Cuba. There are salt works on Great Inagua, and hundreds of people. Unfortunately,” the effort of talking was fast emptying his dwindling reserves of energy, “they’re all at the other end of the island at a place called Matthew Town…”

“I found two more doses of morphine in the kite.”

“Good show…”

“Thought I’d save them for later.”

“Just the ticket…”

Abe saw that his friend had passed out.

He made an effort to think straight.

I am supposed to be the son of the Hunter; I have a gun – two service revolvers, his and Ted’s – and the island is teeming with prey…

Lighting a fire was not going to be a problem. There was plenty of foliage, dry wood just lying around. They had dry matches, and the small hatchet recovered from the wreck…

Also, a signal pistol and three cartridges in the unlikely event somebody came looking for them.

Abe shook his head.

The hatchet was supposedly standard kit on the wheeled version of the Sea Fox; if one crashed on land the thinking was one might have to hack one’s way out if the kite caught fire. Obviously, that was not such a pressing issue at sea, so, no axe as standard on the float plane variant!

The axe probably was not sharp enough for clean butchery but then if he killed a donkey or a goat nobody was going to be talking about cordon blue cuisine!

Turtles…

He thought he remembered seeing big turtles on the beach last night. How did one hunt a turtle? Would a bullet go through its shell?

What about ‘feeling’ for fish in the shallow water?

The possibilities were endless. Or rather, they would be if he seriously believed he could actually get back to his feet…

What happened to the signal gun?

Abe panicked momentarily before he remembered it was perched on a rock nearby, just in case a ship or a plane came close to the island.

His thoughts were racing, shooting off in a dozen directions.

He had to get a grip!

Thirst would kill them first.

Getting too hot or too cold would do for them second.

Hunger might be the death of them further down the road, except if they did not start eating soon, they would be too weak to help themselves inside say, three or four days, given their injuries, loss of blood, shock, et cetera…

REFILL THE BLOODY CANTEEN, MAN!

First things first, and all that rot.

Abe rolled onto his knees, crawled away from Ted Forest, not wanting to risk falling across him if he stumbled getting to his feet. Upright, he swayed for several seconds before reaching back for the canteen, and as an afterthought, snatching up the service revolver, a Webley, which he had discarded on the sand next to his friend yesterday evening.

Like a drunk man, he turned unsteadily and began to retrace his steps in the general direction of the rain hole he had found earlier that morning. As he walked, slowly, having to think about lifting his legs, and planting every footstep he started to worry about whether the remaining morphine ampoules were sufficiently shaded, or if the flimsy, makeshift windbreak – which he had no recollection of fabricating or positioning – would keep the sun off his friend until he got back.

The early morning breeze had died.

Flies began to swarm over his head.

How long would it be before the Navy told Kate that he was missing?

A day or two more?

He tried to put Kate’s face in the centre of his mind’s eye.

Only days ago, he had bounced their son on his knee.

He had made an absolute pig of himself with Kate; she had laughed and giggled and incited him to carry on…

Abe did not remember stumbling, or falling.

He regained consciousness staring at the hooves of two donkeys, both of which were standing over him viewing him as if they did not quite know what to make of the strange, bipedal creature who lay on the boggy ground next to a long, shallow rain pool.

Abe tried to piece things together.

I squatted down to refill the canteen?

No, he remembered nothing.

This rain pool looked different from the other one.

Bigger, a lot longer and perhaps, deeper, clearer. He was still holding on to the soaked strap of the canteen, which was half-submerged. Something unyielding was pressing into his stomach. He rolled onto his right side, discovering he was lying on his gun.

The two donkeys were not alone. He saw one, then another goat, scrawny beasts foraging five or six paces away. Feral, as good as tame.

No fear of humans…

Abe’s hand closed around the but of the revolver, he aimed and fired, twice. Around him there was loud squealing, panicky braying and a rush of hooves. He had no idea if he had hit anything.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the sky.

Waited for his strength to return.

Presently, sitting up he looked around. There was nothing to be seen from his low vantage point except scrubby bushes and a few stunted trees. In the distance birds circled, riding the updrafts as the heat of the day built up.

Fill the bloody canteen, man!

On his hands and knees, half in the water he tried to take the cleanest water closest to the surface, relieved that his thoughts were, at last, clearing, clarifying. Unlike the puddle around him.

Nothing I can do about that!

Abe staggered to his feet.

Waited for the nausea to pass, tried to focus. Instead of turning his head he moved his whole body, shifting his feet by small increments so that he could survey the surrounding bushes.

Still he saw nothing.

I must have hit something!

Two bullets at point blank range, I must have hit something!

He began to look anew, harder this time.

What was that?

He took a couple of faltering steps, began to push through the waist high scrub. Even then, he almost fell over the carcass before he saw it.

A small goat: white, dirty brown flecked with black. An immature male, he decided. He exhaled a ragged sigh of relief. If he had downed a donkey, he would never have been able to drag it back to the beach.

One bullet had nicked the animal’s right fore leg, probably breaking it, the other had gone through its shoulder. This round was the killer, the unfortunate beast had bled out in a minute or so. Abe breathed a sigh of relief; he hated it when an animal suffered in the kill.

Slowly, carefully, he returned to the rain pool to search for his gun. Finding it, he stuffed it inside his shirt and waistband and went back to the dead goat, contemplating for some minutes how best to take it back to the crash site.

He tried to convince himself he could sling it over his shoulder, ideally, his uninjured one. No. Bad idea. He would have to drag it, by the hind legs.

The sooner I start the sooner I’ll get back to Ted.

Remember the canteen, man!

Abe realised he was talking to himself.

Sign of madness. Or delayed shock. Or a bang on the head. The latter would explain the headache. Of course, thirst might be a contributory factor. He had to be dehydrated…

Too much thinking, not enough doing!

He drank straight from the pool.

Briefly, he passed out again and came too lying on his side in the cooling muddy water.

Eventually, he picked himself up.

He grabbed the goat’s back hooves, began to pull it towards the rain pool. Each time the carcass caught against a bush or bumped over a root the pain jarred through his whole torso even though his left arm still hung stiffly, mostly useless at his side.

He thought about all those times he and Kate had been out in the woods in the Mohawk Valley, stalking – when they were not fooling about – critters and when they were older, bigger prey with that long rifle borrowed from Tsiokwaris. How quiet they had been! How careful not to spook anything, wraiths in the undergrowth, as if they were a part of the forest itself.

Here, he had just blasted away at a herd of curious, unsuspecting beasts with no real idea what was in front of his gun, and taken down a young goat almost by accident.

He trudged forward, wincing with every step.

Yes, fooling about with Kate in the foothills of the Catskills had been a heck of a lot more fun than this game!

Abe tried very hard to cling to that thought as each step seemed to be through treacle. By the time he heard the surf on the offshore reefs again he was almost treading water.

Back beside Ted Forest… at last, he propped the canteen upright.

“I have to let this stand awhile, let the mud in the water settle,” he explained, his own throat burning, hoarse.

The man on the ground muttered something inaudible, incomprehensible.

“I shot a goat,” Abe explained.

Ted Forest forced a parody of a grin.

He croaked: “I couldn’t possible eat a whole goat, old man.”

This lifted Abe’s spirits.

“I plan to cook it first.”

“Oh, well, that’s different…”

Chapter 5

Thursday 6th April

HMS Perseus, 35 Miles SSE of Sable Island, North Atlantic

The forty-thousand-ton aircraft carrier was battering her way west against the rising seas and howling winds of a force eight gale at twenty-three knots. Every few minutes she shipped white water over her enclosed, clipper bow and the whole ship seemed to reverberate like a huge sounding board.

Commander Alexander Lincoln Fielding shuddered to think what conditions must be like on the smaller ships struggling to keep up with the Perseus and the flagship, the fifty-thousand-ton impregnable castle of steel that was HMS Tiger – or as everybody affectionately called her, ‘the Big Cat’ – and the larger of the four cruisers now in hand with Task Force 5.2.

Even from his position high above the rain and windswept flight deck in the Combat Air Wing – CAW – Commander’s chair in ‘Flight Control’, the light cruiser Dido and the more distant, screening destroyers bobbed into and out of sight, disappearing into the troughs of the long, precipitous Atlantic rollers as the Task Force defied the weather.

“They said I’d find you up here!”

Alex half-turned – gazing out across the magnificent, angry, primal confusion of the churning grey seascape was seductively mesmeric – and grinned at Lieutenant Commander Simon Foljambe, RNAS, the CO of the carrier’s strike wing of eighteen Sea Eagle torpedo bombers.

Built to operate up to eighty fixed wing aircraft and half-a-dozen of the new helicopters, presently, Perseus had a complement of just thirty-nine aircraft: the seventeen Goshawk Mark IV interceptor-scouts of Alex’s 7th New York Squadron, the fifteen Sea Eagles, eight of which were configured in a torpedo-bomber role, four ancient Bristol Monarch biplane reconnaissance ‘string bags’, and three of the semi-operational, frankly experimental, Isle of Wight Light Aircraft Company’s Newport helicopters, two-man machines capable of performing short-range search and rescue missions and transferring a pair of passengers from ship to ship, although not in this weather.

The newcomer perched against the Flight Deck Plot, the ten feet long table shaped exactly like the Perseus’s flight deck upon which, when the carrier was operating aircraft every kite and item of topside equipment – everything from the size of an oxygen bottle to a recovery tractor or a Goshawk or Sea Eagle – was represented by models and symbols by a team of a dozen movement masters. Prior to joining the ship Alex had always assumed that the Navy had some kind of high-technology, super-duper machine that kept track of what was going on, or that in some way the Mark I eyeball of whoever was in charge, sufficed to choreograph affairs. He had very swiftly been disabused of any notion that a single man, or any, as yet un-invented, non-existent electronic or mechanical brain, could possibly manage the horrendously dangerous environment of the flight deck of an operational carrier. Thus, when Perseus was conducting flying operations this compartment, like the huge deck below, was the scene of semi-orchestrated… mayhem.

But not today, so, Alex’s boss, the ships’ CAW, had temporarily abandoned his ‘office’ to spend a while in his cabin catching up with his department’s paperwork with his two loyal, hard-pressed ‘writers’. Alex was still too new to the ways of the Royal Navy to begin to understand why the CAW’s two secretaries, one a junior petty officer and the other a senior rate, were ‘writers’, not ‘secretaries’, when the Captain’s secretary, was always referred to as a ‘secretary’. But then in his bones Alex was still a Major in the Colonial Air Force, compensated for coming to sea – with all its myriad of new perils – with a temporary commission at his present exalted ‘on board’ rank.

In fact, his status on the Perseus was a thing which he well knew might easily cause friction. The CAW, Commander Andrew Buchannan, a forthright ruddy-faced veteran naval aviator, and his deputy, Lieutenant-Commander Thomas Brooke, a taciturn Irishman from County Meath, both sat above him in the Air Wing’s pecking order, yet Alex’s rank meant that he was automatically included in the Captain’s Departmental Heads Command Group, whereas, Brooke, his operational superior, was not…

Both Buchannan and Brooke had told him not to worry about it. Basically, the Navy was so grateful to ‘chaps like you’ who had ‘the gumption to turn yourself into deck jockeys at the drop of a hat’ that it would forgive, forget, and applaud, practically anything he or his men got up to!

Actually, apart from being separated from his very expectant wife, whom he missed with a passion that seemed wholly incompatible with his formerly jaundiced outlook on life, and things in general, Alex was having a whale of a time.

It was small comfort that he and Leonora had known that there would be periods, possibly long periods, of separation when they had fallen into each other’s arms. That he had finally married a woman who understood that he was never going to be one of those tame nine to five ‘city men’, and seemed, thus far at least, to be at peace with it, was perhaps, the most extraordinary of all the adventures of his life to date.

And now he was, literally, all at sea with a true band of brothers!

“This really is the best view in the house,” Simon Foljambe chuckled. He was the youngest son of a prominent Whig family which, he joked, ‘owns half of Cumberland, which probably explains why the family has been on its uppers for as long as anybody can recall!’ His father was a sometime Member of Parliament, regularly voted in and out as one election followed another, and his mother a well-known children’s author – who published under the pen name of Dorothy Malone, her mother’s maiden name – whose books sold well in several of the First Thirteen.

“I don’t know about that, old chap,” Alex objected, grinning broadly and flicking his eyes to the deckhead. The Flying Control Compartment was directly below the ship’s bridge. “On a day like this we get to enjoy the view; upstairs, it’s business as usual all the time!”

The two men were of an age, and like the New Englander, Foljambe was a relatively recent recruit to the Senior Service. He had transferred to the RNAS from the Royal Air Force some eighteen months ago, spent a year or so at an operational training unit in Canada, and joined Perseus while she was still fitting out at Wallabout Bay, Brooklyn.

Upon first acquaintance Alex had been afraid Foljambe was just another stuffed shirt type, a notion comprehensively exploded when Simon and his ‘Sea Eagle Boys’ had mucked in with the New Yorkers ‘doing the town’ in Perseus’s recent visit to St Margaret’s Bay. Oh, there had been the normal manly arm-wrestling, and a few of the chaps had been inclined to knock heads with Foljambe’s mostly ex-RAF long-service men. However, as the party progressed from one hostelry to another the Goshawk men and their Sea Eagle comrades in arms had buried the hatchet and together, they had had a right royal old time of it!

It seemed Simon Foljambe had married a Canadian woman, a widow with two young sons. He had planned to move his new family down to Norfolk, Perseus’s likely home port in North America; but like many men he was holding fire on that for the present. Nobody really took seriously rumours that the ship was going to be sent to the Mediterranean or the Far East, not now that it was obvious that there was going to be trouble down south, much closer to home. That said, in the Navy nobody took anything for granted until they saw it in writing.

The two men watched as the mighty Tiger buried her fo’c’sle in a big wave and green-grey water submerged her stem.

“We do seem to be in rather a hurry to be somewhere else?” Simon Foljambe observed ruefully.

Alex was thinking of something pithy to say when the bell rang and the Tannoy blared into life.

“NOW HEAR THIS! NOW HEAR THIS!”

The two men waited.

“ALL DEPARTMENT HEADS AND COMMANDERS TO REPORT TO THE CAPTAIN’S STATEROOM AT THIRTEEN HUNDRED HOURS!”

The order was repeated.

“THAT IS ALL!”

“Oh, well,” Foljambe grimaced. “It sounds as if we’re about to find out what the hurry is, old man?”

“In that case,” Alex concluded, laconically, “I won’t pop outside for a quick smoke, then!”

The appointed hour was some twenty-five minutes yet.

The Captain’s stateroom was below the island bridge, a spacious suite of cabins incorporating a conference-dining room large enough to comfortably accommodate twenty or more at a sitting. Situated between the hull and the armoured starboard flank of the hangar deck, it could be accessed directly from the bridge, however, that afternoon Alex and Simon Foljambe diverted to the great, long, two deck-high clammy steel cathedral of Perseus’s hangar deck. The structure was contiguous for almost three-quarters the length of the ship, with great elevators at the bow and stern ends, and cut into by a third, midships elevator half across it, the only major structural obstruction in its otherwise uninterrupted six-hundred-foot length. Other than where the midships elevator impinged, it was between sixty and ninety feet wide, its width reduced where additional armoured boxes protected key fuel pipes and pumps, and guarded the hoists to the magazine rooms buried deep beneath the waterline. The hangar deck crew lived and worked in shops, messrooms and supply stores located, like the Captain’s Stateroom, between the hardened carapace of the giant armoured box and the outer hull. Even in heavy weather, the hangar deck was never quiet, never still, although today, with every aircraft tied down and the deck gyrating unpredictably underfoot, only routine maintenance was being attempted.

Alex was pleased to encounter several of his pilots chatting with, or in a couple of cases, getting their hands dirty working under open cowlings or fuselage panels with their dedicated deck ‘gangs’. Perhaps, half of all the flight engineers on board the carrier had transferred with their pilots when all bar a handful of the Squadron’s pilots had volunteered for the ‘Navy Lark’.

Simon Foljambe made his excuses and went off to get on with his ‘chores’. There was always something that needed to be done on board a warship at sea; that, Alex had quickly discovered, was it seemed, an immutable law of nature. Keeping a wary weather eye on his wristwatch, Alex stopped to talk, and to exchange passing banter with his people. Another fact of life aboard a ship the size of the Perseus with a crew of over fifteen hundred men, was that one was always bumping into new faces, and learning new names to put to those faces.

He reported to the Captain’s domain with seven minutes to spare. The CAW was already there, deep in conversation with the Old Man, who looked up and smiled a conspiratorial smile at Alex.

“Normally, I’d kick of proceedings by offering you all a stiff drink,” Captain Patrick O’Mara Bentinck guffawed, “but today we’ll be supping strong coffee. The shape of things to come if things turn out as badly as they seem to be threatening to at present!”

Oh, that does not sound good!

“As you know, I took the pledge a while back, sir,” Alex chortled. “Although, if you asked me to land on the deck in weather like this, I think I’d reconsider in a blink of the eye!”

Both Perseus’s commanding officer and Andrew Buchannan chortled ruefully.

Patrick Bentinck, Alex had discovered, was one of the men who was responsible for ‘writing the book’ when it came to the Royal Navy’s first harem-scarum flirtation with ship-borne aviation. He had flown Fleabags – the oldest, slowest, most fragile aircraft still in service, as an Army artillery spotter – off the decks and turrets of cruisers, landed back on half-decked converted merchantmen, been the first man catapulted off a ship under way, and been Air Liaison Officer to the Admiralty Bureau of Planning, Naval Architecture and Design when the first of the Ulysses class ships had been laid down. Later he had been in command of the battlecruiser HMS Indomitable at the time of the Empire Day atrocities, shortly thereafter, taking command of the still only half-constructed Perseus. Legend had it that he had personally inspected every plate, rivet and weld of the carrier. Undoubtedly, nobody was better qualified to command Perseus than he.

Fifty-two years old, Bentinck was a New Englander born and bred, a proud son of Trenton, New Jersey who had first gone to sea as a student of the Elizabethtown Royal Naval College at the age of sixteen. During his long career he had served, and fought in gunboat actions in most of the World’s oceans, winning the Navy Cross for his part in a ‘fracas with pirates in the South China Sea’ in the late 1940s. He was one of those men who is a natural enthusiast in everything he lays his hand to, and irrepressibly optimistic to a fault. With his now greying beard and fiercely attentive, piercing look he could terrify or charm any man. He had never married. Ashore he was a cricket lover – a die-hard England supporter with little time for those ‘professional’ Philadelphians who regularly ‘beat up’ the ‘Old Country’s best and brightest – that most English of New Englanders.

Perseus’s Captain waited until his senior officers were seated, and the hatch to his stateroom firmly bolted shut and guarded by an armed Royal Marine.

“Gentlemen, I fear that within a matter of days we shall be at war with His Majesty’s enemies.”

Alex Fielding was not the only man in the compartment to sit up a little straighter; although, because this was the Royal Navy, nobody actually spilled his tea, or coffee, either as a result of the motion of the ship in the heavy weather, or from any manifestation of existential shock.

“The information to hand is, in some respects, fragmentary,” Patrick Bentinck continued, his jaw set in grim resolution, “but it is incontrovertible that events in the Caribbean have taken a very bad turn.”

Alex realised that Bentinck was looking at him.

“It seems that the so-called Vera Cruz Squadron of the Navy of New Spain, Granada, or whatever those people down there call it these days,” his lip curled with involuntary contempt, “aided and abetted, no doubt, by other forces of the Triple Alliance, Cuban and Dominican, presumably, have attacked and invaded Jamaica, and,” he paused, dismay flickering in his stare, “ambushed and disabled, possibly sunk, the Achilles whilst she was in transit south through the Windward Passage…”

Alex froze.

“Sunk, sir?” He asked, dumbly.

“That may be the case. Fleet Headquarters at Norfolk has no reliable confirmation of that. What we know is that she was engaged by at least two heavy units, suspected to be the cruisers Breitenfeld and Lutzen and by those vessels’ screening destroyers. There are also accounts of Achilles’s aircraft attacking a third cruiser some miles farther to the south in the vicinity of Navassa Island, or perhaps, some distance north of that place. As I say, the intelligence picture is a tad murky at present.”

Bentinck pursed his lips.

“I know your brother is on board Achilles, Alex,” he said quietly. “Had there been more to go on, I would have let you know immediately.” He shrugged. “At the moment the people onshore are trying to work out what has transpired from intercepted signals and the nonsense that the Cubans and the others are broadcasting on their national radio stations.”

Alex nodded acknowledgement.

He did not trust himself to speak.

“The situation on Jamaica is dire but at least we have regular updates from our own people. The guard ship, the Cassandra has been heavily damaged and driven aground to stop her sinking. We know that enemy forces have come ashore, at as many as three locations but after the initial confusion our forces, in league with native militia, are resisting the invasion. Our people on the island report that six, perhaps seven enemy warships including two heavier units, assumed to be cruisers bombarded the airfield at Kingston, putting it out of action and destroying several aircraft on the ground. Further, the Naval fuel tanker farm at Kingston was set on fire. We have reason to believe that shore batteries registered several hits on the enemy vessels.”

Alex realised he had been staring into space.

He blinked back to reality.

“In addition to the modern ships of the Vera Cruz Squadron, five cruisers and a clutch of destroyers, we have reason to believe that the Kaiserliche Marine may have salted the Gulf of Spain and the Caribbean with merchant cruisers and spy ships, these latter also functioning as general-purpose radio relay stations. As to the other naval forces available to the Triple Alliance and its allies, Hispaniola, Anguilla and the miscellaneous other Spanish-leaning countries in the region, we are talking about as many as thirty relatively modern destroyers or corvettes, a large number of coastal gunboats, but otherwise, older, obsolete ironclad cruisers, coal-fired escorts and suchlike, numbering perhaps fifty to a hundred seaworthy hulls. Included in that inventory of old ships are six so-called ‘slow battlecruisers’ – three Cuban and three Dominican – ships hefting twelve-inch main batteries on what are effectively lightly protected cruiser hulls. It is not known if any of them have been re-activated, or have been operated within recent years. We know that the members of the Triple Alliance have air forces, of which that of Nuevo Granada, is the most formidable, including relatively modern, German supplied, or co-developed models of fighters and ground attack aircraft. The Cubans and the Dominicans have several hundred aircraft between them, although very few modern types.”

Bentinck let this sink in.

“I do not know what will happen next. What I can tell you, and what I will be telling the crew later this afternoon, is that the Task Force Commander has issued General War Order Three-Bravo, requiring all ships to prepare for imminent hostilities against air and surface targets. Further, Task Force 5.2 has been ordered to make best speed to Norfolk, there to take on personnel drafts to bring all ships up to their rated war complements, refuel and take onboard whatever additional special munitions are deemed appropriate by Fleet Command.”

Nobody said a word.

“Do you have any questions, gentlemen?”

Heads were shaken.

“If you’d stay behind awhile, Alex,” Bentinck qualified, “I’ll let everybody else get back to their departments. We have a lot of work to do to make sure we are ready for whatever awaits us in the coming days and weeks!”

The stateroom cleared.

Presently, Alex was alone with the Captain of the Perseus.

“This must be tremendously difficult for you?” The older man put to him rhetorically.

By then Alex had stopped feeling sorry for himself. He had lost a lot of good men, friends back in the day down on the Border. That hardened a man. What did not kill you made you stronger. The bad dreams were collateral damage, what mattered was that the layers of psychic scar tissue taught a man how to carry on, whatever went wrong. Or that was the way it worked for him.

If he paused to think about what Kate – Tekonwenaharake – was going through, or would be going through in the coming days, he could easily lose the plot. Then, Leonora would be in the same place that Kate might – he hoped against hope not – find herself in. There was no spare, safe space in which to mope or get distracted, one simply had to get on with the job.

That was what every old scout pilot knew.

It was not being insensitive, indifferent, or in any way callous; it was simply how things had to be.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be okay.”

Bentinck met his gaze, unblinking.

“You can rely on me, sir,” Alex told him.

The older man nodded solemnly.

“Yes, I know I can, Commander.”

The two men nodded one to the other.

“That will be all,” Bentinck murmured.

Chapter 6

Friday 7th April

SMS Breitenfeld, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

Commander Peter Cowdrey-Singh limped stiffly up the gangway of the battle-scarred flagship of the Vera Cruz Squadron. A fresh-faced Kaiserliche Marine officer had offered him his arm as he stepped, awkwardly out of the launch which had ferried him the two hundred yards from the German prison ship, the Weser.

‘Get your filthy hands off me!’

The younger man had recoiled.

So much for the famous English sangfroid!

If he had had a cutlass to hand, HMS Achilles’s Executive Officer would have slashed the smug expression off the arrogant little shit’s face.

He was sweating, grimacing with pain by the time he reached the deck, his look as black as Hades. Notwithstanding, there were some things which were immutable. Hurtfully, he eased his right arm out of its sling and returned the officer of the deck’s salute.

What he did not do; and would never, ever do again so long as he lived, was look towards the filthy rag flying from the cruiser’s mainmast halyards. Right then, it was all he could do to stop himself spitting on the deck!

He glared around him.

Germans in neat, tidy uniforms, looking military; Spaniards loafing, hanging around, sulky-eyed, ignored by their own officers in their flashy, old-fashioned popinjay finery. So far as he could see the bastards had not even got around to re-naming their bloody ships!

“If you would be so kind as to follow me please, Commander. Admiral von Reuter will interview you in his quarters.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh had been born in central south India at Ootacamund in the Madras Presidency, the son of an Anglo-Tamil District Commissioner and his Ceylonese wife. The fourth of five sons, he had been sent to school in England under the auspices of the Imperial Scholarship Scheme when he was twelve years old, ostensibly to enable him to qualify for the Indian Civil Service upon his return home aged eighteen. And that would have been the course of his life had his father not died when he was sixteen. His mother, a clever, very well-read, and in hindsight feisty woman, had travelled to Europe with his younger brother – his three elder siblings had by then established careers in public administration, education and the law back in the Presidency.

In retrospect, it was apparent that she had always anticipated that Peter, as a child the smallest, slowest, most delicate of her sons, might never return to India. As she had hoped, he had thrived in England, found a community of lifelong friends and excelled in his school’s Cadet Program. The rough and tumble, regimented life of the armed forces beckoned and aged eighteen he had boarded not a ship to Madras, rather he had stepped onto a train to South Devon bound for the Britannia Royal Naval College at Dartmouth. He had never looked back.

That was twenty-six years ago.

To be appointed second-in-command to the senior post captain in the Atlantic Fleet had been his service’s ultimate accolade. The last eighteen months had been the happiest, most satisfying days of his life.

However, right now, his dear wife, Melanie, would be starting to wonder how on Earth she was going to prepare the kids – thirteen-year-old Indira, ten-year-old Peter junior, and eight-year-old Maryam – for the bad news about their father. Melanie was a profoundly practical woman, herself a ‘Navy daughter’, she would know what to do and that the kids needed to hear the bad news from her before they heard it on the TV.

Despite his near incandescent outrage, righteously simmering volcanically just behind his eyes the Achilles’s Executive Officer missed nothing as he was escorted below.

The whole ship still stank of fire.

There were a lot of walking wounded.

From his seat on the Weser’s launch, the Breitenfeld had seemed to have a slight list to port: an underwater hit?

A glance at the ship’s bridge told him that the gunnery ELDAR aerial array that appeared on every intelligence photograph of the Lutzen class of heavy cruisers, was not there anymore. The ship’s catapult, boat deck and several of her midships anti-aircraft gun positions looked a real mess.

The cruiser’s aircraft hangar was a scorched shell, its catapult a tangle of steel.

Nor had he missed the bunker fuel discolouring the aquamarine blue of the anchorage. He had not got such a good look at the Lutzen, partially obscured by the Breitenfeld’s bulk but it was obvious that Achilles’s starboard three-inch auto-cannons had given her armoured hide a damned good peppering.

All of which tended to explain why the crew of the Weser had been less than triumphal. In fact, the beggars who still retained a scintilla of self-respect had seemed positively down in the mouth, and a little – rightfully – ashamed of themselves. The bastards had taken away his torn and bloodied uniform jacket and given him a German rig, absent any insignia of rank. He would much rather have carried on wearing his blood, oil and sea-water-soaked rags; at least he could wear those with honour.

“We must wait a few minutes,” he was informed in a gloomy passageway somewhere forward of the cruiser’s third – under standard Kaiserliche Marine conventions, ‘Caesar’ – turret.

The lighting circuit in this part of the ship is down…

Good!

There was a scraping noise at Cowdrey-Singh’s back.

A chair…

“Please. I apologise for keeping you hanging around like this,” his escort told him with what seemed like entirely genuine chagrin. The man might have learned his English in the Home Counties, his diction was so perfect he could easily have been a newsreader for the Empire Broadcasting Corporation. “I believe that the Surgeon is presently attending to Admiral von Reuter’s injuries.”

“He was wounded?”

“When the bridge was hit, yes.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh chewed on this; wondering privately, if this had had anything to do with the Lutzen suddenly closing the range with Achilles, apparently in a misbegotten bid to hasten ‘the kill’. Even in the heat of battle he had thought that was odd. The big German cruisers were shooting Achilles to pieces from a distance at which, excepting an outrageous stroke of luck, no six-inch shell could possibly penetrate to their vitals. And, as for steaming straight down the throat of Achilles’s starboard three-inch auto-cannons!

How many men had died unnecessarily on board the Lutzen as a result of that blunder?

Likewise, whoever had ordered that destroyer to come in so close to Achilles’s as yet unengaged port three-inchers before launching her torpedoes, well, that was just amateur dramatics!

But…

If von Reuter, by all accounts one of the Kaiserliche Marine’s finest minds had been incapacitated at the key moment, it explained a lot…

He was still pondering this when he was belatedly ushered into the presence of the man whose actions had killed and maimed so many of his friends and crewmates a little over two days ago.

Erwin von Reuter looked like death warmed up.

There was fresh blood on his collar, a bandage held a thick wad of gauze against the side of his throat and a freshly stitched two to three-inch long jagged gash at his right temple still wept small gobbets, which he distractedly mopped with a stained handkerchief as he stepped forward to offer the newcomer his free hand.

The Executive Officer of HMS Achilles ignored the gesture.

This man was no comrade.

The German withdrew his hand. There was an oddly poignant sadness, dull in his grey eyes, his ashen expression resigned.

“Please, take a seat Commander Cowdrey-Singh,” he sighed wearily, “I suspect that both of us probably feel even worse than we look at present. Let us at least take the weight off our feet for a few minutes.”

In his long career von Reuter had never had an uncivil conversation with an English officer. It simply was not done, until a few days ago he and the man standing before him would have been nationalities and navies notwithstanding, members of the same brotherhood of the seas. Civility would have been the unshakable bedrock of their professional respect, immutable and yet now; well, he more than any man had transgressed against a pact understood, meticulously respected ever since the end of the great War over a hundred years ago.

He had fired upon a British warship; it mattered not one jot that his Squadron had no longer been under the Eagle flag of the German Empire, flying the ‘red rag’ of Nuevo Granada. He remained, and would live and die a German officer, and he had fired upon a British ship at a time when no state of war existed between his Kaiser and the King of England.

He was damned for all time and he did not need anybody to tell him as much.

Von Reuter searched for some common ground with his guest.

The Royal Navy man had been so preoccupied with his black dog rage that he had failed to notice that there was a small, neat hole in the port bulkhead, and another across the other side of the compartment where one of the auto-cannon’s three-inch high-explosive rounds had entered, and presumably, exited the ship without detonating.

The two men viewed each other warily as they settled in their hard-backed chairs beneath the stateroom’s one open port hole on opposite sides of a small writing table. A cool breeze wafted across them.

Von Reuter followed his guest’s gaze, focusing on the holes in the hull plating.

“Several of the smaller rounds failed to explode,” he remarked, almost as if he was one navy man to another.

Peter Cowdrey-Singh refused to be drawn, to respond at all other than to shrug, a thing which caused him no little discomfort.

“Your injuries?” Von Reuter inquired solicitously, noting the pain creasing the other man’s face.

“I have several small lumps of shrapnel in my back and right calf. They think I’ve cracked my collar bone. My shoulder got dislocated when I was chucked against what was left of the catapult when one of your eight-inchers did for ‘C’ turret. My chaps put it straight back in but…”

He bit his tongue, irrationally, feeling like he was collaborating with the King’s enemies.

Von Reuter mopped at his bloody brow anew.

“They say I was unconscious for several minutes,” he forced a grimace. “Fortunately, as my friends tell me, I have a particularly thick skull!”

The Anglo-Indian could not stop himself quirking a spontaneous half-smile.

“I am sorry,” von Reuter said without preamble. “Whilst I still command the operational, day-to-day functions of my Squadron, I must obey the commands of my superior, Vice Admiral Count Carlos Federico Gravina y Vera Cruz.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh did not care for such disingenuous sophistry.

Von Reuter leaned towards him.

“The German Empire is not at war with the British Empire, Commander.”

“Tell that to the Atlantic Fleet when it steams into the Windward Passage and settles your hash, old man!”

The normal proprietaries, respect of rank and all that tosh had gone out of the window the moment the Triple Alliance’s German mercenaries had ambushed Achilles. The Vera Cruz Squadron was not an honoured foe, it was a pirate fleet operating in contravention of all the accepted rules of war.

“I am sorry,” von Reuter groaned, rising to his feet. “I had hoped we might discuss matters like gentlemen.”

“I had hoped that my wounded would receive the medical care and attention they so badly need, and the other survivors of the Achilles would not have been locked in a stinking sweat hole on the Weser, sir!”

“Something will be done about that,” the German rasped irritably. “My medical staff has not rested since the action was joined two days ago. Normally, I would be in a position to send the most seriously injured men ashore. Here, unfortunately, because of certain ‘local’ tensions, I cannot do that at this time. Since I am unable, in good faith, to guarantee the safety of any of your men I send ashore – any less than I can my own people – I have no choice but to use the Weser as an ad hoc hospital ship. True, she is equipped for that role but for dozens, not scores of casualties. As for keeping your men cooped up below in a cargo hold, I am sorry but I cannot risk them being observed on deck.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh was scowling.

“Why the Devil not, sir?”

“Because my bloody allies are demanding that I hand you and your men over to the Inquisition!”

The Royal Navy man exhaled a long, contemplative breath.

“Is that your intention?”

“No, dammit!”

“What about this Gravina fellow?”

“You and your men are no more than political bargaining chips to these people.” Von Reuter collapsed back into his chair.

Very carefully, his guest resumed his seat.

The two men exchanged quizzical looks.

Neither spoke until there was a rap at the bulkhead.

“Come! Von Reuter called.

A steward entered bearing a silver tray bearing two, unlikely, chipped mugs.

“A six-inch round demolished the Wardroom galley,” the German explained, “and much of the crockery. Fortunately, the drinks cupboard survived more or less intact. He looked to the steward as he placed the mugs on the table between the men. “Schnapps, I think.”

The scent of fresh coffee made Cowdrey-Singh momentarily light-headed.

“Leave it, please,” his host instructed as a half-filled bottle of Austrian liquor was placed before him. Von Reuter unscrewed the top. “Whatever our differences, we should drink to the memory and the valour of our dead friends, no?”

Anglo-Indian nodded grimly.

Both mugs were topped up.

“Absent friends,” they chorused, raising their drinks to their lips.

“Achilles fought like a lion at bay,” von Reuter said very quietly. Resignedly, he asked: “Why on earth did you not run to the north at your best speed when your reconnaissance plane encountered the Karlsruhe?”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh let the Schnapps-endowed coffee warm his chilled soul for a moment. Then, for several seconds he looked to the other man as if he had not understood the question.

“My ships are twelve months out of dry dock,” von Reuter remarked, “six months on tropical service. Their bottoms are variously fouled, had you run to the north you might easily have stretched away to safety?”

Another mouthful of the brew from his chipped mug gave the former second-in-command of His Majesty’s Ship Achilles time to consider his reply.

“Fighting Instructions still say, if you’ll permit me to quote the spirit rather than the letter of the actual text, something along the lines of: in battle no captain can do wrong if he lays his ship against an enemy. Captain Jackson could do no less than engage the enemy more closely, sir!”

“Those sentiments belong to the age of sail.”

“No, sir,” Peter Cowdrey-Singh retorted, resisting the seductive arms of drowsy exhaustion. “If you believe that then you really do not understand us at all, sir.”

His anger had evaporated now.

“I have no idea what happened to your other ship, the Karlsruhe. The chaps in those Sea Foxes would have crashed into her deck if they had half-a-chance. But from what I’ve seen of your big ships,” he shrugged. “They aren’t going to be in tip top shape any time soon. It looks like we shot away your flagship’s ELDAR. This ship is leaking oil, I can hear the pumps working hard to keep her damaged compartments from flooding.”

This latter was a guess, Peter Cowdrey-Singh’s hearing was still somewhat deafened from standing too close to the Achilles’s aft main battery turrets during the battle. What he could sense was the distant ‘working’ of the pumps, the subtle vibration of the engine room blowers that told him that even in this supposedly ‘safe’ harbour von Reuter had kept two boilers on line. The hits must have torn up a heck of a lot of the electrical cabling above the armoured deck level…

“And you know you can’t stay here at Guantanamo. Either somebody makes peace in a day or two or the hounds of Hell will fall on this place in no time flat. I know it, you know it, even the Spanish will work it out eventually.” He had drained his cup. “What happened at Jamaica?”

“I cannot speak of that.” Von Reuter looked away, guiltily. “As a young man I was honoured to serve with Captain Jackson. With the Naval Brigade at Shanghai…”

The Anglo-Indian Executive Officer of HMS Achilles was suddenly hard-eyed.

“Captain Jackson was mortally wounded shortly before the ship was torpedoed. He ordered the men standing by him to abandon ship. So far as I know he was still alive when Achilles sank.”

He got to his feet.

“I respectfully request that you return me to the Weser. I need to be with my people at a time like this, sir.”

Chapter 7

Friday 7th April

Castel de Puente de Congosto, Castile and León, Spain

The crumbling fortifications had been neglected for generations. The need for such castles, small outposts never manned by more than a score of bored retainers, had waned in the century or so after the Reconquista was completed in 1492. Thereafter, the land of castles – Castile – had had no need of them to repel the Moors. Such monuments had for a while, been symbols of baronial status, allowed to rot, to begin to crumble to dust, their silhouettes on the hilltops marking the course of ancient, now long supplanted medieval roads.

The fugitives had no idea if they were prisoners or in hiding, just that they were, once again, totally in the hands of strangers. The castle’s well was dry, even had it not been they had no way of drawing water from its depths. All they had to drink was the brackish water in the jars placed in the yawning, open gateway, and to eat, a couple of small, hard loaves of gritty bread.

And all they could do was wait.

They were too exhausted, too worn down to go any further and on this, now their second day of waiting beneath a tattered awning in the corner of the castle yard, they had reason to despair.

The women drew a little comfort from having persuaded Pedro to nibble and then, gulp at some of the bread, soaked and softened in water, otherwise time passed and they became weaker, a little listless while their companion, Albert Stanton paced, kept watch, visibly tormented to have failed the two women.

Brother Mariano had led them up the valley side to the castle.

‘I do not know who you are; only that the agents of the Inquisition of Salamanca search for two Englishwomen. We have no love of the Inquisition. We receive little from the great men of the cities. We have no need of such people to question our faith, or who dare to stand between us and our Mother Church. The Lord watches over us all.’

He had explained that he was the village’s ‘man of holy orders’, not a priest, he was a humble farmer who had accepted the mantel of holiness from his brothers and sisters in Puente de Congosto, and that he could do nothing to help pilgrims such as them, without first speaking to his communion.

‘Food is scarce…’

Brother Mariano finally returned as the afternoon shadows were folding across the yard. He was accompanied by a smiling woman and a girl carrying a cooking pot and two large earthenware jars. The girl had a bundle of what looked like blankets but turned out to be coarse, peasant dresses.

“We must assist pilgrims,” the man declared, loudly, throwing back his hood, “that is the will of the village. Even in such times as these. We have brought you food.” He studied Melody and Henrietta, attired as men. “You cannot travel in this country dressed so immodestly. When darkness falls, you must dress as our women dress and come down into Congosto to sleep.” He glanced to Albert Stanton. “You will stay overnight with me, Senor. In the morning you must go on your way.”

The Manhattan Globe man looked imploringly to Melody.

She guessed he still felt dutybound to honour whatever stupid promise he had made to Paul Nash back in Navalperal de Tormes about ‘looking after’ the ‘womenfolk’.

Men!

Melody could not but be painfully aware of her own physical and likely, mental erosion. There had been little time at the Cortes hacienda for her or Henrietta to recover, let alone repair the ravages of the unending, debilitating trek – perhaps less than a hundred mils as a crow might fly but at least twice as far on foot, following precipitous paths and picking their way through rocky passes across the mountains. Now, weak from hunger it would be horribly easy to make a bad mistake, or to misread obvious danger signs. However, some sixth sense told her that it they were not among friends, then the people of the village did not actively wish them harm.

Already the terror and the carnage of the ambush on the outskirts of Barca de Avila seemed somehow, distant. The idyll in Chinchón surreal, the escape from – whoever they had been fleeing from, dreamlike – and the week or so they had been holed up at the Monasterio de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción high up in the Mountains of Madrid, just a cold, miserable foretaste of the exhausting march across the Sierra de Guadarrama and the Sierra de Gredos, by the end of which she and Henrietta had literally been walking in their sleep, roped together lest they fall.

Four weeks ago, practically to the hour, she had been in the bed of Alonso Pérez de Guzmán, 18th Duke of Medina Sidonia, the handsome thirty-nine-year-old castellan of the Comarca de Las Vegas, content to let him do whatever he wanted with her…

And then the World had gone mad…

“It makes more sense for us to split up,” she said, quashing further debate. “Brother Mariano’s flock have given us shelter. They are clearly good people. Godly people.”

She could hardly say anything else in front of their ‘hosts’.

The women who had accompanied Brother Mariano up the hill to the castle nodded sternly.

Melody smiled to them.

“We thank you with all our hearts. We pray that one day we may be able to repay your charity.”

This prompted oddly blank looks but she let the moment pass.

Alone again, having slaked their thirst from the two earthenware jugs containing cool, fresh water, the ‘pilgrims’ took turns dipping the two wooden spoons the teenage girl had left behind, into the cook pot. It was half-filled with thin cold stew, rabbit, perhaps but predominantly with lumpy root vegetables. To their empty stomachs it was like Manna from Heaven.

Later, in the gloom Melody and Henrietta sent the Manhattan Globe man to ‘keep watch’ while they stripped naked and helped each other pull on itchy, clumsily tailored brown cloth dresses, which, to their surprise, fitted fairly snugly.

“Our boots look out of place?” Henrietta decided.

“We’ll see if we can swap them for some sandals or clogs,” Melody agreed. Both women’s complexions were sun and wind-burnt; they no longer stood out from the locals as they had in Chinchón what seemed half-a-lifetime ago. “And shawls,” she suggested as an afterthought, “or headcloths.”.

Brother Mariano came for them an hour after it was fully dark.

The fugitives had had the inevitable discussion about the dangers of being split up by the time he arrived.

‘What choice to we have, Albert,’ Melody had pointed out. ‘We need to eat as well as possible for a day or two. We either trust these people or we starve, dehydrate and probably get completely lost in these hills.’

She had not given in to the temptation to use the argument about not wanting to fall into the hands of bandits; there was nothing they could do about that.

In the village Pedro and the women were taken to a house close to the bridge they had crossed the day before. They surrendered their old clothes, and their walking boots. Their host’s eyes widened at the quality of the leatherwork.

“These are too good!”

“Sell them, for the good of the children of the village. Or for the Mother Church,” Melody insisted. “We, she indicated Henrietta,” who stood head bowed in humble silence, in character, “just need something for our feet when we continue on the Way of St James, and cloths to cover our heads for modesty.”

The woman of the house, Consuela, was a busty, cheerful widow. Her sons had gone to work in the big cities, there were few young men in the village these days, she lamented as Melody, Henrietta and Pedro nibbled at stale bread ends and gulped water from clay beakers at a table in the big room of the one-storey building, clustered around a single, smoky, guttering candle.

“You are safe here,” she assured them. “There is no,” she struggled to find the right word, ‘telegraph? Yes, telegraph, in the village or for many miles. Sometimes the Inquisition sends people in disguise, men usually, to the valley to test our souls. We live in a land where many things are not what they seem. Had you been agents of the Inquisitors you would not have remained in the castle nearly two days, trusting to God’s providence. Only good people would do that.”

Had we been agents of the Inquisition…

If Melody – until the last few months a career attorney and professional detective – had not been so worn down she might have pondered what intuitively, had seemed to her like a slip of the tongue. But she was too tired, too thankful simply to have a roof over her head and to be, to all intents, safe that night.

So, she told herself not to attach too much importance to what was, after all, probably a mere slip of the tongue; a thing possibly lost in translation.

The woman said Mariano was her uncle but it was said with a quirk of a smile and a hint of knowing, wry mischief in her dark eyes as if to her, ‘uncle’ was a somewhat ambiguous descriptor.

“He was a soldier once. In the colonies. He returned to us these five years ago. But for him we would all be lost.”

There were a couple of straw palliasses in an outbuilding which still stank of livestock. Before Consuela extinguished her candle, the women saw the whitewashed walls of the room, possibly a cleaned-out animal stall, the single window, wood-shuttered at shoulder height. Melody and Henrietta gathered Pedro in their arms, pulled a single blanket close about them and slept the sleep of the sated and safe for the first time since departing the Hacienda de Cortes in Navalperal…

Was that only three days ago?

Why am I suddenly awake?

Melody’s muddled head registered that Pedro was fidgeting, trying to get warmer, more comfortable between her and Henrietta. That was probably a good sign, previously he had been as lifeless as a log.

She had no idea how long she had been asleep.

No, it was not the boy’s wriggling that had awakened her…

“Hen?” She whispered urgently, nudging her friend hard.

“What…”

“Something’s going on!” Melody hissed. “Wake up!”

Pedro yawned and stretched between them, reached out for Henrietta.

“Mama?” He said.

Both women froze.

The boy had said nothing, not a single squeak or a tear or a complaint since they had rolled out of that burning car at Barca de Avila.

Henrietta hugged him to her bosom.

“Everything’s okay, sweetheart.”

“Mama…”

Melody squeezed her eyes shut, tried to focus in the darkness, listening hard, trying and failing not to be distracted by the boy child now inextricably bonded to her partner and lover. And to her too, well, as long as they both lived…

“I can’t hear anything?” Henrietta murmured.

Neither could Melody, now.

“Maybe, you were having a bad dream?”

“Are you having any other kind of dream lately, Hen?”

“Well, no…”

“Sorry, sorry,” Melody breathed. “Maybe, I’m getting afraid of my own shadow.”

“He called me ‘Mama’,” Henrietta said softly.

Melody could tell that her lover like that, a lot.

It still bothered her that she did not know what she had heard to wake her up. Or at least, it did not for about another minute.

And then she realised that what she had heard was Consuela, or another woman in a house nearby, having sex, periodically giggling very loudly and, or whispering, very loudly, advice and encouragement to her partner.

Henrietta laughed, too late clapping a hand over her mouth.

Melody collapsed back onto the palliasse with a heartfelt, somewhat rueful sigh of relief.

Together, the women strained their ears to listen.

“It’s weird,” Melody observed, completely awake now and mildly aroused, “I’ve never actually watched two people having sex, not for real, that is, but listening is just so…”

“Horny,” Henrietta agreed.

Melody snuggled closer, and while Pedro happily burrowed deeper between the women, kissed Henrietta.

Now I’ll never get back to sleep again!

Except Melody knew she was so tired that nature would eventually take its course.

Meanwhile, Brother Mariano, she suspected, with his holy work for the day done was doing his very best to enthusiastically elevate his ‘niece’, Consuela, that little bit closer to Heaven!

The village fell quiet a few minutes later and Melody was left alone in the dark with her thoughts and, although she could not put a finger on why, premonitions.

She found herself staring into the darkness trying to put not just the last few hours and days into perspective but everything which had happened to her since the traumas of Empire Day two years ago.

Like many New Englanders the whole affair of the atrocities in New York’s Upper Bay and at the Admiralty Dockyards at Brooklyn, not to mention the subsequent hysteria in which countless innocent people had had their lives and careers, in some cases, forever blighted, had been a thoroughly unsettling experience. That such outrages could happen at all was bad enough; that such injustices could be allowed to go on in its aftermath, sanctioned by the Colonial authorities, with the Police being in effect, egged on, by people who really should have known better, had shaken many New Englander’s faith in the judiciary, and cruelly exposed the inadequacies of several of the colonial constabularies.

For Melody, abruptly removed from the initial investigation within hours of being the only New York detective to actually gain access to an apparent survivor of one of the aerial attacks on the ships of the 5th Battle Squadron, Alexander Fielding, Empire Day had signalled a minor, albeit sideways deflection of her by then already stalled career as a detective. Not that she could honestly claim she had not been thinking of moving on, seriously considering her options, at that time. She had wanted to travel, to use her languages, possibly go back to the law although probably not in New England where the glass ceiling in the professions was barely cracked, her head already turned by the opportunities she confidently expected might open up for her back in the Old Country.

Thinking about it, she had definitely been considering her options that night last year that she had been summoned to meet Henrietta’s father at the Lieutenant Governor of New York’s residence. She had ceased, for all practical purposes, to be a police officer in the employ of the Colony of New York that night; and that night she had met Henrietta. In retrospect, her life had changed in the blink of an eye without her having to lift so much as her little finger.

I used to be in control of my life…

The investigation of the real story of the Empire Day conspiracy had been just the first step into chaos. The mission to Spain a blind leap into a quagmire of politics and intrigue in which she and Henrietta had been mere window-dressing. It had been as if she was simply marking time before she returned to whatever awaited her in New England. Subsequently, her slow downward spiral into confusion had quickened a step or two when she fell into bed with Alonso, and from then on, everything had been madness, sweeping she and Henrietta along as if they had fallen into some irresistible millrace. Their lives had not been their own for the last month, their fates at the command and in the hands of others; tonight, they were as powerless, helpless as ever they had been…

Melody suddenly sat up with an electric angst.

Henrietta groaned.

“Wake up!” Melody whispered urgently, rolling away and rising to her feet.

Belatedly, she realised that what had awakened her was the sound of the bolt to the door of the outbuilding being quietly clicked home.

They had been locked in.

“What…”

“We have to get out of here, now!”

Chapter 8

Saturday 8th April

Government House, Philadelphia

The sixty-one-year-old Governor of the Crown Colonies of the Commonwealth of New England, Edward Philip Cornwallis Sidney, 7th Viscount De L'Isle, found himself in the blissful interregnum between two of that afternoon’s scheduled meetings, interviews and ‘standing conferences’ when his Chief of Staff, Major General Sir Henry Rawlinson – an old soldier who, due to the current emergency, had resumed the usage of his military rank – entered his office and approached wearing an unusually thoughtful expression.

“Forgive me,” he apologised. “Miss Daventry-Jones has called again. This time she has taken the liberty of presenting herself at the door of Government House.”

The Governor of New England’s frown mellowed in a moment.

“Refresh my memory please, Henry?”

“She is affianced, or as good as, to that fellow Stanton, of the Manhattan Globe, who seems to have got himself lost in Spain…”

“Yes, of course.” Among the rumours flashing around the New England press were several improbable stories of private and official – that is, mounted by London – attempts to rescue British and colonial citizens caught up in the civil war raging in parts of the Iberian Peninsula. De L’Isle did not discount the possibility, indeed, the probability that the British Government might have set in train any number of ‘rescue missions’, including one searching for his daughter and her companion, Melody Danson; unfortunately, thus far, he had heard nothing from Spain other than the unlikely gossip that Albert Stanton might, in some way have been involved in just such an adventure.

He glanced at the clock.

There were a few minutes before the C-in-C- Atlantic Fleet, Lord Collingwood was due at Government House.

“Wheel the young lady in please, Henry.”

De L’Isle’s right-hand man blinked, hesitated.

The Governor of the Commonwealth of New England quirked a rueful grimace.

“Look, if she’s got the pluck to come all the way down to Philadelphia to knock on my door, the least I can do is give the young lady the time of day.”

Sir Henry Rawlinson nodded.

To actually be ushered into the presence of the Governor of the Commonwealth was pretty much the last thing Maud Daventry-Jones had anticipated.

De L’Isle welcomed her with a paternal smile and adroitly ushered her towards the comfortable chairs arranged away from his broad, gleaming pro-consul’s desk, beneath a recently hung portrait of the King and Queen. Previously, there had been a rather dusty, gloriously executed, somewhat uninspiring daubing of one of his venerable, nineteenth century predecessors.

“Thank you for seeing me, Your Excellency!” The diminutive, prim young woman blurted.

De L’Isle tried to put her at her ease.

“Sir is quite sufficient, Miss Daventry-Jones,” he pointed out gently. “I gather that you are concerned for the safety of a Mr Albert Stanton?”

“Yes, we’ve heard nothing since the telegram he sent to me from Paris. He was over their talking to the movie people about the film rights to Abe and Kate Lincoln’s story…”

The young woman realised that this was too much information; if this was to be an abbreviated meeting there was no time to be wasted.

“Sorry, I know you have so much else on your plate, sir.”

De L’Isle shook his head, tried not to be as frightening as imperial viceroys could, so easily, and inadvertently be.

“It happens that through the offices of my staff, my daughter, Henrietta, and former detective Inspector Danson’s most concise reports, that I heard a full accounting, with I must say, much interest, of the remarkable adventures of the Lincoln-Fieldings.”

Suddenly he was thinking about the dreadful reports he was receiving from the Caribbean: the fighting on Jamaica, the sinking of HMS Achilles in the Windward Passage, the bombing raids on the Turks and Caicos, the attack from the sea and the air on the telegraph station at Matthew Town on Great Inagua, and that morning, of the radio intercept intelligence indicating that this island had been invaded by Cuban Marines under cover of a massive naval bombardment.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a heavy heart. “I have heard no firm news about Mr Stanton, or of my daughter’s situation since the coup began in Madrid last month. All I can tell you, in the greatest confidence, is that I am led to believe that the Secret Intelligence Service has mounted several operations to rescue ‘our’ people from the fighting, one of which may have involved Mr Stanton’s courageous voluntary participation.”

“I know I am being selfish,” Maud Daventry-Jones sniffed, on the verge of a flood of tears. “But I was counting the days to when Albert was returning to New York and…”

The Governor reached across and took the young woman’s left hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

“The moment I hear anything,” he murmured, as if the wall had ears and he was speaking out of turn, “I, or in my absence, my office, will let you know. That I promise.”

Philip De L’Isle relinquished his careful grip, sat back.

“I know it is easy for me to say, as an old soldier,” he guffawed paternally, “but at times like this the best thing one can do is carry on as normal. One cannot help thinking the worst; nevertheless, one should always hope for the best. You must be comforted by the knowledge that by all accounts, Mr Stanton is acknowledged to be a most resourceful fellow, as I know my daughter, Henrietta and her companion, Miss Danson, most certainly are, also.”

This said, knowing that Admiral Lord Collingwood was a ferociously punctual man, the Governor rose to his feet.

Maud, in her anxiety, jumped up.

“So, you and I must keep our chins up, what?” Philip De L’Isle ascertained.

“Yes, yes, I will, I promise…”

The Governor of New England tried not to be too stern.

“At about this time of the afternoon I usually take tea with my wife, Lady Diana, in her first-floor rooms, Miss Daventry-Jones. Regrettably, I have engagements scheduled,” he smiled a wan half-smile, “from now until Judgement Day, it seems sometimes. Might I persuade you to do me the great service of keeping my wife company in my absence this afternoon?”

Maud’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates.

“I’d… I’d, be honoured, sir.”

De L’Isle knew full well that his wife would effortlessly do a much better job of temporarily soothing the young woman’s worst fears than he. Diana would soon have Miss Daventry-Jones gossiping about New York society, the latest fashions and probably, laughing about her part in Leonora Coolidge’s most remarkable campaign of civil disobedience and mainly pacific protest to right the wrongs of her Colony’s initial response to the Empire Day atrocities.

Admiral Lord Cuthbert Collingwood was shown into the Governor’s presence as the young woman scuttled out. The C-in-C of the Atlantic Fleet nodded fatherly indulgence at Maud as she passed, and raised a curious eyebrow to the Governor.

His friend grimaced, shook his head.

“Her young man is tied up in that damned fool scheme to rescue Hen from the Mountains of Madrid,” De L’Isle explained. “Understandably, she got so fed up ringing Government House everyday and getting nowhere – there’s not a lot we can tell her, in all honesty – that she summoned up the pluck to travel down to Philadelphia. The least I could do was find five minutes in my diary for her.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Collingwood concurred. He sighed: “I’m afraid I received more bad news just before I came over from Admiralty House.”

Admiralty House, was something of an anachronism in the modern age. Originally, built back in the early nineteenth century, the New England analogue of its mother institution in Whitehall, London, the majority of its functions had transferred from its impressive, neo-classical portals in Philadelphia to Norfolk by the time of the Great War. Nowadays, it was simply the residence of the Superintendent – customarily a rear admiral – of the Admiralty Dockyards of Philadelphia, and accommodated senior officers visiting the city.

Collingwood was presently splitting his time between Norfolk and Philadelphia – more the former – as the present crisis deepened. The days when the men who commanded the great fleets of the Empire were purely naval-military men were long-past, and Collingwood wanted, and expected to be at the heart of the decision-making process at the locus of colonial governance.

The Governor had asked him to brief him on the naval situation ahead of the full Chiefs of Staff meeting he had called for six o’clock that evening.

“Wasn’t that the young lady who was responsible for inciting so much trouble in New York last year?” Cuthbert Collingwood queried, dryly.

“Yes, she and Sir Max Coolidge’s girl were at the heart of it. I suggested young Miss Daventry-Jones takes tea with Diana.”

The C-in-C Atlantic Fleet chuckled heartily.

Both men knew that Lady Diana would hugely enjoy the company of such a renowned ‘feminist’ trouble-maker, albeit one who had quietly stepped back into relative anonymity once the most egregious injustices – against the three Fielding brothers – of the immediate post-Empire Day outrages had been well and truly righted last year.

A Royal Marine steward entered the room bearing a tea tray.

The two men sat down beneath the regal portrait.

The royal couple had sat for the picture just a week after the atrocities in New York, two years ago. Thinking about it a flicker of pain creased the Governor’s face: Henrietta had spent every hour of every day, it had seemed at the time, making sure that the King and Queen’s – Uncle Bertie’s and Aunt Ellie’s – stay and engagements in Pennsylvania went as smoothly as was humanly possible.

The King had suggested, only half-joking, how he and the Queen would love it if Henrietta had been free to accompany them for the rest of their North American progress. It had been said half in jest because His Majesty knew only too well how De L’Isle, and more importantly, his wife, relied on their precociously capable youngest daughter. But for Diana’s illness, De L’Isle would almost certainly have put the King’s suggestion to Henrietta but knowing she would be torn by such a choice, he and his monarch had determined to keep the thought to themselves.

Besides, Henrietta had her own life to lead, a thing emphasised by the fact that when later, the mission to Spain had been in the offing; it was an enterprise which had caught his youngest daughter’s imagination. Notwithstanding that De L’Isle, and to a lesser extent, his wife, were anything but blind to the inherent dangers of their daughter’s obvious infatuation with Melody Danson – herself, a quite remarkable woman – they had known better, or at least they thought they had known better at the time than to risk placing any obstacles in Henrietta’s path.

Of course, if they had known then what they know now they would have locked their little girl away in a monastery!

Hindsight being the one perfect science…

“No news is not bad news,” Cuthbert Collingwood observed sympathetically.

“Where are we with the Achilles?” The Governor of New England asked, raising his tea cup to his lips.

Things were really bad when a man could not rely on a good cup of Darjeeling to sooth his angst.

“We still have no idea if there were any survivors, sir,” Collingwood reiterated. “However, since we met yesterday the RNAS flew one of its Albatross high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft along a mission track which overflew eastern Cuba, Guantanamo Bay, Port-au-Prince, Santo Domingo and western Hispaniola.”

The London Aircraft Company had a long history of designing lightweight, high-performance aircraft, and for ‘thinking outside the box’, innovating regardless of Air Ministry or Royal Air Force requirements or operational specifications. The R1-Albatross had the potential to be the LAC’s most revolutionary product yet, seemingly so far ahead of its rivals that it had very nearly created a new genus of aircraft.

Although still powered by twin turboprops – Derby-Royce Wyverns rated at over 2,500 horse power – by constructing eighty percent of the airframe from wood to minimise weight, the Albatross was capable of flying at nearly four hundred miles per hour in level flight at altitudes of up to forty thousand feet. Basically, it was as fast or faster than any propeller driven aircraft in service in any air force anywhere, and higher-flying than practically any other aircraft.

The LAC had already prototyped a bomber version of the Albatross capable of carrying a two-thousand-ton payload on raids against targets up to a thousand miles away.

There were precisely three pre-production R1-Albatrosses in New England, in Florida undergoing operational evaluation and proving trials with the RNAS at the St John’s River Experimental Establishment. The Albatross was so secret that any reference to a ‘super plane’ being test flown was embargoed, and such reports which had leaked into the public domain had instantly been quashed as ‘imaginary sightings’, written off derisively as ‘unidentified flying objects’, with witnesses who claimed to have seen one of the marvels in the flesh, cavalierly dismissed as ‘delusional’.

“We don’t think the Cubans or the others even knew the Albatross was there,” Cuthbert Collingwood chortled. “Anyway, we photographed the harbours of Santiago de Cuba and Guantanamo Bay, and the port of Santo Domingo. What I’m being told is that the two big cruisers that ambushed the Achilles are holed up back at Guantanamo Bay, along with at least one destroyer and a large merchantman, which we think is probably the Weser. At least one of the big cruisers appears to be leaking bunker oil.”

“Why haven’t the beggars made themselves scarce?” De L’Isle asked quietly.

His companion became grim.

“Frankly, if they want to skulk away in Guantanamo Boy that’s fine by me. In any event, the more I think about it the more I’m convinced that Achilles wouldn’t have gone down without one Hell of a fight. Those two big beasts we photographed this morning might well still be licking their wounds!”

“I see… Where are we with Jamaica?”

“There is heavy fighting ongoing in the streets of Kingston. Elsewhere, we still hold about two-thirds of the island. Problematically, the enemy is landing fresh troops more or less at will now. Worse, they’ve landed medium artillery on the north coast.”

Collingwood carried on.

“We know Matthew Town on Great Inagua Island was attacked this morning and that there are significant enemy forces ashore as I speak. We only had a small garrison, eighteen Marines supported by about thirty militiamen on the island. This can only be the Triple Alliance laying the foundations for an island-hopping campaign against the Bahamas, or setting up a staging post for an invasion of southern Florida.” He pursed his lips. “You must give me a free hand to interdict these operations, sir!”

De L’Isle shook his head.

“If it was up to me, I would be sorely tempted to give you a free hand Cuthbert,” he confessed. “It is not. Moreover, as strange as it may sound, I can see good reasons for staying our hand a little longer. When we hit back, we must do it with as much weight as possible, presently, our forces are not yet all in position and we’d be feeding ships and aircraft into the fray piecemeal. In any event, that is academic. London is adamant. The eyes of the World are on us and more importantly, I thoroughly understand the primacy of sleepwalking into an avoidable general war with the German Empire.”

For all that Cuthbert Collingwood might appreciate the big picture, he had equally pressing local operational imperatives.

“I ordered HMS Devonshire and her screening destroyers to put to sea at noon. The Armada de Nuevo Granada seems to be putting to sea en masse from its bases at Vera Cruz and Corpus Christi. They seem to be organising their fleet into two distinct types of fighting column: firstly, the older ships, including vessels we’d derisively dismiss as ‘ironclads’, slow, coal-fired but some of them carrying medium calibre, five- to nine-inch rifles; and secondly, modern oil-fired turbine-power ships with if not contemporary, then 1950s or newer fire control and communications systems. The latter are at least ten or so knots faster than the former, although there are only a handful of small cruisers in the mix.”

“I saw a report saying the Cubans and the Dominicans may have brought their big-gun-ships out of reserve?” The Governor of New England prompted.

“Yes, fourteen-thousand-ton cruiser hulls mounting up to eight twelve-inch guns in four twin turrets. The oldest of those ships would have been launched in the late 1920s!” Collingwood shook his head. “They are relatively slow boats, coal-fired, with old-fashioned nineteenth century reciprocating engines. Hardly any armour protection…”

“But packing quite a hefty punch, nonetheless?”

“True,” the admiral conceded. He hesitated. “We are going to get pilloried when it transpires that the Triple Alliance has been quietly mobilising everything, and I do mean everything, to hand without us apparently noticing anything amiss.”

“Yes, but then we are dealing with quintessentially secret, closed societies run, especially on Santo Domingo and Cuba by theocratic regimes which make it hard, if not impossible, for outsiders to know what is actually going on inside them. I’m also cognisant that strictures preventing close surveillance of our likely enemies’ coasts, the pre-hostilities prohibition of reconnaissance over-flights and the disinclination of the people of New England to fund the Colonial Security Service other than at a bare subsistence level, have all been contributory factors in our apparent blindness.” Philip De L’Isle had finished his tea. China clinked as he put down his cup and saucer. “I’m sure that when future historians come to rake over our mistakes, they will note that in many ways, it has been our policy to turn a blind eye to German mischief in the Indies, without which our foes would almost certainly not have been so emboldened. That said, who among us could have envisaged that the so-called Vera Cruz Squadron, would so swiftly be at the heart of an unambiguous assault on the Empire.”

Cuthbert Collingwood nodded vigorously.

“Those bloody ships are still, so far as we know, officered and crewed by Germans under that cad von Reuter’s command!”

“Quite so,” De L’Isle agreed sombrely.

Chapter 9

Saturday 8th April

Little Inagua Island, West Indies

The two men were wide awake as the first full light of dawn lanced across the sea, roused by the buzzing, angry roar of multiple aero-engines.

“We ought to fire off a flare,” Ted Forest suggested feebly.

“No,” Abe said definitively. “I don’t think those are our kites.”

“Oh…”

“They approached from the south. I think they are using this island as a way point.”

“Cuban planes?”

“Maybe.”

It had been the best part of thirty-six hours ago, shortly after Abe had collapsed in a heap after dragging the dead goat back to the site of the crash, that he had decided he had got practically everything wrong.

He was supposed to be the expert backwoodsman, skilled in the ways of the hunt and living off the landscape and yet, for whatever reason – his wound, worrying about his friend, not to mention the battle over the Windward Passage and the almost certain loss of their ship and crewmates, and their other too numerous to mention troubles – he, Abraham Lincoln, the Son of the Hunter – had neglected to focus on the absolute basics of wilderness survival.

Shelter, warmth, water…

True, he had been preoccupied with trying to stop Ted dying of shock and the ongoing effects of his injuries, and he had not exactly been – nor was he now or likely to be in the near future – in tip top shape himself, nevertheless, he had neglected to organise ‘shelter’ and thereafter, allowed his thinking to become so muddled that had he not pulled himself together just in time, they might both be dead by now.

Had he been in any mood to give himself the benefit of the doubt, he might also have taken into account the fact that he found himself in an alien, utterly unfamiliar island environment when all his previous outdoor, field, hunting skills had been learned – mostly while playing at being a backwoodsman with Kate in tow; meaning there had been a lot of times when he had not actually being paying attention to anything other than… Kate – but Abe was in no frame of mind to go easy on himself.

Deep down he recognised that he needed to be angry if he was to carry on. If he was ever to see Kate and his son again, or to hold his unborn second child in his arms, he had to stop making stupid mistakes!

Thus, when next he was able to physically pick himself up, he had made a plan.

He and Ted Forest were horribly exposed to the elements on the beach, so he scouted around nearby in the thickest shrubs for somewhere he could stretch a makeshift awning. This achieved with splintered wooden struts, several large pieces of doped fabric torn off the shattered fuselage of the wrecked Sea Fox, he administered one of the last two doses of morphine to his friend and dragged, carried – he fainted later from pain and exhaustion – Ted some fifty yards back from the beach to their new sun-sheltered hiding place. In the dry, scratchy undergrowth they were now invisible from the beach, yet by peering through the undergrowth they could still observe any movement on the sea to the south.

Only then had Abe gone back to the goat carcass, butchered it crudely with the hand axe from the aircraft and set about lighting a small fire in the windbreak provided by the wreck. This was less than straightforward because the stench of dripping aviation fuel, forced him to make the fire at a distance which largely nullified the ‘windbreak’ effect of the wreckage. That was when he discovered that nothing was quite as bone dry as it seemed, nevertheless, smoke was soon pluming into the still air of the late afternoon. He tried to prop two severed goat legs – the hindmost – to cook. He must have passed out again because the meat was burning in the ashes when he awoke.

Wasting time trying to procure fresh meat had been another huge mistake. He had seen what must have been turtle tracks on the beach. That was a thought he had filed away as he carried dripping, half-cooked, bloody pieces of goat meat back to his friend. Abe had been astonished that Ted managed to eat more than a little of the scorched flesh, messily, obviously, before he collapsed and slept, and Abe wiped the grease and gobbets of stray flesh off his friend’s chin. He tried to eat as much of the variously burned or near raw meat as he could but by the evening the remains of the carcass were a fly-covered morass and the fire had died to cooling cinders. By the time he had fetched a fresh canteen of water it was dark and the last thing he remembered of that day – their second day, yesterday – on the island was re-arranging his flying jacket over his friend.

Now Abe peered out from beneath the awning.

“There must be about twenty planes,” he reported. “They’re flying at about a thousand feet. Old string bags, a bit like Bristol IVs and Vs. They’re heading,” Abe hesitated, “south west, I think.”

Ted Forest actually tried to prop himself up on a shaky elbow.

“Easy, old man,” Abe cautioned, holding the two-thirds empty canteen to his friend’s cracked lips. “I’ve already had a slurp of water; you finish what’s left.”

The two men became aware of more engines in the sky.

Abe peeked again.

“That’s a second group. Another ten or twelve kites, following the first lot.”

“They must be on the way to attack Matthew Town,” Ted Forest croaked. There was a new clearness in his eyes, an un-befuddled consciousness for the first time since the crash, which made Abe feel ten times better. “There’s a proper port down there. A telegraph station, too. Several hundred people, mostly workers from the salt flats…”

Abe was suddenly thinking other thoughts.

Turtles come ashore at night…

He began to scramble into the open, remembering belatedly that he had planned to get down to the beach before dawn.

“Where are you going?” Ted inquired.

“Turtles,” Abe retorted enigmatically and was gone.

He kept low as he moved through the scrub. Not that he was particularly worried about being seen from the air. Those chaps above him had other things to think about although it was likely that some keen-eyed fellow was bound to see the wreck of the Sea Fox.

How do you kill a turtle?

Reaching the beach, he moaned in frustration.

Tracks all the way down to the surf but no bloody turtles!

He scanned farther, eyeing the near distance.

He was about to give up; then he saw it.

Something moving in the sand fifty to sixty yards away, almost in the scrub. A turtle struggling to get around an outgrowth of razor-sharp coral jutting up through the low dunes.

Flies buzzed around the butchered carcass of the goat near the nose of the broken Sea Fox, Abe brushed through the swarm to recover the hand axe.

I should have buried the goat or dragged it into the sea…

Too late now.

The turtle did not seem very big, eighteen inches from beak to tail.

However, even after Abe had decapitated it, the damned thing weighed what seemed like a ton. Of course, he only had one fully serviceable arm and he was more than somewhat knocked about. Nevertheless, it must have taken him the best part of an hour to wrestle the beast back to the aircraft.

Oh, well, no problems cooking the blasted thing.

I light a fire, roll it into the embers and keep adding twigs and driftwood until the thing is tender! It did not matter if it took all day to be half-way edible, in the meantime he would do two or three water runs, and hopefully see if he needed to do anything about Ted’s wound dressings.

The wreck still stank of petrol.

Closer investigation revealed that eighty-seven octane was dripping from the fuel tank, slowly soaking the sand beneath the what was left of the telescoped nose, engine and forward cockpit of the Sea Fox.

By some quirk of good fortune, more by luck than conscious design, yesterday he had lit his fire a couple of yards beyond the petrol-wet sand…

The sound of aircraft had long receded by the time he rekindled a fire and added to yesterday’s small pile of flotsam and jetsam, mostly wood fragments he had collected off the beach and found trapped in the surrounding shrubs, no doubt deposited in the storms or hurricanes which periodically tore through these islands.

Hurricane season…

Had that passed now?

He guessed the answer was probably… yes.

He cursed as he picked himself up, having inadvertently tripped over the tail fin of the small bomb – a twenty-five pounder he guessed – he had discovered sticking out of the ground beside the aircraft… yesterday.

The passage of time already had very little meaning to him.

How strange was that?

Presently, he tipped the dead turtle into the flames, belly up, hoping not to extinguish the fire, before spreading more flammable material on top. He waited for the kindling to catch alight, piled on several more substantial pieces of driftwood and dead wood from the nearby brush around the carcass, and left the kill to cook.

He checked on Ted.

They chatted hoarsely for a couple of minutes.

“I might be able to sit up,” Abe’s friend muttered.

“We’ll see about that when I’ve re-filled the canteen.”

Ted confessed he thought he was about to foul himself.

“I’ll clean you up when I get back. We need to wash our clothes, anyway. I can do that in the surf, they’ll dry in no time flat stretched over the bushes,” Abe assured the other man.

They had to have water to keep hydrated or they would die. Everything else came a poor second to that.

He patted his friend’s shoulder and departed.

The secret to survival is to be organised: problematically, it had taken Abe nearly two days to start to get organised, they had been very lucky, the proof of that thus far was that they had survived.

Returning to the wreck from the rain pool where he had killed the goat two days ago, Abe saw that the fire had either gone out or was reduced to embers, ash, because there was no smoke rising from the vicinity of the wrecked Sea Fox. The island was relatively flat, more or less uniformly covered with waist or chest high scrubby vegetation with here and there, saplings leaning into the wind at head, or slightly greater height. Here and there scrub-covered dunes stood above the general lie of the land, otherwise there was little to obscure the horizon in any direction. This meant the wreck was clearly visible even a mile away.

I have to camouflage it…

Ted Forest had indeed soiled himself in his absence but as he appeared to be sleeping Abe had returned to the crash site and begun hacking at the scrub to break up the outline of what was left of the aircraft – its tail was twenty yards away, one wing nearby, its ribs standing proud since Abe had stripped off its doped canvas skin to provide a covering for his and Ted’s hide-cum-shelter. He worked until he was spent, stumped back to attend to his friend.

“What does turtle taste like?” Ted Forest inquired, stupidly embarrassed to have to rely on his friend to wipe his nether regions like a baby, and generally attempt to clean him up somewhat.

“Food, hopefully!”

Abe knew he had to keep moving or he would stiffen up, doze off and be useless for the rest of the day. He stumbled back down to the surf to dunk himself, and Ted’s now ragged trousers – he had had to tear the left leg to shreds to splint up his broken leg that first day on Little Inagua – into the gently roiling, marvellously clear waters. The cold soothed his angry shoulder. He floated awhile, then when some minutes later he heard aircraft, far to the south he peered, unavailingly into the blue skies.

He must have passed out again soon afterwards because the next thing he knew he came around to discover he had washed up on the beach.

He retched uncontrollably.

Dammit, I must have swallowed some sea water!

Back at the hide in the scrub he stretched his shirt and his friend’s trousers over the top of the awning to dry in the afternoon sun, and mechanically now, carried the empty again water canteen on his latest trek to a rain pool.

Most of the time he was operating like a man in a dream.

He returned to stoke the ‘turtle fire’ at least twice before evening, making another journey to fetch brackish water from a closer, newly found rain pool, brushing past feral donkeys and goats who seemed to have no memory whatsoever of their fright of a day or so ago…

Briefly, Abe became obsessed attempting to reconstruct a timeline of recent events.

We crashed early in the morning, that means we have been on the island two, or three days?

The exercise defeated him.

Abe gave up trying to keep track, he simply did not have the energy or the spare mental capacity.

Using a stick, he rolled the scorched turtle out of the cinders as the sun began to set.

One part of his mind wondered what had befallen Matthew Town that morning. The outpost was far below the horizon and the aircraft must have flown south after their attack.

The blade of the hand axe careened off the top of the shell.

Abe swore out aloud.

With the stick he rolled the headless turtle onto its back, tried to hack at the belly carapace which, after a third blow, split with a satisfying, brittle ‘crack’.

He was so preoccupied hacking and prising at the shell to get at what looked like pink cooked flesh, that when he glanced up, he blinked incredulously, disbelieving the evidence of his eyes, possibly for several long seconds at the sight of the ship unhurriedly cruising east through the five-mile-wide channel between Great and Little Inagua Islands.

The ship, a warship, looked… odd.

Like something out of a very old book…

Three slim funnels, the first two belching thick black plumes of coal smoke, a low hull with a minimal bridge and after searchlight platform, no turrets but single-gunned mounts, each with a blast shield, forward of the bridge, amidships – mounted on the beam – and aft. And the bow was more like the ram he had seen on pictures of Greek triremes of classical antiquity than anything remotely contemporary.

The vessel was too distant to make out a name on her prow or stern, and what looked like a two-digit pennant number on her hull below the bridge was equally indecipherable.

Abe cursed his inattention.

That was no Royal Navy ship; had it been he might have missed the one chance he got to signal, the one chance he got to save his and Ted’s life…

The signal gun was back at their makeshift redoubt in the dunes.

Worse, he had no idea how effective his attempts to disguise the wreck of the Sea Fox had been, or if he was visible squatting down beside it. He had seen no sign of human habitation or even of occasional visits on the island; therefore, any sighting by a passing ship would inevitably give rise to, in this case, hugely unwanted curiosity.

Belatedly, he flattened himself in the scrub.

It was over an hour later that he brought turtle meat and a re-filled canteen of water back to Ted Forest, who insisted on sitting upright once Abe had painfully helped him back into his now salt encrusted trousers.

“That’s better,” his friend quipped feebly. “A chap hates to be exposed in public. Especially, if one is likely to have to entertain guests.”

“You saw that ship?” Abe queried. He did not ask his friend how he had raised himself high enough to see through the undergrowth.

“Bolivar class light cruiser,” the other man said, wincing in discomfort as he tried to maintain his sitting position. “Five thousand tons, six six-inch guns – only four in a broadside though, a coal-burner, capable of twenty-two or three knots in her prime. That would have been the best part of forty or fifty years ago, mind you. That ship might have been laid up in reserve for most of the last twenty years.”

Abe scowled.

“Whose bloody navy, Ted?”

“Santo Domingo, Dominican most likely.”

“You should move as little as possible,” Abe admonished him. “I’m a doctor, remember. I know about these things. I have no idea how your wound hasn’t opened up again…”

“You’ve been looking after the both of us like a real trooper for the last two or three days,” Ted Forest retorted with enfeebled defiance. He paused, thought about it, “or however long we’ve been here already, with a bloody bullet hole in your shoulder!” Abe’s friend pointed out. “Trust me, you look as crocked as I must feel. And just so you know, I’m dying of shame just lying here doing nothing…”

The distant sound of a ship’s horn reverberated across the island.

Perturbingly, the one call was quickly answered by another.

Both men scrabbled to see through the tops of the surrounding vegetation, peering to the south from where another vessel was approaching. When she turned to reveal her silhouette, the two downed airmen knew immediately that she was a sister of the first cruiser. This time they glimpsed the flags flying from her main mast and stern jack, a white cross on a red and blue background.

“Dominican,” they both murmured.

“Those planes this morning,” Abe mused, “now these old ironclads? Here? Now? We’re sitting on British sovereign territory; it’s as if they want a really big war, Ted?”

Abe’s friend tried very hard to stop himself laughing.

It hurt.

“Abe, old man,” he gasped, “I think we’re a long way beyond that. All we’re waiting for now is the politicos back in London to catch up with events!”

That was when they heard what they thought must be very distant thunder. Except the skies were clear, darkening azure blue all the way to the stars.

The friends watched the two cruisers idling in the water as the dusk thickened, and more than once they imagined they heard the distant thunder again.

“They’re blocking the channel between the two islands,” Ted decided. He and Abe were leaning against each other to keep themselves upright, awake.

“Against what?”

“Us? The Empire. It’s odds on that we’re at war with the blighters by now.”

“True,” Abe conceded. Some sixth sense told him he ought to have attempted to make a better fist of hiding or moving the remains of the goat carcass, covered up the fire and the remaining quartered pieces of turtle and shell.

And why did I leave one of the service revolvers on the beach?

He could not remember where he had left the hand-axe he had used to butcher the goat and turtle. Nor had he returned to the beach where they had camped that first, and second night on the island; there would be other signs that they had been there…

Oh, God!

I left the remaining medical supplies in the box near the crash site…

Abe began to get up, struggling onto his knees first.

“I need to grab anything useful from the crash,” he muttered.

“Why?” Ted Forest queried.

Abe opened his mouth to reply.

But got no further.

A brilliant beam of light burned through the gathering gloom.

The two men flattened themselves in the undergrowth as one, then another searchlight blazed along the beach, swung past the crash site, and then, inevitably, zeroed in on the partially camouflaged wreck of the Sea Fox.

Chapter 10

Saturday 8th April

Puente de Congosto, Castile and León, Spain

Albert Stanton could see Maud Daventry-Jones waving to him as the Imperial Airways flying boat approached the quayside… and yet, she never seemed to get any nearer.

He waved back through the porthole.

The aircraft was moving, gently flexing on the current of the East River; but why was there nobody else with him in the cabin of the leviathan?

And why was Maud alone on the quayside?

He had to get back to Maud…

Suddenly, her face was just the other side of the glass.

He cried out in relief.

Then, as if gripped by some inexorable under-tow she was slipping away from him, her fingertips clawing helplessly at the glass which became opaque as the flying boat slid away, its engines firing up anew as it turned down river as if to set off back across the Atlantic to Europe.

He tried to move to the hatch.

Heard it being dogged shut, felt powerful hands wrestling him back to his seat in the cabin…

No matter how hard he struggled, thrashed around, or swore, – with shocking, wholly uncharacteristic vehemence and loquacity – until his throat was parched, and his yells of protest hoarse, barely strangled whispers, he remained pinned in his seat as the sea plane bounded over the waves and with a final roaring flourish, took to the air carrying away from the woman he loved…

He sat up in the cool darkness.

He was dripping with sweat, shivering.

“Nightmare,” he muttered.

But that did not explain what he was doing sitting on a cold stone floor with the mother and father of all headaches. Gingerly, he felt the back of his skull. His hair was matted, sticky.

I was with that fellow Mariano.

He seemed a pleasant enough cove even though he had obviously been unkindly amused, and mildly contemptuous of my pigeon Spanish…

Things started coming back to him. In splinters of memory at first, then fragments, jigsaw pieces he had to join up one by one: the ruined castle, the women changing into peasant dresses, the walk into the village. He had thought it was odd that there was hardly anybody about. They had left the women with a comely lady called Consuela, and Mariano had walked him along a twisting lane to the northern end of Puente de Congosto, to a small house, well, a hovel actually by new England standards, down by the river…

‘I don’t like leaving the ladies this way,’ he had protested.

In fact, by that juncture he was feeling thoroughly lousy, as if he had badly let down Melody and Henrietta. Okay, he had stepped forward and led them out of that ambush at El Barca de Avila the other day. However, that had been pure instinct, an adrenaline rush and thereafter, he had been pretty much useless. Melody must have sensed that he was a broken reed the other night on the riverbank; otherwise she would never have taken over that way. Oh, if only Maud could see him now, she would know that without a scintilla of a doubt that he was a complete fraud, a straw man utterly unworthy of her affections.

I was talking to Brother Mariano, he remembered.

Then what?

He had been in Paris, talking to those movie people.

Counting the days before he returned to New York to pick up where he and Maud had left off.

The poor girl must be worried sick about me!

Perhaps, she thinks I am dead!

Paul Nash…

That odd meeting on the southbound express. The terrifying flight over the mountains… did I really parachute into that olive grove at Navalperal de Tormes?

It was at this juncture that Albert Stanton lurched forward onto his knees and was violently sick.

After a few minutes his head cleared somewhat.

It became a little simpler to join up the dots, to re-establish a time-line between the dissonant memories jostling for attention. Even better, his eyes were finally adjusting to the near Stygian gloom of his cell. Or rather, cellar-dungeon.

There were empty wine racks on one wall, a couple of very dusty, empty barrels. The only light – starlight or moonlight – was filtering into the room via cracks in the slats of wooden shutters high in one of the end walls.

The next time I decide to be a war correspondent I will definitely have a stiff drink and talk myself out of it!

Involuntarily, he grunted a self-deprecatory groan of laughter.

He coughed painfully, aware now that his ribs were as sore as they had been the day after he crashed into the olive grove.

Somewhere nearby the River Tormes burbled and splashed over rocks.

Perhaps, that is the rushing noise I thought was inside my head just now?

He had known being separated from the women was a bad idea; but like an idiot, he had meekly gone along with it. Why would he do otherwise? The locals had seemed friendly even if they had not swallowed the pilgrim story.

Although, given that he appeared to be locked up – he guessed that much, even without trying to grope around to establish it for a fact – and presumably, the same fate had befallen the women whom Paul Nash had notionally left in his care, the ‘pilgrim story’ needed an awful lot of work done on it if it was to hold water…

His present situation was proof positive that, as he had always suspected, he really was not cut out to be a knight errant.

A dog barked and kept on barking in the near distance.

No doors banged; no hobnailed boots crunched on the cobbles of the nearby streets.

The dog barked.

And barked…

And then fell silent.

All the while the Manhattan Globe man was slowly collecting his scattered wits.

There had been another man with Brother Mariano. A younger bruiser in shabby workman’s clothes. Albert Stanton had noted that the newcomer was positively well-fleshed, and silent. The chap had never said a word, just listened to what the older man said to him, nodding, shrugging, always eyeing Stanton.

That had been a little unnerving.

Is that somebody banging on a door?

He guessed the racket was coming from the other end of the village, certainly not nearby.

Women’s voices raised in anger?

Melody, Henrietta?

He stumbled to his feet and began to search for the door.

It was unmoving. Next, he reached up and explored the shutters, these seemed nailed in place. He kicked and felt around the floor for something, anything to use as a crow bar or lever; all he succeeded in doing was stirring up decades of dust.

He coughed, swore out aloud in frustration.

“Blast it!”

In that moment everything came back to him in a rush.

He had belatedly, positively posthumously, smelled a rat and demanded of Mariano and his other gaoler: ‘What the Devil is going on?’

‘The Inquisition will pay well for your souls, Englishman,” the man in monk’s habit had grinned as his companion had moved to seize Stanton’s arms.

The Manhattan Globe man had boxed – he had been a respectable light-middleweight – in his college days, and later during his time in the colonial militia, and had managed to land at least two stinging jabs into the surprised face of Mariano’s companion. The man had staggered backward.

Unfortunately, just as Albert Stanton had been congratulating himself on his remembered pugilistic prowess, everything had gone dark.

Presumably, because Mariano had thwacked him on the head from behind!

And judging by the soreness of his rib cage the other fellow had subsequently exacted his own revenge, kicking him while he was on the ground.

How long ago had all that been?

If Melody had not made me throw away my watch I would know!

He guessed he must have been unconscious several hours.

The hammering at a distant door had started up again.

Faraway, there were muffled angry voices.

In a moment Albert Stanton was kicking at the door to his cell, taking advantage of his captor’s laxness in leaving him still shod in his battered boots.

He had kicked half-a-dozen times when to his astonishment the door flew open.

“Steady on, old man!”

Albert Stanton swayed, dumbfounded.

The very English, positively laconic voice was not that of Brother Mariano’s.

It belonged, unmistakably, to the four-square, unflappable man who called himself Captain Paul Nash, who had accosted the Manhattan Globe man on that train journey south from Paris, inveigling him into the thus far, ill-starred adventure to rescue the two women who, even now, were almost certainly raising a riot elsewhere in the village. He recollected that Nash was supposedly a spy of some kind, absent in England when the unpleasantness broke out in Spain over three weeks ago.

Stanton’s host in Navalperal de Tormes, the Alcalde, Don Jose de Cortés had referred to Nash as ‘my good friend el Escorpion’.

The Scorpion.

According to Melody and Henrietta, before Paul Nash had escorted them half-way across the Mountains of Madrid to Navalperal, hefting a sixty to seventy-pound pack all the way without apparently shedding a single bead of perspiration, the man had ‘dealt with’ a patrol of soldiers who were intent on either watching over, or seeking to loot the Monasterio de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción where they had been granted sanctuary.

“Can you walk?” Nash asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“What about running?”

“Not so sure about that,” Stanton admitted.

“Never mind. Try to stick close.”

The Manhattan Globe man was about to ask his rescuer where they were going, decided the interrogative was redundant. They could both hear the banging and the shouting.

Paul Nash chuckled.

“It only goes to show,” he guffawed, as if he did not have a worry in the world, “a few minutes ago, I was worrying about how on earth I was going to find the ladies!”

Stepping into a potholed courtyard Albert Stanton saw that the other man was dressed much as he was, other than for what looked like a leather jerkin-cum-sheepskin donkey jacket of some kind. He was travelling light, no back pack, no weapon other than the pistol – the matt grey Enfield Small Arms Factory .45-caliber semi-automatic – that he had been carrying in a shoulder holster back at Navalperal the last time the two men had been in the same room.

Tonight, the gun had what looked like a silencer on it.

That explained why the dog had suddenly stopped barking…

“Anybody we bump into is a bad guy,” Nash said conversationally. “Only bad actors stick their heads out into the street in the middle of the night in this part of the country.”

“I think we were kidnapped for ransom to the Inquisition,” the Manhattan Globe man gasped as he gamely tried to keep up with the other man’s loping, ground devouring stride.

“Yes, well,” the other man scoffed. “What did you think the locals were going to do with a bunch of strangers?”

“We were pretending to be pilgrims.”

To Albert Stanton’s surprise Paul Nash did not instantly scorn this notion.

“Oh, right,” he breathed, pausing before emerging onto the main – well, the only cobbled – street through the village leading towards from where the banging still, sporadically emanated. “That was a smart move,” he remarked, obviously impressed. “Whose idea was that? Your’s?”

Stanton blanched.

“No, Melody’s…”

“Figures. She’s something, isn’t she?”

“Yes, definitely…”

“How many are we up against?” Paul Nash inquired, getting back to business. His tone inferred he was only asking to make polite conversation and that the odds really did not matter to him. “I coshed the chap who came to see what was upsetting his dog,” he added, trying to be helpful.

“Brother Mariano and another tough knocked me about and threw me in that cellar. There’s a woman called Consuela, that’s who Mariano left the ladies with while he locked me up.”

“Okay, possibly another two bad guys and a female accomplice. No problem, we out-number them!”

“The ladies have a small boy with them. He’s about three or four,” Stanton hissed, realising it was important that Nash was as well informed as possible.

“Name?”

“Er, Pedro, his father was killed in the ambush along with the Alcalde and his wife…”

Paul Nash hesitated, stopping dead in the street.

It was almost as if what Albert Stanton had just told him had given him a horrible jolt.

“That was a damned shame,” he murmured. “They were good people.” Then, with a hard-edged, intense urgency he asked: “The boy, is he okay?”

“Yes. Henrietta hasn’t let go of him since the ambush.” Stanton was getting breathless. “How are we going to play this?”

Nash said nothing for a moment.

It was as if he was questioning each and every one of his previous assumptions, forming new plans, taking on board wholly new priorities.

“These people in Puente de Congosto will have sent a message through to the nearest office of the regional Inquisition, probably to the one in Salamanca, the day you arrived. The bastards ought to be here already. They would have been if the city wasn’t in such a mess!”

“There’s fighting in Salamanca?”

“The general in charge of the District tried to arrest a couple of the Colonels, the young Turks, the beggars trained in Germany in the fifties and early sixties, who have taken over in Madrid, Toledo, Seville, Granada, Cordoba and a lot of other places but not so much in this part of the country. Galicia and the Basque territories and what used to be called Navarre in the olden days, is a bad career posting for any ambitious Spanish officer so support for the coup in Madrid isn’t so strong in these parts. Well, less organised, at any rate. What matters to us is that he Inquisition is a tad distracted at present. So, what we’re up against hereabouts are, as it were, freelance contractors working for the Grand Inquisitor in Salamanca. Not true-believers, just piece-rate workers paid by the head, as it were.”

They marched on down the dark, deserted street.

“That’s why the pilgrim wheeze might actually work for us,” Nash went on, not troubling to lower his voice. “At some stage, assuming we can extricate ourselves from this shit hole!”

They were closer to the commotion now.

A man’s voice was raised in remonstration.

To no avail, the women started screaming.

Paul Nash broke into a sprint leaving Stanton trailing far behind. There was a splintering of wood, a new woman’s scream cut short in an instant, and then belatedly, the staggering, gasping Manhattan Globe man blundered through the smashed door, now hanging precariously on a single surviving hinge.

He tripped over a body on the floor.

Recovered himself, realised he had fallen over the prostrate form of a woman – Consuela? – coughing and retching helplessly, her hands tearing at her throat. Onward he lurched, stumbling into a yard.

“Albert, are you all right?” Melody Danson demanded, wrapping the newcomer in her arms as if he was her long-lost prodigal brother. “It’s Albert,” she called over her shoulder.

In a moment the newspaper man was also being ecstatically embraced by Henrietta De L’Isle.

Standing over the unmoving bodies of two men in the gloom, the broader one, Brother Mariano, wearing only a nightshirt, the other his working clothes – although it was hard to be sure in the gloom – was Paul Nash, cheerfully bouncing the boy Pedro on his broad shoulders.

“Careful where you step,” their guardian angel said casually. “I’m afraid that there’s quite a lot of blood on the ground.”

Chapter 11

Sunday 9th April

Situation Room, Royal Navy Norfolk, Virginia

Fifty-five-year-old David Cuthbert Horatio, 9th Baron Collingwood whose illustrious forebearer, was the great admiral of the French Wars of the early nineteenth century, the man who had engaged and destroyed in detail, a Franco-French fleet nearly twice the size of his own at the Battle of the Channel, notwithstanding the shattering blow of that other legendary hero of the period, Admiral Lord Nelson’s flagship, the Temeraire, suddenly blowing up some twenty minutes into the day and night-long action, was not in a very sanguine frame of mind.

Anybody who cared to study portraits of the 1st Baron invariably remarked upon the fact his modern descendent was, uncannily, the spitting image of his illustrious ancestor. Like the 1st Baron, the C-in-C Atlantic Fleet, was also famous for his dour, no nonsense, methodical approach to his duties.  At the Admiralty they called him the ‘Navy’s voice of common sense’, renowned for his implacable decisiveness once he had determined that the good of the Navy – and the Empire, to his mind the two were inseparable – demanded a particular course of action.

Many speculated, that it was this trait which had permitted him, as a career gunnery specialist, to appreciate much earlier than any of his senior contemporaries that the days of the big gun ship of the battle line, were numbered. In fact, he had been the man who, as Director of Naval Planning (DNP), had drafted the directive cancelling the construction of four new ‘super’ Vanguards – the latest and most formidable, fifty thousand ton-plus battleships – and placing, six years ago, the orders for the first of the Ulysses class aircraft fleet carriers; the corollary to having spent the previous four years of his time as DNP thanklessly fighting a bitter, rear guard action against the dyed in the wool ‘battleship’ men who still, truth be known, were under the mistaken impression that they – rightfully – still dominated the Board of Admiralty.

Although he had a well-earned reputation for being an ‘absolute tartar’ for rooting out men whom he deemed ‘not to be up to the job’, he ran his New England headquarters with a relatively light touch. He explained this apparent contradiction thus: ‘Spit and polish, tradition and respect for the chain of command must be a given; however, within an efficiently ordered regime there must, in this new age when everything we do is dependent upon the ever-developing technologies of civil society and war-fighting, there must be a recognition that not all of the old ways are appropriate. What is required is a collegiate atmosphere at all levels in which no man fears disadvantage for honestly speaking his mind. Concomitant to this it must be a sine qua non of the modern Royal Navy that men in positions of responsibility should be mindful of the physical and mental well-being of those under their command. If the Navy is to continue to be one big happy family, reason must replace the rod and we must allow our people to develop alongside, and wherever possible, to embrace change and the marvellous boons of modern science.’

So, while old fogeys muttered darkly about the new ‘soft Navy’ in which an officer was as likely to ‘ask’ one of his men to do something rather than to directly ‘order’ it, and in which it was considered good man-management practice to actually ‘thank’ a man for doing a good job, in which the acknowledgement of excellence and as importantly, ‘potential’ in a man reflected as much credit on the issuer and the recipient of praise, under Collinwood’s tenure the Atlantic Fleet had begun to be a repository of efficiency and modified good practice.

In other words, the Atlantic Fleet was as ready for war, if it came, as it could possibly be, given that theoretically peace had ruled the Atlantic approaches to the disputatious waters of the Caribbean and the Gulf of Spain for the best part of the last decade.

In past ‘Border Wars’, the Navy had generally been deployed in a blockading role during which there had been only a handful of minor engagements – between small ships or patrol boats in coastal waters – with Las Armada de Nuevo Granada remaining steadfastly in port and the Cuban, Dominican and other ‘unfriendly’ powers in the region carefully preserving their neutrality so as to avoid incurring the wrath of perfidious Albion.

This time around nobody in Norfolk imagined the Triple Alliance was going to use that ‘play book’. Not after what had happened to the Achilles and was still going on down in Jamaica.

Nevertheless, notwithstanding that the ‘Make Ready for War’ signal had been sent out to all ships and stations under Cuthbert Collingwood’s command over twenty hours ago, nobody in the Situation Room that morning was taking anything for granted.

Theoretically, it was not too late for the Cubans to hand over the men and ships which had sunk the Achilles; or for the agents of the Triple Alliance to desist their operations on Jamaica and withdraw their forces. Thereafter, it would be up to the diplomats to hammer out a new peace.

That of course, was a pipe dream. Practically speaking, the war had begun and the forces of the Commonwealth of New England and the Atlantic Fleet were in motion. The genie was well and truly out of the bottle and nothing short of a miracle was going to persuade it to obediently get back into it.

The Army Liaison Officer was completing his briefing.

It was an accident of history that to all intents, there was no standing apparatus of high-level integrated military or industrial command in New England, or across the Canadian provinces. In the past the wartime appointment of a Supreme Commander had been a thing stoutly resisted, an article of faith among the First Thirteen seemingly from time immemorial. It was almost as if the individual colonies were afraid that such a military ‘supremo’ might, like Caesar, one day cross the Rubicon to enslave them.

Thus, there was War Plan West Texas (covering operations west of the Mississippi), War Plan East (covering operations east of the great river) and War Plan Anson (in respect of the Atlantic Fleet’s operations and ‘obligations’ under the other two ‘Plans’ in the Atlantic, the Caribbean and in the Gulf of Spain).

Technically, all land forces and Colonial Air Force squadrons, were under the command of the Chief of Staff of all North American Colonial Forces, Field Marshall Lord George Everard St John Markham, GCB, CBE, DSO and Bar, MC, but the post had been a largely ceremonial institution ever since the Great War, as witnessed by the fact that Markham was a seventy-nine-year-old former Indian Army man promoted field marshal upon his retirement from active service nearly fifteen years ago.

Pragmatically, if there was such a thing as a commander of New England land forces it was probably, implicitly if not acknowledged elsewhere, the fifty-eight-year-old Quartermaster General of New England, Lieutenant General Sir Vivian Macmillan Clinton, KCB, OBE, MC, a direct patrilineal descendent of Sir Henry Clinton, one of General William Howe’s commanders at the Battle of Long Island in August 1776.

Unfortunately, Clinton had only been appointed at the end of last year and made very little progress – due to obstruction by several colonies, Virginia, Delaware and New York in particular – in integrating colonial militias into larger, New England brigades and divisions. While the Governor of New England had, and had always had, the prima face right to raise, disband, and deploy the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Regiments of a given colony’s or territory’s militia anywhere in North America, no Governor had attempted to use such powers since the era when the suppression of revolution was the over-riding concern of Government House. Consequently, there was not now, and there had never been, any New England equivalent to the Indian Army, mainly because the First Thirteen, and their two belated associates, New Hampshire and Vermont, had always been vehemently opposed to the creation of such an army. The argument went something like: We are loyal New Englanders; we have no need of an Army of Occupation. And besides, since they had never had to pay anything like the full cost of the British and (other) non-American Empire troops deployed on their territory – for their defence – in previous wars, the legislatures of the East Coast colonies really did not see why they should be inconvenienced by the onerous price of such an army.

The defence of New England was, after all, as much a vital interest of the rest of the Empire as it was in, say, Virginia or Massachusetts. As Governors of New England had attested down the years, you could always tell a Virginia planter a mile away, but in practice you could never tell him anything!

“Air activity over the Rio Grande sector is greatly increased in recent days. This has curtailed our own reconnaissance activities,” the Army Liaison Officer, a Major with the tabs of the 4th Maryland Fusiliers on his collar, explained stoically. “However, the picture emerging from radio intercepts and the analysis of the same, coded traffic, indicates that the Mexicans,” most Army men called the citizens of New Granada, ‘Mexicans’ these days, “have elements of at least seven divisions concentrated within ten miles of the front. It is hard to know for sure but we strongly suspect that if and when they come over the border, they will send columns north into the Indian Country, possibly developing aggressively into the Colorado Territory later. However, it is likely that the main weight of attack will fall on our forces in West Texas. Particularly the further west one goes this is truly dreadful campaigning country. There are still substantial native populations, Apache, Arapaho and other tribes who basically, we have more or less allowed to get on with their own affairs for years now. One imponderable is that we simply do not know whether the tribes will be friendly, or hostile to the Mexicans. Frankly, we don’t have enough men down there to fight the Mexicans, let alone the damned Apaches and Cherokees, and so forth. Those fellows are the finest irregular soldier-warriors on the continent; to us the terrain is our enemy, to them it is their friend.”

Until he assumed command at Norfolk, Cuthbert Collingwood had not been aware that successive Governors of New England had abandoned concerted attempts to ‘pacify’ the native tribes of the South West as long ago as the late 1940s. Peaceful co-existence had become the mantra with large parcels of ‘Indian Land’ set aside with all settler and other grants automatically voided by any New Englander who trespassed on that country.

The Colonial Air Force Liaison officer, a one-legged Wing-Commander in his forties with a chest full of meddle ribbons and a bushy handle-bar moustache, reported that four scout and two bomber squadrons were forming on ‘the Great Plains’ and should join the Border Air Command – BAC – within the next few weeks. Presently, there were six scout and five bomber-ground support squadrons stationed in the ‘Border Sector’, a force comprising approximately one hundred and sixty aircraft ‘ready for operations’.

Three of the scout squadrons were equipped with the Goshawk Mark II; even so, a hundred and sixty aircraft to cover seven to eight hundred miles of threatened ‘border’ seemed to the Navy men around the table as inadequate as the fifty-five thousand men of the nominally four-division strong Border Army, sometimes popularly referred to in the press as the ‘Army of the Rio Grande’ or simply the ‘Rio Grande Army’.

Both the Army and the CAF men stated the patently obvious when they said, more or less in chorus: “Hopefully, the Royal Naval Air Service will be in a position to assist us if the worst comes to the worst.”

Both men were a little downcast when Collingwood reiterated the difficulties inherent in carrier operations in the western area of the Gulf of Spain. His ships would be liable to attack from land-based aircraft based in Nuevo Granada to one side, and Cuba in his rear. Moreover, the navies of the Triple Alliance would hardly be likely to grant a Royal Navy carrier task force free passage into their waters!

War Plan Anson contemplated air strikes on enemy ships at sea and ports, blockade operations, commerce raiding and actively seeking battle with enemy warships. Attempts to conduct full scale war games to establish the practicality of the Royal Navy providing continuous, or in any way meaningful air support to land operations conducted more than a few miles from the sea had, to Cuthbert Collingwood’s chagrin, never been conducted.

The view in both London and Philadelphia was that such exercises would have been construed as provocations by the Spanish!

In any event, with the big carriers only now commissioning, the value of such evolutions employing smaller, or ‘make believe’ carriers would have been nominal.

That was not to say the Collingwood and his staff had not mounted small scale exercises, and extended ‘table wars’ in secret; but that was not the same thing as testing theory against reality at sea with actual ships and men. Moreover, Cuthbert Collingwood was in little doubt that the first time one of the new task forces – built around one of the Ulysses class fleet carriers – went into action, would come to be universally regarded as a seminal moment in naval history.

Sadly, he suspected that moment would not long be delayed.

Chapter 12

Sunday 9th April

St James’s Palace, Pall Mall, London

His Majesty George the Fifth, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of His Other Realms and Territories King, Head of the Commonwealth, and Defender of the Faith, had, as was his custom, risen early that morning and spent much of the last two hours mentally preparing himself for the conversation he was going to have with his cousin, twice removed, the forty-four year old heir presumptive – history taught Teutonic dynasties to never take the votes of the twenty-four Electors, the disorderly mob of kings and princes of the Empire for granted – to the Imperial Crown of the Germanies.

He glanced again at the big clock on the wall over the hearth.

In a few minutes the Prime Minister would be speaking to the Empire.

Later that afternoon, it would be his turn.

At this very moment his advisors were finalising the text of his own address, to be delivered from the studios of the Empire Broadcasting Corporation at Hampstead…

It seemed that Crown Prince Wilhelm’s father was ‘indisposed’ which, unfortunately, unlike the ‘indisposition’ of a supposedly key member of the establishment in London, the seat of a slowly maturing constitutional monarchy since the days of the Glorious Revolution of the latter seventeenth century, meant that there was an almost complete vacuum of power in Berlin, at the very moment that the crisis deepened and potentially, the great powers stumbled ever-closer to the edge of the abyss.

So, whereas, in an ideal World, if such a thing had ever existed, the King would be speaking directly to the grumpy old man he had regarded as an eccentric, bad-tempered uncle in his youth; instead, he was waiting to be put through to the Kaiser’s brilliant, intemperate, charming, meddlesome eldest surviving son. On the plus side the two men had had early careers in common, as the younger sons of families apparently well-stocked with spare male heirs, they had been allowed to pursue naval careers. Unfortunately, that was about all they had in common.

Whereas, George, over ten years the Crown Prince’s senior had enjoyed a long and fulfilling naval career, met and married the love of his life to whom he had been, and would be faithful unto death; Wilhelm had had his career abruptly curtailed in his late twenties, and – even if one was being exceptionally charitable about it – compensated for this disappointment, by setting out to bed every aristocratic, and numerous less well-bred women, in Europe, marrying and divorcing two royal princesses by the time he reached his mid-thirties. In Berlin they gossiped that the man had bastard sons and daughters in every principality of the German Empire!

And as for politics…

King George had treated with Whigs, Conservatives and ‘People’s Christian’ and whichever kind of ‘democrats’ – Liberal, Social, Popular, Syndicalist – his people had cared, as was their right, to place in power in the Palace of Westminster with equal, ineffable aplomb. True, he had offered advice, and what support he might at times of crisis but he had never, ever taken sides. In Germany, such a regal ‘hands-off’ approach was regarded as the signature of crippling weakness, contemptible, in fact.

The door opened and the Queen entered the room overlooking the ancient Friary Court. She smiled tight-lipped and took a seat beside the desk at which her husband sat, trying very hard not to fidget and scowl as the long wait for the phone to ring continued, seemingly indeterminably.

The royal couple had never liked Buckingham Palace, where, for short, painful periods of their marriage George had had to put up with the Old King, his not entirely dearly remember father, who, egged on by his dear and only vaguely lamented mother, had always treated Eleanor like a tradesman’s daughter.

Well, Bertie had put a stop to that nonsense when, unexpectedly, the crown had been placed upon his – at the time – somewhat befuddled head!

Prior to his accession, courtesy of the worst Fenian outrage in modern times some fifteen years ago, which had, at a stroke, murdered all five men – the his father, the King, his elder brother and three nephews – in the royal line above him, he, Eleanor and their brood of then little-known princes and princesses, had ‘camped out’ at St James’s Palace on their rare ‘duty calls’ to London. Until then, other than for royal weddings, funerals and occasionally, to make up the numbers at state banquets and bun fights to celebrate this or that visit by miscellaneous emperors or potentates, they had lived – blissfully – apart, ‘semi-detached’ as the press would have it, from most of the Royal Family, and had had as little as possible to do with ‘the Court’. George had pursued his naval career and in the decade before the assassination of the Old King, they had lived in sublime, relative anonymity in rural Hampshire, with the notable of exception of that happy interlude when Eleanor and the younger children had joined George in New England during HMS Lion’s first commission, attached to the Atlantic Fleet at Norfolk, Virginia.

Originally, Henry VIII had built St James’s Palace as a purposefully modest royal residence, by then, presumably, wearying of the splendour and the oppressive formality of his great palaces at Whitehall, Hampton Court, Richmond and elsewhere.

Eleanor maintained that ‘the old monster must have wanted a quiet love nest where he could have his wicked way with Ann Boleyn!’

Her husband speculated that his infamous predecessor’s motivations might have been a tad subtler, although as in most things, he was loath to gainsay his wife, whose judgement in so many things was infallible. For his part he was fond of telling visitors that the palace was built on the site of a leper hospital!

The palace, constructed in Tudor style in red brick, was arranged around several courtyards: Colour Court, the Ambassador's Court and the Friary Court, with its most memorable external feature being its eighteenth century gatehouse. Not least among St James’s recommendations to the newly crowned King and Queen back in the early 1960s, had been that many of the key members of the Royal Household actually had offices within it; a major consideration given that from the outset both George and Eleanor had been preoccupied with bringing the Monarchy, the Royal Household, Parliament and the People closer together, and somehow, the layout and existing usage of St James’s Palace had seemed ideal.

And besides, they had always liked the place!

The phone rang loudly.

Fortunately, the King having been a gunnery officer for much of his naval career, was a little deaf, especially, for reasons nobody had ever explained to him on his right side, which was where the telephone sat. Consequently, he was the only person in the room not to very nearly jump out of his skin.

He raised the handset, placing the bowl of the instrument to his left ear.

“His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Wilhelm, Your Majesty.”

The King took a deep breath.

“Willy, my boy,” he guffawed jocularly. “I’m dreadfully sorry to hear that the Emperor is under the weather, again. But how are you bearing up?”

This was greeted by a grunt of rueful acknowledgement.

“They say my father is at death’s door, Bertie,” the heir presumptive to the Imperial throne growled. He and his English cousin were never likely to see eye to eye about everything but nobody in ‘the family’, even in Germany, had ever actually had many bad words to say about the British Empire’s ‘accidental monarch’.

“Oh, dear. That’s very sad…”

“Sad? Every time the old fart has a bad turn; he shits on the rest of us!”

King George raised an eyebrow.

The Crown Prince had one of those booming, parade-ground voices that carried to every corner of a room even when he was on the telephone six hundred miles away.

“This is a bad business, Willy,” the King observed.

“I blame the dummkopfs around the old fool!”

The King hesitated.

“This puts my Government in an awkward position…”

There was an angry silence.

Oddly, the King did not think – for a second – that the anger was directed at him.

He thought he heard shouts at the other end of the line.

“The imbeciles are trying to tell me what to say to you, Bertie,” his cousin apologised. “I told them to get out. Gott im Himmel! They keep me in the dark for years and then they expect me to sort out their scheisse for them like I’m some kind of bloody magician!” The younger man was livid. Momentarily, he lapsed into German: “Ich wette, Sie haben da keine Schwierigkeiten?”

I bet you do not have this trouble over there?

“Not exactly, old man,” the King sympathised. “But we have our moments!”

“Scheisse!” The Crown Prince muttered. “If I hadn’t sent one of my people to France to collect yesterday’s papers, I’d still be completely in the dark about what’s going on!” He had another thought: “You know there’s an embargo on foreign newspapers and the Army is jamming the EBC over here?”

“No, I didn’t know that…”

“Scheisse!” The Crown Prince exclaimed anew, his exasperation peaking. “Forgive me, are their ladies in the room with you, Bertie?”

“Eleanor is here.”

“Forgive me, Ellie,” the Crown Prince apologised, mortified that he might have inadvertently given offence, “I apologise for my language.”

“That’s perfectly all right, Willy!” Eleanor called.

The man at the Berlin end of the line chuckled.

“These are times that try men’s souls,” the Crown Prince observed laconically.

“Look,” the King put in, sensing the right moment had arrived, “while my Government is determined to explore all available routes to a continuing rapprochement with the German Empire, it must prosecute war against the aggressors in the Caribbean and the Gulf of Spain. But…”

“That is difficult when Berlin speaks with two voices?”

“Quite so, Willy.”

The younger man had sobered.

“Those who question the relevance of the settlement of the Treaty of Paris, among whom I count myself,” he explained, sadly, “are in the ascendant in Germany. My father’s diktat regarding the Vera Cruz Squadron was ill-advised but it has found much sympathy in Palace circles. So, although I must personally disown the part that former Kaiserliche Marine vessels and men have played in recent tragic events, I cannot and will not, disassociate myself from the actions of my father’s administration. Apart from anything else, such an action would split the College of Imperial Electors. If I allowed that to happen, I might go down in history as the man who sowed the seeds for the disintegration of the Reich. My father is Emperor by acclamation, upon his death I shall just be the King of Prussia and as you will know, there are two, perhaps, three pretenders to the Imperial throne waiting in the wings.”

King George felt his heart sink.

He looked up, smiled wanly to his wife, expecting and getting, in full measure her gentle, tight-lipped ‘chin up, darling’ look in return.

He sighed.

“Willy, I don’t know what they are telling you over there. You should know that forces of the Triple Alliance have attacked, and are attacking Imperial territories in the Caribbean by sea and air, and that an army of some two hundred thousand men is massing preparatory to an attack upon Empire forces guarding the south western borders of the Commonwealth of New England. Further to this, I am informed that sometime in the next forty-eight hours organised resistance on the island of Jamaica must surely end.”

There was no reply to this from Berlin.

“Further, I am informed by my Government that in conducting operations in the Gulf of Spain and the Caribbean, the Royal Navy anticipates being attacked by submersible vessels constructed with German technical assistance in direct contravention of the Submarine Act.”

“I can tell you nothing of that, Bertie.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere was frosty.

The King wanted to bury his head in his hands.

It was a perverse peculiarity of the German ‘system’ that while theoretically the Kaiser was all-powerful, the ultimate font of all decision, he had only rarely comported himself like a medieval absolute monarch. Wisely, during much of his long rein the Old Emperor had skilfully – and with great aplomb until recent years – played off the minor aristocracy, the gentry of the Staaten, which roughly approximated to the lesser kingdoms – some, themselves like Bavaria, Saxony and Prussia, of the size and wealth second-rate powers – against their hereditary kings, princes and in this enlightened age, a handful of queens and princesses; pitting them against the ever-rising tide of the political parties representing the common people, who sat in many of the Staatshäuser (State Houses), and in that vexing institution, especially to the Kaiser and his ministers, the Reichstag. The Kaiser’s strategy had been to counteract the trend by which, as if by some strange popularist osmosis, this latter institution had developed, slowly but surely in the long decades of his reign, from a powerless talking shop cum meeting place of the Staaten, into a proto-democratic legislature responsible for overseeing an increasingly large number of the administrative functions of the Empire.

For example, the Reichstag was now responsible for the collection of and accounting for the one-third of all taxes levied by the Staaten payable to the Crown, the maintenance of canals and inland waterways, and the administration of the Department for Veterans – responsible for old soldiers who had fallen on hard times – and among other things, the oversight of the Inspector of Public Works for all infrastructure projects funded by Imperial, as opposed to local, Staaten funds.

Basically, as German industrial society had become more populous and more complex, it had become increasingly impossible for one man, regardless of the competence of his advisors, to rule.

Inevitably, powers and duties had flowed down to the Staaten and the Reichstag had become the body with the legal requirement, and right, to oversee and supervise those ‘delegated’ Imperial roles and functions.

Modern empires and nations required a rule of law and systemic derogation of responsibilities at practically every level to operate as coherent entities, and for all its industrial muscle and Imperial ambition, the German Empire was beginning to creak at the seams. Every important decision joined an ever-lengthening queue because when all was said and done, nothing really important happened unless the Kaiser blessed it with his personal imprimatur.

Which is why the Admirals of the Kaiserliche Marine have got away with hanging onto all their battleships when they ought to have been following our example, and building a fleet of bloody great big aircraft carriers!

Or at least, that was what the King of England thought!

The sclerotic Imperial regime in Berlin could not afford to have a demented old man in charge; unfortunately, that was exactly it had had the last couple of years.

Worse, the Old Kaiser and his heir had fallen out many years ago, back in the days when Wilhelm was just another ‘spare’ son, like George. By the time Wilhelm eventually became Crown Prince three years ago, he was already too catastrophically estranged from his father for there ever to be, notwithstanding the Kaiser’s mental and physical decline, to be fully rehabilitated into the Royal Household. Therefore, in this time of crisis there were in effect, two opposing Royal Courts in Berlin.

Now, it seemed the Kaiser’s courtiers and ministers had trumped Wilhelm’s coterie of ambitious younger men and would-be players, waiting impatiently for the fall of the ancient regime.

In days or weeks Wilhelm would inherit a war state confronted by a British Empire Hell bent on rearmament with a Navy that had stolen an unimaginably huge technological march – only partly on account of its vast investment in the Ulysses class fleet carriers – on the Kaiserliche Marine.

All things considered, it was hardly to be wondered at that Crown Prince Wilhelm, putative heir to the Kingdom of Prussia and likely, to the Empire of the Germanies, was in a somewhat ill-humour this morning.

The King understood, with a pain that was as excruciatingly moral as much as physical, that his cousin would be even angrier, incandescent if and when he ever picked up his lower jaw from the floor, if and when, as sooner or later he surely must, he learned exactly how far his beloved Kaiserliche Marine had slipped behind the technological curve.

In a very real sense, the Ulysses class ships were only the tip of a horribly dangerous iceberg. In his conversations with his Prime Minister he had broached. His ministers had been adamant that the greatest secret of the Empire would remain just that, preferably for as long as possible.

George had bowed to this advice.

He was King-Emperor but most of all, he was his people’s servant and in this, as in all great matters of state, the People spoke to him through the voices of his ministers.

He knew that such sophistry was, and would always be, completely lost on his nephew.

“If necessary,” his Prime Minister, Sir Hector Hamilton had averred, “I shall ensure that Project Poseidon is guarded by a bodyguard of lies, sir.”

The King had asked his friend – for the two men had known each other since their youth, and worked assiduously together in recent years – if the price of winning a ‘quick victory’, and of ‘minimising the cost in lives and human misery of the coming War in the Indies’ was the revelation of the existence of the project, ‘are you prepared to pay it, Hector?’

‘I trust that,’ his Prime Minister had replied, ‘that it does not come to that, sir.’

The King sighed.

“This is a bad season,” he observed thoughtfully.

“Tell me that our countries will not be at war in a few hours’ time, Bertie,” the Crown Prince asked bluntly.

“War with the Reich is not My Government’s intention, Willy.”

“Nor will it be My Government’s policy, either,” his German cousin retorted.

Problematically, neither man cared to guess – or was in any position to know – what was in the mind of the Kaiser, or the minds of those around him.

Chapter 13

Sunday 9th April

Little Inagua Island, West Indies

“That’s torn it!” Surgeon Lieutenant Abraham Lincoln, RNAS, muttered to himself as he watched the first boat, rowed by eight oarsmen, slowly move away from the antique cruiser moored some three hundred yards off shore.

He was thinking straight at last, remembering things he half-suspected he had forgotten over the course of the last couple of days.

His head hardly ached and he was feeling a little stronger, although no less sore.

Most important, he was thinking straight again!

Remembering things, mostly in the order they happened!

And he was increasingly confident that he was making good, sensible decisions.

I must have been concussed much more badly than I realised at the time…

He had moved Ted Forest, half-carrying, supporting his friend as he hopped, at a snail’s pace some four hundred yards back from the beach to the shelter of a low, undergrowth-covered hillock, where, coincidentally there was a nearby relatively clean, clear rain pool. Or leastways, what Abe took to be a rain pool, having encountered – at an elevation of perhaps a dozen or so feet above the beach – a muddy area which he suspected might, actually conceal a seasonal fresh water spring. Had events not been so pressing he might have explored farther. Unfortunately, as it was, he needed to watch the crash site.

During the night he had crept back to it several times, found Ted’s discarded Webley revolver, scrabbled around the wreck searching for any remaining pieces of the pilot’s smashed medical box, finding a second box of matches, and to his exasperation at having missed it earlier, discovered a partially crushed rations box – the size of a biscuit tin – wedged beneath the smashed wireless set and the ground, both having obviously broken through the bottom of the fuselage when the Sea Fox crashed. He had also ‘re-discovered’, the two-thirds buried twenty-five-pound high explosive bomb – that he had convinced himself he had imagined falling over that first day on the island – which must have hung-up on the attack on the Karlsruhe and broken free of the aircraft during the crash.

Periodically he had flattened himself on the ground as one or other of the searchlights of the two cruisers panned along the beach and lingered, each time, on the wreck.

With daybreak Abe had discarded his filthy white shirt, gone bare-chested, knowing his reddened, tanning torso was more likely to fade into the background of brown-green vegetation than anything pure white. With the sand adhering to his sweat-grimed skin he hoped he was invisible each time he flattened against the ground.

Nothing astonished Abe quite so much as how unobservant he had been the last couple of days. He had obviously been operating on muscle memory, hardly thinking, just acting. Loss of blood, shock, or perhaps, just the lingering effects of a nasty bump on the head – he still had a nice lump and bruise, according to Ted on his forehead, more or less dead centre, and a ‘real shiner’ of a black eye on his left wing – had combined to make him, at times, act like a complete idiot.

For example, he had not realised that there was so much eighty-seven octane left in the Sea Fox’s fuel tank, positioned behind the engine right in front of the forward cockpit, or that petrol was still leaking, drip, drip, drip into the sand beneath the aircraft even now, three days after the crash.

Or rather, worryingly he had noticed it but not actually recognised the danger of it…

He remembered thinking about fuel leaking but it was all a blur, today he was suddenly focused, pre-occupied, in fact, on that drip, drip, drip into the shaded sand where the sun never reached and the liquor therefore only evaporated at a very slow rate…

Two days running I lit an open fire practically right beside the wreck!

Abe had never had a lot of time for the Christian God.

On the other hand, he empathised – even if he was not completely sold on it – with Kate’s belief that the spirit of the forest and the sky was always watching over one.

Either way, it seemed that somebody had been looking after him the last few days!

I could have set myself on fire at any time!

That unexploded bomb could have blown up when we crashed!

I could have cut my foot off with that hand axe!

Or been cleaning my shoulder wound in the surf when those cruisers turned up and never noticed!

The pain in his left shoulder reminded him that if the bullet had hit him a few inches to the right it would probably have taken his head off…

All things considered, he and Ted ought to be dead now.

So, much as the notion of a couple of boat-loads of enemy sailors coming ashore to investigate the wreck of the Sea Fox was hardly a welcome prospect, things were not entirely hopeless.

Pretty much hopeless, obviously; just not completely black.

It was approaching noon, stiflingly hot each time the breeze died away. Watching the ships out in the channel separating Little and Great Inagua he got the impression the men on their decks were relaxed, killing time. Their ships’ main battery guns were trained fore and aft, and both vessels were only ‘smoking’ from one of their three stacks.

The ironclads had old-fashioned crows’ nests on their two masts, a tripod arrangement above the bridge and spindly, single shaft, braced with multiple cable stays abaft the funnels. The lookouts on the nearest ship inshore seemed to be looking out to sea, to the south and east, hardly ever training their glasses on the shore.

It was weird what you could see when you were not concussed and you were finally, paying attention!

Think it through, Abe.

Up to twenty sailors – probably heavily armed – are coming ashore.

They may have spotted you and Ted, in which case there was not a lot they could do about it. Abe was not about to leave his friend behind and anyway, he was probably too weak to out-run twenty determined Catholics looking for an unbeliever to spit-roast.

So, what were the alternatives?

He was supposed to have hunter’s blood in his veins.

Stop thinking like prey; become a hunter again!

But whatever you do, remember the squashed rations box!

It, the Webley and the other knocked about goodies he had recovered from the crash site were stashed some thirty yards away on the route back to where he had left Ted, half-asleep, half-passed out in the shade of a couple of tall, unusually verdant bushes.

Watching the boats turn towards the land, crabbing a little across the current as they headed for a narrow gap in the reefs, Abe had a pang of regret leaving the second Webley with the rest of the stash. Instantly, he admonished himself.

Twenty men, one hand gun!

That was not going to work out well…

What sort of odds were they?

And besides, now that he was thinking straight, he had a much better idea…

Nothing less than finding two dead bodies of British airmen in the wreck would satisfy the men coming ashore. Well, if he could not give them that there was something else, he might, if he was very lucky, be able to give them!

Abe began to squirm low through the bushes, ever watchful of the two boats which he knew would have to head about a hundred yards to the west to safely get through the gap in the reef. He knew where the gap was because the waves broke into angry whitecaps other than for the thirty to forty feet-wide eddying calm of the channel, which was clearly visible to anybody on shore. This meant that if he could get to the wreck unseen, he would probably – inevitably, there was a very big ‘if’ involved in that assumption – remain unseen from either of the boats, and hopefully, from the nearer of the anchored cruisers.

‘The best hunts are the simplest,’ his soul-father, Tsiokwaris, would say to him when he and Kate went into the woods with the tribe’s long Martini-Henry, or even just with bow, arrow or the strings and bait for traps.

The hunt was never anything but complicated, hard work, and long periods of exhausting concentration; but that was not what the old warrior was talking about. He was reminding the youngsters not to be too clever, to remember that a successful hunt counted for nothing if by carelessness or negligence they returned injured.

‘One kills to eat, to survive. Dead men have no hunger.’

Abe kept moving on his hands and knees, lowering himself onto his belly, hoping the wreck and the haphazardly draped branches and uprooted bushes he had used to try to break up its outline, many of which had fallen to the ground since, would cover his approach.

The hardest part was rolling the unexploded twenty-five-pounder beneath the dripping fuel tank.

The sand had absorbed most of the leakage and it was anybody’s guess how much fuel was actually left in the damaged tank.

All of which was incidental.

If he could persuade the bomb or the tank – filled with fumes far more potentially explosive than its liquid petrol – to detonate there was not going to be a lot left of either the wreck, or evidence of his inept fire-lighting and butchery strewn all around it. Granted, if the plane blew up that was going to look suspicious, but crashed aircraft invariably sat in huge puddles of fuel and theoretically… anything could set it off, at any time.

Whatever, anything was better than letting the bastards inspect the crash site at their leisure and coming to the conclusion that there were two unaccounted for airmen, at loose, somewhere on the island.

The effort of crawling so far and then manhandling the bomb, which normally would have been child’s play, except today was anything but in his present physical condition with one-and-a-half arms.

The thought crossed his mind as he fumbled for the matches that it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he was about to set himself on fire.

Or blow himself up!

Try not to do that, Abe!

Each time the breeze fluked it blew petrol vapour into his face.

Each time he hesitated those boats got closer to the beach.

He struck a match, tried to flick it the yard or so to the fuel-soaked sand.

Nothing happened. He cursed under his breath. Tried again, realising that some of the matches were still damp.

Slow down, think about this!

He searched for a dry match, took a deep breath, struck it and instead of trying to flick it at the petrol-wet sand he lit off another match in the small, half-soggy match box and waited for two or three more to ignite.

The flame flared in his hand and he lobbed the burning box towards the case of the bomb beneath the fuel tank.

For a moment he was afraid the matches had burned out.

Then he saw the heat shimmer near the bomb, fire burning low in the sand itself, spreading, licking around the bomb and beyond almost invisible to the naked eye, unless one was aware of the shimmering, overheating air immediately above it.

He watched, mesmerized for several seconds.

Move, you chump!

He rolled away, feeling the burning thermal radiance of the fire at last. The movement instantly turned his wounded shoulder into a different kind of fire, and whimpering privately he squirmed into the undergrowth and desperately sought to put a safe distance between him and the wreck, which he expected to blow up at any time.

Insofar as he had thought about it at all he had expected the bomb, or the fuel tank to light off within seconds. It had never occurred to him that they might cook awhile, not just seconds but for some minutes before they blew up.

The other thing which had never occurred to him was that an officer would be so stupid as to order, in fact, threaten to shoot, any man who refused to obey his order, to approach a clearly burning crashed aircraft without protective clothing, or fire-fighting equipment.

When Abe finally reached what he hoped was a safe distance, some forty to fifty yards away, where he could sneak a view back whence he had come from the protection of thick brush, with all but the top of his head hidden on the shallow down slope of a low dune, he was somewhat incredulous to observe several rifle-bearing white-uniformed sailors poking around the periphery of the wrecked, now burning Sea Fox.

One man had shouldered his gun and begun to kick sand onto the seat of the fire. The doped fabric of the starboard wing was ablaze by then and the heat of the flames around the bomb was such that the nose of the aircraft, with its aluminium frame melting from the heat, was drooping towards the earth.

Presently, more sailors arrived and shouldering arms started to kick and ineffectually shovel sand with their hands and caps onto the seat of the flames beneath the broken Sea Fox.

A couple of men started – presumably realising the danger they were in – thrashing at the ground with the branches of nearby bushes in a futile attempt to beat out the flames.

Abe watched it all with mounting horror.

It was the way that most of the men around the wreck seemed utterly unaware of the peril they were in that would stick in his mind’s eye forever. It was surreal, as if none of the seamen had seen the bomb right in front of their eyes!

After a couple of minutes, the kicking and the beating at the flames slackened and the men around the wreck began to congratulate each other.

The flames had consumed the doped fabric stretched across the metal frame of the fuselage by then. It was as if because the fire, having consumed so much of the flammable material of the airframe, they thought they were winning, regardless of the fact the ground around the Sea Fox was burning.

It was beyond bizarre.

Abe was starting to think that perhaps he was still concussed.

Then, without warning there was an air-ripping, deafening explosion.

Afterwards, Abe decided that the bomb must have exploded first, followed as near instantaneously as makes no difference, by the fuel tank, and that the combined detonation must have created a superheated vortex into which all the unburned petrol in the sand and the local vicinity was sucked before it, also, exploded with a catastrophic violence completely out of all proportion to the actual qualities of volatile accelerant chemicals involved.

During his three-month RNAS induction training period Abe had attended a lecture on experimental ‘bomb technologies’ in which something called a fuel-air, or ‘hyperbaric’ munition, had been. Albeit in passing, mentioned. He guessed that he had just witnessed an ad hoc, accidental really, field test of the theoretical principles underpinning the development of such weapons.

All this he thought in a moment as debris showered down all around him, and something heavy landed with a sickening thud nearby.

When he sneaked a look above the brush the Sea Fox was not there anymore.

And neither were the dozen or so men who had been standing in its vicinity. Farther down the beach men were picking themselves up, several with their hands to their ears, dazed, and as disbelieving as Abe.

He glanced out to sea. The port rail of the nearest cruiser was suddenly lined with men staring to landward.

It was time to go.

However, before he had gone half-a-dozen steps at a crouched run he very nearly fell over the horribly burned, mutilated cadaver of a Dominican Navy seaman. The man’s legs were missing below the knees, likewise his right arm at the elbow. His face was a ruin, scorched black and torn by glinting slivers of shredded metal. The man’s rifle was still slung over his mangled right shoulder.

Abe almost scurried on past.

“No,” he growled under his breath.

Abe turned the dead man over, and in a grim trance he set about separating the sailor’s rifle from his wrecked mortal remains. There was an obscene sucking sound and then its gory strap splashed free.

The gun was a 1922-model German Mauser, one of the straight-bolted, long-barrelled variants, with a five-round magazine.

Thinking slowly, coldly, like a hunter at last, Abe searched the body for more bullets. The man’s small ammunition pouch was – literally – imbedded in his belly. He retrieved it, careless of the bloody, shredded intestines spilling from the man’s belly. His hands and arms were covered in gore, his torso blood-spattered as he squirmed away, satisfied to have found a further three 7.92 millimetre five-round stripper clips.

Something told him he was going to get the opportunity to put every round to good use sooner rather than later.

It was good to know that all the men who had died just now were probably carrying at least – assuming the Dominican Navy standardised these things – three clips of 7.92-millimetre cartridges, propelling 57-millimetre shells. Maybe, he would come back later and look around for more. Given the shock of what had just happened, the cynic in him suspected, that if the survivors searched at all, they would simply mark the position of the bodies, collect the rifles and depart.

Always assuming, that is, that they treated the untimely explosion as an accident of some kind. But then why would they treat it otherwise? They had known that there was already a fire, and like idiots, elected to try and put it out…

On the other hand, if they thought the wreck had been booby-trapped, they would come looking for the perpetrators with a rare vengeance. If that happened, he would simply have to make the best possible use of the cartridges he already had but at least now he had a gun in his hands with a near hundred percent kill ratio at ranges of anywhere up to a thousand yards, and a fifty to seventy-five percent kill potential at up to three-quarters of a mile. The gun was probably accurate beyond that range; problematically, in the absence of a telescopic sight, his eyes were not.

As he moved away from the shore the gun – even though he had never picked up a weapon of this particular type – felt good, familiar in his hands. He had fired a modern Enfield SLR – self-loading rifle – on the ranges at Norfolk, a well-balanced, finely-machined infantry weapon which almost, but not quite combined the best of two worlds; long-range sniping piece and close-range automatic weapon. However, the Mauser felt more like the long Martini-Henry he had used in the forests of the Mohawk country. That gun had instantly become an extension of his body, of his whole being, snug in his right shoulder, rock-steady in his arms which was only natural; he had been born to the hunt, and the Hunter’s blood coursed through his very being.

Some small part of his being hated the way he so desperately longed to find his King’s enemies squarely in his sights.

Chapter 14

Sunday 9th April

SMS Breitenfeld, Guantanamo Bay

Rear Admiral Erwin von Reuter remained on the bridge long after the cruiser had returned to her moorings. At dawn the flagship and two escorting Cuban destroyers had put to sea to bury his German dead from die Schlacht der Windward Passage.

Last night, ignoring the objections of Vice Admiral Count Carlos Federico Gravina y Vera Cruz, Minister of Las Amada de Nuevo Granada, and High Admiral of the Fleets of the Triple Alliance, he had transferred the bodies of the four Royal Navy men who had thus far died on the Weser, to the Breitenfeld. Gravina had been particularly exercised by von Reuter’s implacable insistence that the senior surviving ‘captive’, Commander Peter Cowdrey-Singh, should be permitted to accompany his fallen and take part in the interment ceremony, conducted some fifteen miles out at sea.

There was a discreet cough behind von Reuter.

He snapped out of his brooding introspection to find that his flag lieutenant had stepped back to leave his admiral alone with the former Executive Officer of HMS Achilles.

The Royal Navy man had dispensed with the sling for his injured arm and shoulder, and like von Reuter, his heavy bandaging had given way to neatly stitched, ugly but healing wounds.

“Whatever our differences, sir,” the Anglo-Indian said. “I and my men thank you for the courtesy you have extended to our comrades this day.”

The Cubans had wanted to bury the Squadron’s dead under Catholic rites, regardless of their faith. Most of von Reuter’s men considered themselves to be Lutheran, determinedly Protestant or had registered themselves as ‘agnostic’ on their papers. As for the ‘English’, well, Gravina’s people had just wanted to throw them into unmarked paupers’ graves.

The handful of Spanish dead – during the battle most of the Armada de Nuevo Granada men had been getting in the way and generally making a nuisance of themselves within the armoured citadels of the Breitenfeld and the Lutzen – had received heroes’ funerals in the capital, Havana, yesterday afternoon.

Cowdrey-Singh joined the German, and gazed across to the converted merchantman, the SMS Weser, now guarded by two Cuban motor gunboats which slowly cruised, like sharks about her. The second-in-command of the Achilles was still a very angry man; however, his angst was no longer wholly directed at the man standing beside him. Moreover, he had little doubt that but for von Reuter’s actions the Achilles’s seventy-four survivors – himself included – would be in even direr straits.

Not that his men’s situation was in any way rosy.

“I have received orders to send the Weser back to Vera Cruz,” the German said resignedly. “My request to send the Weser to Great Inagua or Grand Turk Island under a flag of truce to transfer you and your men into British hands was rejected, I am told, at the highest level, by the Government in Mexico City. I have cited technical difficulties to delay executing my orders, the priority of making good battle damage and so forth but regrettably, unless I comply with my orders within the next twenty-four hours officers of the Armada de Nuevo Granada will take total control of my Squadron. That, I cannot permit. It would, in any event, be a breach of the terms of my government’s agreement with the Mexicans.” Von Reuter shrugged apologetically. “I am not required to relinquish my flag until such time as I and the last of my men depart my ships. That was supposed to be some months hence. Then, of course, everything went to Hell.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh said nothing.

“The Weser will depart Guantanamo this evening,” the German continued. “Earlier, if the transfer of the remaining seriously wounded men from the Breitenfeld and Lutzen, is completed ahead of schedule.” Von Reuter looked the other man straight in the eye. “I am also sending the flagship’s midshipmen – all of them, not just those men ‘under training’ – and some fifty other supernumerary personnel back to Vera Cruz on the Weser.”

The Royal Navy man raised an eyebrow.

“The Lutzen is doing likewise,” von Reuter went on. “If the transfer has not been completed by this evening, the Weser will depart this port with the rest of the fleet, possibly as early as tomorrow morning.” He shook his head, quirked a wan smile. “There are those in Berlin who honestly believe that the Royal Navy is a bloated, complacent, untested Goliath ready to be felled by slingshots. Those of us in the Kaiserliche Marine who have served beside our British colleagues and,” he shrugged, “Imperial competitors, knew the folly of this mode of thinking. But even I was surprised by the recent action in the seas to our east. True, my own temporary incapacitation at the height of the engagement enabled Achilles to exercise her anti-aircraft auto-cannons against the Lutzen – an unpleasant surprise – and cost us the von Roon; however, contrary to my expectations the fact remains, that once he had been fired upon Captain Jackson turned to fight a greatly superior enemy force without a thought to flight.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh had had a lot of time to think in the last few days. That morning, whilst on the barge transferring him and the Achilles’s burial party to the Breitenfeld he had watched the light cruiser Karlsruhe, bearing obvious battle scars amidships, aft and at the waterline on her starboard stern quarter, manoeuvring under tow into the base’s biggest dry dock. Given that the Breitenfeld obviously had some kind of underwater damaged – judging from the persistent drizzle of oil leaking from one of her forward bunkers – it spoke volumes that the Karlsruhe had been granted first claim on the one dock capable of accommodating the Vera Cruz Squadron’s two damaged heavy cruisers.

There were big dry docks at Havana, of course, albeit far too close to at least two potential Colonial Air Force, and one RNAS air base, all three of which were capable of launching bombing attacks on the Cuban capital.

“You should know that your Government has declared war on the Triple Alliance, Commander,” von Reuter announced.

“What of the German Empire?” The Anglo-Indian asked quietly.

“The madness goes no farther at this time, thank God.”

The two men shook hands, exchanged nods of guarded respect, and parted.

Erwin von Reuter went to the bridge wing, gazing aft down the length of the ship. Crews were closed up at every second anti-aircraft gun, unseen, elsewhere two of the flagship’s four twin main battery turrets were manned. The Breitenfeld was at what the Royal Navy would call Air Defence Condition Two with half her weaponry part-manned at five minutes readiness for action. Below decks, all watertight hatches sealing off the armoured ‘box’ protecting the ship’s vitals – magazines, machinery spaces, boiler rooms – were dogged shut. Both Breitenfeld and Lutzen had lit off a second boiler, just in case the big ships had to cut their chains to seek sea room in the event of an air attack.

Within minutes of the flagship returning to her anchorage in Guantanamo Roads the first ammunition lighter had pushed off from the Weser. Now the ship’s Gunnery officer was supervising the erection of a temporary A-frame lifting assembly to hoist the eight-inch reloads stacked on the approaching boats on board. Other lighters had gathered alongside the Lutzen’s fore and aft main battery turrets for much of the last twenty-four hours.

Both cruisers had expended prodigious quantities of ordnance in the fight with the Achilles, half-emptying their magazines. Having commenced the battle with respectively: Breitenfeld, one hundred and seven rounds per barrel, and Lutzen, one hundred and four per barrel, stored in their magazines, both ships had fired off over four hundred armour piercing and around a hundred and twenty ‘common’ or high explosive shells, expending in the process some forty-seven percent of their cordite ‘propellent’ stores. The Cubans had offered to replenish a small part of the latter but neither von Reuter nor his officers trusted the chemical composition, or the safety of the ‘local product’. Accurate gunnery depended on the performance of the ‘charge’, so any variability in the mix was critical and besides, von Reuter’s captains did not need to be worrying about unstable, sub-standard cordite spontaneously blowing up beneath their feet every time they loaded propellent charges onto their gun room hoists!

Re-ammunitioning from lighters in an open anchorage was a maddeningly slow business. Lutzen had thus far taken on board around a hundred-and-fifty reloads, Breitenfeld only a couple of dozen. Granted, nobody had anticipated that the two big cruisers would have been so badly mauled or suffered so many casualties that they would have to return to Guantanamo Bay to lick their wounds but even so, everything seemed to happen at an excruciatingly slow pace in Cuba.

In the near distance the Cuban hybrid battlecruiser El Rey Ferdinand II, which had anchored in the main channel overnight, was being nudged and dragged to the northern side of the bay.

Von Reuter scoffed ruefully.

What kind of idiots thought it was a good idea mooring a big ship in the middle of the main channel where an enemy air raid might sink it at any time?

Unbelievable…

Thankfully, His Excellency Federico Gravina y Vera Cruz, Minister of Las Amada de Nuevo Granada, and High Admiral of the Fleets of the Triple Alliance, had decided that a man of his elevated talents and affairs, ought to be flying his flag on a ‘battleship’, not a mere cruiser and had transferred his flag to the El Rey Ferdinand II yesterday afternoon.

Gravina’s blood-red pennant now flew from the main mast of the old, truncated, fifty-year-old failed capital ship experiment, one of five transferred – a sixth, manned by a skeleton ‘transfer crew’ and in a poor state of repair after years rusting in the Reserve, had sunk in a storm in mid-Atlantic, which said everything one needed to know about the sea-keeping capabilities of the class – some said ‘handed off’, to the Cuban and Dominican Navies in the 1940s by Madrid.

The ‘Ferdinands’ were mightily odd ships.

Failed experiments, or misbegotten mongrels depending upon how charitable one wanted to be.

The Armada Española had ordered the ships back in the 1920s, more as a gesture to convince itself it was still actually the navy of a first-rate power, than as part of any strategic grand design. The problem had been that not only could the then Spanish Government not afford to buy the projected twelve vessels it ‘thought’ it required, neither could it afford to buy thirty thousand-ton behemoths capable of trading broadsides with the British or German capital ship of the day.

So, the Royal Treasury and the Armada Española had come to a compromise of the sort that satisfied nobody. But… It did result, eventually, in the six ‘small battleships’ of the El Rey Ferdinand II class coming into commission between 1926 and 1937. Whether the ships were worth their combined price tag of nearly a hundred million silver pesetas was a thing never spoken of in polite, Madrid society, or at all in the many Spanish cities which still lacked modern hospitals or half-way adequate sanitation in that era. In any event, only one of the vessels had ever been in commission in Armada Española service at any one time, the others moored, rusting at Cartagena or Ferrol in semi-permanent de-activated reserve, a fate the five surviving ships had soon experienced anew after their ‘gifting’ to the two West Indian colonies between 1943 and 1948.

At around sixteen thousand tons fully loaded, and just one hundred and forty metres in length, the Ferdinands were the best part of two-and-a-half thousand tons lighter and sixty-five metres shorter in the hull than either the Breitenfeld and Lutzen, notwithstanding the cruisers were of lesser beam, twenty-one as against twenty-four metres give or take a few centimetres. Fully loaded, the Ferdinands sat a metre-and-a-half deeper in the water.

So much for dimensions and tonnage.

The Ferdinands were only marginally more heavily armoured, and then only along the waterline, than the modern German heavy cruisers which actually had significantly thicker main deck protection, and a generally far superior underwater layout in terms of the weight and depth of protection, and the placement and gaps between armoured bulkheads. Additionally, the Ferdinands were notoriously bad sea boats. Although they were designed to have comparable stability to larger foreign ‘ships of the line’, they had a relatively low metacentric height – just 1.5 metres when fully loaded – and slightly less than four-and-a-half metres of freeboard amidships in that condition. This meant the class was ‘wet’ in almost any sea state, and if there was any damage beneath the waterline it was only a – very short – matter of time before the ship listed heavily, or capsized.

Basically, far too many bad compromises had been made with the Ferdinands in order to arrive at a design capable of mounting four twin 12-inch rifles, in the Ferdinand II, Whitworth Mark III 50-calibre patent barrels, in the others, mostly to save money, Ferrol Naval Arsenal licenced ‘lower bursting tolerance’ Whitworth Mark VI 48-calibre guns. One main turret was mounted forward, another aft, with two amidships turrets, offset to port and starboard ahead and behind the ship’s single funnel.

A secondary armament of twenty 4-inch casemate mounted, and therefore, low-elevation guns had been provided for close range but not anti-aircraft defence. This latter was not an unreasonable design choice since back in the 1920s nobody in their wildest imaginings had foreseen that capital ships would ever be threatened from the air. In those days the only airborne machines which flew were helium filled airships and they rarely ventured far out to sea…

The Ferdinand II still had her original tripod masts with a rudimentary gun director box on the fore mast above a minimalist bridge superstructure, originally open to the elements but partially enclosed in subsequent refits.

The multiplicity of the Ferdinands’ shortcoming had been recognised even before their keels kissed the water. The basic problem was that the raft of compromises inherent in carrying so many big guns on such a small hull, meant that the addition of any topweight had a critical effect on general stability. Whereas, the Royal Navy and the Kaiserliche Marine had dealt with this issue in their first-generation – twenty-five to thirty thousand ton – modern battleships by stripping out the useless casemate mounted secondary armament and using the weight saved to install ELDAR aerials as high as possible, to improve bridge superstructures to accommodate the latest command and control technologies and clustered smaller, quick firing dual-purpose weaponry above the weather deck level, the Armada Española, with no other option, had accepted the constraint of local fire control – that is, each main battery turret had its own optical equipment and was directed by its commander – and to abrogate any responsibility for providing the ships with any meaningful anti-aircraft capability to escorting vessels.

The Ferdinands therefore, had no centralised main battery fire control, and were – a few light machine guns apart, bereft of air defences.

It was positively… negligent.

The ships’ deficiencies were further exacerbated because given the low freeboard of the Ferdinands, a gun director sitting in a turret at deck level could not even see his target until it was virtually close enough to throw a rock at! For example, coming across an enemy with the capabilities of one of the Ferdinands, Breitenfeld would simply stand off at a range of about seven or eight thousand metres and pummel its foe into submission, assured that the men directing his enemy’s big guns would never even see its tormentor. Moreover, the Ferdinands’ protective systems were so inadequate that, at that range, Breitenfeld’s 8-inch shells would penetrate all bar the thin strake of waterline belt armour. Obviously, a chance hit by one of the battleship’s three-hundred-and-eighty-five-kilogram shells might wreak havoc; this though, would be very much an unlucky accident and as such, for battle planning purposes could be disregarded until such time as it, highly unlikely as it was, occurred.

The antiquity of the Ferdinands and the antique design philosophy they embodied had yet another deleterious consequence – well, one of almost too many to catalogue, truth be known – in that although the last two ships completed had been equipped with turbines, albeit cranky, Valencia Naval Dockyard models, the Ferdinand and two of the other surviving ships of the class still had their original triple-expansion reciprocating engines. This, allied to the vessels’ coal-fired boilers meant that the machinery sets of the Ferdinands, producing approximately one-seventh of the shaft horsepower of the Breitenfeld and Lutzen’s, actually weighed about one hundred and thirty tons more.

The Ferdinands, specified to steam at 21.5 knots, had only ever managed 20.5 when brand new, and nowadays, struggled to maintain a speed of around 17 knots; and to do this they had to burn prodigious quantities of coal, reducing their operating range at this, maximum speed, to less than fifteen hundred miles. Breitenfeld and Lutzen by comparison could steam half way around the globe at 17 knots and at a pinch maintain revolutions sufficient for around 24 or 25 knots for several days, with a sustainable flank speed in excess of 30.5 knots even with their bottoms fouled by nearly a year in the tropics.

Nonetheless, the Ferdinands enjoyed one low-technology advantage. Without any modern systems to run, monitor and maintain, like for example ELDAR, or communications kit that worked and could talk to anybody in the World, complex high-pressure steam and hydraulic equipment constantly in need of care and attention, galleys that served men more than just gruel, hard tack and salted meat, any need for deck crews and machinery to operate float aircraft, and the two hundred plus men who were required to operate and in action, ensure that ammunition was continuously fed to the clusters of upper deck anti-aircraft guns of von Reuter’s big ships, the Ferdinands could be crewed by around eight hundred – the majority relatively unskilled – men, whereas, Breitenfeld’s peace time complement was one thousand three hundred and twelve men, a figure intended to be swollen to nearly sixteen hundred officer and men in wartime.

Maddeningly, it was Breitenfeld and Lutzen’s very modernity and complexity which had meant they had had to fight the Achilles with one hand tied behind their proverbial backs, since the majority of the Nuevo Granada men on board were so unfamiliar with their systems that they were virtually useless other than as stretcher bearers and spare muscle for damage control teams. Even in those capacities the alien attitudes and dismal lack of esprit de corps among the Spaniards had seriously degraded both ships’ combat efficiency.

Nobody in Berlin seemed to understand that the Spanish way of war, especially out here in the colonies, was not the same as that of the Kaiserliche Marine. Or of the Royal Navy. It might be that the land and air forces of Nuevo Granada, steeled from previous conflicts with the New Englanders were intrinsically better able to adjust to the mental and technological challenges of battle in the modern age. However, from what he had seen to date, von Reuter had little confidence that the Cubans or the Dominicans were anywhere near as far down the road as their Mexican allies.

In fact, the cynic in him viewed the Triple Alliance’s decision to start the war in the Cuban-Dominican sector of operations as highly significant. The men in Mexico City were not about to put their hand into the fire until their ‘allies’ had demonstrated their fealty to the cause, irrespective of whether this actually distracted the British as much as they hoped it might ahead of their own offensive in the American south west.

Far below von Reuter’s lofty vantage point the first main battery reloads were coming aboard, loaded three at a time on a Krupp manufactured steel pallet. The armoured hatches to the lifts down to the shell rooms deep below the waterline were open.

Von Reuter watched awhile before lifting his gaze anew to the flagship of the Vera Cruz Squadron.

He had been demoted to Commander, Cruisers.

That, in itself, was another breach of the terms of the transfer of his ships to the Armada de Nuevo Granada: he was supposed to remain in squadron command until such time as his ships were sixty percent officered and crewed by Mexicans…

The El Rey Ferdinand II was still wearing her peacetime livery, her hull painted brilliantly white from her ram prow to her rounded stern. Despite constant prompting from Kaiserliche Marine advisors in Havana the ship still retained her original armament, and no deck or superstructure-mounted light anti-aircraft guns. Apparently, the thinking – if it could be called that – in the Navy Ministry of the Catholic Crown Colony of Cuba was that to ‘adorn the upper decks and the tops of any of the four turrets with machine gun nests and ugly cannon pits’ would utterly ruin the ‘broadside aspects’ of their battleships.

Unaccountably, both the Cubans and the Dominicans were inordinately proud of their ancient Ferdinands. Notwithstanding von Reuter was not the only German officer to point out, tartly, that a five-hundred-pound bomb would do an awful lot more to remodel the ‘broadside aspects’ of the ships than a few anti-aircraft cannons!

His protests were to no avail.

His allies believed that the Ferdinands’ job was to engage other ‘ships of the line’, not to swat down ‘passing enemy aircraft’; that was what their escorting cruisers and destroyers were for.

According to Gravina, two of El Rey Ferdinand II’s sister ships, the Reina Eugenie and the Alphonse XII, both under Dominican colours were assigned to the Northern Strike Force, while the Cuban-crewed Ferdinand and the Felipe II – named for the greatest of all the Hapsburg monarchs of the old empire, when it was at its absolute apogee of power and prestige, the globe’s sole superpower – were assigned to the Southern Strike Force, charged with the conquest of Jamaica, the lesser Antilles and each and every island, Windward and Leeward all the way down the eastern chain of British Imperial fiefdoms to Trinidad and Tobago. If that was not a gargantuan, implausible mission, that of the Northern Force was even more daunting.

This remained the case despite die Schlacht der Windward Passage having mauled von Reuter’s ships so badly that the Breitenfeld, Lutzen and Karlsruhe’s participation in a suicidal attempt to seize Bermuda had been, for the moment postponed. Instead, the Vera Cruz Squadron, reinforced by El Rey Ferdinand II and Felipe II, two Cuban cruisers and several smaller vessels was now assigned to the ‘Southern’ mission.

Meanwhile, every available vessel the Cubans and the Dominicans could scrape up was supposed to get on with seizing the Bahamas, investing and invading Southern Florida, raiding all the way along the coast of the Gulf of Spain to the so-called ‘Delta Lands’ – there to somehow ‘bottle up’ a powerful English squadron apparently moored a hundred miles up the Mississippi guarding New Orleans – and to ‘concentrate’, supposedly at some undefined critical moment, to meet the English battlefleet which would, sooner or later, obligingly steam south to engage it.

Meanwhile, the Armada de Nuevo Granada, equipped with several relatively modern German-supplied or designed destroyers and frigates, and several partially modernised older cruisers would ‘protect’ the western half of the Gulf of Spain and ‘blockade’ the Caribbean west and south west of Cuba while offering what support it could to the land offensive in West Texas and the borderlands.

Erwin von Reuter would have regarded all this as the drooling of a maniac had it not been for the ‘undersea’ wild cards, operating separately from the Cubans and the Dominicans, under the direction of the Armada de Nuevo Granada from naval headquarters in Vera Cruz, where long-embedded German officers still had, at least a modicum, of influence.

To his knowledge seven, perhaps eight or nine, of the small, four hundred-ton coastal submarines secretly constructed in sheds and bunkers in the German Imperial enclave on Hispaniola and at Aruba, had been allocated to support the Northern Strike Force. Another three, seven hundred-ton ocean-going diesel electric submersibles had been undergoing trials with all-Kaiserliche Marine crews in the Southern Caribbean, well out of sight of prying British eyes. These vessels might, even now, be available to operate in tandem with Gravina’s Southern fleet.

Not that this was a very comforting thought.

Until now the British Government had been able to turn a blind eye to Germanic ‘experimentation’ in distant oceans; the first torpedo to smash into the side of a Royal Navy warship would be proof positive that the German Empire had flouted the Submarine Treaty.

And only God alone knew what would happen after that!

Chapter 15

Sunday 9th April

Pelayos, Castile and León

Melody Danson knew she ought, by now, to be thoroughly inured to the realities of surviving, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day in the madhouse that she and Henrietta De L’Isle had been stumbling through the last few weeks. However, she was not in any way fully acclimatised to those realities, and this clearly irritated Paul Nash.

“How could you possibly know these people were Inquisitors on their way to Puente de Congosto?” She demanded, as the man dragged the third body to the side of the road and rolled it unceremoniously into the ditch on top of the other two men.

Two of the men had had loaded revolvers, all three had had wicked switchblades, knuckledusters and coshes in their jacket pockets.

Paul Nash had ordered Albert, Stanton, Henrietta De L’Isle and Pedro to lie down behind a wall just north of the tiny village they had just passed through after abandoning the car – a thirty-year-old Ford, the only vehicle in Congosto – they had stolen after escaping from the late Brother Mariano and his ‘flock’.

‘You,’ Nash had barked at Melody, ‘come with me. Look as if you can’t make up your mind if you’re trying to stop me falling on my face or you want to give me a piece of your mind.’

So, they had walked up the road towards the approaching car acting like a bickering couple, pointing and gesticulating with only half-feigned anger.

‘Why did you have to do that to that woman back there?’ Melody had put to Paul Nash. ‘You could have killed her!’

Consuela had taken unkindly to Nash kicking down her door.

‘She tried to put a knife in my eye,’ the man retorted. ‘I punched her in the throat. What was I supposed to do? Let those two-faced hand bastards you over to the Inquisition?’

‘Well, no…’ Melody was not finished; in fact, she had hardly started: ‘Did you really have to shoot both those men?’

‘Yes, I did have to shoot them both! There’s only one of me, in case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t have the luxury of playing patter-cakes with people who mean us, you, me, Henrietta and the others harm. If I get sloppy, if I make a mistake, or I get sentimental that’s it, game over! For all of us!’

That was when, without warning, he had pushed Melody – quite hard, she thought but only after she had got over her shock – into the path of the ongoing vehicle.

Not unnaturally, she had screamed in a very convincing way, no doubt suggesting to the occupants of the car that she was every bit as shocked and terrified as she seemed.

There had been a squeal of brakes and the air had clouded with dust. Seconds later the three men in the car were dead and their blood was liberally spread around the inside of the otherwise spic and span, well-polished, only ten-year-old German limousine.

“There are bound to be blankets in the boot,” Nash observed conversationally. “It gets cold at night and cars break down a lot on these roads.”

Melody had glared daggers at the man as she brushed herself down and contemplated her latest bumps and grazes, principally to her left knee and elbow.

“You enjoyed that,” she complained.

The man viewed her quizzically.

Melody scowled: “Pushing me in front of that car, I mean.”

“Oh, that,” the man murmured. “Yes, a little bit, perhaps,” he agreed urbanely. “You’ll need to spread the blankets over the seats. We don’t want to go spooking the others, what?”

Without further ado he left Melody staring angrily at thin air and strolled back down the road signalling for the others to come out of hiding.

She watched his broad, retreating back for a moment then walked around the car, and retrieving the blankets the man had predicted she would discover in the trunk, hurriedly arranged them as best she could to cover up the worst signs of the recent carnage.

“Just for the record. These blokes,” Paul Nash sniffed, returning to the car and flicking an impatient look to the bodies in the ditch, “aren’t Inquisitors. They’re paid helpers. Low life. The lowest of the low. The big wigs don’t get to do any of the arresting, hunting or fetching, or, I daresay, much of the actual torture. They have animals like these guys to do it for them. They’d have had their fun with you,” he held eye contact with Melody, “and Henrietta, then they’d have beaten you all to a pulp, and almost certainly put you in shallow graves if they hadn’t reckoned there was a bonus to be had, taking you back up to Salamanca. Church, state, organised crime, are all the same thing in this bloody country!”

He stepped towards Albert Stanton.

He handed him one of the revolvers he had recovered from the dead men.

“Don’t throw this one away.” He grinned towards Melody. “Even if she tells you to,” he emphasised, “comprende vous, mon ami?”

The Manhattan Globe man glanced sheepishly at Melody who was too busy rolling her eyes to notice, and nodded tight-lipped acknowledgement.

“There’s no need to pick on Albert,” Henrietta objected. “It’s not his fault he got whacked on the head by those horrible people. Any more than Melody and I had any way of knowing we’d get locked up like that!”

Paul Nash looked up and down the road, scanned the surrounding fields.

“Has anybody else got any complaints?”

Melody realised he was only talking to her.

“No. I just wish you wouldn’t keep killing people!”

“Trust me. They all had it coming to them.” Next, he turned to Albert Stanton. Briskly, he asked: “Tell me you can drive?”

“I can drive,” the other man agreed.

“Good, I need my hands free,” Nash retorted, frowning at Melody, “just in case we run into somebody who needs killing.”

The women and Pedro settled in the back seat of the car, a Blohm and Mertz late 1960s model, made themselves comfortable, careful not to dislodge the blankets covering the fresh blood of the vehicle’s former occupants as Albert Stanton, with a crashing of gears and tearing of the clutch, eventually turned the car around to point north.

“I’ve got a Morris Roadster back home,” he apologised. “This thing is, well, different in every imaginable way. I’ll get used to it, hopefully.”

Henrietta had clutched Pedro to her bosom, covering his face so that he caught no sight of the men Paul Nash had executed with his silenced automatic pistol.

“I still don’t understand how you found us again, Paul?” She asked.

Of course, he had not found ‘them’ because he was only looking for her. Five people had died in less than half-a-day, a woman had been left writhing on the floor as they stepped over her agony-wracked body, because of her, because of who and what she was, the daughter of the Governor of the Commonwealth of New England. Henrietta’s old, pre-Chinchón self would have been guilty, full of remorse. Today, she simply recognised the reality of her situation. If she was not who and what she was she, Melody, Pedro, whom she could not bear to let go off, Albert, they would all be dead by now. Alonso had made what plans he could to save them, fearful the World was about to be turned upside down, Don Rafael, Don Jose in Navalperal de Tormes had all been prepared to risk everything… just for her.

“I got lucky,” the man explained. “I guessed Don Jose’s people would have got you out of that ambush at El Barco de Avila any way they could. I didn’t reckon you’d get far on foot. So, I went down river. Luckily, I bumped into those two kids, Jesus and Felipe, you mislaid. They told me the story. It took me a while, poking around Congosto to figure out the lay of the land, then I saw that Mariano cove and his friend walking up through the village with Albert. I probably wouldn’t have found you two ladies for hours if you hadn’t been making such a kerfuffle!”

He chuckled, so lowly the others were surprised the windows of the car did not vibrate in sympathy.

“Anyway, the noise you were making had already extricated Brother Mariano from doing God’s work between Donna Consuela’s thighs by the time I kicked down the door of their humble abode. I think the other chap was hanging around gathering his courage to visit you ladies in your outhouse. Presumably, with evil thoughts on his mind. Or at least that’s the conclusion I usually draw when I shoot a man whose got one hand holding onto something substantially erectile in his pants.”

The car chugged along the road, pitching and rolling even though Albert Stanton tried to avoid the worst potholes. Here and there people walked along the roadside, a mule or two being led, or a cart half-blocked the road, otherwise there was little traffic and they encountered nothing else powered by an internal combustion engine.

“Are we driving all the way to Salamanca?” The Manhattan Globe man inquired.

This drew a curt shake of the head.

“No.”

“What’s the plan, Paul?” Melody demanded.

“Playing pilgrim works if we use the river,” the man announced thoughtfully. “I reckon the Tormes is navigable by boat downstream from Alba, that’s about twenty miles north of here, more by road in this part of the world, obviously. We might get within a few miles of the Portuguese border. As far as Ledesma, maybe. If we get lucky, we might just float straight past Salamanca.”

“There seem to be a lot of ‘mights’ in this?” Melody objected.

“Be fair,” the man grunted. “I thought we’d all be dead long before we got this far.”

Henrietta chipped in: “Now you tell us!”

Everybody laughed or sniggered, even, to the two women’s delight, Pedro, who threatened to smile.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Paul Nash apologised laconically. “Seriously, past Ledesma we’re talking about rapids and a sheer-sided valley. But Ledesma is close enough to the Way of St James to be plausible. All we need is for a bad guy to think twice at the wrong time and we’ll get the drop on him…”

Nobody felt very talkative for a while after that.

The road twisted and turned down off the relatively high ground through which, over untold millennia the Tormes had carved a broad, swampy gorge, then negotiated an ancient stone bridge just wide enough to allow their car passage. Now the scenery became less dry, dusty, replaced by the greenery of a plain recently flooded, above which the route north followed the river on a low, undulating raised bank past isolated dwellings, each as apparently derelict and forgotten as the next except for the smoke rising from stone chimneys and here and there, the ragged children or hard-faced women or men herding sheep or bony cows who stopped, looking up to view the brief intrusion of modernity that the Blohm and Mertz sedan represented, in this rural backwater of what was still, away from the big cities, a third-world country.

“Er,” I think we have a problem,” Albert Stanton suggested, peering intently into the middle distance, wishing, not for the first time in the last few hours that he had not lost his spectacles.

Fortuitously his problem was, essentially, short-sightedness but his regular spectacles, the ones that had survived his landing in the olive grove at Navalperal, also sharpened up his long vision…

“I see it,” the man in the front passenger seat drawled, untroubled.

“What is it?” Melody asked, leaning forward, squinting hard to see what lay farther down the road.

“A roadblock,” Paul Nash said.

The women bouncing around on the bench back seat looked to each other in near panic, before they focused on the wallet the man was brandishing above his right shoulder.

“What’s that?” Henrietta prompted anxiously.

“A warrant card,” the man replied smugly. “Well, the equivalent document carried by all ‘Sergeants’, which was what those chaps we left in the ditch back at Pelayos were, by the way, of the Office of the Inquisitor General of Castile and León. It’ll get us through the first roadblock. Hopefully, we won’t need it again before we ditch the car and move back onto the river.”

“Hopefully?” Henrietta queried, unimpressed.

“Being on the run isn’t an exact science, My Lady!”

Both Henrietta and Melody were about to interrogate him further.

“Now, if you two fair maidens would shut up and look very, very downcast and frightened, that would be a big help. The Policia will want to look inside the car. Albert here,” he nodded to their driver, “and I are taking two foreign harlots we captured down south to the big city. God’s will to be done, and all that tosh and neither of you is looking forward to getting to our destination. So, sad, scared, pale, submissive works best in the circumstances? Are we all singing from the same hymn sheet?”

“Yes,” the women agreed and Pedro, not understanding English, echoed this.

“Excellent,” Paul Nash grunted. “This is one of those rare occasions when I want, if at all possible, not to have to shoot anybody. It’ll take several days for anybody to report, if they ever do, those bodies back in the ditch. With any luck the locals will rob the bodies and bury them and nobody will ever be the wiser. But if we have to shoot our way through a roadblock,” the man shrugged, his tone philosophical, “that’s going to attract a lot of unwelcome interest.”

“Won’t somebody miss this car?” Melody pointed out the flaw in his theory.

“In a day or two, perhaps.”

The car was braking to a halt.

Up ahead there was a sentry box, a pole barrier blocking the road and two bored men in the field grey of the Policia Federales, rifles slung over their shoulders, were stamping out their cigarettes, straightening and beginning to show interest in the approaching vehicle.

“What if these clowns figure out that we’re not the fellows who drove south this morning?” Albert Stanton asked suddenly. “This car must be pretty damned nearly unique in this part of the country?”

“No, the Inquisition will have a fleet of the bloody things. No expense is spared persecuting heretics and blasphemers in His Catholic Majesty’s Spain.”

“If you say so.”

The Blohm and Mertz ground to a halt.

Albert Stanton and Paul Nash wound down their windows, the latter waved perfunctorily and opened his door, clambering out into the bright sunshine, stretching as if he had been sitting in the car all day.

Melody became aware Henrietta was crushing her hand.

The women were virtually smothering Pedro in their anxiety to shield him from whatever happened next.

Melody was still struggling to absorb the reality of the casual, merciless violence with which Paul Nash, their protector, had slaughtered those men less than a couple of hours ago. In the darkness last night, she had not witnessed his brief, violent interaction with Consuela, or the manner in which he had swiftly, efficiently executed Brother Mariano and his accomplice. Moreover, she had been, and still was, oddly shocked to learn from Albert Stanton that Nash had shot a dog to stop it barking before he had rescued him.

She struggled to hear what Nash was saying to the policemen.

Suddenly, an unshaven man stuck his head inside the car, peering at the two women and the young boy. Melody instantly looked at the floor, hoping Henrietta would do likewise.

The women could feel the man’s eyes stripping them naked.

The policeman had bad breath. It seemed an age before he finally withdrew his head, leaving behind a faint, lingering stench of sweat and stale tobacco smoke.

“You lucky bastards!” The man guffawed. “Real lookers you’ve got there! You’ll get yours’ before you get back to the city! Give them one from us!”

Melody felt her face burning, wanted to scream at the man.

Then Paul Nash was dropping back into the passenger seat.

The barrier was rising.

The car was rolling forward.

And mercifully, nobody had been shot.

Chapter 16

Sunday 9th April

Little Inagua, West Indies

When Abe had finally crawled and scampered back to the low, overgrown dune behind which Ted Forest had been hiding, waiting to be surrounded by vengeful Dominican sailors, some hour or so after the huge explosion which even at his remove, of some four hundred yards, had seemed to his friend like the detonation of a very large bomb, the horror on his face needed no further explanation.

“I’m fine,” Abe gasped, dropping exhausted by his friend’s side. “I’m fine, really…”

His friend needed a lot of convincing.

“You’re covered in blood, old man,” he objected in a hoarse whisper, deciding he would ask about the rifle and the biscuit tin Abe had deposited in the sand nearby in a moment.

“The blood’s not mine,” Abe muttered, crawling back to the lip of the sandy hummock to peer intently through the foliage towards the site of the crash where, from this distance, there was no longer any sign that the Sea Fox had ever existed.

Merely a fading haze of grey smoke.

The brush around the wreck had caught fire after the explosion and judging by their screams, wounded men had been left to burn to death until somebody belatedly rallied the shocked survivors, who had, too late to save their fallen comrades, begun to beat out the flames. Now, the last wisps of smoke were eddying on the breeze. Another boat had grounded on the beach nearby, fresh men had jumped into the surf and had started to search along the shore and inland adjacent to the blast zone.

“The chap I took the Mauser from was in bits,” Abe remarked, distractedly. “His bullet pouch was half-way inside his rib cage.”

Ted Forest could contain his angst no longer.

“What the Devil happened back there, Abe?”

“I fell over a twenty-five-pounder that must have hung up when we attacked that cruiser. I rolled it back under the kite’s fuel tank. It was still dripping eighty-seven octane, the ground around was soaked with the stuff…”

Ted grimaced: ‘There must have been several gallons left in it when we crashed,” he decided, trying to calculate how long the Sea Fox had been in the air by then.

“Anyway,” his friend continued, “I rolled the bomb under the kite and started a fire. Obviously, I absented myself pretty damned quick.”

“PDQ is just the ticket,” Ted agreed.

“By then the chaps from that ship off shore were marching up the beach. Honestly, I had no idea there would be such a big bang. I think the bomb must have cooked-off first, then the petrol. The fellow I got the gun from – well, what was left of him – nearly dropped on top of me and I was thirty, forty yards away…”

Neither man spoke for some seconds as Abe tried to see what was going on through the bushes.

“The biscuit tin is the kite’s emergency rations box, by the way. I think it must have been stowed under your seat in the second cockpit.”

“Oh, right.”

“The reason I was so long getting back was that I took a fairly wide detour. Otherwise my tracks might have led the bastards straight back here. Although,” he decided, “it doesn’t look like they’re searching…”

He swore, rolled onto his back and reached for the Mauser.

“I think two of the beggars have just found the chap who almost landed on top of me!” He hissed lowly, even though the ‘beggars’ in question were still at least three hundred, perhaps, three-hundred and fifty yards away, nicely silhouetted against the sea at their backs.

Ted Forest heard the bolt snap back as Abe chambered the first round of the rifle’s five-bullet magazine. In the absence of heat haze, with the sun still relatively high it would have been perfect ‘seeing’ light even had Abe not been gifted with, and always taken for granted, his preternaturally acute eyesight.

Why on earth had the Germans designed an infantry rifle with a straight bolt? The blasted thing meant a chap had to take his eye off the target every time he chambered a fresh round…

The two men standing over the cadaver of their comrade were looking around, one appeared to stare, briefly, directly at Abe, straight down the barrel of the Mauser. The Dominicans were saying something to each other, now and then glancing down at their feet, both still shouldered their guns. The seemed to reach a decision and turned towards where Abe had deliberately left a very visible trail into the thickest of the nearby scrub.

The two sailors were definitely on the hunt now.

Abe followed their progress, regularly looking back to the crash site. Other men were fanning out now. Looking for debris? Or their fallen comrades?

“What’s going on?” Ted whispered eventually.

“I think they smell a rat, I’m afraid.”

“What’s our plan?”

“Hopefully, they won’t find us before nightfall.”

That was a forlorn hope if ever there was one, the day was hardly half-run.

“I heard you’re quite handy with a long rifle?” Ted asked rhetorically. He was too knocked about for them to attempt to ‘leg it’ further into the interior of the island, and he knew, he just knew, that there were no circumstances in which his friend would even think about abandoning him to his fate. “Well, if that fellow Albert Stanton is to be believed.”

Abe half-turned, grinned.

“I know which end the bullets come out of,” he retorted wryly.

“It’s always good to know about a thing like that.”

There was a deal of hand-waving and shouting going on near the beach. More men were trudging along the shore line.

“I think they plan to form a proper search line,” Abe warned, watching the Dominicans affixing bayonets to their Mausers. “The eastern end of the line is going to pass a little to our right.”

Not that this would help a great deal.

One of the Dominicans was bound to glance to their right at the wrong moment and then the game would be up.

“So, what’s the plan?” Ted Forest inquired a second time.

“I plan to start picking off the chaps at the far, western end of the line when they get to about two hundred yards away. You hang onto your Webley, some of the blighters are bound to go to ground. You can blaze away at them when they break cover. But,” Abe added, “not until I tell you to, okay?”

“Understood. Do you mind if I break into the biscuit tin while we’re waiting? All this fear of impending death tosh does wonders for a chap’s appetite.”

“Be my guest, old man.”

The Dominicans advanced unhurriedly, cradling their rifles in their arms, eyes scanning the ground ahead of them with the suspicion of men wary of inadvertently treading on a poisonous snake. The line soon became a little ragged as some men encountered undergrowth they had to bypass, and others paused to prod scrubs and brush with their bayonets.

The steel glinted wickedly in the glare of the tropical sun.

Minutes ticked by.

Abe drew a bead on his first target.

Back and muzzle sights aligned upon the prey.

Next to him Ted Forest was munching on a chunk of what he described as Kendall Mint Cake, apparently a thing hikers and walkers in the Old Country swore by but which was unfamiliar to the Son of the Hunter.

Abe’s finger closed on the trigger.

The first shot would be more speculative than was ideal; afterwards, he would understand the Mauser better, be at one with its action. That was not to say he did not confidently expect to at least ‘wing’ his prey; simply that he did not trust himself to go for a head shot.

He held his breath.

Stilled his soul.

Nestled the stock of the rifle into his right shoulder.

His heart almost erupted out of his chest when the great, reverberating boom of a big ship’s foghorn thundered across the island.

“Fuck!” He spat, rolling onto his back and sliding down to join Ted Forest at the foot of the shallow back slope of the dune.

His friend was nearly as alarmed as he was.

“What?”

“There’s a bloody great big battleship in the channel. I was too preoccupied with the first shot to notice it until that bloody fog horn sounded!”

Abe’s pulse was still racing.

He took a couple of long, deep breaths and squirmed back to the lip of the low rise. His eyes widened. The search line had disintegrated, the Dominicans had shouldered their weapons and were plodding back towards the beach.

The ‘battleship’ – now he looked at it properly it seemed very low in the water, and oddly for-shortened, its gun turrets huge in proportion to the rest of the ship – was idling, water churning under her transom as her shafts went astern.

The ironclad cruiser anchored three hundred yards off the beach had not moved.

Ted Forest had joined his friend, painfully, to view the new arrival.

“She must be looking to anchor,’ he declared. “The water farther out must be too deep. It’s an idea place for big ships because Great Inagua provides shelter from the westerly trade winds. Old coal-burners look for every opportunity to damp down their boilers. Coaling a ship at sea is a beast of a business, or so I am reliably informed.”

The two friends continued their watching brief.

“There we go, she’s let go her stern chains!” This, Ted offered in confirmation of his original observation.

From their vantage point the old ironclad cruiser’s ram bow partially overlapped with the fo’c’sle of the odd-looking battleship, meaning the cruiser’s bridge appeared to sit on top of the big ship’s forward main battery turret.

Ted Forest realised his friend was sighting down the barrel of the Mauser at the two ships.

“The battleship has to be one of the Ferdinands,” he explained distractedly. “She has to be the best part of half-a-mile away,” he added, speculatively.

“I reckon it’s about seven hundred yards from hereabouts to her bridge,” Abe returned.

“What sort of shot is that?”

“With a telescopic sight, point blank,” his friend re-joined. “With the metal sights, assuming the gun wasn’t damaged when the Sea Fox went up, not so straightforward. Especially, as I’ve never held one of these German guns before.” Abe corrected this: “Actually, the only similar vintage gun I’ve ever fired was an old Martini-Henry with a .303-calibre barrel-liner. Seriously, I mean. I did the usual range time with Enfield carbines and assault rifles during my basic training, before you and I met.”

Ted Forest knew his friend had been awarded his marksman’s badge, although as an officer in the RNAS he never wore it.

“But you can hit what you’re shooting at from here?”

“Eight, perhaps nine times out of ten,” Abe guessed. “But this is a bad firing position.”

“Why?” Ted asked innocently, genuinely curious.

“Ideally, I’d choose a pit, not raised ground. I’d move around, too. Get a bit closer. After two or three shots the blighters will have zeroed in on me, us, and they’ve got much bigger guns than we have.”

Ted was munching contentedly on the biscuits from the emergency rations box, mulling the possibilities.

“I’ve only got twenty rounds,” Abe explained. “I’d like to mooch around the wreck site to see if I can find a few more.”

“Before we start our private little war with a Spanish battleship, you mean?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Abe agreed, baring his teeth in a disarmingly predatory smile.

Chapter 17

Monday 10th April

SMS Weser, Guantanamo Bay

Commander Peter Cowdrey-Singh had accepted the invitation of the captain of the converted merchantman, Kapitan zur See Albrecht Weitzman, a cadaverous white haired and bearded man to whom his still, all-German crew were clearly devoted, to join him on the bridge as the Vera Cruz Squadron departed Cuban waters.

Weitzman was content to allow his Navigator, a youthful Oberleutnant whose English accent unashamedly proclaimed that he had been born and brought up in the West Country, Somerset before, aged twelve, his family had moved back to Schleswig-Holsten in the early 1960s.

It was as the Weser, a fifteen-thousand-ton former fast – capable of twenty-three knots – general passenger-cargo ship, taken in hand by the Kaiserliche Marine a decade ago as part of the program to bolster its ‘fleet train’, then as now, a major obstacle to the sustainability of German oceanic ambitions, cleared the final headland and steered due south in the wake of the Lutzen, that Weitzman turned to his English ‘guest’.

“There has been a change of plan. The Weser will accompany the fleet for at least the next twenty-four hours. When we approach Jamaica, Admiral von Reuter plans to dispatch us into the Atlantic via the Lesser Antilles. He will report to his Spanish superiors that the Weser has been assigned to a commerce-raiding role; in fact, we will steam directly for home waters, or if that proves impractical, make passage for the Imperial concession of San Juan on Hispaniola, so that I may place you, your men, the young people transferred from the Breitenfeld and the Lutzen, and our wounded into the custody of the German Minister.”

The Achilles’s former Executive Officer stared at the German for several seconds, hardly trusting his ears.

“This is a filthy business,” Weitzman said, obviously not caring – certainly not fearing – who overheard his words. His English was of the type rigorously schooled long ago in German naval cadet colleges, as perfect as that of any newsreader employed by the Empire Broadcasting Service in Hampstead. “You and your people are not my prisoners. You are passengers on board a ship of the Kaiserliche Marine, who will be put ashore or transferred to a friendly vessel at the earliest practical time consistent with your safety, and that of my ship. All I ask of you and your people until that time, is that you refrain from showing yourselves on deck other than in the company of guards, who will make a show of watching over you for the benefit of our Spanish ‘friends’ on the other ships. I trust that this arrangement will be acceptable to you for the remainder of your time aboard my ship?”

“Yes, most satisfactory,” Peter Cowdrey-Singh murmured. He glanced at the stern of the Lutzen, in whose broad wake the Weser was following.

“The Kaiser’s orders were addressed to the men and the ships of the West Indies Squadron, now the so-called Vera Cruz Squadron of the Armada de Nuevo Granada,” Weitzman explained resignedly. “The Weser is a vessel of the Imperial Fleet Auxiliary, and like several other ancillary vessels on the West Indies Station, it was not listed in the schedule of Fleet Orders transferring Admiral von Reuter’s command to the Mexicans.”

“Surely the Spanish won’t just let the Weser sail away?”

“We shall see,” Weitzman shrugged, a little apologetically. “Regrettably, we must remain with the Fleet for the present. Before we steam to the east, Jamaica must be reduced. The Weser will take no part in that.” The old man shook his head. “You should also be aware that Admiral von Reuter authorised the transmission of a comprehensive list of Royal Naval personnel under his protection at zero-six-hundred hours this day. I am informed that your base at St John’s River in Florida, acknowledged receipt of the same. I know it will be of no comfort to the relatives and friends of the missing but at least, for a few people in New England, I sincerely pray it will make these dreadful times a little more bearable.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh nodded, could not speak for a moment, the words choking from emotion in his throat.

“Thank you, sir.”

In open waters the fleet, the Southern Strike Force slowly shook itself out into steaming formation. At its heart were Breitenfeld and Lutzen, fore and aft respectively of El Rey Ferdinand II, followed by the Cuban ironclad cruiser Santa Ana, her four 9.2-inch main battery guns in twin turrets at bow and stern, jauntily elevated fifteen degrees, flanked by two relatively modern – dating from the 1960s – general-purpose frigates. Farther out four big, former-German fleet destroyers loped along effortlessly in the long, shallow Caribbean swell, as if contemptuous of the Cuban and Dominican coal-burning three and four-stack torpedo boats half their size. The Weser, two old ferries and a dilapidated five-thousand-ton tramp steamer carrying troops and equipment bound for Kingston, Jamaica, paced the battlefleet at a sedate eleven knots by the time the grandiosely named Dominican 2nd Battle Squadron straggled into range of the Weser’s air search ELDAR.

A bridge officer punctiliously offered Peter Cowdrey-Singh his binoculars as the motley collection of ships led by a single, light cruiser – which from a distance reminded him a little of Achilles – hove into view. The Hero class trade route protection cruisers had set the standard for all other navies back in the 1940s, and several had attempted to replicate – with varying degrees of success – the key features of the class.

The La Romana had been the Ferrol Naval Arsenal’s botched attempt to copy the Hero and her sisters. ‘Botched’ in the sense that her all-rivetted, armour-heavy design had necessitated the removal of her ‘C’ turret, and of any secondary armament heavier than a machine gun, in order to preserve her stability, and even before her transfer to the Dominicans in the 1960s the ship’s machinery had been so unreliable that in the ten years after her commissioning, she had only spent eleven months at sea.

Trailing in La Romana’s wake were more multi-stack, thousand-ton torpedo boat destroyers carrying a handful of 4-inch calibre guns and one or, more normally, two quadruple twenty-inch torpedo tube mounts.

Bringing up the rear was a sight to bring a lump to the throat of any self-respecting naval historian, the Tomás de Torquemada, the twin-stack, black smoke-belching twenty-five thousand-ton museum piece, flagship of the Santo Domingo Navy, thought at one time to have been so badly neglected that she had sunk at her moorings in the late 1960s.

The old dinosaur was not so much cleaving through the waves as shouldering them aside, riding so low in the water it seemed she was part-submerged when her blunt prow met each wave.

“Bloody Hell,” Peter Cowdrey-Singh muttered privately. “Now I’ve seen… everything.”

Originally, the German-built, Turkish Sultan Osman I, launched as long ago as June, 1923, the Tomás de Torquemada, had been envisaged by the Ottomans in Constantinople as the ultimate ‘guardian of the Bosphorus’.

In essence, the Torquemada was conceived as a giant armoured raft mounting the two biggest naval rifles ever taken to sea, two of the ten Kaiserliche Marine Experimentelle Waffeneinrichtung (the Imperial Navy’s Experimental Gun Establishment at Stettin) guns planned to be incorporated in the German Empire’s fortification program to prevent an enemy fleet, specifically the British, from ever again forcing entry into and roaming the Baltic at will, as had happened in 1865.

The guns, 18.3-inch 45-calibre, one hundred-and-fifty-ton, sixty feet-long monsters, one housed in a turret forward, the other aft, fired a one-and-a-half-ton shell with a two hundred-and-fifty-pound bursting charge at a muzzle velocity of three-quarters of a mile a second up to twenty-three miles down range. In tests, the Kaiserliche Marine had conclusively demonstrated that armour-piercing rounds fired from these barrels could penetrate sixteen-inch-thick Krupp patent cemented plate – the thickest protection carried by any battleship of any navy, afloat – up to striking angles of forty-three degrees at a range of nearly fourteen miles.

Back in 1929, Russian objections during a brief period of Russo-German rapprochement, had prevented the nearly-completed ship being delivered to Constantinople; a slight that was still largely responsible for the generational coolness of German-Ottoman relations. Several years later the ship was sold to the Swedes, who moored it at Stockholm, then off Gotland and finally at Malmo as a floating gun battery. When the ship was sold on, for little more than its scrap value to Santo Domingo in 1963, nobody had expected the rusting hulk to survive the Atlantic crossing under tow. Thereafter it had been employed as a headquarters ship, an accommodation barge and latterly, legend had it, been somewhat rejuvenated as a gunnery training school. Persistent rumours that the old scow had been refitted for operations in the open ocean had been universally decried as nonsense.

However, there she was!

This, Peter Cowdrey-Singh reflected, was turning into the strangest day of his life…

First, there had been that surreal interview on the bridge of the Weser, discovering that, in effect, individual officers of the Kaiserliche Marine had decided that their honour would not allow them to continue to treat their ‘English brothers’ as enemies.

Second, almost as unreal, had been the look on the faces of his men, survivors one and all of the Achilles’s last battle, as he broke the news. Disbelief, elation and a peculiar sadness, as if everybody realised, they had fought a battle to the death with the wrong navy. Forget the fact there had been several hundred Nuevo Granadans on those Kaiserliche Marine ships.

Third, and now he was sailing in the midst of a bizarre, polyglot fleet that was so disparate it could not possibly fight as a fleet. The Breitenfeld and Lutzen apart, none of the other big gun ships could be, or were capable of, concentrating their main battery fire as a co-ordinated coherent battle line. There were 12-inch, 18.3-inch and 9.2-inch batteries, each mounted on ships with negligible or non-existent ship-wide director control. Only the former German units, still crewed by key specialists, of the Vera Cruz Squadron had any, albeit seriously degraded by battle damage, ELDAR-directed anti-aircraft gunnery capabilities. Worse, like any fleet in history, this fleet’s maximum speed was limited by the slowest vessel; in this case, likely to be the Tomás de Torquemada.

If and when the fleet encountered the enemy it wanted to be travelling a lot faster than eleven or twelve knots!

Far astern the low line of the Cuban coast had slipped beneath the horizon.

Peter Cowdrey-Singh took a long, deep breath.

Melanie, his wife, would soon know that he was still alive.

But what lay in store for the nearest and dearest of the four hundred-and-fifty plus Royal Navy officers and men who had died in the Battle of the Windward Passage?

To have survived was one thing; but at what price?

Chapter 18

Monday 10th July

Royal Navy Norfolk, Virginia

Commander Alexander Fielding had spoken to his immediate superior, Commander Andrew Buchannan, the CAW, as HMS Perseus had nosed into the James River, dipping flags as she passed the C-in-C’s pennant flying at the northern end of Ocean View Point.

“I’ll only be absenting myself for a couple of hours,” he had explained.

“Go, go, go,” his boss, whom he already considered a friend, had directed with his customary jocular decisiveness.

Given that the two men held equivalent ranks – Alex’s of the wartime temporary variety – and it seemed, comparable seniority dates due to the arcane ways these things were calculated in the Colonial Air Force, there might easily have been unwanted tensions in their dealings, one with the other, a thing both men were, beneath their sangfroid, determined to avoid. In the event, they simply got on well, like houses on fire, in fact, and so after a short period of ‘feeling out’ the lay of the land in Alex’s case, and of the state of the seas in Buchannan’s, they had got on swimmingly and consequently, their naval and formerly CAF men, had too!

As soon as the gangway touched the quayside Alex had jumped ashore and cadged a lift to the married quarters estate at Portsmouth.

By then fuel lines were already arrayed, snaking across the concrete, a score of ordnance dollies on rail tracks were queued and there were a dozen brand new aircraft – six Goshawk IVs and six Sea Eagle torpedo-bombers – fresh out of their crates, awaiting to be hoisted on board.

Fifteen new pilots were scheduled to join the ship that day, each and every one of them volunteers as yet unbroken-in as ‘carrier men’.

Alex would find them later, confident that in his absence his men would start the newcomers’ induction the moment they set foot on the ship.

He gave his driver the address on Anson Road.

“You want me to wait for you, sir?”

“No, I’ve got the telephone number for the car pool. I’ll call when I need a ride.”

He did not watch the vehicle drive away.

A dapper, lean man of barely average height, Alex straightened, shot his cuffs and checked his tie while he attempted, with only middling proficiency to fix a semi-convincing cheerful expression on his face.

He lifted his finger to the doorbell button.

The label by the ringer said: Lieutenant & Mrs Lincoln.

The door opened.

Kate blinked at him for a moment.

In the background Alex heard young Tom, his nephew, gurgling, and something rattling. A toy, he assumed. To his consternation he discovered that having worked out what he was going to say, privately practiced his spiel in the car he discovered he was speechless.

To the aviator’s astonishment Kate walked into his arms and gave him a hug, as if she understood that they were both still in a state of shock. She had seen straight through his act of bravura, comprehended in a split second that beneath his carefully crafted mask of insouciance he was still, in some ways, the fragile sprog he had been all those years ago down on the Border.

“Perseus is in port, alongside for fifteen hours,” he tried to explain, “then we’re off south. Anyways, that’s what everybody thinks…”

Kate sniffed and the man and the woman disentangled themselves. Alex brushed himself down, Kate did not bother with any of that nonsense about proprieties which so obsessed ‘white folk’.

“The Germans have transmitted a list of survivors from the Achilles,” the man blurted. “Not everybody went down with her…”

Alex had followed his sister-in-law into the house, struck immediately by how neat, spic and span it was, and by how little furniture or clutter his brother and his wife had allowed into their living space.

Kate turned, touched his arm.

“Abe lives with me here,” she said, raising her fingers to her heart, “and he lives on until I know he is no longer with me in this lifetime. I miss him now. But I will not mourn him before the time comes.”

The man opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it.

“Kate, I,” he stuttered unhappily.

“Tom has grown a lot since you saw him last,” Kate declared proudly, leading him into the small living room.

In a moment Alex was down on his knees and the toddler was in his arms.

“I make tea,” the youngster’s mother announced.

It was some minutes later that Alex re-found his courage.

“Like I said. The Germans have given us a list of the survivors from the Achilles,” he said quietly, resignedly. “Abe’s name isn’t on that list but we know that there was an air battle of some kind. Abe,” he choked on the words, “might not have been on the ship when it went down.”

“Abe would have been with Ted,” Kate said simply.

Alex blinked askance.

“Ted Forest, his navigator. They were good friends. Whatever happened he was with a friend.” She would not let herself grieve. She asked: “How many names?”

“Seventy-four. Only three officers, including Commander Cowdrey-Singh…”

Kate nodded.

“Melanie has been very kind to me.”

Alex realised his sister-in-law was eyeing him inscrutably.

“You must not allow your anger to heat your blood, brother,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Abe would not wish that. Your wife would not want that. You have an unborn son…”

“Or daughter,” Alex quirked.

Kate half-smiled.

“Son,” she murmured, gently correcting him. “I shall be all right,” Kate went on. “I carry Abe’s daughter in my belly. I have no need to be brave, I must just be sensible. Until Abe returns to me.”

“Yes, of course.”

In truth, Alex was still in a daze when he returned to the Perseus. At a pier a quarter-of-a-mile south the battlecruiser HMS Indefatigable was loading one-ton 15-inch shells into her forward magazines.

Three of the new Goshawk IVs had already been hoisted onto the Perseus’s midships elevator – situated immediately aft of the island bridge on the starboard side of the ship – and manhandled onto the hangar deck, where mechanics were clambering over their brand-new charges.

“The Indefatigable has been attached to Task Force 5.2. Her after main battery turrets are mothballed but her forward fifteen-inchers are operational, as are her secondaries and all her AA guns.” This Alex was told by Lieutenant-Commander Thomas Brooke, the second-in-command of the ship’s Combat Air Wing. “Princess Royal, the Ulysses and the rest of Task Force 5.1, reinforced by the 21st Escort Group, are heading straight down to Bahamian waters to force the Windward Passage and to relieve the garrison on Jamaica. Well, assuming it holds out that long. If not, they’ll blockade the island and soften up the forces of occupation ahead of an amphibious assault.”

Alex had noted more than once that although his new, Navy comrades in arms shared the bluff, esprit de corps he had been familiar with down on the Border, few if any of them, combined their confidence and – possibly justified – sense of moral and martial superiority, with the innate caution that an old pilot, like him, carefully accumulated over the years.

Notwithstanding the persona he projected, nobody needed to tell Alexander Fielding that there were no old, bold pilots. It troubled him, not a lot but a little, certainly, that the general assumption on board the Perseus was that the Navy was going to steam down south and basically, ‘sort out’ the enemy, and that, was that…

He, for one, did not think the coming fight was going to be a pushover. To the contrary, it seemed to him that it had all the signs of being a very bloody business indeed!

The thinking was that the Indomitable, a fully-operational sister ship of the mighty Indefatigable, and her escorting cruisers and destroyers would ‘lock up’ the Gulf of Spain from the Mississippi Delta to Florida, and stand ready to sortie against any invasion fleet heading for the Gulf Coast of New England, or against any attempt to resupply by sea enemy troops on the ground in the anticipated invasion of the South West. While Task Force 5.1 was roaring south via the Windward Passage to the relief of Jamaica, its aircraft and big gun ships liberally dispensing fiery ruin on coastal targets on Cuban and Santo Domingo; Task Force 5.2, with Indefatigable in hand, would launch strikes on the Spanish possessions in the Lesser Antilles, hitting Anguilla and Hispaniola hard before blocking any move by the Triple Alliance to ‘island hop’ to the south, or to threaten the chain of British colonies from St Kitts and Nevis, Barbuda, Antigua and Montserrat all the way to the margins of the Southern continent where Trinidad and Tobago lay, on the map at least, like ripe fruits waiting to be plucked off the low hanging branch of the tree of Empire.

All this was, apparently, putting into effect long-standing war plans which ought to have, but did not, reassure Alex. If any of his fellows on the Perseus, other than a handful of his pilots, had ever spent any time down on the Border in the old days, they would know full well that no plan ever survived first contact with the enemy.

Chapter 19

Monday 10th April

Alba de Tormes, Castile and León

Neither Melody Danson nor Henrietta de L’Isle had anticipated that Paul Nash’s idea of finding them somewhere ‘comfortable for the night’ had been a dirty, dusty cell in the local Policia Federales lock-up. It was bad enough being incarcerated by one’s enemies; when one’s friends did it to you, it was just too much!

Okay, they had eaten very well before they were locked up – it was amazing what luxuries a dead Inquisitor’s cash procured at the flick of the fingers – and the women had overheard what their demonic guardian angel had said to the two men responsible for their care: ‘Touch one hair on their bodies and I will personally cut off your dicks.”

For emphasis, he had added: ‘Then I’ll start cutting off other parts of your anatomy!’

Whereupon, Paul Nash and Albert Stanton, the latter blinking apologetically at the women, had departed. The only one who seemed to be taking it all in his stride was Pedro; who now definitely seemed to think Henrietta was his ‘Mama’.

There had been no boat to be had in Alba de Tormes.

The men were seeing what could be had farther downstream. So, in the meantime, the women were… locked up.

‘It isn’t safe to go any farther,’ Paul Nash had decided. ‘The nearer to Salamanca we get the more likely it is we’re going to run into more trouble than we can handle.’

By which he meant ‘trouble that he could handle on his own’.

Handling trouble was his area of expertise, not Melody’s, so she had not attempted to argue the point.

“This is officially a nightmare,” Henrietta declared.

“Night… mare,” Pedro echoed.

It was dark outside, the cell was unlit other than by the loom of the single, naked lamp illuminating the next room where their gaolers were chain-smoking and morosely playing cards.

Melody said nothing.

“If we ever get out of this,” Henrietta went on, “what then?”

“How do you mean?”

“Life is going seem a bit humdrum, don’t you think?”

Melody touched her lover’s knee. The women were sitting on a thin straw mattress with their backs to the wall watching over Pedro, who, just for a change, had gone to sleep in Melody’s lap.

Henrietta took Melody’s hand and clasped it tightly.

“Don’t you think?” She repeated.

“I don’t know,” the older woman confessed. “I thought I had everything figured out. My life, who and what I was, I’d got comfortable in my own skin. And then your dad gave me a job that, to be honest, I ought to have refused,” she shrugged, “I met you, and well, here we are. I started over once, I can do it again.”

The women fell into quietness.

“You and I,” Melody continued, “would have taken ten, twenty years to get to know each other as well as we do now but for everything going crazy around us the last month, and that’s a fact. If we get out of this there will be other men like Alonso. That’s just the way I am. You’ll still be ten times more maternal than me. Whatever happens, we’ll have a lot of stuff to work through. That would have happened anyway, it’s just that everything has got speeded up, I suppose.”

Not thinking she was making a lot of sense, she shut up.

The women leaned into each other.

“Maybe,” Henrietta giggled, “if you share the next Alonso with me, that’ll help sort out my maternal issues?”

Melody laughed, Pedro stirred, went on sleeping.

“There are other ways of getting pregnant,” she observed, still a little giggly, like the naughty schoolgirl she often longed to be again.

“Urgh,” Henrietta retorted. “How do you tell a kid they were conceived with a turkey baster or a pipette or something?”

Again, Melody sniggered.

“You’ve really been thinking about this, haven’t you?” Although it was meant jokily, she was immediately aware that she might have inadvertently touched a raw nerve. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be so…”

“No, I think about it a lot, actually. I always have. I have met nice men. Men I could bear to do ‘it’ with, I just don’t want to do the boy-girl marriage thing, till death us do part. I know I’d be unhappy. Sure, I could bump into the right man. Somebody who’d be a perfect social companion and not want much more; but how many men like that are there out there? So, yes, I’ve thought about the other ways I could be a mother.”

Melody kissed her cheek.

“You could have affairs?”

“I’m a De L’Isle,” Henrietta replied primly. “Just being with you, risks a huge scandal back home. I know Mummy knows about you, for all I know, Daddy does too. but I couldn’t bear it if there was a scandal…”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“But you still slept with Alonso?”

Belatedly, Melody realised she was being teased.

“Yes, it was lovely. For the record, I’m completely unrepentant about it!” She sighed. “Like I am for every time we’ve been… intimate together.”

Henrietta moved onto her knees and the women kissed, long and unhurriedly in the gloom.

They were only disturbed when there was a loud cough and the lights suddenly blazed into life, dazzling the women.

“Sorry to interrupt you two ladies,” Paul Nash chortled, viewing the women through the rusty iron bars of the cell door, “we have to be on our way!”

The cell door clanked open.

“Men!” Melody complained, briefly nuzzling her lover’s brow: “their timing really sucks sometimes!” She and Henrietta struggled to their feet. “Well, apart from Alonso, obviously,” she sighed wistfully.

“Where is Albert?” Henrietta asked as the man led the way down the alley outside the lock-up.

“I had to leave him behind to guard the boat. It’s five or six miles downstream.”

Melody was carrying Pedro.

“You left him on his own with strangers? Out here? After what we’ve already been through?”

“Yes,” the man shrugged, as if to say: “Get real. You know as well as I do, that I am here to rescue Henrietta; you and Stanton are just along for the ride!”

Henrietta stepped forward.

“I’ll drive if you want,” she offered brightly, with just a hint of genteel sarcasm. “Just so your hands are free if you need to shoot somebody.”

“Hen can drive,” Melody confirmed, remembering that first time she had visited the Governor’s Residence at Williamsburg. Henrietta had been waiting for her with her battered Land Rover.

“I know,” the man re-joined. “You can’t. Or don’t, nobody knows why.”

“I never got around to learning,” Melody countered more waspishly than she intended. She changed the subject: “How did you find a boat?”

“It was just floating there.”

“Seriously?”

“No. I offered the owner this car in exchange for it.”

“I thought we were going to have to hide the car?”

“Change of plan. I know how sensitive you ladies are about me killing people. I could have just shot the fellow and stolen his boat. It’s not too late to switch to that plan…”

“No, no…”

The man dropped into the passenger seat as Henrietta fired up the motor.

“Seriously,” he said, turning to ensure that Melody and Pedro were safely ensconced on the back seat. “This actually works better than us trying to hide the car. This way the locals will do a much better job hiding it, and even if the authorities stumble across it, it will take forever for them to work if the locals or somebody else killed those Inquisitors outside Pelayos. Yes, sooner or later, they’d put the pieces together but we’ll be long gone by then.”

“Can I turn the headlights on?” Henrietta sked.

“No,” the man said.

“Okay,” the Governor of New England’s youngest daughter acknowledged, not remotely troubled as the Blohm and Mertz rumbled down the road by the light of the stars. “Just don’t blame me if I scratch the paintwork!”

“That’s a deal,” the man grunted. “Melody, you and the kid get down low. Things will get nasty if the locals have thrown Albert’s body in the river while I’ve been away.”

Melody started doing what she was told.

“Is that likely?” Henrietta inquired, horrified.

“In this country, anything is possible,” the women’s guardian angel observed laconically.

Melody hugged Pedro to herself in the footwell behind the front seats.

The World has gone mad!

Chapter 20

Monday 10th April

Little Inagua, West Indies

Overnight, Ted Forest had started to run a fever, and slept fitfully. At first light Abe had abandoned any thought of moving to the first of the three pre-scouted shooting positions along the quarter mile of scrubby dunes nearest to the ships anchored off shore. His friend had cavilled – a little angrily – about the delay, like any Englishmen, he was mortified to be the cause of delaying his King’s enemies their just deserts for a single second.

“It’s a little hazy still,” Abe had consoled him. This was only a tiny white lie, in a few minutes the ‘sighting conditions’ would be perfect. However, from their experience thus far on the island the light would be just as ideal three hours from now as it would be in the next few minutes, and besides, he was not going to be doing his best shooting if he was worried sick about his friend. In that, at least, he was not his father’s son. In tribal legend the Hunter had been able to shut out the troubles of the world, all doubts, even his love for and devotion to Abe’s mother, when he had his prey in the cross hairs.

No, he would never be capable of shutting thoughts of Kate, or their son or of life friends, like Ted, out of his thoughts. He and Ted were like brothers, blood brothers now.

“There will be plenty of Spaniards to kill when the dance begins.”

He checked the partially healing through-and-through wound in Ted Forest’s side. The flesh about it felt hot to the touch but that might just be the natural healing process. Abe’s own shoulder wound had closed up, crusted over; although not healed in any way and was still horribly hurtful if he forgot it for a moment. He had no real idea how the jolt of the Mauser rifle would transmit itself through his torso from his right to his left side, or if the pain would be so bad it made a nonsense of his aim.

The bad water had turned both men’s bowels watery last night. That was to be expected, dirty water was what it was, and it was either drink it or die of thirst; a thing a man, especially an injured man, might easily do in a matter of hours in this harsh environment.

Despite his broken leg, Ted was manfully insistent on trying to keep himself ‘clean’, although in practice this was beyond him. However, even in indignity, a man’s pride could be his salvation so Abe let his friend do what he could for himself.

Abe scrambled into the brush to re-fill their original canteen, and one he had recovered from the gory spread where a Dominican Marine had been blown to pieces yesterday. He had found more cartridges, crawling through the debris field in the darkness. He still had no idea how so little explosive material had caused such a devastating explosion and killed so many men, and coincidentally, eradicated all trace of his and Ted’s survival or his concussed attempts at butchering prey and setting up a nearby campsite.

Abe had drunk at the rain pool. Planning to leave both filled canteens with his friend.

Ted Forest objected: “You need water to stay alert, old chap.”

Abe ignored this.

There was no way he could properly examine Ted Forest’s broken lower leg without tampering with the splints. He had cut away his friend’s trouser leg on the night they crashed. Prosaically, he sniffed the bruised, swollen area around the break, much to his patient’s amusement. They both smelled like particularly dirty, stinking polecats, and looked like two sun-burned, ragged escapees from the set of a pirate film.

“It must be the water that’s caused the fever,” Abe decided, not remotely reassured. “Your wounds, mine too, I suppose, aren’t about to heal up good as new out here but I can’t see,” he quirked a grimace, “or smell, any obvious infection in your leg.”

That, of itself, was nothing short of a miracle.

Although, how long it was likely to last was anybody’s guess.

By rights, they ought to be helpless hospital cases by now and that they were anything but, was a thing to be marvelled at, not questioned overlong.

Abe sighed.

If Kate was here now, she would be telling him: “Things are what they are; keep on walking forward, one step at a time…”

That was when the two men heard the utterly incongruous, distant sound of the brass band playing.

Abe reached for the Mauser and the blood-stained cartridge pouch now containing thirty-eight rounds. More recovered bullets lay in a small, blood-encrusted heap nearby, another twenty or so, half of them in two five-round 7.92-millimetre stripper clips. These needed cleaning, that would be Ted’s job while he was away.

The nearest shooting ‘pit’, a hastily excavated – with his bare hands – scrape, was some three hundred yards to the west, sited roughly parallel to the big ship’s bow.

“Go, go, go,” Ted Forest hissed.

Abe hesitated.

“Go!” His friend grinned, grabbing his RNAS service revolver. “I’ll be fine back here. If any of the beggars come ashore, I’ll crawl back to the ‘redoubt’, as agreed.”

“The ‘redoubt’ was another low dune situated some two hundred yards farther back into the, in some places, virtually impenetrable brush and scrub which covered much of the island. Ted Forest had insisted that if necessary, he would “Bloody well crawl there!”

As if to hurry Abe on his way his friend stuck out his hand.

The two men shook.

And then Abe was gone, moving at a hunched run like a wraith, forgetful of his pains and exhaustion, remembering the boy who had hunted in the woods of the Mohawk Valley with Kate, his precious Tekonwenaharake…

It was only as he settled, a little breathlessly in the sand and peered through the screen of vegetation in front of him that he realised that the big ship – he could see the name on her prow, the Reina Eugenie – had moved much closer inshore and anchored within less than a hundred yards of the waves breaking over the reefs.

At first that made no sense whatsoever.

It was some moments before Abe identified the masts of two other ships somewhere beyond the antique-looking battleship; belatedly, he surmised that the commander of the Reina Eugenie was using the reef as an anti-torpedo barrier to his north and the escorting vessels as a southward screen.

These fellows are afraid of an air attack!

Specifically, by aircraft dropping torpedoes…

Abe squeezed his eyes, tried to wipe the sheen of grit and sand off his face and hands as he slowly laid the Mauser in the crook of two limbs of a bush.

He worked the bolt and put a round in the chamber.

The straight-line action of the bolt meant he had to move his head to the side every time he chambered a round. Stupid design! It meant a rifleman had to take his eye off his target, and subsequently re-sight every shot. This was a design concept the British Army had abandoned during the Great War and never again embraced.

Things are what they are…

He estimated it was about two hundred and eighty to three hundred yards to the forward 12-inch main battery turret of the battleship. Perhaps, three hundred and twenty to the ship’s old-fashioned, open compass platform in front of the armoured conning tower.

The band was playing on the quarterdeck, somewhere in the shadow of the aft turret.

He adjusted the back sight.

The Reina Eugenie’s midship gangplank was down, and men were clambering into a small cutter.

Two officers dressed like circus clowns… and about a dozen seamen.

The oars dropped into the water and the boat began to draw away from the side of the ship. For a few seconds it seemed as if the vessel was going to run the gap in the reef to come ashore, then its course became plain. It was moving to come around the bow of the Reina Eugenie, either to carry its officers to, or to return them to, one of the other ships farther out to sea.

As if on cue, another launch rowed beneath the battleship’s stern and began to make for the gangway. A gaggle of men had stepped onto the main deck, clearly awaiting the next boat.

Had there been some kind of conference on board the battleship?

If so, the officers on deck and in that first cutter might be the commanders of the other ships at anchor.

Key men, important targets…

Abe eyed the first boat, now clumsily pulling against the tide making little headway. He looked back to the second boat, gliding up to the gangway.

Wait until both boats are clear of the ship…

Shoot the men on deck first, then the officers in the launches who would be, literally, sitting ducks bobbing up and down in the open sea.

Knowing exactly what he was going to do he waited.

His mind quietened.

He planned his first ten shots.

The Spaniards would start reacting immediately.

First there would be surprise.

Then awakening.

Confusion, panic.

How many shots before somebody realised what was happening?

Three? Four? Five?

He swore to make those first shots count.

Aim for the upper torso.

Breathe slowly, breathe regularly.

Pause breath at the moment one squeezed the trigger…

The Mauser kicked hard into his right shoulder; oddly, his brain did not register the bark of the gun, only the brief muzzle smoke, instantly carried away on the slight onshore breeze he had been focusing so hard to compensate for in his initial aim.

An epauletted figure at the head of the gangway reeled backward, taken somewhere on his left side. He crumpled to the deck approximately nine hundred feet away from Abe.

Recognising he had over-adjusted for the light wind Abe had jerked his face aside and chambered a new round as the man fell. A second man’s head seemed to explode as the rifle bucked anew. But that was only a glimpsed impression; the next target was always the only thing that mattered.

The men around the victims crouched down.

Inadvertently, this provided broader, static aiming points.

Abe suspected he missed everything with his third shot.

Not so his fourth and fifth.

The deck of the battleship was suddenly a veritable hornet nest of activity. The sound of the ironclad’s loud speakers and crazily ringing bells drifted to landward, the band had stopped playing, the parade on the fo’c’sle was disintegrating into a chaos of stampeding men.

Abe coolly removed the first stripper clip, clicked home the second. As with the bullets in the first clip he had doctored their tips, hoping they would disintegrate on impact; then, even if he only nicked a man the wound might, if the round exploded on impact, still prove catastrophically disabling, possibly fatal.

He had no qualms about ‘monkeying about’ with his ammunition. There were hundreds of Spaniards – well, Dominicans, Hispanics of several hues, Cubans and their German friends out there and it was just him and Ted on the island. Besides, the bastards had already sunk his ship and shot him down without even the basic courtesy of a warning declaration of war; thus, he had no problems knowingly breaking the ‘rules of war’ laid down in the 1870s.

‘Expanding’, or so-called Dum Dum bullets, supposedly invented by an Indian Army Captain at the Dum Dum Arsenal in Calcutta, were specifically outlawed in a protocol to the Paris Treaty, along with such abominations a poison gas, the sack of captured towns and cities and all manner of unpleasantness previously meted out by conquering armies against civilian populations.

Abe drew a bead on the nearest of the two officers standing – like idiots, or incredibly brave men, which was probably the same thing in the circumstances – in the back of the cutter turning to pull around the bow of the Reina Eugenie. The men were, presumably, attempting to identify the sniper’s position on shore.

In fact, one man pointed excitedly towards Abe a split second before his sixth round took him full in the chest and bowled him backwards, out of the boat into the water.

Abe shot the other officer in the back as he appeared to be groping for his comrade’s body in the water.

Abe ignored the men now frantically rowing their boat, desperate to get behind the bulk of the battleship and careless of either the man in the water or his friend slumped unmoving across the stern gunwale.

Abe took a breath to compose himself anew.

He switched his attention to the second boat; now rowing frantically for the stern.

On the deck above it a surprisingly large number of men had not yet gone to ground. A machine gun opened fire like a distant chain saw, shooting wildly at shadows well over a hundred yards to Abe’s right.

The officers in the second boat were still sitting down, hunched low. This was not a thing any of their rowers could copy.

Abe thought that was the height of cowardice.

His eighth shot probably clattered harmlessly against the tempered steel plating of the battleship.

His ninth shot slumped the nearest officer into his comrade’s arms. The rowers, to a man, abandoned their oars and dove for the boards at their feet, leaving the surviving officer holding his dead, or dying, friend in his arms.

The man made no attempt to lower himself.

Instead, he appeared to be scanning the fatal shore.

Awaiting his death.

Abe was a man in a hurry; matching the distant motion of the boat he let his target’s torso steady in his sights and pulled the trigger.

Then, he was sliding backwards into the scrub, bracing himself to sprint for his second shooting scrape about fifty yards closer to where he had left Ted Forest.

The Reina Eugenie’s fog horn sounded once, twice, thrice.

A heavy gun, perhaps one of the battleship’s barbette mounted ‘secondaries’ erupted. The shell screamed far inland, flamingos and other birds already startled by the rifle fire rose into the air. Distantly, very distantly, the shell exploded.

Another big gun fired.

Again, the shell rocketed into the interior.

Abe tried not to laugh.

If the battleship’s secondaries could not be depressed sufficiently to hit the shoreline at this range, there was no way the Reina Eugenie’s main battery guns could be either.

Everything around him was rushing faster and faster.

But Abe was moving, thinking, acting as if he was in an impenetrable bubble of quietness, unhurried, thinking two, three stages ahead.

The killing had only just begun and he might have been born for this moment; this perfect concatenation of seemingly hopeless, violent chaos.

In this gathering storm of mayhem, he was utterly in his element, the master of murder, a hunter with a licence to do exactly what he pleased.

There were no rules other than to kill or to be killed; it made it so much easier to know that there was no escape, only the ecstatic, erotic thrill of the… hunt.

Chapter 21

Monday 10th April

Fleet Headquarters, Norfolk, Virginia

The Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, Admiral David Cuthbert Horatio, 9th Baron Collingwood, had never been under any illusions that a war in the Caribbean and the Gulf of Spain would be the ‘pushover’ that a certain mischievous clique back in Whitehall assumed it would be. To the contrary, he had always assumed that it would be a very bloody affair even if only one or two of the Spanish colonies picked up the cudgels. Now he was looking at a situation map which told him that every conceivable enemy of the British Empire in the whole region, including those in Central and along the northern shores of the Southern America continent had come to the party.

Losing the Achilles had been bad enough – no less so for the manner of the dastardly, unprovoked attack upon her – but in the last few hours the blood-letting had begun, as he had always known it would, to get out of hand.

Now it seemed that, emerging from the deep-water channel of the Mississippi, unable to manoeuvre or to take evasive action because of the surrounding mud and sand flats, HMS Indomitable had been struck by two submarine-launched torpedoes.

One of the battlecruiser’s escorting destroyers had spied a submarine’s conning tower and run the despicable vessel down. It seemed the water had been too shallow for the submarine, a three of four hundred-ton coastal design by all accounts, to fully submerge. What had obviously been a suicide attack mounted from the cover of a mangrove swamp as the Indomitable squadron reached the deeper waters of the Gulf of Spain, had ended with the submarine sunk in less than forty feet of water.

Apparently, the submersible – at this stage there was inevitably no little doubt about its actual provenance, one suggestion was that it was a vessel of the Armada de Nuevo Granada – had dived bow first into the sea bed and its stern was still above water, enabling the rescue of a handful of her men. Had it not been from the intelligence which might be wrung from the survivors Collingwood would happily have ordered his people to feed the wretches to the sharks. As it was, Indomitable, unable to steam had anchored while her list to starboard was corrected by counter-flooding, and damage control and engineering teams laboured to stem the ingress of water, and to get her back under way.

No precise casualty figures were yet available but mercifully, with the great ship having been closed up at battle stations, less than twenty deaths and serious injuries had been suffered. That said, it was already clear that Indomitable’s part in the new war was already over. Collingwood’s engineering staff was busy making arrangements to ready a floating dock at the St John’s River base in Florida. Ocean-going tugs at Bermuda and Norfolk were on standby if the great ship was unable to proceed under her own steam, and already facilities were being readied at Mobile Bay in the event Indomitable had to be towed inshore to be patched up before proceeding to Florida.

“What’s going on down at the Inagua Islands?” Collingwood inquired; his voice quiet with thoughtfulness.

“The Spanish, a mixed Cuban and Dominican force, we think now,” he was informed, “have landed three separate forces and have clearly achieved a decisive lodgement on Great Inagua, sir.”

Collingwood nodded.

What the Devil were the blighters doing throwing thousands of men and at least a dozen major surface units at a couple of sand-covered rocks which were – the salt flats on the larger island excepted – strategically irrelevant. The harbour at Matthew Town was small, ill-equipped and there was no militarily viable airstrip on either island. Tactically, as a stepping stone to the Turks and Caicos Islands a case could be made – although, hardly a compelling one – for investing the mostly barren archipelago but…

It was hard to get inside of a medieval mind!

But his enemy was not thinking like a late-twentieth century military planner; his stratagems were not those of a modern admiral or general, uncluttered by contemplation of the juxtaposition of the air-sea-land theatre of operations but, it seemed, by slashing, bull-like aggression, not applied consistently or against a particular objective, rather wildly, at this and then that objective… almost as much for show as for military advantage. There was a randomness, an unpredictability about the deployments of the Triple Alliance that had already convinced many of Collingwood’s staffers that they were dealing with an angry giant, incapable of delivering rapier-like blows to the heart…

Collingwood was not seduced by this notion.

Granted, only an imbecile was going to believe that taking possession of, say, Grand Turk was worth the candle. Surely, southern Florida was in the enemies’ sights, anything else was a wasteful diversion. Unless, of course, the object of the exercise was not to take, or to hold territory, per se, rather to attract, in the manner of honey to a bee swarm, the Atlantic Fleet’s main striking power down into Bahamian waters within range of the air forces on Cuba and Santo Domingo?

And of course, those bloody submarines!

Project Poseidon was only rarely out of Cuthbert Collingwood’s thoughts. One part of him ached to deploy its incomparable ‘assets’ against the Spanish, settle the triple Alliance’s hash in an afternoon; the sane half of his brain told him that to so do risked steaming at full speed straight down the road to perdition.

So, maddening as it was to have to fight, for the moment at least, with one hand tied behind his back – not to mention his ankles metaphorically chained together – he was reconciled to doing what needed to be done solely with the tools he had to hand, and in the coming weeks and months, because this was going to be a long slog, those men, ships and aircraft his principals in Whitehall saw fit to place in his hands.

The torpedoing of the Indomitable added an unwanted complication to the situation map; a shock and a complication which he suspected would prompt debate among those who knew the full extent, and capabilities of Project Poseidon to question whether or not, the partial unveiling of the monster they had created, ought not to be revealed to cut short the coming war. That, the C-in-C Atlantic Fleet, guessed would be predicated by the Government’s assessment of how urgently the German Empire needed to be ‘warned off’.

In the meantime, Indomitable, gallant old ship that she was, was badly damaged, and had to be recovered to a safe port through hundreds of miles of potentially hostile waters. That would, of itself, demand the diversion of significant resources from the forces now converging on the Caribbean.

First the Achilles outrage and the invasion of Jamaica.

Then the occupation of Great Inagua.

Now the Indomitable was out of the fight.

And the war had hardly begun!

“You say that at least a couple of the old Ferdinands are involved in the operations off Inagua?” Collingwood asked, thinking out aloud as his mind ranged over other great issues, far, far away from the low-lying, forgotten islands of that sparsely populated archipelago.

The CAF had flown and continued to fly a shuttle program of Albatross aerial reconnaissance missions high above Cuba, Santo Domingo and the seas between those lands and the Florida Keys.

“What about those blasted German cruisers?”

“Guantanamo Bay is virtually deserted, sir.”

The C-in-C grunted, held his peace.

“We anticipate receiving the latest reconnaissance pictures from Jamaica in the next hour or so, sir. Apparently, the Albatross tasked with that mission has just landed.”

Cuthbert Collingwood realised that he must seem to be brooding overmuch to his hard-working, hard-pressed staffers. With an effort he forced a smile.

“Everything always takes longer than you think,” he quirked ruefully. “Especially, in war, gentlemen.” He moved on. “Perseus is still on schedule to clear Norfolk by dawn tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Back in London the First Lord of the Admiralty was already coming under pressure to ‘jog Collingwood’s arm.’ That was not going to happen. The C-in-C Atlantic Fleet had no intention of deploying his ships piecemeal in the manner of a man plugging successive cracks in a dyke with fingers, hands, arms and so forth. The object of the exercise was, in the following order, to take command of the seas between the Delta and the Floridian isthmus, hold the line of the Bahamas, and thirdly, by patrolling the surrounding seas of other imperial colonies and protectorates in the eastern Caribbean – the Leeward and Windward Islands – to limit the spread of the oceanic war. Once the conflict was contained within the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, regardless of what transpired on the ground in the South West, thereafter, it would simply be a matter of – boa-constrictor like – squeezing the life out of the Triple Alliance and its collaborators. Needless to say, there would be fleet and raiding actions by his ships and aircraft, and if the opportunity arose, he fully intended to seek decisive surface encounters with enemy forces. However, what he was not about to do was rush in like a bull in a china shop!

Not least because with the Ulysses and the Perseus in hand he possessed the priceless advantage of having two highly mobile major seaborne airfields at his disposal. In the old days the big ships would have steamed over the horizon and blasted away, these days his big ships need never go into harm’s way other than when the candle was well and truly worth it.

Of course, Indomitable was already as good as removed from the chess board. Worse, if that blasted submarine turned out to be of German design, or to have had any more of the Kaiserliche Marine’s bloody ‘advisors’ on it, there would be Hell to pay!

He would worry about that later.

He had requested the latest underwater – echo-location and listening technologies – to be installed on his ships soon after he had assumed command at Norfolk, that was eighteen months ago and he was still waiting.

Again, the underwater detection technologies, digital communication capabilities and remotely guided weapon systems under development and already deployed as part of Project Poseidon, would have been of incalculable value to the men manning the ships escorting his aircraft carriers, battleships and cruisers but all those systems were still so deeply classified that no inkling of their very existence had yet leaked out.

One fights wars with the ships, aircraft and men one has; not the ones one wishes one had!

Presently, Indomitable’s escorts were equipped with 1950s hydrophones and half-a-dozen ‘dumb’ depth charges likely to blow the stern off a ship when they were rolled overboard. If the submersible which had attacked Indomitable had been in deeper water the damned thing would almost certainly have got away.

Collingwood was careful not to allow his existential angst to surface. If ever there was a time for cool heads and reasoned judgements, this was it.

Back in England, the twenty-thousand-ton assault ships Delhi and Madras were loading war stores and over two thousand elite Royal Marine Commandos at Devonport, as he ruminated on the next phase of operations. The Admiralty had already promised him another clutch of cruisers and destroyers, although frankly, he had enough to be going on with as things stood. Moreover, his seaborne logistics train was adequate to maintain approximately two-thirds of his present ships at sea, regardless of the intensity of operations; so, he had no need of the extra fuel, provisions or the ammunition demands inherent in rushing reinforcements to a theatre of war in which at present he felt himself to be adequately supplied.

Obviously, if hostilities went on for a protracted period those reinforcements would allow other fleet units to rest, refit and take on board new drafts; but that was several weeks down the line. Right now, he had what he needed to hand and he intended to concentrate on the most effective, and ruthless employment of those forces.

Losing Indomitable was unfortunate; it was in no way critical.

Whereas, losing one of his big fleet carriers…

Well, his admirals knew better than to unnecessarily put either the Ulysses or the Perseus in harm’s way.

Not that any of the pre-planned war missions now rapidly coming to fruition required any of his big ships to operate in narrow, possibly submarine or mine-infested waters. Once clear of the Mississippi Delta, Indomitable would have been out of reach of submarines and operating in waters too deep for bottom anchored mines.

Indomitable had just been unlucky.

“Sir, this has just come in,” an aide apologised, hesitantly, almost guiltily, holding out a message flimsy.

Collingwood took the note.

He read it, inwardly digested its contents in silence.

The land offensive in the South West had begun.

Several, multi-division or brigade sized incursions across the demilitarized zone south of the Border had been reported and confirmed at places tens and hundreds of miles apart. The scale of the attack was massive, unprecedented and defied all previous intelligence assessments. Colonial forces were falling back all along the Border and a number of CAF airfields had already been heavily bombed.

Worse, there was another flimsy awaiting the C-in-C’s attention.

Collingwood read it.

“Jamaica has fallen,” he said, looking up. “The garrison commander surrendered the island to prevent further civilian deaths at zero-nine-three-zero hours local this morning.”

Nobody really wanted to meet the C-in-C’s eye.

He understood why, and thought no less of any man for doing whatever he might to conceal his shame… and his shock.

“Gentlemen,” Collingwood said, his tone oddly upbeat.

Several of the men around him bore the scars, physical and psychic of one or other of the Empire’s ‘little colonial wars’, of clashes in the Hindu Kush along the North West Frontier, or from cutting out operations in the Sunda Strait, sharp actions with pirates in the Indian Ocean, or from thankless peacekeeping duties in the wilds of Africa. The Pax Britannia was a thing best experienced in Northern Europe, elsewhere the price of Empire was paid, more often than not, in blood and grief. There were mutinies to be put down, riots to quell, insurgents to be rooted out, ‘policing duties’ to be performed, frequently onerously at no little moral peril. And then there was the constant training, preparing for wars that mercifully, usually never came to pass. So, what with one thing and another, the men in the Situation Room at the heart of the great, sprawling Norfolk Navy base, were not ‘Imperial Virgins’, unsullied by the reality of military life in the Empire: to do or die was the unspoken motto of all who served the Crown, and everybody present knew men, sometimes close friends, or brothers, uncles, cousins, who had already paid the ultimate price in some godforsaken place nobody had ever heard of before, invariably in glad sacrifice in the service of a thing greater than themselves which they had been sworn to protect and defend since boyhood.

Therefore, everybody in the room was a member of the same brotherhood; and right now, each man was wondering what it must have cost their brothers, and sisters, in Jamaica to lay down their arms.

The fate of the Achilles, and of those men who had died on board the Indomitable was simply the price of Empire; surrender was another thing. In yester year it would have damned a man’s name in perpetuity but today, well, had the World really changed so much of late?

Possibly, yet the stain of surrender, of not fighting to the death that was, well, quixotic, a bad precedent which risked giving the King’s enemies the mistaken impression that the Empire was not quite what it once was. Nobody in the Situation Room was prepared to concede that notion for a single moment, it was unthinkable.

“Gentlemen,” Collingwood repeated, waiting until each man had snapped out of his understandable introspection. “We shall not dwell on these setbacks. Nor will we apportion blame, culpability of any colour, or speak ill of brothers who have acted as they honestly, in good faith thought best in circumstances which only they were in a position to fully appreciate. In times such as these it is ever-more important that we trust in each other. We serve to preserve civilisation and to confound the King’s enemies. This we shall do.”

He looked around the circle of faces, making unhurried eye contacts.

“We will hear more bad news in the days to come,” he sighed, smiled wanly, “but in the end we shall prevail.”

This said the Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet turned to practical matters.

He clapped his hands together.

The navel gazing was over for the rest of the war.

“I think that what the situation calls for,” he declared, “is a nice soothing cup of tea!”

Chapter 22

Monday 10th April

Little Inagua, West Indies

Twice the Dominicans had tried to send launches through the gap in the reef to put men ashore to find and outflank Abe. Both times he had fired into the oarsmen, one shot killing or wounding two, sometimes three men. The first boat had turned away, the second had carried on with its dead, wounded and living coming to grief on the unforgiving reef as the wind picked up from the south east and dashed them on the razor-sharp coral. Several of the bodies had now washed up on the beach, others were floating in the surf.

One five-round stripper clip loaded.

Three spare bullets left in my pocket…

The first flurry of sniping and shooting on the two boats attempting to pass through the reef apart, Abe had spent most of the day taking occasional shots from new concealments, some as far as half-a-mile distant from his original scrape in the dunes.

Many times, sustained bursts of machine gun and rifle fire from the Reina Eugenie had raked the sand near him, more often the shooting had been blind, directed hundreds of yards down the beach.

Twice during the day, he had sought rain pools, puddles from which to slake his raging thirst, each time giving the Spaniards an uneasy, hour or so long, fraught respite.

About an hour ago, with the sun setting, one of the ironclad cruisers had anchored astern of the battleship and begun to systematically hose bullets along the shoreline. Now and then rounds whispered over Abe’s head as he slid back into the undergrowth and crawled back to where Ted Forest had, hopefully, safely spent the day.

With the sunset the big ships would surely send more men ashore; angry men seeking vengeance. He and his friend needed to be far inland by then.

Abe was desperately thirsty again, and trembling with hunger. He was as near to exhaustion as a man could be and still, at some level, function. Still he scrambled through the brush, night was falling fast as it always did in these latitudes.

Ted Forest almost shot him as he emerged from the darkness.

Abe collapsed on the sand, breathless.

“I thought they must have got you, old man,” his friend confessed.

“They’ll get us both if we stay here,” Abe gasped, the words cracking in his dry throat.

Ted Forest pressed a canteen into his shaking hands.

“It’s half-full,” he explained. “I knew you’d need a drink when you got back!”

Abe drained it in one draft.

The ships off shore had stopped shooting once it was full night and the ships had gone dark, not a light showing. Abe thought that was the first intelligent thing the Spanish had done all day!

Spanish… New Granadans, Cubans, Dominicans, Hispanics, they were all Spaniards, sons of the Conquistadors who had raped the Indies all those centuries ago. Until then, Abe had never really subscribed to the implicit racialism, a sense of some God-given moral superiority most people in the First Thirteen wrapped about them like a flag when it came to the… Spaniards. Even now, he felt a little guilty, dirty thinking of the men he had killed as somehow lesser, meaner folk.

But then the bastards were trying to kill him, and his friend and now they were in league with the Germans; Achilles was gone and it was all he could do, even in his weary debilitation, not to hate the fanatical mongrels on those ships…

Suddenly, a battery of brilliant beams of burning white light suddenly scorched across the island, thankfully, some distance away from the hiding place in the dunes although the wash of illumination from those fiery searchlights lit Abe and Ted Forrest’s filthy faces as if it was already morning.

Abe did not hesitate.

He rolled over, wormed up the reverse slope of the hollow and brought the Mauser to his shoulder.

He went into his routine: slowed his breathing, heart rate, quietened his mind, waited for the nearest searchlight to swing across his sights and fired.

The searchlight – high on the bridge of the Reina Eugenie – blinked out in an instant.

A second searchlight mounted somewhere aft of the ship’s stacks suddenly when dark, not so the searchlights of the nearby cruiser.

It took two rounds to snuff out one of its two probing fingers of light, another stubbornly remained in action, its loom periodically half-revealing two boats casting off from the smaller ironclad’s side.

Abe rolled onto his back and ejected the empty five-round stripper, groping for the three rounds in his pocket.

Damn…

If the worst came to the worst, one of them was for Ted, and the other was for him. He had no illusions what the men from those ships would do to them if they were captured…

“I cleaned up the other two clips,” Ted Forest reminded his friend. “And the rest of the spare rounds you left with me this morning. I reckon seven of those are okay.”

Abe had forgotten all about the gore-encrusted rounds.

“Good,” he muttered, snapping the first of fresh the clips into place, pulling back the bolt and chambering the first round. Realising he was out of breath he forced himself to lie still, on his back.

He had not realised how exhausted he was; he was forgetting things, making mistakes…

He tried to organise his jangling, slow-motion thoughts.

They still had their service revolvers, of course, but Abe knew that if they ever had to use them it would be as a last resort. The Mauser was the one thing that enabled him to keep the hunters at bay.

“We have to move,” he told Ted Forest.

His friend did not react.

“Now!” Abe hissed.

“You don’t stand a chance with me slowing you down.”

A part of Abe’s conscious mind saw the logic to this proposition; viscerally, he rejected it out of hand.

“Yeah, well, be that as it may, old chap,” he retorted irritably. “I’m not leaving you behind. If I have to, I’ll punch you on the nose and carry you. And that,” he sighed, rising to his feet, “Is that!”

He scrabbled around his friend’s day-long hideaway.

“Signal gun?” He demanded.

“In the emergency rations box with two spare cartridges, a green one and a red one, I think.”

Abe tried to inventory their weapons.

“Hatchet,” he muttered.

“It’s around here somewhere, I used to chop down a couple of saplings,” Ted explained. “Thought I might have to cover myself if the Spaniards had a spotter plane…”

“Good thinking…”

Abe’s had touched the half-buried halt of the hand axe.

He had already slung the Mauser over his good shoulder, swept up the empty water canteens in his weak, trembling left hand, now he threated the haft of the hatchet though the back of his waist band and reached down to drag Ted Forest to his feet.

It was a close-run thing as to whom this hurt the worst…

“Can you hang onto the emergency rations box, Ted.”

That signal-flare gun might yet be their salvation.

“Yes…”

He was not going to ask his friend if he could walk.

He had to walk or they were dead men.

The two men rocked unsteadily; Abe swept his right arm around his friend’s torso, Ted Forest clung to him fighting waves of dizziness that briefly distracted him from the new pain in his broken, splinted calf.

Then, they set off, limping, stumbling, agonisingly slowly directly away from the shore. After some minutes the sound of the surf receded. Splashing into a shallow water pool they collapsed. Slaked their thirst, refilled their canteens and soaking wet, shivering in the cool and coming chill of the night they shambled onward.

By the time the ships’ searchlights began again to trawl along the beach and the scrub-covered dunes they were the best part of three-quarters of a mile inland. Eventually, they fell over one too many exposed roots and lay panting, enfeebled in a heap waiting, it seemed forever, for their pain-wracked, starving bodies to regain the strength to move again.

Abe stared up at the stars wandering across the perfect jet blackness of the heavens. His hurts faded a little, his thoughts slowed.

“Ted, are you all right, old man?” He asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Yeah, never been better, old chap,” the other man retorted, still a little winded, his voice pinched with pain.

Abe started laughing and to his astonishment, so did his friend.

“I thought we were done for when the Spanish loosed off those 12-inch salvoes,” the Englishman declared.

The huge shells had rocketed over their heads like express trains travelling at the speed of sound.

“One of the beggars went right over me,” Abe confided. “I swear I felt the wind of its passing. “I didn’t hear many explosions; I reckon those big shells need to hit something solid to go off. Otherwise, they just bury themselves in the sand.”

Farther inland, Abe had glimpsed smoke rising from fires started by the random cannonade. The flames seemed to have subsided during the afternoon, leaving the darkness of the night unsullied other than by the erratically probing searchlights of the ironclads off shore.

“How many do you think you winged?” Ted Forest asked breathlessly. “I couldn’t see a damned thing from where I was.”

“Thirty,” Abe replied. “Maybe forty, or more. There were at least a dozen fellows in that boat that turned over on the reef. Early on, I got several chaps who were decked out in dress uniforms with those stupid epaulettes the Spanish like so much. Hopefully, they were senior officers. I reckon they must have been, actually. It took the fellows on those ships a long time to get their act together.” He chuckled ruefully: “Not that I’m entirely convinced they’ve got their act together even now!”

Shooting off the big guns had been lashing out, not a thing anybody had thought through; and sending those boats full of men through the reef in broad daylight had been just plain stupid.

If the people on those ships had switched on all their searchlights at once they might have wrecked his night vision, instead, like everything else the Dominicans had done thus far, their reactions had been piecemeal, uncoordinated.

Now, true to form it was highly likely, that the idiots were landing men ashore probably without the least idea how to mount, let alone conduct, a night search of totally unfamiliar ground.

Abe grunted, suddenly feeling a lot less worn out. Already he had raised himself to his hands and knees.

“Where are you going, old man?”

“To kill Spaniards.”

“Oh, I see…” Ted Forest realised his friend had discarded the Mauser and was struggling to his feet. “What do you have in mind?”

“Keep your Webley ready,” Abe said, his voice distracted as the hunter in him stepped to the fore, drowning out the voices of his better angels. “These people have no idea what they are doing. They are helpless in the night. They ought to have waited until just before dawn to put men ashore.”

Ted Forest was unable to draw any meaningful conclusions from this. However, the last few days, and hours, had given him ample opportunities to observe exactly how well adapted, and well, dangerous, astonishingly dangerous, in fact, his friend was in extremis.

And besides, he was too tired to pester him further.

He registered that the small fire axe was in his friend’s right hand.

One thought occurred to him: “Oughtn’t we to have some sort of password? You know, to stop me shooting you the next time you emerge out of the bushes?”

“Kate,” Abe murmured.

Then the hunter was gone, swallowed silently by the night.

Chapter 23

Tuesday 11th April

Coolidge Mansion, Shinnecock Hills, Long Island

In the brilliantly illuminated darkness Maude Daventry-Jones parked her Albany Roadster, a soberly liveried, gentrified version of the racer which dare devils had raced – mostly in New Jersey, Baltimore and Boston – around city streets only ten years ago, on the gravelled drive in front of her best friend’s not so humble abode. Getting out, she allowed one of the houseboys to take her keys and to park her pride and joy, and walked up the steps to the cathedral-like front door of the Coolidge castle.

Leonora planned to move to her Manhattan town house when the baby was born; not that she had informed her parents yet. She would leave that to Alex, who had Sir Max and Lady Geraldine wrapped around his little finger. Nobody knew how he managed that.

It was a matter that Maud planned to discuss with Mister Albert Stanton when he returned to New England, hopefully, quite soon now.

Everybody thought Albert was dead, of course.

Notwithstanding, she planned to speak of many things with him when he got back from Europe!

Maude had decided that she knew the man she intended to marry, much better than the others. Albeit only on the strength of a long tete-a-tete at that party at Shinnecock Hills and their subsequent, dreamlike dinner in Manhattan, Albert did not strike her as the sort of man to do anything so silly as to get himself killed. Or rather, at least not until he had had his wicked way with her, a consummation she much desired. Besides, contrary to what so many people told her, ‘hope’ was much less corrosive than grief, which she did not wish to waste on Albert until she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that there was a lifeless cadaver involved in the transaction.

In any event, when Leonora had called her that afternoon complaining that she was ‘lonely’, Maude had needed no second invitation to throw on some glad rags and motor over to the eastern end of Long Island.

“Alex rang last night,” her friend explained once they had hugged and taken themselves aside into one of Leonora’s private first floor rooms. “His ship is at Norfolk. He went to visit Kate Lincoln. Apparently, she was much more sensible about Abe being missing than he was. I think she ended up comforting him. He said it was the first time that he really felt she was his ‘sister’. Isn’t that peculiar?”

Maude thought about this.

“Alex was always the one who was on Abe’s side over Kate,” she offered.

“True. But he never actually thought Abe marrying a native girl was a good idea before…”

Maude understood why her friend’s voice trailed off.

Even Leonora was beginning to show signs of wear and tear now he pregnancy was so advanced. Maude reckoned that if she was so far gone as her friend, she would be a complete mess but being a ‘complete mess’ was simply not Leonora’s style.

“Until the Empire Day atrocities, you mean?”

“Yes,” Leonora admitted. “We were all different people a couple of years ago, don’t you think?”

Maude nodded vigorously.

“It must be terrible for Kate and all the other wives in Norfolk?”

“I think it just makes all the other Navy people angrier with the Spanish,” Leonora grimaced. “Remember Brave Achilles!”

Maude shivered.

“There’s still no word from Spain?” Her friend checked.

“No.”

Leonora bent over and kissed Maude’s cheek.

She did not say: “Everything will work out, you’ll see.”

That was the sort of thing that stupid people said and she was neither stupid, or weak-minded and nor was Maude.

“The Governor and his wife must be beyond themselves over Lady Henrietta and that other woman…”

“Melody Danson,” Maude supplied. “Nobody knows what happened to them on the night of the coup. At least we know that Albert was travelling to Spain as a war correspondent…”

The stories emerging from Spain gave rise to little optimism that a ‘war correspondent’ was likely to fare any better than any other interloper in the general blood-letting. Goodness, the mob had ransacked the British and other ‘unfriendly’ embassies and consulates of non-Catholic countries, countless diplomats and their families had been butchered in the street or were currently being held in prison on trumped up charges, or basically, blatantly being held for ransom by military and religious groups who were no better – in fact ten times worse – than bandits.

The Governor of New England had been asked by newspaper and TV reporters if he would pay a ransom to obtain his daughter’s freedom. Lord De L’Isle had coolly reminded his interrogators that by law, as an officer, a gentleman and a servant of the Crown that he was specifically forbidden to treat with ‘criminal demands’ of any kind. He had added that it would be ‘fundamentally unjust for a man in my position to employ my theoretical power, and or influence, or my wealth – which, incidentally, is relatively humble by modern day standards – to secure special treatment for my relations when everybody knows that such an option is not available to persons of a lesser position in society or without my family’s substantial private means.’

Lady Diana, the Governor’s wife, had given similar interviews to the press: ‘My husband and I feel deeply for other parents, brothers, sisters and friends who like us, must be worried sick about loved ones trapped in Spain at this time. Henrietta would never forgive us if we were to improperly use our family’s situation to in any way assist her in jumping the queue. That is not, and it never will be the way of the Sidney family!’

A teenage girl in the uniform of the Coolidge family – blues and greys – served the women afternoon tea; cream tea, in fact. Scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam.

Maude patted her tummy.

“If you go on spoiling me like this I’ll be as fat as a barrel when Albert gets home,” she complained half-heartedly.

“I think he’ll like you even more that way, dear!”

The friends giggled.

“Sometimes,” Maude confessed, unbidden, “I wonder if I am just being silly. I mean, I hardly know Albert.”

“Alex almost got me killed on our first date,” Leonora reminded her. “And as for our second date, well, I spent most of that on my back!”

Maude coloured.

She had always been terrified of boys, men really, before she became friendly with Leonora and belatedly realised the error of her ways. For all that she was still a virgin; at least in the sense that she had never gone ‘all the way’ with a man. Which was not to say that she had not explored a lot of the other ways short of ‘all’, just that she had never actually slept with a man…

She determined not to dwell on that today.

“Daddy says the Spanish attacked all along the Border this morning,” Leonora announced suddenly. “The markets are already in free fall.”

Maude had heard something similar on the radio as she motored across Long Island.

“I thought that war was always good news for great magnets like Sir Max?” She countered, trying to sound bright.

“Only in the end,” Leonora retorted. “That’s after all the magnets have got together, double-crossed each other a few times and the law of the jungle has made some of them obscenely rich and all the others just wealthier.”

“That’s dreadfully cynical, dear.”

“Yes, isn’t it. Daddy and all his friends knew the war was coming. All the Long Island magnets, I mean. That’s why they had their brokers piling into shipyards, aeroplane works and the factories that manufacture the latest armoured land cruisers. When the government comes to them to build the new machines our boys at the front are going to need, they’ll all get together to inflate and fix the prices…”

“Is that what Alex thinks?”

Leonora shook her head, smiled wanly.

“No, he doesn’t care a hoot about any of that. I think it is all just a great big game to him. Even this crazy nonsense about joining the Navy!”

“You knew he was a hero when you married him?”

“This is true. But…”

Maude rose from her chair, concern etching lines on her face.

“Are you all right?”

Leonora had staggered momentarily to her feet, now she steadied and sat down.

“I’m quite fine, really.”

Maude was unconvinced.

“Should I call…”

“No, no, I wish people wouldn’t fuss over me all the time.”

“Sorry…”

“I don’t mean you, darling. Goodness, if I didn’t have you to keep me sane, I don’t know what I’d do!”

Maude’s vision went a little blurry.

She thought she was going to cry.

“I feel pretty much the same way about you, you know.”

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

There was no denying this.

“Oh dear,” Leonora murmured, groaning.

“What?”

Maude was surprised to discover that having jumped to her feet she found herself looking down into Leonora’s rueful half-smile.

“I think we ought to call the doctors now,” the other woman suggested, grimacing with sudden discomfort.

“Why, are you…”

“Yes. I think my waters have just broken.”

Chapter 24

Tuesday 11th April

Salamanca, Spain

The lights of the city twinkled ever-brighter as the boat drifted on the spring flood beneath an ancient stone bridge. The River Tormes was unpassable east of Salamanca at most seasons of the year, a wide, slow-moving, shallow stream which meandered through wooded muddy sand banks, partially tamed here and there by low weirs which created lethal mini rapids. However, the snow from the mountains was melting, the recent storms had swollen the channel and now flooded many of the lower-lying banks.

Paul Nash and Albert Stanton sweated and strained on their oars, Melody Danson held another, shorter oar over the stern of the twelve-foot, leaky boat as Henrietta – and to less effect, little Pedro – desperately baled water over the side.

“Right, right, right!” Paul Nash growled at Melody, who did what she was told, instantly feeling the iron-heavy weight of the river resisting her makeshift rudder.

The boat grounded momentarily before it was swept along.

It began to rain as they all heard the river tumbling over the approaching flooded weir. A hundred years ago the Tormes had been partially dammed east of the city but that structure had – like many of the boons of Spain’s long-lost golden age – fallen into disrepair and collapsed decades ago, leaving several perilous threats to navigation. The weir was breached in three places, most badly in the mid-stream, where the current had sculpted a plethora of deep, fast-flowing channels, small whirlpools and nearer the banks, dead, unmoving pools which were only disturbed when, as now, the Tormes was in semi-flood.

“Don’t try to fight the current!” Paul Nash commanded.

The soldier, adventurer, spy was imperturbable, inexhaustible, and relentlessly cheerful. Inevitably, it was this latter which most irritated the others.

Although they had eaten well in the morning before they had set out from Alba de Tormes, the parting gift from the wives of the men for whose derelict boat they had exchanged the Inquisition’s Blohm and Mertz limousine, they were all hungry again and not so much at the end of their tethers, as well beyond, yet Paul Nash remained unwearied, unworried and infuriatingly optimistic.

And always, enigmatic.

Melody never quite felt she understood who or what he was. It had dawned on her that she might not even be right about the real nature of the mission the man had been sent on. True, he had hinted that rescuing Henrietta was the main, if not the big thing, and that subsidiary to this he was not going to let either her or Hen fall into Spanish hands.

But what was real?

And what was smoke and mirrors?

Most of all it made her aware that for all her worldliness – certainly by New England standards – she had not really appreciated, until it was far too late, that by returning to Europe and then Spain, she would be so profoundly out of her depth.

Accepting the mission to Madrid had been a mistake on so many levels that looking back, she was appalled that she had been so easily gulled into playing along. Obviously, the coup cum civil war which had turned her and Henrietta into fugitives, presumably with huge prices on their heads, trumped all other considerations for the moment but even had their time in Spain ended uneventfully, coming back to Europe on a commission to be a part of a Colonial Office fig leaf, feminine window dressing to mitigate the worst implications of Spanish involvement in the Empire Day atrocities, had been just plain… dumb.

“Oars out of the water now!” Paul Nash yelled.

Melody struggled to lift her rudder oar, lost her balance and fell into the boat. The oar gave her a painful thwack as she was briefly spread-eagled across it. Feeling very stupid she tried to regain her feet; to no avail because that was when the boat flew through the torrent pouring through the big breach in the old weir.

It was a moment before she realised that she was the one screaming the loudest. The next thing she knew was that suddenly there was an awful lot of water in the boat.

Paul Nash had splashed his oar back into the water.

“Everybody bale for your lives!”

Apart from the two tin mugs that Henrietta and Pedro had been employing there was nothing for it but to cup hands and do what could be done as the craft wallowed down river, slowing a little as it passed into deeper waters between the half-flooded darkling woods on the mudbanks to either side.

Nobody looked outside of the boat.

Melody tore off her head cloth, breathed a sigh of relief as it immediately proved a more effective way of getting water over the side. Needless to say, she was soon soaking wet, as were the others. For an age their frantic efforts seemed to make no difference and then, ever so slowly, the level of water began to fall. When the water only wetted their knees, they began to sigh heartfelt sighs of relief.

“That’s enough. Everybody as quiet as a mouse, please!”

Instinctively, the two women tried to make themselves invisible beneath the gunwales, sheltering Pedro between them, meanwhile Albert Stanton picked up the rudder oar.

As the boat swung slowly around a bend in the broadening river the city of Salamanca reared high above the passing banks: darkly to the south, brightly, magisterially proudly to the north.

They drifted under another bridge.

Something clunked against the planking.

“Just a branch from a tree,” Paul Nash said reassuringly. “There’s a lot of debris in the river at this time of year.”

A drizzle of rain was falling.

Melody imagined she heard a car driving across the bridge above her, and in the distance the ringing of bells. She had lived in Salamanca for a month or so as a girl; her parents had dragged her around endless churches and museums. The only thing she still remembered, vividly, was putting her young hand in the yawning cracks – crevices by any other name – in the walls of the great cathedral, the legacy of the famous Lisbon earthquake of 1755.

“Hang on!”

The boat crunched into something so solid, so unyielding that it could only have been the footings of a bridge. There was a brief, horribly loud scraping noise which seemed to the occupants of the wildly rocking boat like a cat’s claws raking glass, and then they were drifting onwards.

“Sorry about that,” Paul Nash guffawed, “our dinghy decided it wanted to shoot the narrowest arch.”

Melody sat up.

She stared at the lights of the city.

The last day had been exhausting but otherwise without particular terrors. Perhaps, that it only seemed that way because they were all so inured to things; aware, as never before, of their frailty and of exactly how tenuous human existence could be and often was. She knew she was already a changed woman and suspected Henrietta was no different; that neither of them could or would lead the lives they had planned back in new England. It was as if they had lived one life up until that night at Chinchón, and another, totally other life thereafter. There was no going back, no becoming again the women they had been before that fateful night when the Duke of Medina-Sidonia’s arms men had spirited them away from the clutches of the Inquisition.

She wondered if Alonso was still alive.

She thought about him a lot…

She also fretted about the fate which might have befallen the people she had met at the Embassy in Madrid.

But mostly, she thought about Alonso Pérez de Guzmán, 18th Duke of Medina Sidonia, the handsome thirty-nine-year-old castellan of the Comarca de Las Vegas; the mysterious, beguiling courtier-diplomat-cavalryman-spy whom it seemed had been aligned to the losing faction – the Queen’s, or one of the other losing factions, she did not know which clause applied – that night around a month ago.

Alonso…

Paul Nash had brought his oar inboard.

The boat was gliding, carrying them where it might.

The loom of Salamanca’s lights glistened dully off the gun metal of the silenced automatic pistol cradled in his hands as he surveyed the northern bank of the river.

The city seemed to be sliding past interminably slowly.

“Try and steer us closer to the bank, Albert,” Nash suggested.

The Manhattan Globe man grunted an acknowledgement and leaned on his oar.

Melody tried to make herself small in the three inches of water lapping around in the bottom of the boat. Henrietta was mouthing a prayer. She blinked at Melody.

The women tried to lift Pedro out of the water, keep him warm with their bodies. The boy was shivering.

Paul Nash seemed to be reading their thoughts.

Although, actually, he was simply two or three steps ahead of them; as indeed, he had been all along.

“Once we’re past the city we’ll look for somewhere to go ashore. Send the boat on down-stream. We need to find somewhere to dry out and warm up. After tonight we walk until we drop.”

Melody would have argued.

She was too tired.

From memory, she thought that west of Salamanca the Tormes cut through increasingly jagged valleys and canyons as it fell off the great plateau of central Spain to join the Douro at, or near the Portuguese border. Salamanca was about forty or fifty miles from the border…

Time passed, the city lights dimmed and contrary to his promise, clearly a thing said to raise their spirits, Paul Nash made no attempt to put the boat aground. In the end Melody must have drifted into a fitful sleep.

Or more likely, just passed out.

Chapter 25

Tuesday 11th April

Little Inagua, West Indies

Abe had waited until the disorganised Mauser-armed skirmish line – with twelve-inch bayonets fixed and glinting in the night – had walked, or rather, stumbled past him. There were too few sailors in the search line, there was too far between each man for easy or in any sense effective communication, and in any event, as they moved forward – with understandable caution and a natural lack of enthusiasm – the men’s spacing became ever more irregular. Nobody seemed to be setting the pace, let alone checking the integrity of the line and there were soon exaggerated dog-legs in the formation.

Nevertheless, one man had almost trodden on Abe as he lay motionless in the undergrowth.

Abe had silently risen to his feet, walked two paces, and then a third, and brained the poor fellow with the flat of his hatchet. He had used the ‘flat’ of the axe blade because he wanted to avoid covering the man’s kit and weapons in blood. If he had stopped to think about that he would have realised how ‘cold’ that was; but he did not. Stop to think about it, that was. The man had gone down on his face, thereafter it had been the work of a moment to snap his neck, much in the fashion Tsiokwaris had taught him all those years ago to finish off a wounded, downed deer.

He had pulled off the man’s jacket, struggled into it. It was a size or two too small. However, sartorial elegance was secondary; right now, he just needed to looked vaguely like all the other Dominican sailors on Little Inagua.

He had picked up the dead man’s Mauser.

A bullet in the chamber…

There were two more five-round clipper strips in his waist pouch to add to the four rounds in Abe’s tattered trousers’ back pocket.

Then he carried on moving into the interior with the others, gradually falling behind the majority before, judging he was far enough away from where he had left Ted Forrest, he ducked down and waited.

It was about fifteen minutes before somebody realised a man was missing. The idiots only sent two men back to find him. Not together, or working as a team, you understand but as two individuals quartering the ground as they saw fit. Abe shot one by the loom of the searchlights continuously playing across two to three miles of the southern coast of the island. Any man who put his head above the bushes at the wrong moment was visible for hundreds of yards in every direction.

Within seconds several other rifle shots rang out.

He had no idea who the Dominicans were shooting at; although he was certain they were not shooting at him.

More searchlights began playing across the island.

Just to add to the confusion Abe shot another man a quarter-of-a-mile to his left before he ducked down again and zig-zagging through the undergrowth, careful not to leave a trail of moving brush and saplings, moved towards a position a couple of hundred yards nearer to the beach.

He needed to draw the searchers away from where he had left Ted Forest, and the only way that was going to happen was if he got close enough to the beach to snipe again at the Reina Eugenie.

From what he had seen of his enemy he reacted badly to pain and had not the first idea how to respond to surprises. So, he planned to give them as many very nasty surprises as he could!

The bayonet on the Mauser kept fouling the undergrowth.

A couple of times he contemplated ditching it; he had the hatchet, after all, uncomfortably bouncing against his lower spine, loosely slung in his back waistband.

“A qué mierda crees que vas, marinero?”

The man ahead of him was a little to Abe’s right and had stepped out of the bushes with his Mauser pointing, albeit only more or less, in his direction.

Abe did not speak Spanish.

Nevertheless, he got the gist of the question: “Where the fuck do you think you are going, sailor?”

He thought about shooting the man.

No, I need to be closer to the beach before I make a nuisance of myself!

Several seconds later he was reflecting that, in hindsight, it might have been much better to have just shot the man. Abe’s initial bayonet thrust must have skewered him; he still screamed and went on screaming as he twisted the blade, sucked it out of his guts and struck a second and a third time. Momentarily, the bayonet had got stuck…

He killed the Dominican with the hand axe.

Splitting his face and head…

By then the hue and cry had already begun.

Leaving his own bloodied, possibly damaged Mauser on the ground next to the dead man he swept up his victim’s weapon and ammunition pouch and navigated an erratic route through the scrub which he hoped would bring him close to the shore more or less opposite the gap in the reef, some three hundred yards astern of the Reina Eugenie.

There were more shots.

None passed near Abe.

Searchlights were blazing above his head, focusing on the area he had just vacated. Each time he stopped to bob half a head, periscope-like above the level of the surrounding vegetation he noted the marvellous contrast the loom of the searchlights cast far and wide. Their dazzle would make it virtually impossible, other than by a fluke of circumstance, for anybody on those ships to identify the muzzle flash of his rifle. The fools needed to switch off the big lamps, to allow the eyes of the men onshore to adjust to the darkness; presently, the Dominicans were as good as blind on those ships, and on land.

Sensing a searchlight beam sweeping his way Abe flattened himself on the sand and shut his eyes. He had always had good night vision, ‘cat’s eyes’, Kate used to tease him. He had never imagined it would come in so useful in a situation so extraordinary to defy… belief.

He waited, listening hard.

Then, satisfied that nobody was in the vicinity he scrambled forward, pausing only to discard the Mauser’s bayonet, remembering how he had seen the blades of the other sailors’ weapons glinting in the night.

Some minutes later, dripping in sweat and gasping for air, his heart pounding madly, Abe collapsed onto the ground. He knew he was close to the beach because the surf sounded loud. Presently, his heart beat and his thoughts slowed and he began to assimilate his new surroundings.

The Dominicans had stopped shooting, and shouting, at each other as they crashed around like bulls in china shops. Curiously, no further reinforcements had come ashore and there was very little visible activity on board the Reina Eugenie.

Okay, they finally got it that it was dangerous on deck!

That said, the poor chumps standing on the open searchlight platforms must be feeling like tin soldiers in a fairground shooting gallery!

The odd-looking battleship’s forward and aft turrets were trained inland. Even in the gloom Abe made out a thin plume of smoke hazing the atmosphere above her funnel. In fact, he could taste the acrid tang of coal dust in the atmosphere.

The wind had shifted after sunset…

Studying the battleship, he realised that there was a new silhouette, another big ship anchored farther out in the channel. It was hard to make out any details but this vessel had a more modern look about it than the Reina Eugenie’s two ironclad consorts.

A blocky, overlarge bridge, three stacks, two turrets fore and aft reminiscent of the layout of British heavy cruisers of the mid-century period. Ted Forest would know more about these things than he, of course. Abe had never taken any interest in things naval before he was co-opted in the RNAS; before he had joined the Navy the only waters he had ever ‘messed about on’ were those of the Mohawk River…

He needed not to be thinking about those days.

Or of Kate… it hurt too much.

He decided to shoot out the battleship’s aft searchlight first.

Chapter 26

Wednesday 12th April

Fleet Headquarters, Norfolk, Virginia

Admiral Lord Collingwood, C-in-C Atlantic Fleet was cheered by being able, for the first time in this war, to be able to report a little good news to the Governor of New England. However, his morsels of encouragement were, inevitably, somewhat over-shadowed by the grim reports pouring in from the South West Front.

Colonial forces were in retreat everywhere from West Texas to the borders of Spanish Alta California, having been struck by a tsunami of land cruisers and massed infantry, supported by thousands of cavalrymen beneath skies black with aircraft of the Fuerza Aerea de Nueva Granada – the Air Force of New Granada – mercilessly dive-bombing and strafing the fleeing Imperial formations.

It was common knowledge that the ‘Mexicans’ had obtained, courtesy of their German ‘friends’ numerous 1950’s and early 1960’s cast off from the Fliegertruppen des deutschen Kaiserreiches, the Imperial German Flying Corps, when that service was in the process of modernisation into its present incarnation, the Deutsche Luftstreitkräfte; what had not been appreciated was that many of the Mexicans’ front line units were, it now seemed, equipped with variants of state of the art propeller-driven bombers and fighters quite the equal of anything possessed by the massively outnumbered Colonial Air Force units in the theatre.

Enemy forces had penetrated over fifty miles behind New England lines in less than forty-eight hours. Nightmarishly, there was little to stop the all-conquering invaders driving all the way to the Mississippi Delta in the east and up into the Colorado high lands to the north; with all the territories in between now lying at the mercy of the invaders.

“That’s jolly good news, Cuthbert,” Philip De L’Isle affirmed when his friend had completed his terse report of the first operations conducted by one of the Royal Navy’s new ‘super’ carriers.

The scrambled land line between Norfolk and Government House in Philadelphia was pleasantly clear, proof positive of the efficacy of the latest digital communications systems installed at both ends of the line in recent months.

At the crack of dawn that morning a strike force of eight Sea Eagle torpedo bombers and six dive-bombers, escorted by eighteen Goshawk scouts had sortied from HMS Ulysses – then holding station north east of the Turks and Caicos Islands – against enemy surface units operating in the lee of Little Inagua Island and ‘targets of opportunity’ on Great Inagua.

“You say our Sea Eagles put at least one fish into one of the Spaniards big ships?”

“Yes,” Collingwood confirmed, keen not to over-egg the as yet preliminary combat assessments to hand. In the heat of battle personal accounts and impressions were no always to be trusted; later today the first of the gun camera and bomb-aiming films would become available, likewise more information about the drop points and performance of the relatively new, unproven aerial torpedoes employed. “Another ship, one of their ironclad cruisers took a couple of bomb hits, too, we think. Our Goshawks had a merry old time shooting up the harbour at Matthew Town. We obviously caught the bounders with their trousers down.”

Collingwood did not dwell on such matters.

“Indomitable is under way again. She has significant underwater damage and her starboard turbine rooms are out of commission but she is still capable of making fifteen knots. The plan is to bring her home, well, back to the St John’s River for makeshift repairs, via coastal waters. The RNAS has already commenced anti-submarine patrols to cover Indomitable’s return. I have sent four of Indomitable’s destroyers to join the Devonshire Squadron off the Delta.”

“Devonshire?” The Governor of New England queried, distractedly.

“In Indomitable’s absence, Devonshire’s eight-inchers are the biggest guns we have at sea in the waters of the Gulf of Spain.”

“Ought we to leave her out there, Cuthbert?”

Collingwood had mulled exactly this question overnight.

“Ideally, no. But in the circumstances, the Navy cannot be seen to be pulling out of harm’s way, sir.”

“Quite, quite. Forgive me, I did not intend to give the impression I was, er, jogging your arm, Cuthbert.”

Collingwood had taken no offence.

Jamaica had fallen.

Indomitable was limping out of the fray.

The situation in the Borderlands was nothing short of disastrous.

At times like this, friends needed to stand shoulder to shoulder.

“The Perseus task force is presently steaming south to co-ordinate its operations with the Ulysses, sir,” Collingwood went on. “The Indefatigable has also put to sea with her own gun line, ostensibly to operate independently of both Task Force 5.1 and 5.2. Once we’ve achieved aerial superiority over the seas north of Cuba and Santo Domingo, I plan to send gun lines inshore to bring the war to the peoples of those islands.”

Philip De L’Isle had often discussed the arcane consequences of the rapidly developing new war-fighting technologies with his friend. ‘Air superiority’ was everything, without it the most powerful ships afloat had, in the course of the last twenty years, become horribly vulnerable to attack from the air.

Thus far, there had been no unsettling revelations about the ‘air power’ of the lesser partners in the Triple Alliance. Neither Cuba, Santo Domingo, Hispaniola or any of the other minor players possessed modern scouts or bombers, mostly, their air forces comprised string bag biplanes or slow, first generation monoplanes, and they had no heavy bombers other than a handful of aging ‘clippers’, large seaplanes converted from civilian employment. That said, it was believed that these ‘junior’ partners possessed a very large number of old, otherwise obsolete aircraft and as any military man could attest, weight of numbers was never to be discounted.

Problematically, if the British Empire’s former advantage in quality over quantity had been rendered null and void in the West, it might now be that the one hundred and thirty modern aircraft on the Ulysses and the Perseus, might now be confronting possibly thousands of theoretically less capable aircraft but nevertheless, thousands of them, in the Eastern sector.

“Once Perseus is on station,” Collingwood continued, “we shall start ‘beating up’ the Cuban and Dominican air defence systems, such as they are, and wrecking their airfields. If the beggars are so ill-advised as to place their ships upon the open seas, we shall harry them all the way to the bottom of the ocean!”

Neither man asked what the Royal Navy could do to take the pressure off the hard-pressed colonial forces on the South West Front. Had Collingwood been permitted to station powerful squadrons at Jamaica, or to patrol the western Gulf of Spain with one or other of his carrier task forces, it might have deterred the Triple Alliance. However, such deployments had been viewed as ‘provocative’ in London, now if the C-in-C wanted to command those dangerous seas his men were going to have to pay a heavy price in blood and ships.

Philip De L’Isle had always known that even if things went badly down on the Border, Imperial forces could always play the long game. Specifically, garrison New Orleans knowing that the Delta and the Mississippi itself would be impenetrable barriers to the eastern march of any Mexican army. Likewise, New England could afford to trade tens, and if necessary, hundreds of thousands of square miles of territory in the West to an invading army. Wrecking everything in their rear, retreating colonial forces, scorching the earth, could, eventually simply allow their enemies to wither, starve, die of thirst in the trackless desert they left behind them. Yes, that was a strategy of despair but then no New Englander had been, to date, prepared to pay for a standing army large enough, and well-enough equipped, to defend the thousand miles of contested borders down in the South West.

The Governor of the Commonwealth of New England took absolutely no pleasure in knowledge, and having told his principals in London, repeatedly, that sooner or later local and Imperial parsimony in respect of his Colony’s military preparedness on land, if not at sea, might be their downfall.

De L’Isle changed the subject.

“There were no German nationals on the submarine which attacked the Indomitable?”

“No. The boat has sunk now. My people tell me it is a modified Kaiserliche Marine Type IV. Three hundred and fifty tons, a couple of forward torpedo tubes and a crew of thirty-six. We have thirteen men in custody, all Cuban. The boat was built in one of those big sheds we identified at Havana some years back. They hide the bloody things away in concrete pens at bases along their northern coast.”

Cuthbert Collingwood was disgusted.

“Dammit, we should never have trusted the bloody Germans!”

Philip De L’Isle let this remark go uncontested.

“Well, at least we stole a march on Berlin with all these big carriers you persuaded the Admiralty to build, Cuthbert!”

Both men knew that moves were afoot to send at least one, perhaps, two more of the great ships across the North Atlantic. The only reason movement orders had not already been drafted was that the ‘situation’ of the German Government was as yet, regarded as being somewhat… fluid. With the old Kaiser clearly in terminal decline nobody in Whitehall was entirely sure who, exactly, was in charge in Berlin. Things were so worrying, that practically everybody in Great Britain now fervently hoped that the Crown Prince, in former years regarded as a feckless philanderer and a clear and present threat to global security and the post-Treaty of Paris world order, would emerge as the new German Emperor. For all his faults, it was felt that at least ‘young Willy’ was a man London could do business with.

Unspoken, was another conundrum.

Many times in recent years the Kaiserliche Marine had demanded ‘proof’, if such a thing was not an oxymoron, that the British Empire had not been – somewhere in its vast lands, well over a quarter of the non-oceanic surface of the planet – itself in breach of the Submarine Treaty banning the further manufacture of nuclear devices or reactors, and ‘vessels propelled above or below the water by such contrivances’.

Philip De L’Isle did not know – or need to know, let alone want to know – if his country was rigorously abiding with each and every one of the nuclear protocols of the Submarine Treaty. He had never asked anybody who might be in the know about such things: why would he, they might actually give him an honest answer?

However, like many men at or close to the summit of Imperial power he had his suspicions, albeit ones never voiced, or even alluded to in private, or heaven forfend, in public. Pragmatist that he was, it had always seemed, to say the least, improbable, that somewhere remote, cut off from the rest of the world – there were countless such places in the Empire – somebody was not carrying out forbidden research, development, or perhaps, even producing exactly the weapons and systems unilaterally banned under the terms of the Submarine Treaty.

In fact, it was inconceivable to him that the Germans would have so openly supported their allies in the West Indies and the Central Americas, in building vessels such as the one which had crippled the Indomitable had Berlin not strongly suspected that their British co-signatories had their own dirty little secrets. The sort of dirty little secrets which had always prevented British Governments, regardless of political hue, from ‘calling out’ Berlin on its own transgressions. Such, after all, was the normal give and take of diplomacy, the thing which usually maintained the peace.

Personally, the Governor of New England had been one of those who had believed that it would have been better to have stood up to the German Empire back in the mid-1960s, to have bitten the bullet and accepted the reality of the new technologies and their implications rather than attempt to put the nuclear genie back into its bottle.

Over a decade later he was far too worldly a man to know, in his heart of hearts, that his Government would never have actually given away, or accepted such Draconian constraints, as it seemed to have done when it signed the Submarine Treaty, unless it had other, contingency plans in its locker.

Moreover, in the same spirit Berlin would have – and had obviously done in the West Indies – done everything it could to circumvent those inherently odious restrictions on its right to develop nuclear technologies and its undersea warfare capability; it seemed axiomatic to Philip De L’Isle that his own government would have behaved likewise.

Philip De L’Isle had taken it as read that Cuthbert Collingwood was one of the few men who might know, for sure, all of the Empire’s dirty little secrets.

“Oh, well, I suppose we should not be that surprised that our enemies will, from time to time, spring surprises on us,” he observed dryly.

“That is to be expected,” the C-in-C Atlantic Fleet concurred.

The Governor of New England had the distinct impression that the other man was, briefly, smiling like a Cheshire cat as he spoke.

“I’ll let you get about your work, Cuthbert. You have a war to fight; meanwhile, I shall do my best to circumvent an insurrection in the First Thirteen!”

Both men chuckled.

Both men wondering exactly what the other had to be so rueful about…

Chapter 27

Tuesday 12th April

Shinnecock Hills, Long Island

“Our chaps have finally got their act together,” Sir Maxwell Coolidge announced portentously, for reasons best known to himself convinced that the three women and his new born grandson needed, or for some reason, wanted to hear an unscrupulous New York banker’s take on the two-day old war.

Leonora’s mother, Lady Geraldine gave him a censorious look. The new mother and her best friend, Maud Daventry-Jones had not even noticed that the great man had deigned to find time in his financial wheeling and dealing diary, to set eyes upon the latest addition to his clan.

War was not just good for business; it was Manna from Heaven to the bankers who confidently expected that it would be to them that the East Coast colonies would turn to finance their contribution to the coming battles. It was an article of faith in the First Thirteen, and therefore in the Johnny-cum-lately fourteenth and fifteenth colonies of Vermont and New Hampshire, that their taxpayers should be, insofar as it was possible, insulated from the real costs of hostilities. Particularly those skirmishes hundreds, or in the case of the South West, thousands of miles away which when all was said and done, were really the affair of the wider Empire, not exclusively the citizenry of New England. Therefore, it was confidently expected that what relatively small charge was levied upon the Crown Colonies, territories and unincorporated lands of North America could be covered, under existing Imperial credit guarantees, and therefore at no risk to the exchequers of the individual colonies, by the banks; preferably, by the banks of the First Thirteen, just so all the profit stayed in New England. Or rather, in the already deep pockets of men like Sir Max Coolidge.

Thus, despite having been up all night making the final arrangements to create the cartel via which, he and a select band of brothers planned to rob the British taxpayer blind, Leonora’s father was in a very sunny mood that morning.

That his formerly errant, somewhat wild child embarrassing daughter had become something of a reformed character in recent months and now produced a robustly healthy six-pound, thirteen-ounce baby son, was just the icing on the cake.

This was indeed a fine day to be alive.

And to a Manhattan banker.

And to be a grandfather again…

Dammit, he ought to have insisted that Alex accept an appointment on the board of one or other of his companies!

How on earth was the man going to afford to keep his daughter in the style to which she was accustomed on an Air Force salary?

Never mind; that could be revisited when the boy got home…

Leonora had been dozing; her labour had been uncomplicated, just overlong and she was, understandably, exhausted and just wished everybody would go away and leave her alone.

Except for Maude, obviously, who was presently cradling little Alex Lincoln Fielding wearing an expression of very nearly beatific joy. Leonora’s mother had held the baby briefly but motherliness had always come a very poor second to her duties as a hostess, and Long Island’s queen bee socialite.

“What on earth are you talking about Max?” Lady Geraldine demanded irritably.

Like her husband she had also been up all night, although in a better cause than gratuitously conspiring to make huge piles of money out of the death, and the misery of the First Thirteen’s young men.

“Our chaps gave the Spanish a bloody nose in the Bahamas. Sank a cruiser and shot up a couple more. All our boys got back, too! That ought to show the blighters what’s what!”

Maude Daventry-Jones had never seen Leonora’s mother so… disappointed with her husband. She had seen her get testy, even turn a little sneering. Apparently, her friend’s parents’ marriage had never been a love match; more an alliance between two very rich families whose elder statesmen, and women, had determined that it was high time the two tribes made peace and pooled their immense resources. At the time, both Leonora’s parents were the only children already too old to imagine they would be blessed with further offspring, so, there had been no ‘competing’ inheritance ‘issues’; in the event, people said they had knocked along fairly well in the beginning, just not so well from around the time Leonora and her two older brothers, Leo and Max junior had come along and secured the Coolidge line of succession. Lady Geraldine, having performed her maternal duty as a brood mare, had thereafter been a little surplus to requirements in the marriage. Leonora’s father had been a notorious womaniser until he had his first heart attack, five or six years ago.

All families are unhappy in their own way…

Maude’s parents had often seemed like chalk and cheese when she was growing up, they argued, fought sometimes but the big difference between them and Leonora’s parents, was that Maude’s mother and father always, absolutely always, made up after they had had a row. Actually, even now when they were in their late fifties they sometimes behaved like young lovers, much to Maude and her sister’s eternal embarrassment…

Little Alex Lincoln Fielding gurgled.

Maude could tell he needed cleaning.

Her nose wrinkled but she did not mind.

If she had not already been feeling broody; she had been, ever since she set her sights on Albert Stanton, she would have been now.

“He’s a fine-looking boy!” Sir Max declared. “He’s got his father’s nose!”

The great man clearly wanted to be somewhere else.

He was far too important to be ‘baby gazing’ when there was money to be made!

“Go away, Max,” Lady Geraldine snapped lowly. “The baby needs a feed.”

“Oh, right you are…”

Leonora stirred herself and Maude passed her precious bundle of new life back to the weary mother, who sleepily put tiny Alex to her breast. If the kid was anything like his father, he would get the message sooner rather than later…

“Why on earth do you put up with Daddy?” She asked her mother.

“Seriously,” Lady Geraldine murmured.

“Yes?” Leonora confirmed. “You hate each other’s guts, so why do you stay with him?”

Maude froze, hoping the ground would open beneath her feet and swallow her.

“If I didn’t, I’d spend my declining years in penury,” Leonora’s mother explained dryly. “Your father would see to that. Then he’d marry some little harlot actress or perhaps, one of your friends, my dear. Just to humiliate me.”

“Maude’s my only real friend, these days,” Leonora said, wanly. “I don’t think Maude would marry the old goat. Would you, dear…”

“Certainly not,” her friend confirmed.

Lady Geraldine was nothing if not a very practical woman.

“I’ll leave you two alone with Alex,” she decided, rising stiffly to her feet. Leonora had inherited her lean, willowy frame and once straw blond, now greying hair. “I’ll send the nurse in to change Alex in due course,” she added, knowing that neither of the two younger women – born into the lap of luxury – had the foggiest idea how to change a nappy. “You can learn all about that another time.”

Maude was still in a state of mild shock, having been present for every minute of Leonora’s confinement and held Alex junior moments after his birth – albeit briefly – before she passed the little mite to his mother.

She became aware that Leonora was watching her, her eyes gently amused.

“What?” Maude asked.

“I hope the last twenty-four hours haven’t put you off children for good?”

“No. I was pleased, honoured, I suppose, to be here, with you,” Maude shrugged, tears dripping down her face.

“I meant that about you being my only real friend,” Leonora smiled sleepily. “None of my old friends were friends at all, I found that out after the Empire Day thing. But you’ve always been there for me. Like a sister…”

Now they were both crying.

Chapter 28

Tuesday 12th April

Little Inagua, West Indies

Abe’s throat burned dry, he was hungrier than he had ever been in his whole life, enfeebled, trembling with starvation, feverish now and weary beyond measure. His vision was blurring, he knew he was at the end of his tether and worse, he had no idea if the Dominicans had stumbled across Ted Forest’s hiding place after the air attack.

It was this more than anything which tormented him.

He had done his best, God, if there was one knew that, to keep the blighters busy. When he ran out of ammunition for the Mauser, he had stalked two – or was it three men? – with the hatchet. He had had to abandon that, too, when it got stuck in a Dominican sailor’s back. He had tried to pull the damned thing out but it would not budge…

After that he had become the hunted, prey.

He had known he was done for as the first light of the new day broke over the ships anchored in the channel, close offshore. He was too weak to fight any more, lying half-buried in the sand a few yards back from the beach about a quarter-of-a-mile east of the nearest ironclad cruiser.

Overnight, the two older cruisers had moored virtually bow to stern to the south of the Reina Eugenie, forming an impenetrable anti-torpedo barrage. Meanwhile, the big modern-looking cruiser which had turned up yesterday…

In the afternoon?

Everything was getting jumbled, one memory tripping over another or sinking into the quicksands of his mind…

Anyway, it had moored about two hundred yards out, stern-on to the shore off the battleship’s bow. Farther out to sea Abe thought he made out the black coal smoke of several of the Spaniard’s ancient three-stack torpedo boat destroyers.

He had wished Ted was with him to identify those ships…

When the Dominicans caught up with him, they would want to cut him to pieces slowly, possibly over an open fire. It was a measure of how far gone he was, that Abe really did not care anymore.

What with one thing and another, he had had a pretty good innings. He had done the right thing by Kate, his brothers, and in the last few days, by his King.

If he had had the energy he would have got up on his hind legs and shouted: “I’m over here, chaps! Come and get me!”

Just to end it.

Irritatingly, the clowns kept walking straight past his unmoving. Bloodied form; perhaps, they thought they were looking at the lifeless body of one of their friends?

Then, as the sun peered just above the eastern horizon and began to cast long shadows from the warships in the channel, Abe thought he heard something.

The angry buzzing of bees…

Aircraft engines.

And suddenly the Dominican sailors were running down to the beach pointing towards the heavens.

Which, all things considered, was a bit odd because moments later two Goshawk Mark IV scouts rocketed very nearly above Abe’s head with their machine guns and cannons yammering.

The water between the Reina Eugenie and the shore was torn to spray, then the bullets were rushing along the side of the battleship and exploding around her funnel and lightweight bridge superstructure.

The Goshawks were gone in a flash, climbing away into the hazy, grey skies.

Another pair rocketed in from somewhere to the east, again targeting the Reina Eugenia. Fires were smoking on the battleship’s decks by the time two more of the big, gull-winged scouts swooped upon her.

Something in Abe’s head told him that the Goshawks could do very little damage to a leviathan like the Reina Eugenie except tear up her decks and riddle her superstructure.

Then two huge waterspouts reared up between the battleship and the beach.

Big bombs…

Five hundred or one-thousand pounders, he guessed.

Abe rolled onto his back and peered into the grey blue above the enemy ships; spied the ever-growing forms of aircraft diving very nearly vertically on their prey, fancied he saw more black specs tumble away from their under-wing hard points.

Those were Sea Eagles…

The seas around the battleship erupted.

There was a livid crimson flash somewhere in the vicinity of the old ship’s aft main battery turret.

A Goshawk flashed along the line of the beach, scything down a gang of gawping Dominican seamen. The idiots had not even had the presence of mind to put their rifles to their shoulders and shoot at the attacking aircraft.

Abe clearly saw the RNAS roundel on the Goshawk’s flank.

As the cloud of smoke and falling debris began to lift Abe could see that the Reina Eugenie was in a bad way. Flames licked all around her aft deckhouse, her stern chains had parted and the tide was already swinging her quarterdeck towards the beach.

Although it all seemed timeless, he guessed the attack had been under way for less than a minute. Notwithstanding the sky looked like it was full of aircraft he had thus far only counted about a dozen machines.

Now the ironclads out in the channel were blazing away.

Abe had no way of knowing what they were shooting at.

Not for a moment or two.

Then he realised they were engaging planes low down, skimming the waves: torpedo bombers. As if in confirmation the first of the Sea Eagles barrelled above the westernmost ironclad at literally, masthead height.

Another followed, then a third and a fourth.

He waited for the ironclad to be torn apart by the multiple impacts of the ‘fish’ that must be tracking straight for her. Instead, the oddest thing happened.

Barely fifty feet down the beach a silvery metal tube flew through the surf and came to a whirring, noisy stop several feet out of the water.

Abe blinked in astonishment.

The 21-inch torpedo must have passed under the ironclads, and missed the stern of the Reina Eugenie by a whisker before driving on, and up the beach.

Still he waited for the detonations of the other torpedoes.

Nothing happened.

All the Dominican ships were shooting, although at what exactly, was something of a moot point for a minute or so.

Abe was preoccupied watching the Reina Eugenie. The ship had definitely settled in the water by the stern. One of her screws was turning, she must have cut loose her forward anchors, and she was, ever so ponderously, edging away from the shore, with ever-more copious amounts of black smoke belching from her single stack.

It was not until the battleship started to crab against the current in the channel that Abe saw the farthest of the two ironclad cruiser slowly capsizing. Men were clambering up her barnacle-fouled sides to find temporary salvation on her upturned keel, while all around the waters seethed with debris and the bobbing heads of men trying not to get dragged out to sea, or through the nearby channel by the tides.

The skies were suddenly quiet.

Men were dying on those ships out in the channel, in the strangely placid seas, and on the beach.

Abe stared stupidly at the torpedo just above the surf line like a stranded silver Dolphin.

It’s propeller still raced, its motor still whirred, smoking greyly as it overheated.

He did not remember getting, well, shambling to his feet.

Now he stood swaying, patiently waiting for the torpedo to catch fire or just, blow up.

He never saw the two men rise from the brush nearby.

He never heard their stealthy approach.

He did not even know they were their until in combination they bowled him to the ground, much in the fashion of bulls charging down a lamed matador at the very moment the four-hundred-and thirty-seven-pound high explosive warhead of the beached torpedo exploded.

Chapter 29

Tuesday 12th April

River Tormes, Castile and León

Paul Nash had lied to them about abandoning the boat and going ashore as soon as they were past Salamanca. They had not hauled the vessel ashore until around midnight, waited helplessly in the dark and the rain while their guardian angel disappeared into the darkness for about an hour. He returned with dry blankets, cups to bale out the boat, stale bread and a couple of bottles of beer.

‘Safer than the water,’ he grunted as they pushed the boat back into the water.

‘Pedro will catch his death out here,’ Henrietta had protested.

‘Believe it or not I am not going out of my way to give you all a hard time, My Lady,” Nash had retorted, testily, momentarily betraying his own weariness.

It was some time later that Melody asked: “So, we’re following the river to Ledesma.”

“Yes,” the man murmured.

“That’s what, another twenty miles downstream?”

“Something like.”

“Will we get there before first light?”

“No.”

Melody sighed: “Then we walk again?”

“That’s the plan. The border is about thirty miles west-north-west of Ledesma.”

“The ‘border’ is the River Douro, how do we get across that, Paul?”

“We swim if we have to.”

“The Douro is fifty or more yards across at that point!”

Everybody else was listening, tensing for an outburst which never came.

“I know all that,” Paul Nash admitted. “I had a plan right up to that cock-up at El Barco de Avila. After that, well, I’ve been winging it. That’s the way it is. I came to Spain to rescue you two damsels in distress. I brought Albert along to add his manly support but mostly, to document the adventure for posterity. We’ve had a few setbacks along the way. Nevertheless, be assured that I will rescue you.”

The boat drifted on, pulled this way and that by the current as it left the lights of Salamanca far behind. Sometime after midnight the clouds rolled away and the stars came out.

The two women and Albert Stanton took turns baling.

Now they were in quieter waters the boat’s planks worked less and the leaks became more easily containable.

“My turn,” Melody said, realising that the Manhattan Globe man was practically baling in his sleep. Not that any of them could sleep, the night was cold and they shivered in their damp clothes, all except Pedro who was swaddled in a couple of dry blankets and always hugged tight in either Henrietta or Melody’s arms.

Albert Stanton handed over his baling cup.

To Melody’s surprise he chuckled softly.

“Do you remember that first time we met?” He inquired.

“In that tea house in the shadow of the bridge at Brooklyn?”

“Yes.” The man groaned. “If only we had known then what we know now, what?”

“If we had,” she offered ruefully, “would we really have done anything differently?”

“Maybe not,” he confessed. “Adventures are always more seductive in concept than in practice.”

“Every needs to be very quiet, please!” Paul Nash hissed urgently. “Stop baling. Everybody down low, now!”

A car was trundling along the northern side of the valley, its headlamps pools of white light. More by starlight, Melody glimpsed other boats moored on the river, all closer to the half-flooded banks than the one they were in, as they slowly drifted in the main channel.

Paul Nash was in the stern, leaning on the rudder oar.

“There are boats on the river ahead of us. They might just be putting down nets, or traps. Everybody under the blankets. I’d rather they think I’m smuggling than running apostates to the border.”

“Very funny,” Melody whispered.

Together, she and Henrietta held Pedro out of the cold water beginning to seep again into the bottom of the boat.

“For the record,” Paul Nash observed idly, clearly distracted, “the Douro runs very shallow at places along the border we’re heading for. Even with the rains we might still be able to wade across it…”

He broke off.

Cursed under his breath.

The boat was suddenly gliding through a pool of blinding light.

“Melody!” He snarled.

“What?”

“Stand up in the boat and start shouting and screaming in your best peasant Castilian. Tell them to turn those bloody lights off. Put in lots and lots of contemptuous accusations about the manhood of the men pointing those bloody lights at us please!”

Melody over-balanced rising to her feet as the boat moved under her feet, would have gone overboard had not Paul Nash grabbed her arm.

Unsurprisingly, it happened that she was in exactly the mood to be very, very rude to somebody. She struggled momentarily to get into character, thereafter the profanity flowed with marvellous fluency.

It did not matter that she did not have a clue who she was subjecting to her little stream of consciousness outpouring of quite the foulest invective she had ever heard, let alone spoken. All she needed to know was that there were men out there – standing on a man-made jetty-promontory jutting out into the River Tormes – who were, for the umpteenth time in the last month, making her life a lot more miserable than it really needed to be!

She got quite carried away.

So much so that it was some moments before she became aware that Paul Nash was standing up beside her – in the full, dazzling fire of the powerful torches, at least two or three directed at their faces – making hopeless shrugging gestures and pulling faces, as if to say, what can I do?

All the while the boat was drifting towards the jetty, and then, miraculously gliding on past.

Somebody on the bank shouted something.

Melody thought it sounded like: “Eres bienvenido a ella, Compadre!”

You are welcome to her, friend…

“Who were they?” Melody asked the man breathlessly.

“I have no idea. Local tax men? Federales National? Local guild members out to fleece honest citizens on the river?”

Melody slumped down into the water in the bottom of the boat.

Oh well, at least Paul Nash had not had to kill anybody yet tonight.

Chapter 30

Tuesday 12th April

SMS Weser, Kingston, Jamaica

The city was on fire in the night. Having surrendered after being given guarantees as to the decent treatment of the civilian population, prisoners of war and the wounded, the victors were now running riot in Kingston; and despite the presence of Marines from the ships of the Vera Cruz Squadron under German officers, Cuban and Dominican troops were running wild, shooting and burning, looting and raping. The situation was completely out of control and all military discipline and civil order had broken down.

Kapitan zur See Albrecht Weitzman watched the sack of the city with abject shame. That he, as a German officer should be placed in a situation where he was powerless to intervene. That he should be condemned to collaborate with so-called allies whose bestiality seemed limitless, was the final insult.

The British had laid down their arms after being offered honourable terms. What was happening now was an abomination; something out of a medieval fable, a catastrophic miscalculation that would stain the name of the German Empire for generations to come.

The Spanish had marched their prisoners down to the harbour and shot them to pieces, dumping the bodies into the water where now, schools of sharks feasted in the bloody water.

Albrecht Weitzman had pulled up the Weser’s gangways and quietly warped his ship farther out into the main basin. He had posted armed guards at the rail and ordered that the ships four concealed 6-inch guns be readied for action. The false hull plates hiding the rifles could be dropped in a moment and the barrels swung outboard in seconds at need.

Standing at the back of the Weser’s bridge Commander Peter Cowdrey-Singh had watched it all. Having taken it as read that the Weser had been converted to serve as a commerce raider, and suspected the supposedly ‘dead’, unused deck areas fore and aft must be gun positions, he had determined not to discuss such things with the Weser’s officers.

It would have been bad form.

Stepping over a line, bad etiquette.

While Kapitan zur See Albrecht Weitzman’s raging internal angst never touched his face, the former Executive Officer of the Achilles saw the man’s anger in his every move and gesture.

The Breitenfeld and the Lutzen lay lashed together opposite Port Royal, cross-decking munitions and with joint damage control and repair teams hard at work. Both ships were lit up like Christmas trees, seemingly oblivious to what was going on ashore a few hundred yards away.

Admiral Gravina had sent all his big ships to the northern shore of the island, where his troops were ‘mopping up’ the few remaining pockets of resistance and presumably, torching, murdering and raping as they went.

Peter Cowdrey-Singh questioned the wisdom of effectively immobilising the Southern Strike Force’s two most capable units – forget the big guns of the Ferdinands and the other Cuban-Dominican ships, the Breitenfeld and the Lutzen were by far and away the most formidable ships under Gravina’s command – but then von Reuter was a man used to making hard calls. He needed his two ‘heavies’ as seaworthy and as battle-worthy as possible PDQ, pretty damned quickly. Albeit at the risk of his ships being sitting ducks if the British attacked – that morning’s battle at the Inagua Archipelago was a salutary lesson in the dangers of complacency – by combining the resources of his two biggest ships he knew he could address key outstanding problems… fast. That was the other thing about a real, live war situation. Everything happened fast and anybody who did not get up to speed fast, was going to be in big trouble in no time flat.

It had occurred to him that one of the reasons Gravina had kept the Cuban, Dominican and Hispaniola elements of his rag-tag fleet at sea, was that many of the ships badly needed more time to ‘shake out’ their largely untried, possibly untrained, crews.

Not that doing that in the middle of a war was a particularly good idea. But then history reminded those who studied it that wars were always fought with the men and weapons you had to hand, rather than the ones you actually wanted or needed.

“This is a disgrace,” Weitzman remarked, taking off his cap and running a hand through his white hair. He glanced to the chronometer above the Anglo-Indian’s head.

“Admiral Gravina has ordered the Weser to sail to the Antilles to commence raiding operations,” he announced. “A variation on Admiral von Reuter’s intention. Initially, we shall be in company with the Emden. We shall part company with her once we are out of sight of land. There is no work for us here,” he flicked a look landward.

The old man’s face was a subtle mask of unhappiness.

“It remains my intention to off load you and your men at the first friendly port we touch. However, in the event we are engaged in a surface action or air attack I must request that you and your men stand aside, and let my people go about their business.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh interpreted this as a very polite reminder that he and his men were guests on board the Weser, and that whether they liked it or not, they might conceivably be at war with each other in the near future. Wisely, Weitzman wanted there to be no scope for misunderstandings.

“I understand. I and my people will remain below if the Weser closes up for action, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Chapter 31

Tuesday 12th April

HMS Perseus, North Atlantic

Task Force 5.2 was thundering south at twenty-five knots, having parted company with its supporting Royal Fleet Auxiliaries, two hours out of Norfolk. The supply ships could catch up later, right now the priority was to reinforce Task Force 5.1 in the waters north of the Bahamas.

“The weather is a tad more clement where we’re headed!” The carrier’s CAW, Commander Andrew Buchannan guffawed as Alex Fielding and the Perseus’s Strike Group Commander, Simon Foljambe arrived in the Flight Control compartment overlooking the windswept flight deck.

About a mile to port the Lion class battleship Princess Royal was battering effortlessly through the long, white-capped Atlantic rollers, while around the storm-tossed horizon the grey, half-invisible shapes of the cruisers and destroyers protecting the two big ships rose and fell into the troughs of the angry seas. Somewhere out there were two heavy cruisers, three light cruisers, and eleven sleek fleet destroyers. In cruising order the fleet occupied well over twenty square miles of sea room, on a day like this a piece of ocean that stretched from one horizon to another.

Task Force 5.1, built around the Ulysses and the Tiger, was even more formidable, incorporating the four 8-inch gun cruisers of the Bellerophon class as well as a bevy of light cruisers and some fifteen other escorting warships.

Perseus had left behind her slower escorts, the three anti-submarine frigates – part of a program cut short by the Submarine Treaty – to shepherd her fleet train south at a relatively sedate thirteen knots; after sloughing off four of the Task Force’s allotted destroyers to escort the Indefatigable Group, made up of the hastily reactivated battlecruiser and three light cruisers, following some forty miles distant in Task Force 5.2’s wake.

Given that the Atlantic Fleet’s big ships were going to be operating relatively close to land and that oiling, re-ammunitioning and re-victualing stations were available at the Floridian St John’s River base, and at Bermuda, the fleet train was considered less operationally critical than it would have been in any trans-oceanic war scenario. For example, like those contemplated on Staff College ‘situation tables’ concerning operations in the Pacific against the Japanese Empire, or contingency planning in the event that a major German fleet ‘escaped’ into the North Atlantic. Up until now in comparison with those scenarios, a war in the Caribbean had seemed almost light relief; at least from a planner’s perspective.

“Ulysses’s Sea Eagles put a couple of torpedoes into the side of a light cruiser off Little Inagua this morning,” the CAW reported cheerfully. “They think they got a couple of five-hundred pounders onto one of the Ferdinands, too. Although, I’m not sure if that’s wishful thinking, apparently, the blighter steamed away under her own power. I’d have thought a couple of bombs would have done for one of those misbegotten scows!”

Suddenly, Andrew Buchannan was somewhat less sanguine.

“Ulysses had problems with her amidships elevator. She only got about thirty aircraft in the air. If she’d been able to throw the kitchen sink at that flotilla off Little Inagua we might well have scratched it off the order of battle.”

Nobody in Flight Control needed any reminding that both the Ulysses and the Perseus were very big, very new, horrendously complicated and largely untested ships. Ulysses had had a little more time to work up to something like peak efficiency; Perseus remained very much a work in progress.

It would be another twenty-four hours before Task Force 5.2 was in range to fly off strikes against targets south of the Bahamas. Palpably, the ship was going to war.

“Things are looking black down on the Border,” the CAW observed. “Our chaps seem to have been rolled back pretty much everywhere. The CAF report coming up against modern German aircraft types. Now our intelligence people are trying to work out if the Cubans or the Dominicans have got hold of any of the new models.”

“Joy,” Alex Fielding growled. Actually, he did not care what kites his enemies flew; the more the merrier was his attitude. “It’s the chaps at the controls that matters, not the airframe!”

“Quite so,” Buchannan agreed. He waved through the windows at the storm-tossed seas. “They say we’ve got another twelve to fifteen hours of this. So, no flying. The flight deck is a no-go area.”

As if to support his contention green water shipped over the carrier’s enclosed clipper bow and streamed half-way to the island bridge across the empty steel deck.

“Once we get the all clear I want a CAP in the air during daylight hours. I want horizon to horizon cover out to fifty to sixty miles ahead of the Task Force. Be prepared to mount strikes at maximum effort from the moment we enter the battle zone, gentlemen.”

Chapter 32

Wednesday 13th April

Little Inagua, West Indies

To say that Abe had thought his number was well and truly up when he was tackled to the ground by two men, while watching the Dominican Squadron seeking sea room – running away, more like – leaving scores of their own men to drown, or to be dashed against the reefs all along the southern shore of the island, would have been something of an understatement.

He had struggled as hard as he could for as long as he could but there were two of them and they were already on top of him. Briefly, his hand closed around the haft of the axe but that was his last moment of hope. The hatchet was torn out of his hands and suddenly, his arms were pinned behind his back. The agony from his right shoulder made him cry out – well, it was more of a scream of unadulterated anguish – and ended all further resistance.

He had allowed his body to go limp; knowing it was over.

He felt sick and bizarrely, a little relieved.

His hunter’s soul crept back into the dark place from which it had emerged; exhausted, pain-wracked, and beaten, he was again himself, not the wild animal he had been for much of the last forty-eight hours.

“Steady on, old man,” a voice with a relaxed Connecticut twang said Abe’s ear. “You could go taking out a fellow’s eye with a hatchet like that!”

The other man spoke.

He sounded uncannily Bostonian.

“Methinks, that you’d be the chap whose been chopping up all these Dagoes we keep tripping over?”

Abe’s captors relaxed their grip on his arms a little, half-turning him so he could see his captors for the first time.

Two men with cork-blacking on their faces, kitted out in mottled khaki camouflage battle dress wearing the green berets of the Royal Marines. Each man was festooned with combat webbing, and wearing lightweight ballistic body armour.

“You must be Mister Lincoln, your friend Mister Forest said we’d probably find you over this way.”

Abe stared at the man dumbfounded.

“Actually,” the trooper with the Connecticut accent offered, “he said that the thing to do was to follow the trail of bodies. But not to creep up on you…”

“Lincoln,” Abe groaned. “I’m Surgeon Lieutenant Abraham Lincoln, RNAS.”

The two Royal Marines had sat him up and started to dust him down.

They were obviously concerned by all the blood.

“A couple of nicks and grazes apart,” Abe assured them, “I don’t think much of the red stuff is mine, chaps.”

They checked him over, anyway.

“Who are you fellows?”

“Special Boat Squadron, sir.”

Abe had heard of the SBS; the elite Royal Marine Corps special forces regiment whose selection course was reputedly, a ‘man killer’. If you were not prepared to risk death to get into the SBS then frankly, you obviously were not made of the ‘right stuff’. He studied his new friends. They looked… ordinary. Except that they had taken him down quickly, silently and held onto him with positively iron grips.

“We’re on the island spotting for the boys in the planes.”

“And,” the Bostonian trooper added, “having a little fun on our own account, as you do.”

“You might have left a few more of the beggars for us,” his sidekick complained wryly.

“Sorry. I didn’t know you were coming.”

The SBS men peered above the surrounding vegetation.

“It looks like the Dagoes have buggered off.”

Abe let the other man, the trooper with the Connecticut accent, who was clearly the one with the emergency medical pack, inject something into his left shoulder.

“Opioid-based pain killer, sir,” the man reported. “And some other good stuff. Anti-biotics, vitamins. Drink some water. Empty the canteen if you can, you must be seriously dehydrated.”

Abe was too enfeebled to hold the canteen to his mouth.

The water in the man’s two-thirds full canteen was brackish, a little warm but marvellously… clean.

Presently, dribbling only a couple of mouthfuls down his chin and torso, he had drained every last drop.

He was helped to his feet, and with one Marine to either side of Abe, the three men began to head inland.

“Where on earth did you fellows come from?”

It seemed the obvious question to ask.

“The Navy delivered us onto the north side of the island, sir.”

Abe thought about asking how exactly that had been achieved. Decided against it, what little he knew about special forces men told him that they were notoriously secretive, uncommunicative, probably with very good reason.

In any event, he passed out soon afterwards.

Chapter 33

Wednesday 13th April

Ledesma, Castile and León

After they grounded the boat, they bypassed the small town on the high ground to the south of the river, walking through dusty olive groves, climbing leaden-footed up the gentle incline above the disintegrating single-track road to the west. Even by nine that morning the sun was beating down.

Only thirty more miles, give or take…

Melody and Henrietta’s feet had recovered somewhat since they had arrived at Navalperal de Tormes in what seemed like another lifetime but in fact, was only a little over a week ago. Back then they had had decent walking boots, now, having lost them back in the confusion at Puerto de Congosto, they were shod in ill-fitting clogs which they preferred to carry most of the time. That day, the ground soon became hot, and the going underfoot was stony in the olive groves; so, they stumbled along in a kind of waking dream.

Albert Stanton of Paul Nash carried Pedro.

Around mid-day they drank from a stream, chewed on the bitter, not yet ripe olives on the branches all around them. Even the indefatigable Paul Nash seemed weary, sweating, although burdened now only with the automatic pistol he kept in the waistband of his trousers, concealed beneath an old, filthy jacket.

Early in the afternoon a halt was called.

Melody, Henrietta and Pedro collapsed beneath a gnarled olive tree, and instantly dozed in the humid shade.

“You stay here awhile. Albert and I will forage,” Paul Nash informed them.

“How far do you think we’ve come today?” Henrietta asked when the women were alone.

“I have no idea. Three, four miles, maybe.”

“Only twenty-five to go, then?”

Melody giggled.

“What so funny?” Her lover inquired.

“Nothing. Hysteria…”

Now it was Henrietta’s turn to giggle.

“Isn’t this all too ridiculous?”

“Coming to Spain seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Sitting in the shade they were starting to catch their second wind.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Henrietta cooed at Pedro, drawing him onto her lap. She kissed the top of his head. “You’re tougher than all of us,” she murmured in Spanish.

He smiled shyly.

Henrietta sighed: “Do you think about Alonso?” She asked Melody. “And that night back in Chinchón?”

“Yes,” Melody confessed. “Quite a lot.”

“Because of the sex?”

“That, yes. But I was drawn to Alonso from the first time I met him. I know he had the hots for me from day one, too.”

“How?”

“I just did. The funny thing is, I think all that stuff about no woman being safe with him is rubbish.”

“Really?”

“It was just part of the smokescreen he hid behind in Philadelphia,” Melody said, stifling a yawn. “He was playing a part. I know you knew him quite well back in those days; you shouldn’t be too hard on him…”

“I’m not. But I hardly knew him at all, it seems.” Henrietta thought about it. “He never made a pass at me. Although, now I think about it, we used to have these harmless flirty talks most times we bumped into each other at receptions and diplomatic functions, photo calls and that sort of thing…”

Melody reached out and touched her lover’s knee.

She said nothing.

“Perhaps, he was trying to seduce me all along,” Henrietta giggled.

“But you were such a schoolgirl you never noticed?”

“Something like that. I was always too busy to have an affair, anyway. Mummy was ill, I was Daddy’s road manager. It is funny, people thought I hated that title, actually, I loved organising things, dealing with all the little details. And when I discovered the King and Queen were coming to New England…”

“Uncle Bertie and Aunt Ellie,” Melody teased gently.

“Yes, when Uncle Bertie and Aunt Ellie came to New England it was such a… rush. I know it is awful to say it but after that, well. Everything seemed so tame and I was restless all the time. And then I met you.”

“Oh, that. When you say ‘met’ what you mean is ‘shamelessly inveigled me into your world’,” Melody grimaced, unable to keep a straight face.

“Oh, dear,” Henrietta recollected, “I really must have seemed like a gauche little rich girl to you that day we met?”

“No, not at all,” she was assured. “Don’t forget I knew you’d been the one running around making sure the Royal Tour got back on the rails after the Empire Day atrocities.”

“Daddy couldn’t do everything on his own,” Henrietta blushed, lowered her eyes. “I just did what I could to help…”

Melody closed her eyes, rested her head against the tree at her back.

“It must be really weird growing up thinking of the King and Queen of England as your uncle and aunt?”

“Until I was about nine or ten, they weren’t the King and Queen, and nobody thought they ever would be. Least of all Uncle Bertie…”

Melody opened her eyes when Henrietta’s voice trailed away.

An old man and a teenage boy, both hefting single-barrelled shot guns of obviously antiquarian vintage stood in front of her, eyeing the two women and the boy on Henrietta’s lap with anything but casual disinterest.

Chapter 34

Wednesday 13th April

Fleet Headquarters, Norfolk, Virginia

Nobody observing Admiral Lord Collingwood. The C-in-C of the Atlantic Fleet would have concluded that he was a worried man that morning. However, as he was driven from his official residence, past the great dockyards on the western bank of the Elizabeth River, and over the King William III Bridge connecting South and North Norfolk, skirting the sprawling hectares of married quarters estates he was aware that soon the tragedies of Achilles’s loss in the Battle of the Windward Passage, and the disastrous loss of Jamaica were but the prelude to the coming catastrophe. That the Empire would, in the end prevail, he had no doubt. That was a given, not a question worthy of debate. No, the problem was the huge amount of blood and treasure that was soon going to be fed into the maw of the coming war.

The C-in-C made a big effort to broadcast his normal bluff, breezy good humour as he entered Fleet Headquarters.

“Good morning, ladies,” he smiled paternally to the gathering ranks of female secretaries and clerks, and the increasing number of WRENS now filling lower and middle ranking roles within the ever-expanding Fleet Staff. His predecessor had been the man who broke with convention and allowed women access to the periphery of operational areas; he had kicked open the door and removed all restrictions short of permitting members of the fairer sex to serve on board ships, other than as nursing staff on board Royal Fleet Auxiliaries. That said, six months ago, he had authorised a pilot program under which female officers and rates were encouraged to apply for service in His Majesty’s New England Coastguard service.

That morning he felt sick to his stomach that sooner or later, women he had sent to sea, would surely become casualties before the war was won.

“Good morning, everybody,” he called gruffly as he entered the inner, bomb-proof command centre of the Norfolk complex. Then, taking his seat at the big conference table in the room next to the Situation Room, he kicked off proceedings with his customary injunction: “Right, what else has gone wrong?”

Despite the circumstances, this drew the normal grimaces of amusement and broke the tension.

It seemed that Task Force 5.1’s air strike on the – now confirmed Dominican – enemy squadron guarding the channel between Great and Little Inagua had sunk one old ironclad light cruiser and damaged an elderly ‘battleship’. Unfortunately, three aircraft, a Goshawk and two Sea Eagle torpedo bombers had failed to return to the Ulysses.

The fragmentary news from Jamaica, courtesy of a communications detail of the ad hoc Naval Brigade thrown together in the first hours of the invasion who had escaped to the mountains, was enough to make a man’s blood boil. Kingston was on fire from end to end and the victorious Cuban and Dominican troops had embarked upon an unprecedented – in modern times – orgy of destruction. There was a suggestion that the conqueror’s object was to massacre the whole population, albeit only after all the women and girl children had been raped…

Cuthbert Collingwood listened to the reports with stoic patience, inwardly seething that his Government – the one back in London – had not seen fit to give him, or his colleagues on land or in the air the tools to put an end to this abomination.

Even without resort to Project Poseidon there were plenty of ‘tools’ absent from his war-making tool box. For example, there were no long-range bomber aircraft in New England, and the assault troops and amphibious warfare ships he needed to prosecute offensive operations against Cuba and Santo Domingo, and eventually, to take back Jamaica, were still in England!

Worst of all, very few of his ships were equipped to detect and hunt submarines, even though everybody in the Navy knew years ago that the Mexicans, and probably the Cubans also, were secretly building up their fleet of submersibles in defiance of the third-party protocols of the Submarine Treaty. Even now, there were people back in the Old Country resisting a change in fighting instructions to enable his captains to stop and search merchantmen, flying under any flag, they suspected might be disguised armed commerce raiders!

There were of course, other constraints upon his freedom of action which chaffed, more than somewhat. For the moment he would simply have to live with them.

Once the morning’s general briefing was concluded, the room cleared and Collingwood was left with his inner circle. After a short delay, the representatives of the Political Intelligence Division, a middle-aged commander and two of his analysts, quietly presented themselves to the C-in-C.

“We are confident that the whole strength of the Triple Alliance’s Southern Squadron, including four of the five vessels of the former German West Indies Squadron is concentrated in Jamaican waters, sir.”

Cuthbert Collingwood waited, knowing that there was more to come.

“This has been verified by special means, sir,” reported the slim, dark-haired bespectacled young woman in the immaculate uniform of a Second Officer of the Women’s Royal Naval Service. Collingwood was of a mind that if women were to be truly embraced by the Royal Navy, the WREN’s idiosyncratic system of ranks ought to be fully aligned. For example, the rank of second officer in the WRENs was directly equivalent to that of lieutenant in the RN.

Second Officer Madeline Fisher remained the only woman ever to have delivered or participated in a command briefing to the C-in-C Atlantic Fleet. A graduate of the WRNS College at Saltash in the English West Country, she had previously served at the Admiralty in Whitehall before, on promotion, applied for and been granted a transfer to New England, where, apparently, she had family.

Cuthbert Collingwood usually allowed references to ‘special means’, to go unremarked. But that was before the Empire was at war with a vicious and mendacious foe.

“Special means, Second officer Fisher?”

“Yes, sir. HMS Serapis is on station.”

Collingwood nodded.

He commanded everything as sea between Nova Scotia and the Equator west of the North Atlantic mid-point; except the employment and the deployment of ‘special undersea assets’, which in a funny sort of way was logical, because officially those ‘assets’ did not, and had never existed.

In precisely the same way that Project Poseidon, to which those assets unambiguously ‘belonged’, had never existed.

In fact, had it not been for the exigencies of the present situation – a war nobody wanted that was already threatening to be a nightmare – even the names of the ‘special assets’ in the C-in-C’s theatre of operations would have been denied to him.

As it was the ‘need to know’ list of persons permitted to know what Collingwood knew, presently had just eight names on it and Second Officer Madeline Fisher’s name appeared on that list above his.

Basically, the twenty-five-year-old brunette who was engaged to be married to an officer on the Princess Royal, was one of three keepers of the Empire’s dirtiest, and greatest secret. She and her two colleagues in the so-called Political Intelligence Division – PID – were the only people in New England with the keys to the encryption codes used by ‘assets’ at sea, or rather, under the sea, to communicate with their base in Scotland, and, in times of war, with authorised ‘entities’ at regional Fleet Headquarters around the globe.

Cuthbert Collingwood knew that two ‘special assets’ had been despatched to New England waters three weeks ago.

“An Albatross was detailed to overfly Jamaica,” the young woman reported primly.

Intelligence digests originating from ‘special assets’ always had to be ‘covered’ by such overflights, or by the presence of other ‘eyes and ears’ potentially visible to the enemy.

The C-in-C Atlantic Fleet had always known that the coming of war would test, probably to destruction, the bodyguard of lies which had thus far concealed Project Poseidon, the huge costs of which, as Director of Naval Planning, had conspired to bury in Naval Estimates year after year during his time at the Admiralty.

He sighed, quirked a wan smile at the men, and one woman, around the table.

“Serapis and her sister in theatre,” he guffawed ruefully, “wherever she is at present, could sink the whole damned Triple Alliance Fleet inside twenty-four hours.”

This drew no comment.

“Yet,” Cuthbert Collingwood continued, “we find ourselves hoist by our own petard, as it were. “If we were to so do, sink every one of the blighters, that is, the whole World would know that we tore up the Submarine treaty before the ink was dry on the damned thing. And then, we’d be in a fine old pickle!”

Nobody said a word for some seconds.

Oddly, it was the youngest, most junior person in the room who coughed, respectfully breaking the uneasy silence.

“Permission to speak, sir?” Madeline Fisher requested respectfully.

Collingwood waved for her to say her piece.

“Forgive me, sir,” she prefaced, face creased with concentration. “I’ve never been to sea on an operational warship. I make no claim to be expert in anything but my own field. Intelligence, analysis of the same, and so forth, but…”

The C-in-C found himself smiling paternally.

“Speak your mind, Second Officer Fisher. You are among friends around this table.”

“Thank you, sir.” The young woman bit her lower lip. “It is only a matter of time before our friends, and our enemies alike discover the truth about Project Poseidon. At university I studied history, and like my colleagues in PID, I was submitted to, or perhaps the correct description might be, I was subjected to a battery of security and psychological checks before I was let into the secret. The Secret of our age. I think we are wrong to believe that the German Empire will throw up its hands in horror and declare war on us when it learns what we have done.”

“Madeline,” the WREN’s boss murmured warningly.

Cuthbert Collingwood held up a hand as if to say: “Let’s hear the young lady out.”

“I think we should just go ahead and sink the whole Mexican, Cuban and Dominican navies, and start lobbing precision guided munitions into the middle of Spanish governors’ palaces and key military installations across the Caribbean and New Granada. Everybody knows we’re only in this war because of the Germans and when the people in Berlin wake up and,” Madeline Foster shrugged apologetically, speaking in a quiet, matter-of-fact monotone, “smell the Darjeeling, I think it’ll stop them in their tracks, at least for another two or three years.”

Cuthbert Collingwood arched an eyebrow.

Nobody else spoke, or dared to breathe.

Madeline Fisher concluded: “They’ll just think what everybody else will think: that you forget at your peril that when all is said and done, nobody is quite so ruthless as the English!”

Chapter 35

Wednesday 13th April

Little Inagua, West Indies

“We have to get our skates on,” the Royal Marine Lieutenant in command of the six-man Special Boat Squadron detachment on the island informed Abe at a little after midnight. Other SBS men were lifting Ted Forest onto a makeshift litter, despite his protests that he could ‘hop along’ under his own stream.

“Tell your chum that he’s not a burden and that whether he likes it or not we’re going to carry him to the pick-up site regardless of whether he likes it or not, old man.”

Abe struggled to his feet.

His left arm was in a sling, his shoulder felt deadened.

He swaying, uncertain of his balance for some moments.

He stepped over to his friend, bent down.

“Be a good fellow, old man.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Abe!” Ted Forest retorted, grinning broadly in the starlight.

They began to trudge north through the undergrowth.

“While you were having forty winks Sub-Lieutenant Forest gave me a blow by blow account of what you chaps have been up to,” the SBS officer, a man of about Abe’s age but several inches shorter carrying a bulging rucksack which ought to have broken his back as if it was virtually weightless, his black Enfield 0.303-calibre assault rifle slung across his broad chest.

“Ted has a vivid imagination,” Abe cautioned his companion.

This tickled the other man’s sense of humour.

He guffawed and shook his head.

They walked on, taking slow, deliberate steps. Two men of the six-man team, carried Ted Forest’s ‘stretcher’, another brought up the rear. The other two SBS men were on point and rear-guard duty, ranging far ahead and hanging back, just in case there were any Dominican ‘stay behinds’ in the mood for a fight.

“I still don’t understand how a doctor ends up dive bombing a German cruiser?” The SBS officer, a man with a pronounced Scottish accent queried.

Abe knew the other man was going to keep talking to him all the way across the island; if only to keep him awake.

He explained about how his brother, Alex, had taught him to fly up in Albany, and his time as a volunteer ‘flying doctor’ in Canada.

“I was number three pilot aboard the Achilles, and assistant surgeon…”

“How come you got to be such a dead-eye shot?”

Abe ended up telling the SBS man his life story.

During a fifteen-minute rest he finally got to ask a question of his own: “You said we were heading for a pick-up point, Tom?”

Lieutenant Thomas McPherson teeth flashed in a predatory smile.

“Yes. We need to be at a certain point on a certain beach approximately an hour before dawn today, or tomorrow,” he confided, “otherwise we’re stuck here for good.”

“How do we get picked up?”

“Can’t talk about that, sorry.”

Abe changed the subject.

“You chaps were spotters?”

“More coast watchers and freelance troublemakers. Observing the comings and goings through the channel between the two islands. We set up a beacon for your aviator chums to home onto. You know, to save them having to stooge around trying to find those Dago ships if it was a bit hazy. We warned them about that battleship…”

“The Reina Eugenie,” Abe put in.”

“Oh, right, we never got that close to the beggar. You didn’t see the names of the other ships, by any chance?”

“No, sorry.”

“Anyway, we warned base that the Dagoes had arranged themselves so as to protect the battleship from torpedo attack. The idea was they’d set their fish to run deep and to detonate magnetically. I know one fish ended up on the beach, no idea what happened to the other five or six that didn’t hit that old ironclad. Perhaps, their firing pistols didn’t initiate or they plugged in the bottom…”

“No, the water beyond the reef is hundreds of feet deep.”

“Whatever, two hits out of eight or nine against anchored ships isn’t that clever.”

Abe felt the need to differ.

“Attacking a ship isn’t any kind of piece of cake,” he objected.

“You seem to have got the knack PDQ?”

“I almost crashed into the deck of the Achilles the first time I tried it!”

They rose to their feet, marched onward.

Abe dropped back and walked alongside Ted Forest’s litter for a while. His friend was semi-conscious, heavily drugged; the SBS men had no shortage of morphine and other medicines.

Each Marine carried an assault rifle, an automatic pistol holstered on their hip, a wicked 8-inch scalping knife strapped to either right or left thigh, grenades of various flavours on their webbing, along with countless spare magazines for their Enfields and their pistols, bedding rolls, and ration packs.

Abe thought he remembered the SBS men brewing up on a small, portable stove… but he might have imagined that.

The ‘spare’ trooper marking time near the stretcher party also carried a lightweight radio set with a ten feet whip aerial. He had earphones, a chin microphone and seemed to be constantly in communication with… something or somebody.

“Every patrol carries a gismo that enables it to know exactly where it is night or day, rain of snow,” Tom McPherson explained at one point. “Well, within about ten or twenty yards, leastways.”

Abe remarked that kit like that would be useful on an aeroplane.

“One day,” the other man chuckled. “One day. Right now, it’s on the secret list. The list that’s headed ‘drink poison before reading’.”

Abe was in a state of collapse when he finally crumpled into the bushes just short of the northern shoreline of Little Inagua. He heard the surf breaking.

Was there a reef out there?

Or were the waves breaking on the beach?

He did not care; he was too far gone.

The Marines set Ted Forest down beside him.

“Are we dead yet, Abe?” His friend inquired hoarsely, as an SBS man raised his head to hold a canteen to his lips.

“No, not yet. I hurt far too much to be dead.”

“There’s plenty of time to die another time, sirs,” the SBS man holding the canteen said, without a scintilla of irony.

Abe had assumed that perhaps there might be a seaplane waiting to extract the SBS patrol. He waited, hearing no sound of approaching engines.

He heard only the waves breaking.

Then…

“There she is, chaps!”

Still, Abe heard nothing.

Strong arms were hauling him upright, and effortlessly lifting Ted Forest’s deadweight.

“Smartly now,” Lieutenant Tom McPherson hissed.

Abe stumbled down the beach, into the surf, and fell into a boat. He bounced against the bulbous, yielding flank of the vessel.

An inflatable boat…

A small motor whirred.

“Careful there!”

The call came from the darkness to his right.

There was another boat; now the Marines where wrestling Ted Forest’s litter into it.

Abe stared into the night.

He saw no ship, no seaplane bobbing beyond the surf.

The men manning the boat he was in wore matt black uniforms, like the SBS men, their faces were corked dark, only their eyes glinted in the fading moonlight. Dawn was coming and suddenly everybody was in a crashing hurry.

And then Abe saw it.

The rounded flank of some great whale, its ventral fin rearing twenty or thirty feet out of the sea… and incongruously, there seemed to be men moving about upon its back…

Chapter 36

Wednesday 13th April

Villaseco de los Reyes, Castile and León

When it transpired that the two men with shotguns had no immediate intention of raping, or actually, of mistreating her, Henrietta or Pedro, Melody had been at something of a loss. That was what happened when one had been in fight or flight – almost entirely ‘flight’ – mode for the last month.

The older of the two men had asked who they were.

“Lady Melody and Lady Henrietta and her son, Pedro,” she had explained, encouraged that neither of the shotguns was pointed anywhere other than at the ground.

She guessed the men were father and son; they both had the same build and look about them, neither more than about five feet five inches in height, each lean from hard lives, wearing similar dark, worn jackets over cloth shirts tucked into their trousers. Each wore what looked like hobnailed boots, possibly army-issue from times when they had performed militia service.

“Mujeres importantes?” The father queried softly.

Important women…

“Si, mucho,” Melody confirmed. “Llévanos a la frontera. Di tu precio.”

Take us to the border. Name your Price.

“What about Paul Nash and Albert?” Henrietta objected.

“We’re here and they aren’t,” Melody pointed out tartly.

The older man asked if the women were fleeing from the Inquisition.

Melody nodded.

“Okay,” the man said in English, grinning to his partner. “These must be the ones.”

“What’s going on?” Henrietta demanded.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the younger man said, his English much more heavily accented than his companion’s. “Well, not you. But you are not the first to walk this way lately.”

Melody’s head was spinning.

“Who are you?”

“The resistance,” the senior of the pair replied. “Spaniards who still have our dignity even though we were driven out of our own country by those maniacs in Madrid half a lifetime ago.”

Melody blinked, struggled to her feet.

“Sefardí occidental?” She asked, afraid she had misread something very important.

Western Sephardim?

The man nodded.

Melody breathed a sigh of relief, raised her hands, touched her chest.

“My maternal grandmother was Spanish, she came from the tradition of the Western Sephardim,” she explained. “She always kept her religious observances to herself all her life.”

Two decades ago, the Spanish throne had deflected theocratic pressure by declaring open season on what remained, or rather, had been rebuilt, of the Jewish community in its part of the Iberian Peninsula. In re-running the pogroms of the middle ages and the post-Reconquista purging of Jews who refused to convert to Catholicism and live as ‘New Christians’, the monarchy had guaranteed the support of the Holy See in its subsequent repeated clampdowns on groups of would-be ‘modernisers’.

The rest of the World had turned a blind eye to what was, by any standards, an affront to the core values of Western civilisation. But not so the children of the Diaspora, among whom Melody, granted several generations removed, philosophically if not strictly by blood or religious belief, still retained a distant kindred bond.

The two men had slung their shotguns over their shoulders.

“You were with two men?” The older man asked.

“Friends. Good friends.”

This prompted a nod. The man glanced to his younger companion. “Find them. Bring them to the camp.”

Melody felt she had to voice a warning.

“Don’t creep up on them.”

“Dangerous hombres?” She was asked.

“You have no idea.” Melody glanced to Henrietta. “No idea at all…”

“Melody,” Henrietta said lowly. “We can’t just trust these men.”

“We must trust them.” Melody said it as gently as she could, knowing the man nearby must hear every word. Presently, his eyes were searching the olive grove around them, suspicious of any movement and possibly, uncomfortable to be out and about by day.

“These hills are dangerous,” he sighed. “The Inquisition and the Federales National fear to walk these lands but there are always informers. Priests are the worst; but then they are the ones who have most to lose. Their livings, their fine houses, their prestige among the faithful, and pilgrims to rob. Spain is a country that is not a country, Castile was once my country, not Spain; so, it must be for many among us. They say the Queen was driven into exile in Lisbon, that the great families are at war with each other.” He shook his head. “My father was a jeweller in Salamanca. The Mother Church stole his life’s work, he died of grief in Portugal long before his time. So, my son and I became bandits. What does that say about my country?”

Melody had no answer to that.

“Perhaps,” the man said wistfully, “now at last the rest of the World will pay attention to our troubles?”

Melody suspected that was wanderlust.

“You need to put down your gun, friend!”

The Spaniard had turned away from Melody as Paul Nash issued the order.

“My son is behind you, Englishman.”

“You still need to put down your gun!”

“Give it to me or he’ll kill you,” Melody pleaded.

“What is my life to you?”

“He will kill you and your son,” she retorted lowly. “Without batting an eyelid. How do you think Henrietta and I got from the other side of the Mountains of Madrid to here?” She stepped close to the man. “Tell your son to put down his gun and to step out into full view.”

She reached out for the shotgun.

The man allowed her to slip it off his shoulder, his expression a little bewildered.

“No more killing, Paul!” She shouted. “These men are not our enemies.”

“I’ve got the kid’s gun!” Albert Stanton called, his voice less than steady.

Paul Nash brought the youngster with him, indicating for the father and son to sit on the ground. He took the gun from Melody.

“I spotted these two fellows following us.”

“So, what?” Henrietta complained. “You used us as bait?”

“Needs must, what!”

“They don’t mean us any harm,” Melody snapped, irritably.

The vehemence of it caused Paul Nash’s left eyebrow to arch. He looked down at the two captives.

“Is that so?” He inquired.

The older man shrugged.

“The border is still twenty miles distant. Despite the rains, you may still be able to cross the river into Portugal. I know one, maybe two places that might be possible but there are patrols all along the Spanish side of the Douro. Without our help you will all die. Or worse,” he added sadly, looking to the two women and the boy in Henrietta’s arms.

Unaccountably, he smiled.

“It is good to meet at last, el Escorpion!”

Chapter 37

Thursday 14th April

HMS Perseus, 17 miles NE of Elbow Cay, Bahamas

The launch controller crossed his paddles across his chest. Commander Alexander Fielding opened the throttles of his Goshawk IV, felt the aircraft lurch forward against the brakes. Then he let the beast free. The four-ton scout rocketed forward, the end of the flight deck rushed at Alex and the aircraft was – after threatening to swoop straight into the sea – airborne.

The aircraft behind him would have a longer run and his boys were going to need every drop of fuel in their Goshawks’ under-wing tanks if they were going to get back to the ship.

That was what a real war was like; one trade off against another, day in and day out with no guarantees. Bad things happened and all one could do was to do what one could to mitigate the most likely painful outcomes. So, notwithstanding that the objective was easily within the theoretical operational range of his kites on normal, internal fuel tanks, every scout was having to drag itself off the deck of the carrier over-loaded with one hundred-octane. There would be no monkeying about saving fuel, running lean mixtures; today, everything was going to happen at top speed and that meant burning the proverbial wick at both ends.

Alex was struck by how surprised many of his new naval comrades were by how fast things seemed to be going wrong. Privately, he had tacitly assumed things would go to Hell in a handbag before they got better. The Empire had allowed the Spanish to call the tune, unsurprisingly, now they were having to dance to that tune. War might be a marvellous, exhillerating adventure, it was also a brutal leveller. Having surrendered the initiative it was hardly to be wondered that things were going so badly.

The mainly Dominican fleet which had attacked the Inagua archipelago was steaming to join up with another squadron from Havana, presumably steaming as hard as possible to block the wounded Indomitable’s escape.

Jamaica had fallen; the triple Alliance and their German friends were the masters of the Caribbean. Elsewhere, Empire-registered merchantmen trapped in the Gulf of Spain and at sea plying the trade with Panama had been interned, seized or were being systematically hunted down.

Several times on the race to the south lookouts had reported seeing periscopes and the whole Task Force had veered off course, losing time; and now there was a reported invasion force gathering off Nuevo Asentamiento Fluvial – the New River Settlement on the Floridian coast – a little over two hundred miles to the west-south-west.

The Spanish – increasingly the enemy was neither Cuban, nor Dominican, Hispanic or Mexican, just ‘Spanish’ – were landing troops from barges and sailing boats under the guns of a motley collection of ancient ironclads and new torpedo boats and frigates. The beggars even had air support!

This latter supposedly comprised float planes and string bags but given the bad things Alex was hearing about the swarms of state of the art, low mono wing German-type scouts the Mexicans had magicked out of the hat down in the South West, he was taking nothing for granted.

With the Ulysses still too far to the east to send her aircraft to the party; Perseus was picking up the slack. Alex had argued for waiting another couple of hours, closing the range to the Floridian coast. As it was, he was leading off half his Goshawks on a reconnaissance in force – to shoot up targets of opportunity and engage any aircraft over the landing beaches – while the carrier’s Sea Eagles were bombed up with fragmentation and incendiary (good old-fashioned Greek Fire ‘eggs’).

The idea was that the rest of the Perseus’s scouts would escort the Sea Eagles on their mission while Alex put back down on the carrier, re-fuelled and re-armed and rushed back to re-join the fray. Having had his appeal for a single all-out strike rejected, he had got on with making the best of a bad deal.

One by one the seven other pilots reported in and began to form up on their leader.

The Task Force had battered through the storm off the Carolinas and emerged on the other side into balmy, turquoise waters beneath azure skies. The Flight Room had greedily devoured every snippet of intelligence about the Ulysses’s strike on the enemy squadron off the Inagua Archipelago, listened grimly to the dire reports from Jamaica and to what sounded like, regardless of how the reality of it was hedged, the near rout of New England and Imperial land forces in the South West. It took little imagination to picture the streets of New Orleans witnessing an exodus up the Mississippi by every available boat, or the icy tendrils of panic which must, even now be beginning to impinge upon the thoughts of the people at Mobile and Pensacola, still hundreds of miles from any existential threat.

Right now, Floridians who had imagined that they had thrown off the Spanish yoke decades ago must be asking themselves what revenge their former masters planned to inflict upon them. They were probably also asking themselves: “Where are the British when we need them the most?”

Alex led his flight up to ten thousand feet and charged west at over three hundred knots of indicated air speed. There was a headwind of about thirty miles an hour; that would save fuel on the way back to the Perseus.

After a few minutes he attempted to tune into the New River Settlement’s beacon, without success. If the Spanish were already ashore, they might have destroyed the highly visible radio tower to the north of the town, a small fishing community with beaches unprotected by reefs. The waters thereabouts were shallow, shoaling some distance off the coast; if the invaders really were using small or flat-bottomed boats, they could easily just run them up the beaches…

Apparently, on Jamaica the Cubans had grounded a couple of old freighters, put down ramps at low tide and their assault troopers had waded ashore unopposed. The Spanish had been planning for this day for a long, long time. It was not a very comforting thought.

Presently, Alex spied the low, pencil thin dark line of the land.

He clicked his throat microphone.

“BAD BOY ONE TO CHOIRBOYS!” He called laconically. “LEAVE THIS CHANNEL OPEN FOR ME TO SHOUT THE ODDS. REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD YOU BEFORE WE SET OFF. ONE PASS OVER EACH TARGET. DON’T GET TARGET FIXATED. ANYBODY WHO PILES STRAIGHT INTO THE GROUND WILL BE ON A CHARGE! STICK TO YOUR PARTNER’S WING TIP. WATCH FOR ENEMY SCOUTS AND BOMBERS BUT THE BEGGARS ON THE BEACH OR THE SHIPS OFF SHORE ARE THE MAIN OBJECTIVES!” He gave this a moment to sink in. “OH, AND HAVE FUN!”

Even as he spoke, he was cranking up the revs, unleashing the Goshawk, nosing down into a long, ever-quickening dive.

Presently, he put on his game face.

“BAD BOY ONE TO CHOIRBOYS!”

He paused, swallowed hard.

“WEAPONS FREE! REPEAT! WEAPONS FREE!”

And then, with ice water pumping through his battle-hardened veins…

“TALLY HO! TALLY HO!”

Chapter 38

Thursday 14th April

Villarino de los Aires, Spain

They had reached the outskirts of the village at dusk, collapsed exhausted in an abandoned orange grove and slept, fitfully, as the gnats and bugs bit and whirred above them.

But for the two Spaniards, Miguel Burgos and his son, Simon, the fugitives might have blundered about the countryside for days reaching Villarino, almost within touching distance of the River Douro and the sanctuary of Portugal on the opposite bank.

Melody had noted that Paul Nash had none of the sure-footedness he had demonstrated, day after enervating day, back in the Mountains of Madrid. It was as if this was strange territory to him, or simply a sign that he too was at the end of his tether. This latter was probably the only thing which would have convinced him to trust their two guides, strangers both, for no better reason than melody, backed up by Henrietta, had demanded that there should be no more violence.

Albert Stanton was like a man in a trance, absorbed in his thoughts apart from when he took his turn hefting Pedro onto his shoulders as the group trudged across the dusty hills, far from roads and tracks, skirting farms.

Simon Burgos had gone into the village to fill water bags.

The women slaked their thirst, gently persuaded Pedro to do likewise.

“We go now,” Miguel Burgos decided while it was still fully night beneath a cold, starry sky, his breath frosting briefly in the pre-dawn airs.

“We won’t get to the river until after full light?” Paul Nash objected, possibly having assumed the Spaniards’ plan was to rest up another day before the final push to get across the border.

“People will have seen us,” the other man replied simply. “We must go now,” he sighed, a little apologetically, “we must cross the river today. If we meet soldiers, Simon and I will lead them away.”

“That’s the plan?”

The Spaniard nodded.

Dogs barked as they passed the village, moving from dry, desiccated hillsides to a wooded downslope, signalling that they had finally reached the eastern side of the valley of the Douro.

Twigs and leaves flicked at their faces as they stumbled down towards the river. At first the rushing water was a murmur, soon it was loud, frighteningly loud.

“The stream passes over a rocky bottom. The river is still very quiet, normally it is angry at this season but the rains came early, so the Douro is calm again,” Miguel explained, halting the party some hundred feet above the bank. “We wait a few minutes. We listen. There will be watchers, they may not have seen us yet.”

The darkness was turning grey.

Morning was coming on with a rush.

“There are men in the trees above us,” Miguel pointed to the north. “Do you hear them?” he asked Paul Nash, who nodded.

The women froze.

“You and I,” Miguel whispered, “will meet them.”

Paul Nash nodded grimly.

“Simon will show the others the crossing.”

Within moments the Spaniard and the soldier had ghosted into the undergrowth, and Simon Burgos was waving for the others to follow him.

“Do not look back,” the young man said sternly.

Melody thought it was hopeless as she gazed out across the impossibly wide river gurgling and surging across a bed of stones. Opposite them there was a grassy mudbank partially diverting the current, downstream the river was clearly deeper, narrower but its flow deadly.

“Beyond that,” Simon hissed, “the river is stagnant, very slow and shallow.” He looked to Pedro. “Somebody must carry the boy.”

“That’s me,” Albert Stanton said in a tone that brooked no objection.

“Don’t try to swim, you will be swept away,” Simon Burgos said, and to the horror of the others, turned to go.

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Henrietta asked.

“No, my place is with my father and your friend, El Escorpion.”

That was when the first volley of gunshots rang out, high in the trees marching up the eastern flank of the valley wall.

The water was viciously, numbingly cold.

So cold that it was instantly physically hurtful.

“Follow me,” Albert Stanton ordered.

Melody and Henrietta clutched hands.

Quickly they were up to their knees, then their thighs in the freezing water, slipping, sliding on the stones – mercifully rounded by aeons of rolling over and over in the river – fighting the drag of the stream.

They kept going.

There was no other option but to carry on.

Henrietta fell, Melody clung to her as she scrabbled and after a dreadful fright, regained her feet; only now both women were soaked through, head to toe.

Suddenly, they saw that the Manhattan Globe man, with Pedro perched on his shoulders was only standing in ankle-deep water in midstream. The woman struggled to join him, pausing to regain their strength, catch their breath.

They were barely half-way to the possible safety of the grassy mudbank.

Something sang through the air.

The water splashed oddly within a yard or so of Melody’s feet.

They were being fired upon…

“Go! Go! Go!” She cried, pushing the others forward.

As one the two women and the man were attempting to run through the shallows, the water sucking at their feet, heedless of whether their next panicky steps might plunge them into an unseen bottomless pool.

Melody heard somebody screaming.

It was only as she stumbled, fell and rolled to her feet on the muddy bank that she realised it had probably been her. They plunged down the reverse slope of the islet in the river.

All four of them piled into a heap as they ran into the dark lagoon beyond, encountering water waist high one step from the bank. They scrabbled, half swam, half-walked, their feet sinking into the sludge covered rocks underfoot.

And then they were crawling, on hands and knees on dry land.

“Hide, hide,” Melody gasped, knowing there might still be rifles trained upon them.

The women followed Albert Stanton, with Pedro still, miraculously in his arms, deep into the woods.

Only several minutes later did they fall in a heap beside a well-worn track, coughing, sweating, spent but alive.

Of course, to Pedro, it had all seemed like a great adventure.

While the adults wheezed, coughed up and spat river water and tried to come to terms with their survival, the child viewed them curiously, eager to carry on playing.

Henrietta sat up, motioned for the boy to come to her.

“Mama?” he asked, his infant face creased with mild bewilderment.

The Governor of New England’s daughter wrapped him in her arms and sobbed with unchained relief.

Chapter 39

Thursday 14th April

HMS Surprise, off Little Inagua

Stepping onto the great steel whale strong hands had guided Abe directly to an open circular hatch, down which he had been ushered with polite but very urgent haste. He had wanted to supervise Ted Forest’s safe conveyance into the belly of the monster; that was not an option.

Dazed, disorientated and probably a little high on the drugs his Special Boat Squadron rescuers had pumped into his system at the bottom of the vertical ladder he had emerged into a red-light lit compartment packed with equipment.

A torpedo room…

Surrounded by men in familiar naval fatigues, except matt black, with singular silvery dolphin badges bearing each man’s rank, he was guided clear of the ladder and led, like a lost child aft into what appeared to be a berthing compartment, thereafter through two more bulkhead doors, and into what was obviously the control room, or bridge of the vessel.

A dapper man of fit, vital, indeterminate middle years presented himself, sticking out his right hand and smiling broadly.

“I’m Drake, Francis, like the pirate of yore, for my sins I have the honour to be Captain of His Majesty’s Submarine Surprise,” the older man declared proudly. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Lincoln.”

Abe blinked at the man.

“Thank you, sir. My friend is badly injured…”

“You’re not in tip top form yourself, old chap.”

This was true.

“But…”

“My surgeon will look after both of you.” Sensing that his guest was still struggling coming to terms with his surroundings, Captain drake took pity on Abe. “You are on board a six-thousand-ton nuclear-powered submarine with a crew of over a hundred men, Mister Lincoln. We have a fully equipped sick bay. Your friend will receive the best possible care. As will you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The submariner patted his right arm.

“Now, let my people take you aft so that we can look after you properly. Once we’re clear of land, you and I will speak again.”

This thought was, and was not, overly comforting given that Abe half-suspected he was dreaming. His polished, antiseptic, near silent surrounding seemed to him more like something out of a science fiction novel or movie than a real ship.

Or submarine…

Nuclear-powered?

I thought that was banned…

It transpired that the ships surgeon, a slim, aesthetic man of Asiatic extraction, Surgeon Lieutenant Dawlish-Wang, who was only a few years Abe’s senior, had been on deck when he arrived on board and had personally supervised every aspect of Ted Forest’s lowering into the torpedo compartment, his triage on the deck prior to his transfer aft, and generally clucked around Abe’s friend like a mother hen.

The Surprise’s sick bay was actually a very compact operating theatre, approximately of the dimensions of a couple of large broom cupboards.

The compartment was overfull with Abe seated in one corner, Ted Forest on the ‘table’ and Dawlish-Wang and a man wearing a badge proclaiming he was a Leading Sick Bay Rate, in it.

Abe was finding it hard to stay awake.

He watched as Ted Forest’s rags were cut away.

“I’m going to need to tidy up your friend’s wounds,” Dawlish informed him. “You did a damned good job keeping everything clean and staunching the bleeding but once I’ve swabbed everything out, I’ll close things up. We’re going to carry on feeding you both anti-biotics, for a while at least. I have a small x-ray machine but just looking at Mister Forest’s leg I think it’ll just be a matter of re-splinting and slapping on a lightweight cast…”

Abe must have fallen asleep because there was no sign of Ted Forest when he awakened.

“We’ve made your friend comfortable in the adjacent compartment. The Communications Officer volunteered to give up his bunk.”

“That’s jolly decent of him…”

Abe shrugged out of his shirt, a torn and still bloody thing, and was helped onto the examination table.

“I’m going to put you under while I sort out your shoulder,” he was warned.

However, knowing that Ted had been attended to and was ‘comfortable’, Abe was beyond caring.

Chapter 40

Friday 15th April

14 miles east of San Salvador Island

Commander Alexander Fielding had had no trouble finding the stricken carrier. A great pillar of evil black smoke towered like a volcanic eruption above the Ulysses.

The report over the TBS -Talk Between Ships – UHF scrambled communications system said that only one of the three or four torpedoes aimed at her had struck home. Unfortunately, that single fish had punched a hole in her and most likely, fractured a fuel main. Thereafter, it had only been a matter of time before a stray spark set off the conflagration now consuming the after section of the great ship.

It was getting dark and the Ulysses’s birds – a score of Goshawks and probably as many Sea Eagles were circling – starting to watch their fuel gauges dip into the red.

“THIS IS BAD BOY CALLING ALL LOST BOYS!” He tried to sound calm, it was not easy. “IF YOU HAVE TWENTY PLUS MINUTES FUEL RESERVE VECTOR TWO-SEVEN-FIVE DEGREES! MAKE BEST ECONOMIC SPEED! MOTHER HEN IS READY FOR YOU! REPEAT! MOTHER HEN IS READY AND WAITING FOR YOU!”

Anybody with the dial already in the red needed to splash down now as near as possible to a friendly ship. Although, with a submarine on the loose in the vicinity few captains were likely to contemplate stopping to pick up stray aviators.

Alex had not been the only one wondering what else could possibly go wrong after yesterday’s fiasco over Nuevo Asentamiento Fluvial.

There had been no invasion fleet; just a flock of BMK 57F scouts wearing the blood-red liveries of the Cuban Air Force.

Airframe to airframe the 57Fs were no match for a well-handled Goshawk but when the odds were four or five to one, that was hardly a relevant consideration.

Alex had radioed back to the Perseus to abort the second attack – by the Sea Eagles – but three of the bombers had not received the recall and presumably, fallen prey to the 57Fs over Florida.

Alex had taken little comfort from splashing two of his foes; one of his old hands had knocked down another before the flight had had to use their superior straight-line speed to beat a hasty retreat.

As he circled the burning carrier Alex saw a light cruiser, possibly the Cavalier, manoeuvring close alongside the Ulysses, playing her fire hoses over the stern of the great ship. Everywhere for miles around Task Force 5.1’s ships were zig-zagging.

It was chaos.

It was defeat and it tasted vile.

In the distance a Sea Eagle ditched in the sea virtually alongside a destroyer.

EPILOGUE

Chapter 41

Saturday 16th April

Viano do Castelo, Northern Portugal

The Portuguese militiamen who had found the fugitives wandering like lost souls in the forest, had taken them to Bemposta, the nearest place where there was a telephone. Melody, exploring the inadequacies of her command of colloquial Portuguese had eventually managed to place a call to the British Consul in Oporto, mentioned Henrietta’s name and an hour or so later things had started to happen at an unholy rush.

‘We need to take you somewhere secure,’ a suave man in a Savile Row suit, accompanied by half-a-dozen heavily armed regular Portuguese Army soldiers, informed the survivors. ‘The Spanish have agents everywhere and there have been a number of assassinations and unfortunate accidents…’

Out of the fire straight into the frying pan…

‘No, no, it is not as bad as that. We’ll just take you somewhere safe until arrangements can be made to get you home, that’s all.’

Hence, a three-hour car journey to the Atlantic coast to deliver the women, Albert Stanton and their charge, Pedro, to the old-fashioned hotel on top of the headland overlooking the mouth of the River Lima.

Henrietta and Melody had been given adjoining rooms but they had retired to the one with the nicer view of the sea and the gardens below the hotel, and clasping Pedro to their breasts slept most of yesterday, surfacing only to dine – that had been surreal after what they had got accustomed to in recent weeks – with the Manhattan Globe man in the evening.

Two men from the Embassy in Lisbon had arrived as they were finishing their meal. They had all eaten too much and were suffering because of it, and given the newcomers short shrift. Albert Stanton wanted to dash off a telegram to New York, the women longed to sink again into blissful hot baths and sleep again.

It seemed that they were all in quarantine.

‘Word has been sent to Philadelphia that Lady Henrietta is safe. The authorities have also been informed that you, Ms Danson, and Mister Stanton are similarly safe. But…’

Clearly, the powers that be did not want them talking to… journalists. Which was a bit rich considering they had been incarcerated in this gilded cage with… a journalist!

The women had picked up Pedro, filled the bath in Henrietta’s state room, whereupon the three of them had bathed until the boy got bored and both Henrietta and Melody decided to emerge before they nodded off to sleep. Retiring to bed they slept, genuinely, the sleep of the happy and the righteous.

That morning melody’s suspicions were confirmed when one of the Embassy men turned out to be a spook.

‘Whitehall is keen to debrief you all.’

More likely, to cover up the fiasco of the mission – or rather, fools’ errand – Melody and Henrietta had been sent on in the first place.

‘The thing is, we believe you two ladies are the only survivors of the Special Commission in Madrid…’

That put a somewhat different light on things.

‘Oh, and there is somebody else who is keen to meet you before you leave Portugal…’

Chapter 42

Saturday 16th April

SMS Weser, 28 nautical miles SW of Rojo Cabo, Hispaniola

Commander Peter Cowdrey-Singh pulled on a borrowed Kaiserliche Marine jacket before he came up to the bridge. The ship had come to battle stations very quietly, very efficiently.

The merchant-raider had parted company with the cruiser Emden the previous day.

At that time Kapitan zur See Albrecht Weitzman had taken him aside: ‘I now plan to call in at San Juan on Hispaniola. It remains an Imperial concession and the Governor is an honourable man. I will land you and your men and leave the repatriation arrangements to him.”

Given the way the war was escalating, hour by hour, he was unable to guarantee the safety of his ‘guests’; given that the Weser might be fired on without warning by any British ship or aircraft, even though he had no licence for, or intention to employ his command as a commerce raider. No, he still intended to head for the Atlantic and make passage for Europe. However, landing his charges at San Juan seemed the safest option in all the circumstances.

“We have a problem,” Weitzman observed, seemingly untroubled. “Two torpedo boats,” the Anglo-Indian was informed.

“Hispanic, we think,” another officer offered.

Even with binoculars the ships were still too far away to be individually identified. A pair of three stack, coal-burning greyhounds armed with 3- or 4-inch guns and half-a-dozen torpedo tubes.

As she had been since she and the Emden separated from the combine fleet off Jamaica, the Weser was flying the black, gold and white ensign of the Kaiserliche Marine.

Albrecht Weitzman stepped over to the bridge wing.

“Flash them our pennant number, if you please.”

The big signal lamp clattered.

“Keep sending until they acknowledge.”

It was some minutes before a lamp lit up on the nearest of the two approaching warships. Both vessels kept on coming with huge bones in their teeth.

“I think they are ordering us to stop and receive borders, sir,” a youthful signals lieutenant suggested. “It is hard to tell, whoever is on that lamp is very sloppy…”

The two torpedo boats were moving apart.

Clearly, they intended to pass the Weser at speed.

“Wheel amidships, if you please.”

“They must be coming on at about thirty knots,” the Weser’s navigator remarked idly. “I bet they can’t keep that up for long!”

“No,” Weitzman agreed. “But they don’t have to, do they?”

“No, sir.”

Both torpedo boats had their guns trained on the merchantmen as they creamed past some hundred yards distant at a closing speed of well over forty knots.

Their little piece of theatre achieved the smaller ships reduced speed and turned to overhaul the Weser.

Weitzman turned to his signals officer.

“Send: I AM BOUND FOR SAN JUAN ON IMPERIAL BUSINESS STOP PLEASE KEEP SAFE CRUISING DISTANCE STOP KSZ WEITZMAN KM MESSAGE ENDS.”

The signal lamp clattered anew.

In the meantime, the white-haired captain of the Weser turned to his officers: “I will bluff these fellows for as long as possible. There are no circumstances under which I will allow this ship to be boarded. Please warn the gun and torpedo crews that if the Hispanics attempt to come alongside it is my intention to fire upon them.”

A minute or so later Peter Cowdrey-Singh saw machine gun crews assembling at the rails of the transport-raider, squatting down low behind the armoured main deck rails.

“Halt immediately or you will be fired on!” The signals officer reported tersely.

A gun on the nearest torpedo boat cracked.

A round kicked up a small waterspout about a cable ahead of the ship and then skipped several hundred yards before throwing up another spout.

Albrecht Weitzman sighed.

“ALL STOP! ALL STOP MAIN ENGINES!”

The engine room telegraphs rang.

“Prepare to run up the battle flag, if you please,” he ordered sadly. And turning to the bridge crew: “Perhaps, now is probably the time we ought to be breaking out the hard hats?”

“Captain,” Peter Cowdrey-Singh interjected while the steel helmets were retrieved from their ready lockers. “It is not too late to surrender my people and I. This is not your fight.”

Weitzman smiled.

“You are in my care; you are my responsibility. No German officer in my position would do otherwise that I am doing. Our Empires are often at cross-purposes, Mr Cowdrey-Singh; but we live and die by our shared moral imperatives.”

Both torpedo boats were angling in towards the tall sides of the Weser.

“Put scrambling nets over the side,” Weitzman ordered.

“Sir,” the signalman called. “They are ordering that the crew should line the sides in full view…”

The old man walked unhurriedly from the port to the starboard side of his bridge, judging angles.

A yeoman handed him his hard hat.

Weitzman glanced thoughtfully at his Royal Navy guest, perhaps thinking of ordering him below and thinking better of it.

Then he turned to the bridge speaker.

“Stand by to execute surface action off both beams on my word.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh heard this passed on and acknowledged.

The old man took one final look at the nearest torpedo boat, now only fifty yards off the port bow quarter of the Weser.

“Commence surface action… NOW!”

Chapter 43

Sunday 17th April

Viano do Castelo, Northern Portugal

At first Melody and Henrietta had been so preoccupied catching up with their sleep, indulging in the joy of being clean again, and not perishingly cold or hot, thirsty or starving, to just be together and safe with Pedro, that being secreted away from the World had been no hardship whatsoever. Not so for Albert Stanton but then he was a journalist with the story of a lifetime to tell; and every second he was cooped up in Portugal he was fretting about his scoop, not to mention being kept from the side of a certain Miss Daventry-Jones.

‘I intend to propose to her the minute I get back,’ he had confided, earnestly, to his companions. ‘I was a damned fool not doing the deed before I left for Paris!’

The hotel had found him a typewriter last night; he had been hammering away at it practically non-stop ever since, leaving the women completely to their own devices without feeling any obligation to cheer him up, or even to socialise.

Of the two women Melody was by far the more vexed not to know who or what exactly was keeping them waiting. The hotel might be a gilded cage but she had never been the sort of creature who like to have her wings clipped.

“We’re both still knocked about and sore from our adventures,” Henrietta soothed.

True, their feet were still a mess, and their numerous aches and pains only now beginning to subside. Although the Embassy in Lisbon had arranged for a stylist to come in to try to make their short, boyish hair a little more presentable, feminine, each still missed their previous luxuriant long locks and subconsciously twirled non-existent rebellious strands. One small mercy was that their nearly-bald patches had grown over, so they did not look quite like the scabrous harpies they were four weeks ago.

Oh, and the hotel had found a couple of nice, fashionably modest – this was small ‘c’ Catholic Portugal after all – dresses for them which actually fitted their slightly slimmer waists. That said, their feet were still so distressed that they both still found it more comfortable to go barefoot.

So, that morning, the women were enjoying tea as the sunshine streamed into their day room, listening contentedly to Pedro playing with the toys – a couple of old tin model cars and a set of knocked about building blocks the hotel manager’s wife had found – in their bedroom, when there was a quiet knock at the door.

Melody rose to her feet.

“Come in, please!”

Whereupon, the door not so much opened as nearly flew off its hinges as if blown asunder by the simmering anticipation of the handsome man in the day uniform of an officer of the Spanish Royal Household Cavalry, in an obviously high state of anxiety, who practically ran into the room.

And came to a skidding halt just in front of Melody.

“Alonso?” She asked, like an idiot, staring uncomprehendingly at the more than somewhat agitated, exiled Duke of Medina-Sidonia.

Behind her Henrietta was rising to her feet, a seraphic smile spreading across her face.

Pedro, curious about the commotion trotted around behind her, clung to her legs, peering cautiously at the newcomer.

“Melody!” The man breathed with a juddering sigh.

She reached up and touched her head, absent its former burning red mane.

He reached out to her; his right hand brushed her cheek.

Later, it was hard to say who initiated things.

All Melody knew was that she was in the man’s arms and he was kissing her – and she was kissing him back – with an all-devouring, insane passion. Neither party broke the clinch until they were turning blue from lack of air.

Oddly, they both felt a little silly afterwards.

And each looked to Henrietta, somehow ashamed.

As if they had left her out of something very important…

Melody beckoned her friend and lover to join them.

The man embraced Henrietta, planted a long, heartfelt kiss on her brow; and the Melody’s surprise, her partner, after a brief moment of hesitation, kissed him flush on the mouth.

Presently, the three of them were looking one to the others, as if trying to work out what it all meant.

Alonso knelt down, looked Pedro in the eye.

“We think he was the ward of the Cortes family in Navalperal de Tormes,” Henrietta explained, trying to read the intensity in Alonso’s eyes as he studied the boy. “We don’t even know how old he is, well, not within…”

“He is three years and seven months old in two days’ time,” she was informed.

Melody and Henrietta glanced askance on to the other.

The man looked up momentarily before re-fixing his attention on the boy still clinging to Henrietta’s leg.

“Mama?” Pedro asked, seeking reassurance.

Henrietta dropped to her knees and hugged him.

She met Alonso’s gaze.

“We’ve all become very close,” she explained, quirking a self-conscious smile. She kissed the boys head.

“I have a confession,” Alonso announced. “One that for the while I can only share with you.” He hesitated. “And, I regret, I truly regret, only with you.”

As everybody else was on the floor, at Pedro’s level, Melody descended, stiffly to her knees.

“You see,” Alonso explained, suddenly self-deprecating, “Pedro is the child of a high-born lady of my acquaintance.”

“Okay,” Melody murmured, still not seeing where this was going.

“This I know,” because two days after I learned of his birth, I lodged a letter of acknowledgment of paternity with my solicitors in London. “Pedro,” he smiled, “Your name is Pedro Alfonse Pérez de Guzmán, and you are the rightful heir to the Dukedom of Medina Sidonia.”

Melody and Henrietta were staring.

“This I swear by all things that are precious to me, because,” the man concluded, “I am your father.”

[The End]

Author’s Endnote

‘Remember Brave Achilles’ is the fourth book in the New England Series set in an alternative America, two hundred years after the rebellion of the American colonies was crushed in 1776 when the Continental Army was destroyed at the battle of Long Island and its commander, George Washington was killed.

I hope you enjoyed it – or if you did not, sorry – but either way, thank you for reading and helping to keep the printed word alive. Remember, civilization depends on people like you.

________

Oh, please bear in mind that:

Inevitably, in writing an alternative history this book has referenced, attributed motives, actions and put words in the mouths of real, historical characters.

No motive, action or word attributed to a real person after 28th August 1776 actually happened or was said.

Whereas, to the best of my knowledge everything in this book which occurred before 28th August 1776 actually happened!

Other Books by James Philip

The Timeline 10/27/62 Series

Main Series

Book 1: Operation Anadyr

Book 2: Love is Strange

Book 3: The Pillars of Hercules

Book 4: Red Dawn

Book 5: The Burning Time

Book 6: Tales of Brave Ulysses

Book 7: A Line in the Sand

Book 8: The Mountains of the Moon

Book 9: All Along the Watchtower

Book 10: Crow on the Cradle

Book 11: 1966 & All That

Book 12: Only in America

Book 13: Warsaw Concerto

A Timeline 10/27/62 Novel

Football in The Ruins – The World Cup of 1966

Coming in 2019

Book 14: Eight Miles High

Book 15: Won’t Get Fooled Again

Coming in 2020

Book 16: Armadas

Book 17: Smoke of the Water

USA Series

Book 1: Aftermath

Book 2: California Dreaming

Book 3: The Great Society

Book 4: Ask Not of Your Country

Book 5: The American Dream

Australia Series

Book 1: Cricket on the Beach

Book 2: Operation Manna

For the latest news and author blogs about the

Timeline 10/27/62 Series check out thetimelinesaga.com

Other Series and Novels

The Guy Winter Mysteries

Prologue: Winter’s Pearl

Book 1: Winter’s War

Book 2: Winter’s Revenge

Book 3: Winter’s Exile

Book 4: Winter’s Return

Book 5: Winter’s Spy

Book 6: Winter’s Nemesis

The Bomber War Series

Book 1: Until the Night

Book 2: The Painter

Book 3: The Cloud Walkers

Until the Night Series

Part 1: Main Force Country – September 1943

Part 2: The Road to Berlin – October 1943

Part 3: The Big City – November 1943

Part 4: When Winter Comes – December 1943

Part 5: After Midnight – January 1944

The Harry Waters Series

Book 1: Islands of No Return

Book 2: Heroes

Book 3: Brothers in Arms

The Frankie Ransom Series

Book 1: A Ransom for Two Roses

Book 2: The Plains of Waterloo

Book 3: The Nantucket Sleighride

The Strangers Bureau Series

Book 1: Interlopers

Book 2: Pictures of Lily

The River House Chronicles Series

Book 1: Things Can Only Get better

Book 2: Consenting Adults

Book 3: All Swing Together

Non-Fiction Cricket Books

FS Jackson

Lord Hawke

Audio Books of the following Titles are available (or are in production) now

Aftermath

After Midnight

A Ransom for Two Roses

Brothers in Arms

California Dreaming

Empire Day

Heroes

Islands of No Return

Love is Strange

Main Force Country

Operation Anadyr

Red Dawn

The Big City

The Cloud Walkers

The Nantucket Sleighride

The Painter

The Pillars of Hercules

The Plains of Waterloo

The Road to Berlin

Travels Through the Wind

Two Hundred Lost Years

Until the Night

When Winter Comes

Winter’s Exile

Winter’s Pearl

Winter’s Return

Winter’s Revenge

Winter’s Spy

Winter’s War

Cricket Books edited by James Philip

The James D. Coldham Series

[Edited by James Philip]

Books

Northamptonshire Cricket: A History [1741-1958]

Lord Harris

Anthologies

Volume 1: Notes & Articles

Volume 2: Monographs No. 1 to 8

Monographs

No. 1 – William Brockwell

No. 2 – German Cricket

No. 3 – Devon Cricket

No. 4 – R.S. Holmes

No. 5 – Collectors & Collecting

No. 6 – Early Cricket Reporters

No. 7 – Northamptonshire

No. 8 – Cricket & Authors

________

Details of all James Philip’s published books and forthcoming publications can be found on his website www.jamesphilip.co.uk

________

Cover artwork concepts by James Philip

Graphic Design by Beastleigh Web Design

THE NEW ENGLAND SERIES

________

BOOK 1: EMPIRE DAY

BOOK 2: TWO HUNDRED LOST YEARS

BOOK 3: TRAVELS THROUGH THE WIND

BOOK 4: REMEMBER BRAVE ACHILLES

coming in 2020

BOOK 5: GEORGE WASHINGTON’S GHOST

BOOK 6: THE IMPERIAL CRISIS

Copyright

Copyright © James P. Coldham writing as James Philip 2019.

All rights reserved.

Cover concept by James Philip

Graphic Design by Beastleigh Web Design

Content

James Philip
________
REMEMBER BRAVE ACHILLES
________

A.D. 1978 ________

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

EPILOGUE

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Author’s Endnote

Other Books by James Philip

Audio Books of the following Titles are available (or are in production) now

Cricket Books edited by James Philip

THE NEW ENGLAND SERIES ________

Copyright