H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  A bugle blared ‘Up Spirits!’ In a moment the sickly smell of rum would float along the spotless decks and the seamen would stir themselves like old cavalry horses at the sound of a trumpet.

  Chesnaye yawned. ‘Right, start securing that paint.’

  The seamen did not even glance at him. They were lost in their own thoughts.

  Soon it would be time, too, to return to the gunroom, to Lukey’s rasping patter as he served another unsuitable meal of hot stew or leathery beef. Pringle would be sitting, glowing with health and vigour, at the head of the table, eating with obvious relish, while the midshipmen sat immersed in thought or hoping that their overlord would fall down dead. There was more room in the small mess now. With Maintland killed, and the overhanging threat of more action, the midshipmen seemed to draw further apart, a situation encouraged by Pringle, who took every opportunity to remark on Maintland’s absence, as if to watch their reactions, or perhaps, as Chesnaye suspected, to show them how hardened and unmoved he was himself.

  But the most changed member of the mess was Pickles. Morose and stiff-faced, he had borne Pringle’s taunts without flinching, as if he had completely withdrawn into himself. Once Pringle had remarked loudly that he had heard some story that a certain snotty had lost his nerve ashore on the Peninsula and had broken down in front of the men. Pringle had yawned elaborately and added, ‘Just the thing one might expect from a poor type with no breeding!’

  Chesnaye had tried to ignore the constant friction in the gunroom, but it was beginning to wear him down. He noticed that Pringle was careful to be polite to him in front of the others, and had once seen the flash of anger in Pickles’ eyes.

  To Pringle it was just a game. But it could not last under these conditions.

  Almost guiltily he heard Pringle’s voice at his side. ‘What the hell are these loafers doing? Who gave you permission to pack up your gear?’ Pringle’s question was directed at the bearded A.B. Wellard.

  The seaman stiffened. ‘Mister Chesnaye, sir.’

  Pringle showed his teeth. ‘Well?’ He looked at Chesnaye without expression.

  Chesnaye shrugged wearily. ‘They were finished. There’s only a minute or so to go.’

  Pringle turned back to the watching men. ‘Never take advantage of an inexperienced officer! Now take the lids off those paint tins and get back to work!’

  ‘We’ve finished!’ Wellard glared from beneath his shaggy brows.

  A bugle blared sharply, but Pringle tapped the side of his nose with his finger and said pleasantly: ‘Well you can do fifteen minutes’ extra work to make up for your laziness. Now get to it!’

  He stood aside and said quietly to Chesnaye: ‘They’re an idle lot of swine. You’ve got to keep them at it all the time.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’ Chesnaye’s cheeks were still smarting from Pringle’s behaviour in front of his own men.

  ‘Well, of course you wouldn’t!’ Pringle rocked back on his heels. ‘You think that by being slack with ’em you’ll win their hearts. Imagine you’ll be their little idol, eh?’ His face darkened. ‘Remember what I said. They’re the scum of the earth, and only understand firmness and discipline!’

  Chesnaye felt the heat beating across his neck. ‘I think I’ll make up my own mind about that, if you don’t object?’

  Pringle paused as he turned to leave, his eyes red and angry. ‘I thought so! Like father like son, eh? No wonder your old man got the bloody sack!’

  The world seemed to explode around Chesnaye, and he was only half aware of the suddenly watchful seamen, the sun on his neck and the rasp of Pringle’s words. He was conscious too of the pain in his knuckles and the jarring shock which travelled up his right arm.

  His vision cleared just as quickly, and he found himself staring down at Pringle’s upturned face. Pringle was holding his mouth, and his fingers were bright red with blood.

  The seaman Wellard put down his brush and said flatly: ‘Christ! ’E’s ’it the sod!’

  * * * * *

  Captain Lionel Royston-Jones bit his lower lip to control the rising irritation he always felt when watching Holroyd, the Paymaster, at work. The latter was perched on the edge of one of the Captain’s pale green chairs in the spacious day-cabin below the monitor’s quarterdeck, and as usual was nervously absorbed in the endless matter of ship’s business. Royston-Jones stared slowly round his wide cabin, crossing his legs as he did so to force himself to relax. All forenoon he had made himself listen to Holroyd, the session interrupted at irregular intervals by the various heads of departments as the Saracen moved slowly towards the enemy coast. Soon it would be time to leave these comfortable quarters once more and return to the spartan restrictions of bridge and sea-cabin, but for the moment it was good to get away from the others and the pressing problems of command.

  Here at least he felt almost remote from the rest of the ship, his comfortable chair placed barely feet from the ship’s stern. The sea noises were indistinct and muffled, and even the regular bugle-calls were far off and impersonal. Royston-Jones scowled as if to dismiss the hint of sentiment, and Holroyd, a bald, worried little man, happening to glance at his captain at that particular moment, wilted accordingly.

  Royston-Jones let his pale eyes drift towards one of the cabin’s gleaming brass scuttles. The deep blue of the horizon line mounted the circular scuttle, paused, and then receded with the same patient slowness, while the hidden sun played across the sea’s numberless mirrors and threw a dancing pattern across the cabin’s low deckhead, where a wide-bladed fan revolved to give an impression of coolness.

  An original oil-painting of King George made a tasteful patch of colour against the white bulkhead, and beyond a nearby door the Captain knew that MacKay, his personal steward, would be hovering and waiting for the bell. It was getting near time for a sherry. A quiet lunch, and then—Royston-Jones looked up irritated again as Holroyd gave his nervous cough and handed some papers across for signature.

  ‘All complete, sir.’ The little man blinked and watched anxiously as the Captain began to read. He never signed anything without reading it at least twice, and this fact did little to help the Paymaster’s fading confidence.

  ‘This war will be bogged down with paper before long!’ Royston-Jones reached for his pen which stood exactly upright in a silver inkstand fashioned in the shape of a dolphin. On the stand’s base a well-polished inscription stated: ‘Presented to Sub-Lieutenant Lionel Royston-Jones, H.M.S. Jury 1893, Singapore Fleet Regatta.’

  The private thoughts of sherry and seclusion vanished as Royston-Jones suddenly remembered that Commander Godden was waiting to see him. He toyed with the idea of keeping him waiting a little longer, but then decided against it. Almost savagely he wrote his signature on six documents and replaced the pen. Holroyd scrambled to his feet, his face filled with obvious relief. Royston-Jones almost smiled when he imagined what the Paymaster would think or say if he knew that his captain was so short-sighted that most of the documents were a meaningless blur. For reading Royston-Jones wore a pair of narrow, steel-rimmed glasses, but few had seen them. MacKay, his steward, was used to finding his master in the privacy of the day-cabin, glasses perched on nose, a favourite book of Shakespeare plays on his crossed legs. MacKay kept the secret well. For that reason he had been with the Captain for many years.

  Royston-Jones jabbed the pantry bell, and added as an afterthought, ‘Some of those victualling returns look a bit casual, Holroyd.’ He watched the panic mounting with cold satisfaction. ‘Check them again yourself.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The wretched man almost bowed himself out of the cabin.

  MacKay appeared with a tiny silver tray. On it was a decanter, one glass and a dog-like arrowroot biscuit.

  Royston-Jones sighed. ‘Get another glass, and ask the Commander to step in.’

  What was wrong this time? he wondered. Some wretched nonsense about a split awning, or a petty officer sick with piles. What a small man Godden seemed to carry about inside th
at great body. Royston-Jones detested unnecessary size, and overweight officers were a particular hate of his. Perhaps that was why he never had got off to a good start with Godden. He knew it was more than that but even so . . .

  Godden entered the cabin and waited in silence until MacKay had glided back to his pantry.

  Royston-Jones felt his foot beginning to tap. Sharply he? said, ‘Put your cap down and have a sherry.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ Godden looked grim, ‘this is rather serious.’

  ‘Yes, I do mind.’ Royston-Jones sipped at his sherry and then banged the glass down. It was all spoilt. ‘Well, spit it out, man!’

  ‘I think we have a court martial on our hands, sir.’ He swallowed. ‘Sub-Lieutenant Pringle has been assaulted!’

  The Captain said slowly, ‘And the rating responsible?’

  ‘It was an officer, sir. Midshipman Chesnaye!’

  Royston-Jones stood up and walked to the nearest scuttle. For a moment longer he watched the handful of white gulls which still followed the ship’s slow course.

  Wheeling and dipping they added to the impression that the Saracen was unmoving.

  ‘I see.’ Over his shoulder he asked, ‘And what have you done about it, may I ask?’

  ‘I have sent Chesnaye to his quarters. Pringle is outside. I would have brought him earlier, sir, but his lip was still bleeding.’

  Half to himself Royston-Jones said coldly, ‘I would have guessed that Pringle’s mouth would be implicated!’ He swung round. ‘This is very serious, you realise that, don’t you?’ He waited, the absurdity and at the same time the danger of the situation making his cheeks burn with two small spots of colour. ‘Well?’ He saw Godden jump as his voice echoed round the cabin. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I thought you should know, sir——’ Godden’s face looked shiny with sweat.

  ‘You did, did you?’ The long-pent-up anger was coursing through Royston-Jones like fire. For a little while longer he would give way to it. ‘If there had been no war, Commander, you would have been happier, I expect? The usual sickening round of events, regattas, fleet balls, admiral’s inspections which end in a sea of gin and broken reputations. I can just imagine it!’

  ‘That’s not fair, sir!’ Godden was quivering with sudden rage.

  ‘Don’t you dare to interrupt! It’s a pity you can’t show the same energy for your duty as you display in righteous indignation!’ He took a few quick paces. ‘The Commander’s work in a ship is to present that ship as a working concern to his captain. You are not even near that standard. You are a passenger and almost a liability!’

  Godden’s face was white. ‘Now look here, sir! How could I have prevented this trouble?’

  The Captain’s eyes glittered in a shaft of yellow sunlight. ‘This trouble! I have carried you through trouble of one sort or another since you came aboard! I have your measure now! You want me to act over this so-called assault so that you can sink back into your old role of jovial dependability, the friendly buffer between the downtrodden wardroom and the tyrannical captain, right?’ He screwed up his face to watch Godden’s reactions. ‘I am telling you now, I am sick of your sidestepping! And I will not tolerate it!’

  Godden did not speak, but looked as if he was going to be sick.

  Almost as calmly Royston-Jones said: ‘This is war. Nothing like it has ever struck the Royal Navy before. We have been unchallenged, untouched, for over a hundred years, and now the battle is joined. All of us have been trained for war by men who have known only peace and frivolous security.’ He waved his hand with sudden bitterness. ‘Take this ship, my ship. She is entirely new, a fresh weapon in a strange war. And why do you suppose I got command, eh? I will tell you. Because some pompous popinjays at the Admiralty are afraid that the Saracen will be a white elephant, a failure. So they must have a scapegoat, just in case!’ He tapped his breast. ‘Me! A good captain with a blameless record, so that the ship can be given every chance of success. But also a man without connections or influence, one who is expendable.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Your expression has changed, Commander! From guilt to anger, and from anger to shocked disbelief. Well, I’ll not continue along these lines. There is work to be done.’ He fixed Godden with a cold stare, unwinking and devoid of pity. ‘But I can assure you that I intend this ship to succeed if I have to run her ashore to prove her worth!’

  Weakly Godden said, ‘And Chesnaye, sir?’

  Completely controlled and calm, Royston-Jones turned the arrowroot biscuit between his neat fingers. ‘Ah yes, Chesnaye.’ Very quietly, ‘What do you suggest?’

  Shocked and miserable at the assault, Godden’s words tumbled out in a confused heap. ‘Well, sir, Pringle’s a bit of a bully, I know that. But Chesnaye struck him, and there was one seaman at least who witnessed it!’

  One word. ‘Who?’

  ‘Able Seaman Wellard.’

  ‘Ah, that bearded oaf.’ He nodded, the man’s face registering like a faded photograph. ‘Good boxer. Won a cup for the ship, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you think that Pringle’s majesty should be upheld?’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry for the midshipman, sir, but we all had to go through it in our time.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it right, Commander. However, it must be stopped, you are correct there at least. Find out the reason for the assault——’

  Godden interrupted quickly, ‘Pringle made some remark about Chesnaye’s father——’

  ‘What?’ Royston-Jones stared at Godden with amazement. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘Well, sir, I mean—it was true what he said——’

  ‘I can imagine.’ The Captain turned back to the quiet sea beyond the scuttle. ‘I knew Chesnaye’s father. He was a good officer. Perhaps he was a scapegoat too. But that does not alter the fact that young Chesnaye is now the only officer with battle experience of spotting ashore.’ He laughed sharply and without humour. ‘Laughable, isn’t it? A young midshipman, a mere boy, and a valuable asset already!’ He rubbed his palms together. ‘And as for Wellard seeing the incident, I will leave him to you. But this war is getting to be a complex and serious affair. I will not jeopardise the use and safety of my ship because Able Seaman Wellard has had his illusions shattered. I doubt very much if he has ever respected a piece of gold lace!’

  ‘I see, sir.’ Godden’s voice sounded strangled. ‘And Chesnaye?’

  ‘I will see both officers separately. In the Dog Watches sometime today. You arrange it. It will give them time to fret a little!’

  ‘Anything more, sir?’

  Royston-Jones picked up the glass and rolled its slender stem between his fingers. ‘Oh, one thing, yes. We have been ordered to carry out a landing and a bombardment, south of the Anzac beaches.’

  ‘Who are we supporting, sir?’

  Royston-Jones waited a little longer. ‘We will be alone, Commander!’ He turned to watch the effect of his words. ‘Quite alone. It seems that one or more U-boats have been making their way through the Mediterranean in this direction for some time. Their Lordships in all their wisdom have decided to withdraw the battleship Queen Elizabeth and certain other units as soon as the Germans get too near.’ He allowed the sherry to moisten his lower lip. ‘So everybody else can apparently go hang!’

  * * * * *

  Lieutenant Hogarth, the Gunnery Officer, lifted his powerful night glasses and took a long look across the Saracen’s blunt bows. From the upper bridge he had an uninterrupted view of the whole ship, and although it was well past midnight, with the Middle Watch settled and composed at their stations, the sky seemed to lack depth, so that it merged with the sea in a transparent, vaporous obscurity. Untroubled by wind, the sea’s surface around the labouring ship was flat and glittering in long oily swells, whilst around the monitor’s rounded stern only a hint of froth broke the pattern and betrayed the power of the thrashing screws below.

  Hogarth ran his eye quickly around the bridge to ensure
that the lookouts were indeed doing their job. Somewhere on the maindeck Sub-Lieutenant Pringle, his assistant, was doing his rounds and would soon join him, his restlessness breaking the quiet of the watch.

  He stiffened as a figure detached itself from the chartroom and glided to the front of the bridge. It was not the Captain, but Travis, the Navigator. Hogarth relaxed.

  ‘Can’t you sleep, Pilot?’

  ‘Just checking my charts.’

  They both spoke in a semi-whisper, their voices merging with the creaking of steel and spars. At night the ship always seemed to be more powerful, more overbearing.

  Hogarth yawned elaborately. ‘Ship’s company all tucked up for the night. Just the poor bloody watchkeepers alive!’ He peered at his companion. ‘We’ll be up to the coast before dawn then?’

  ‘Running, or rather crawling to schedule!’ Travis sounded bitter. ‘I’ll be glad when we get started.’

  Hogarth nodded, and adjusted his meticulous mind to the problems the next day would offer him. ‘A quick bombardment, rush in the landing parties, and then rapid fire on the enemy’s flank. Sounds easy, eh?’

  ‘I’m sick of it all!’ Travis gripped the screen with frustration. ‘The whole operation is going rotten on us!’

  ‘Well, I would rather be in the old Keppel’s Head in Pompey naturally, but as we are involved I don’t see what we can do about it!’ Hogarth shifted uneasily. Travis was too much of a thinker. That was bad.

  Travis shrugged. ‘It’s better for you. You are so wrapped up with your damned gunnery you don’t have time to contemplate the rest of the business. I on the other hand have had to sit and listen at every conference the Old Man has attended. God! The people at Whitehall must be raving mad!’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ Hogarth did not really care, but he was interested in Travis’s sudden display of emotion.

  ‘Well, you know that Fisher has resigned from First Sea Lord?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘And Churchill is being hauled over the coals about the hold-ups and disasters out here?’