In spite of the nausea which threatened to make him vomit Chesnaye peered at the burly coxswain. But again there was neither contempt nor anger on his face, and Chesnaye realised that in that brief instant he was seeing Tobias for the first time. Not as a competent, bitter-tongued subordinate, but as a man.
The bowman said wearily: ‘Saracen’s signalling, sir! “Recall”.’
Chesnaye glanced at Tobias, who merely shrugged. ‘They kin see better’n us, sir. There’ll be nothing left now!’
In silence the men pulled at the oars, but this time their eyes were facing the stern, where across Tobias’s shoulders they could see, or imagined they could see, the frothing whirlpool which marked the destroyer’s grave.
* * * * *
Commander Godden strode to the front of the bridge, his features strained. ‘Both whalers hoisted and secured, sir.’
The Captain sat straight-backed in his chair, his eyes fixed on some point along the horizon. ‘Very well. Resume course and speed, and instruct all lookouts of their double importance.’
‘Shall I make out a signal, sir?’ Godden saw the Captain’s neat hands stiffen. He added carefully, ‘Another escort can be sent from Gibraltar.’
Royston-Jones turned his head, his eyes momentarily distant. ‘I knew that destroyer captain well. A very promising fellow. Great pity.’ Then in a sharper tone: ‘No, we’ll make no signals as yet. By breaking wireless silence we will invite more unwelcome attention than by continuing alone.’
‘It’s a risk, sir.’ Godden tried to shut his mind to the sinking destroyer.
Royston-Jones shrugged irritably. ‘So is polo! In any case, the responsibility rests with me, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Godden bit his lip and started to move away,
‘The whalers took far too long to get away, Commander.’ The voice halted him in his tracks. ‘The second whaler took six minutes to clear the falls. Should be three minutes at the most. See to it!’
Hogarth, the Officer of the Watch, called, ‘Resumed course and speed, sir!’
‘Very well.’ Royston-Jones seemed to have dismissed them.
Godden said heavily, ‘Pass the word for the midshipman of the second whaler!’
Lieutenant Travis walked from the charthouse and crossed to his side. ‘Pretty sudden, wasn’t it?’
‘Bloody mines!’ Godden felt the anger boiling up inside him.
‘Probably very old.’ Travis sounded thoughtful. ‘Maybe dropped months ago by the raider Kap Trafalgar on her way south.’
‘Poor devils.’ Godden thrust his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I knew every officer in that destroyer.’ He glared quickly at Royston-Jones’ back. ‘Not just her captain either!’
Travis shrugged. ‘That’s the trouble with this regiment. Just one great family!’ He glanced to the sky and moved towards the bridge ladder as Chesnaye’s head appeared over the screen. ‘Never mind. Here’s the most junior officer aboard. He should be good enough to carry our burdens!’
Godden opened his mouth, and then stifled the angry retort. Travis was a queer bird. You never knew whether he was making fun of his superiors. But his casual comment had struck home, and Godden was almost grateful. The Captain was always goading him, always finding fault. Travis had been right. Chesnaye had been about to take the weight of Godden’s resentment.
He stared at Chesnaye’s wind-reddened face. ‘You were too slow,’ he said at length. ‘You’ll have to halve the time it takes to get that boat away.’
‘I see, sir.’ Chesnaye looked upset.
‘The power launches are useless in this weather. In any case it takes too long for the main derrick to swing ’em into the water. Whalers are best.’ Godden sighed. ‘But nothing would have saved those fellows, I’m afraid.’
Royston-Jones said sharply, ‘Come over here!’
Chesnaye crossed to the tall chair and saluted. ‘Sir?’
For a moment the Captain stared at the Midshipman, his eyes bleak and expressionless. ‘Chesnaye?’ The small head nodded slowly. ‘Knew your father in China.’ The cold eyes darted sharply at Chesnaye’s. ‘Commanded the Kelpie, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Chesnaye could feel the bridge spinning beneath his feet.
Royston-Jones resumed staring at the horizon. ‘The China Station. Now there was a place.’ Some of the sharpness had gone from his tone, so that Chesnaye darted a closer look at him. ‘Fleet regattas, or chasing Chinese pirates, it made no difference. No room for mistakes there, boy. A crack squadron!’ The Captain’s head nodded vigorously. ‘A pity we’re not going out there now!’
He turned in his chair, his eyes sharp and alive again. ‘Well, don’t stand there! Go and chase that fool Tobias and his men! Tell them you’ll have their hides if they don’t improve their timing!’ One hand slapped sharply against the chair. ‘Timing is the thing!’
Chesnaye saluted and stepped back, conscious of the eyes all round him. ‘Very good, sir!’
Royston-Jones yawned. ‘Naturally, Chesnaye!’
As Chesnaye stepped on to the top of the ladder Commander Godden patted his arm. ‘Well done, lad. I think he likes you.’
His smile faded as a voice rapped: ‘Too much talking on my bridge! We’ll have an extra action drill before lunch to wake everyone up a bit!’
* * * * *
When Chesnaye reached the maindeck Sub-Lieutenant Pringle was waiting for him.
‘Well, where the hell have you been?’ Pringle had his big hands on his hips, and his chin was jutting with belligerence.
‘To the bridge.’ Chesnaye tried not to watch Pringle’s eyes. Behind them it was almost possible to see the man’s mind working.
‘Bridge? Bloody crawling, I suppose! By God, you mids make me spew! Did a little bit of boatwork upset you?’ Pringle’s voice became a sneering lisp. ‘Perhaps you thought you might see a bit of blood!’
Chesnaye felt the weariness soaking into his limbs. It was a game. But how sickening it was becoming! He thought of the faded corpse and gritted his teeth.
‘Wait until you’ve seen a bit of service!’ Pringle’s face was getting flushed. ‘You’ll have something to weep about then!’
Chesnaye released his breath slowly. ‘How much service have you seen?’
‘What did you say?’ Pringle stared at him with disbelief. ‘By God, you’ve really asked for it now!’
Chesnaye licked his dry lips. He had committed himself. Over and over again he had warned himself about this, but it had come at the wrong time.
‘Sub-Lieutenant Pringle,’ he kept his voice level, ‘I am not going to fight you, but if you threaten me again I am going straight to the Commander!’
Pringle’s mouth opened and stayed open.
‘You are my superior and I have to obey you. But as we are alone I can cheerfully tell you that in my opinion you are a cheat, a liar and a bully!’ He stepped back, half expecting Pringle to smash him down with one of his doubled fists.
Pringle seemed unable to breathe. He spoke between short gasps, his cheeks mottled and shining. ‘You’ll see, Chesnaye! By God, you’ll be sorry for this!’
Some seamen tramped along the nearby deck, and Pringle seemed to recover himself. ‘Now get about your duties, and quick about it!’
Chesnaye touched his cap and smiled coldly. ‘Yes, sir.’
Later, as he watched Tobias and his men scrubbing off the whaler’s keel, he thought of the clash with Pringle and cursed himself. It would be as well to warn Pickles, just in case.
Automatically he looked astern, as if expecting to see the small, faithful destroyer. The empty sea seemed to be dancing, as if to mock him.
Suddenly, in spite of Pringle and the Captain’s casual remarks about his father, the Saracen seemed very solid and safe.
He walked towards the slung whaler and said quickly, ‘D’you need any help, Tobias?’
The unnatural brightness in his tone made the leading seaman glance at him with surprise. Then Tobias gave a slow smile. Sometim
es when new midshipmen found their feet they could go either way. All being well, this one might be just tolerable.
‘Always do with an extra ’and, sir!’
By nightfall the Saracen was steaming down the Portuguese coast, and somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic the destroyer’s hull had settled for the last time and was at peace.
3
A Girl Called Helen
The sky above Gibraltar was a pale transparent blue, whilst the craggy crown of the Rock itself remained shrouded in a fine afternoon haze. A steady Atlantic breeze prevented much warmth from reaching the sheltered anchorage, but the sun was nevertheless welcome, and cast a sheen of grandeur across the straight lines of moored warships. Sheltered and dwarfed by the towering rock fortress, the town itself glittered and sparkled in countless colours which again acted as a backcloth for the grey symbols of power and reliability.
Slightly apart from the other vessels, the flagship lay in solitary splendour, the flag of Vice-Admiral fluttering cheerfully in the breeze. Across the harbour entrance the last traces of brown smoke hovered around the one moving warship, and to onlookers the last detonation of a nineteen-gun salute still seemed to echo against the weatherworn walls of the Rock.
The Vice-Admiral stepped from the small sternwalk of the battleship and entered a well-furnished stateroom. His flag-captain remained momentarily in the sunlight, his raised glasses following the slow-moving ship.
‘Ugly-looking ship, sir?’ The Captain reluctantly followed his superior.
The Vice-Admiral tore his eyes from the pile of signals and reference books which littered his table and looked at the other officer. ‘The Saracen could be very useful, however.’ His eyes flitted to a well-polished scuttle as the monitor’s blunt bow slowly moved into view once more. On her distant fo’c’sle he could see the hands fallen in and the small cluster of figures around the bows. In spite of her unwieldy appearance there was something defiant about the Saracen, he thought.
‘What is her captain like, sir?’
The Vice-Admiral shrugged, watching the monitor’s broad hull as it glided very slowly across the glittering water. ‘Royston-Jones? An able man, to all accounts.’ A small frown crossed his face. ‘But stubborn. Damned stubborn!’
‘All captains are made that way, surely, sir? The climb up the ladder is too long for a man who loses sight of his objective!’
‘Maybe so. That gun salute, for instance. Did you notice?’
‘Well, yes. But perhaps he overlooked the new orders about that. No salutes for the duration, that’s what their lordships implied, but I daresay Royston-Jones had other things on his mind. The loss of the escort, for instance?’
The Vice-Admiral smiled wryly. ‘He knew, all right. That is what worries me about him. He’s one of the old school. He’s always fired a salute to the Governor of the Rock in the past, and he does not see why he should alter now!’
The Captain craned his head. ‘She’s dropped anchor, sir.’
There was a faint splash of white beneath the monitor’s fo’c’sle, and simultaneously the Jack broke out from the short staff in the bows and a new ensign appeared as if by magic from the quarterdeck.
It was as if the ship itself was alive and the tiny antlike figures which scurried across the pale decks were superfluous. The big power derrick came to life, and almost before the vessel’s bow wave had died away a launch was lowered alongside and another was being swung out ready to follow it.
The Vice-Admiral grimaced. ‘He’s a good captain. I’m not denying that. I imagine that by now the whole ship is working like a new clock!’
‘You mean that may not be enough, sir?’
‘You’ve seen the reports?’ He gestured towards the table. ‘The Dardanelles project is swelling out of all proportion. To think that a week or so ago our sailors were actually ashore on Turkish soil, blowing up gunsites as calm as you please!’ He began to pace. ‘Nothing but delays and more delays! And now they want a full-scale combined operation. Troops, landings and all the rest of it, while Johnny Turk digs himself in and prepares! By heaven, it’ll be a bloody affair before we’re done!’
‘And now the poor Inflexible’s been put out of action too, sir.’
The Vice-Admiral walked to the scuttle and watched the neat launch curving towards the flagship. ‘Yes. A good new battlecruiser thrown away in a bombardment, such a damned waste! After she did such fine work in the Falklands battle too. It’ll take months to do the repairs!’ With sudden anger he added, ‘These damned stay-at-home strategists make me sick!’
An immaculate midshipman appeared in the doorway. ‘The Commander’s respects, sir. The captain of Saracen is coming aboard.’ He spoke to his captain, his over-steady eyes adding to his appearance of nervousness provoked by the other officer whose flag flew high overhead.
The Vice-Admiral waited until the young man had departed. ‘Do not mention the saluting business to Royston-Jones just yet.’
‘Very well, sir.’ The Captain looked puzzled.
The flag-officer made up his mind. ‘No. I must have his full attention. You see, it’s all part of what I was saying just now. The Royal Navy is our way of life. In addition it has always been in the background of the whole Empire. Since Trafalgar we have hardly been challenged. We are accepted as the greatest sea power, the most powerful force in the world.’
The Captain tucked his cap beneath his arm and waited. ‘Well, yes, sir.’
‘Exactly! Now we are at war. Real war, and some of us have been on top for so long we’ve forgotten what it is all about. We’ve been too rich, too damned confident!’ He glared at the table. ‘And now we’ve got to face it, to pay the price. A stupid, straightforward operation which has gone to blazes and all because our top people can’t agree!’
The Captain was half listening for the sound of the launch alongside, but his superior’s sudden show of angry confidence in him was not to be ignored.
‘Winston Churchill himself said the Fleet could “take” the Dardanelles. A good sharp knock and we could force the Straits without too much fuss, eh? Some smart chart work and quick thinking, a useful bombardment and some new spotting aircraft,’ the Vice-Admiral waved his hands, ‘and the whole thing would be finished!’
‘Well, sir, there is still time.’
He ignored the Captain’s guarded words. ‘And what did we get? A handful of obsolete battleships from the Channel Fleet and a couple of old aircraft which could hardly get off the ground! That fool Kitchener got cold feet in France and said he could not spare any troops to follow up our attack, and the government actually believed him!’
‘The casualties have been very severe on the Western Front, sir.’
‘And so they will continue to be while we’ve got stupid old men in charge of them! That is why we must watch ourselves too!’ He looked towards the Saracen, which now swung easily at her cable. ‘New thinking is what we want. My God, in some ways I wish we had not been so strong in the Navy.’ He turned towards his captain. ‘A starving man always hunts for food better than one who has been pampered and overfed!’
Later, as the pipes twittered and the marines presented arms, the Flag-Captain found a few seconds to reflect on the Vice-Admiral’s words. He watched Royston-Jones’ neat head lift above the rail, the hand raised to his cap, beneath which the pale, cold eyes flitted briefly across the flagship’s reception party in sharp appraisal.
The Flag-Captain dropped his hand and stepped forward to welcome his opposite number. He thought irritably that it was as if Royston-Jones had come to inspect the flagship rather than receive his orders.
Royston-Jones looked along the vast decks and towering superstructure. Framed beneath the quarterdeck guns the Saracen looked small and deformed.
The Flag-Captain’s mouth softened. It would be no joke for a senior captain to be given command of a monitor. Following the other man’s gaze he said, ‘Looks aren’t everything, you know.’
Royston-Jones nodded vigorously. ‘Quit
e so! Couldn’t agree more!’ He faced the Flag-Captain, his eyes hidden beneath his peak. ‘Still, she could blow this relic out of the water any day, I shouldn’t wonder!’
* * * * *
Richard Chesnaye allowed himself to be pushed along in the continuous, aimless throng which seemed to fill each and every narrow street. Although the afternoon had almost gone, it still felt warm, almost oppressive after England and the Atlantic. He had come ashore alone, and told himself it was because he wanted it this way. In fact, he knew that it was because Gibraltar was new and unfamiliar, and, as in the past, he wanted to feel his way, to hide any weakness. Pickles was on duty in his picket boat and most of the other midshipmen Lad headed ashore in one group to some prearranged party.
Chesnaye stared at the strange shops overloaded with garish rugs and countless ornaments and souvenirs. Already beneath his arm he was carrying a bright shawl which a beady-eyed merchant had thrust into his hands within minutes of landing. He did not care. He wanted something to send to his mother, and she would like it even though she might never wear it.
Chesnaye did not know where he was walking, and every street seemed exactly like another. All were crammed with sailors, and occasionally he caught sight of a familiar face from the Saracen, some already flushed with drink and full of that strange anticipation which every sailor seemed to wear like a mask when ashore.
Wearily he turned into a small, low-ceilinged café and ordered coffee. Things seemed cheap here, but all the same he would have to be careful. The café was perched on a shoulder of rock, so that he could still see part of the harbour. He toyed with the coffee and watched the moored ships and the colourful bustle below the window. There were big ugly troopships too. Their decks alive with khaki figures, the upperworks untidy with newly washed shirts and underwear. All at once he became aware of two voices behind him. The room was half empty and very carefully he turned to look at the girl whose voice broke into his tired thoughts and reminded him how few women he had seen on the Rock.
She was about his own age, suntanned, and with hair so dark that for a moment he wondered if she were Spanish. She was speaking to a young army second lieutenant, and as Chesnaye watched them he knew that they were brother and sister. The soldier wore the badges of the Royal Engineers and from his creased uniform Chesnaye guessed that he was from one of the troopships and not a garrison officer.
H.M.S Saracen (1965) Page 5