Black August

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Supposing they refuse to take your orders?’

  A hard note crept into Gregory’s voice. ‘I think I shall be able to persuade most of the engine-room staff to join us.’

  Kenyon nodded; ‘Well, I give you full marks for letting nothing daunt you, but I’d like to know what’s happening on the bridge. For all we know Broughton may be dishing out cutlasses to his jack-tars while we’re standing here talking, and we don’t want to give any excuse for a pitched battle or find ourselves arrested before you’ve had a chance to get your men on deck. Hadn’t we better do something about it?’

  ‘I believe you’ve got the makings of a good officer, Fane.’ Gregory smiled his appreciation. ‘As a matter of fact I’m only waiting for Harker to return. Then the three of us will get the troops together and tackle the situation.’

  There was the sound of steps in the lobby and Silas poked his head in at the door.

  ‘Well?’ inquired Gregory.

  ‘It’s all quiet for the moment,’ he reported, ‘Broughton’s busy with his own caboodle. The Chief Petty Officer has just been handing out a yarn that there’s a spot of bother with the men forward, so Broughton asked me to pass his compliments to Fanshawe and request that he go up to the bridge right now. Sergeant Thompson’s here with me, he wants a word with you.’

  ‘Right, let him come in. Take over from Rudd in the passage and tell him to bring in that whisky bottle.’

  Harker beckoned over his shoulder. ‘Come in, sergeant, the General will see you now.’

  The red-faced sergeant saluted and stood to attention.

  ‘What is it, sergeant?’ asked Gregory affably.

  ‘If you’ll h’excuse me, sir, I thought you should be h’informed as to the state of things on this boat.’

  ‘Ship, sergeant, ship!’ Gregory corrected gravely.

  ‘Well ship, sir, there’s doings amongst the crew that I don’t like, wrong talk about the h’orfficers, an’ the discipline is something awful. They laugh, sir, just laugh, at the orders of their own N.C.O.s.’ The sergeant’s face was nearly purple with suppressed indignation.

  ‘I see. Of course the whole fleet is in a state of unrest but I imagined that the destroyers were comparatively unaffected.

  ‘H’in my opinion, sir, these sailors are ripe for any mischief, even the mess steward’s just joined them, ‘an worse than that, they’re connivin’ with our own men now.’

  ‘That so?’ Gregory looked up sharply. ‘We must prevent them contaminating the troops at all costs. Have you taken any action?’

  ‘No, sir, I held me ‘and thinking it best to report to you, though there’s one or two of them I’ll be bringing up before you at h’orderly room tomorrow.’

  ‘Where are they at the moment?’

  ‘With the seamen, sir. There’s a sort of meeting bein’ held h’on what they call the Lower Deck, and quite a number of our men’s among them.’

  ‘Very good, sergeant, I’ll deal with the matter in a moment. Care for a glass of whisky?’

  ‘Well, sir—’ Sergeant Thompson’s eyes brightened perceptibly; ‘I don’t mind if I do, sir.’

  ‘Rudd, a glass for Sergeant Thompson.’

  ‘Ay, ay, sir!’ Mr. Rudd in his new role of sea-going steward hurried forward. With his usual tact he produced an outsize glass. The sergeant lifted it and removed his cap.

  ‘My best respects, sir, and to the ladies’; swiftly the big tumbler went up to his mouth, tilted, and like a conjuring trick the golden spirit slid silently into his mouth. He smiled, coughed politely and set down the empty glass. Gregory more slowly drained his own.

  ‘Harker!’ the General looked at Silas; ‘Get back on the bridge, will you. Tell Broughton that Fanshawe and I are going forward to tackle the trouble among the men. Take the sentries on the door with you—if anyone attempts to come aft challenge them, and failing a satisfactory reply, fire at once. Fane, Sergeant Thompson, Rudd, you will come with me, and you—’ Gregory glanced swiftly at the two girls, ‘will remain here. You will be perfectly safe this end of the ship, but lock the door and don’t open it except to one of us. Lead on, sergeant.’

  The small party filed out and up the ladder to the deck; the night was dark and the sea rising. Away on the beam flashed the North Foreland Light, and—Fanshawe’s orders still remaining unchanged—they were forging ahead at full speed. Gusts of spray came over the bows of the destroyer as she met the bigger waves, and she was already pitching slightly.

  ‘Looks like a dirty night, sir,’ said the sergeant as they made their way forward in the dark, stumbling now and again over chains or into the torpedo tubes.

  ‘Yes,’ Kenyon agreed, ‘I’m afraid the women don’t know what they’re in for yet.’

  ‘Silence,’ said Sallust curtly.

  Two dark figures were seated near the forehatch. A beam of light from the North Foreland caught the braid on Gregory’s hat and they stood up.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, peering at them.

  ‘Chief Petty Officer Wilkins, sir,’ said the nearest figure, ‘and Petty Officer Sims.’

  ‘Oh, what are the two of you doing sitting on the deck here in the dark?’

  ‘Just talking, sir.’

  ‘I see,’ the cynical note crept into Gregory’s voice; ‘You think it safer to remain up here than to go to your bunks, eh?’

  ‘The men’s not themselves tonight, sir,’ Sallust caught the quick resentment in Chief Petty Officer Wilkin’s voice. ‘We’ll go forward, sir, if that’s your order. We don’t want to give any excuse for trouble, that’s all.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Gregory’s tone became charming at once. ‘You have acted wisely in remaining here. What is the situation on the Lower Deck?’

  ‘Bad, sir! The eighteen men what was in irons ’as been released without instructions. I ‘ave already reported that to Lieutenant Broughton, but ’e told me to do nothing till ’e’d seen the Commander. There’s that there Stoker Crowder amongst them—’e is the centre of the trouble, ’im and that Leading Seaman Nobes; a regular sea lawyer ’e is with more education than’s good for ’im. They’d both have been put off at Chatham before the ship went to sea again if the Captain ’ad ’ad ’is way.’

  ‘And how is the temper of the men generally?’

  ‘Not good, sir! they’re a bit excited tonight but they’re a fine lot of lads in the ordinary way, and we’d soon get ’em quietened down if only we could keep these ringleaders out of it.’

  ‘Well, that’s what we’re going to do. I have no doubt you P.O.s understand how unsettled conditions are, but I’ve thrashed the matter out with your Commander and as my men seem to be involved as well, he has asked me to assist him in dealing with the situation.’

  ‘Ay, ay, sir.’

  ‘Now follow me,’ Gregory moved towards the hatchway, but Sergeant Thompson, well fortified by whisky, slipped in front of him.

  ‘By your leave, sir?’

  ‘Very good, sergeant.’ Sallust followed his senior N.C.O. quickly down the iron ladder.

  ‘Party!’ yelled the sergeant with all the strength of his well-exercised lungs, as he reached the Mess Deck; ‘Party—‘Shun!’

  Gregory looked round. For the moment he could hardly see through the blue haze of tobacco smoke, but after a moment he took in the long narrow compartment with scuttles on both sides—dark now except for the reflection of the deck lights on the flying spray which constantly hissed past them. Rows of wooden tables, scrubbed to an almost unbelievable degree of whiteness, were hitched to the ship’s side, supported at the midships end by thin iron rods which hooked into slots in the deck. At these tables seventy or eighty men were crowded together. Evidently the mess deck was never meant to hold such a number, but khaki figures here and there were wedged between the blue serge of the sailors. Some of the latter, stokers and engine-room ratings, were naked to the waist or covered only by a singlet; their muscular arms shone with grease and perspiration. Along the tables in front of almost every man
reposed a big tin mug, and as Gregory noted it he rightly assumed that the spirit room had been broken into. At the far end a small group was gathered; the lack of space made a platform impossible, but directly Gregory’s glance pierced the smoke-laden atmosphere he realised that this group, consisting of five sailors and two soldiers, comprised the ringleaders, and that it was with them that he would have to deal.

  At the sergeant’s order there was a quick shuffling among the tables; the soldiers came smartly to their feet, many of the sailors followed—slower to take up the word but obviously still respectful of authority. Yet at several tables there were little knots of men who remained seated, looking guiltily away from the General for the most part, but with anxious faces—half-frightened and half-sullen. The ringleaders at the far end of the Mess Deck remained seated to a man.

  For a moment, only the sound of the sea, the pulsing engines and an occasional clang on the steel deck broke the stillness. In his left hand Sallust held a lighted cigarette, and he puffed at it slowly while sizing up the situation. Then in a quiet, level voice he spoke:

  ‘Why are you men not turned in?’

  A giant of a man who sat in the centre of the far group sprang to his feet; Gregory guessed him to be Stoker Crowder.

  ‘What’s it to do with you?’ the big man thundered, ‘you’re not our officer!’ A mutter of approval untraceable to any individual, but clearly perceptible, ran round the deck.

  ‘What have you done with our Bloke?’ shrilled a small, ferret-faced man who sat beside the stoker.

  ‘Leading Seaman Nobes,’ thought Gregory, and his guess was confirmed when Chief Petty Officer Wilkins stepped out from behind him:

  ‘That’s enough of that, Nobes,’ said the P.O. heatedly. ‘We’re now on a special mission an’ the General ’ere ’as explained everything to the Commander so it aint for the likes of you to start gettin’ uppish!’

  Absolute silence greeted the Chief Petty Officer’s words, and Gregory added sharply: ‘You hear that men? At the moment I am in a position to give orders here and I mean to stand no nonsense.’

  The men at the nearer tables shuffled awkwardly and looked at their boots. This quiet Army Officer was obviously not to be trifled with, but Nobes had a reputation to maintain.

  ‘’Ear that?’ he shrilled: ‘oo’s this blinking soldier to order us abart, eh?’

  The sailors muttered, looking angrily at their erstwhile companions in khaki.

  ‘Look at ’im!’ screamed Nobes; ‘in ’is brass ‘at—‘e’s the sort wot grinds the faces of the poor! Wot did I tell yer abart my cousin in the army—tied ’im to a gun wheel they did—jus’ cause ’e overstied ’is leave w’en ’is old woman was aving’ a kid.’

  ‘That,’ rapped out Gregory, ’is a lie. Field Punishment No. 1 was abolished in 1915. Come here, you—or do I come and fetch you?’

  For a moment Leading Seaman Nobes shrank back behind his large companion; then feeling so many eyes riveted upon him, came slouching out towards Sallust, a leer upon his face, a half-burnt cigarette dangling from his lip.

  ‘Leading Seaman Nobes?’ questioned Gregory smoothly.

  ‘That’s me,’ the ferret-faced man nodded.

  ‘You were under arrest until this evening. No order has been given for your release.’

  Nobes shook his head, and blowing through his cigarette with a smirk, puffed the ash off on to the deck.

  ‘You will surrender yourself at once to the Chief Petty Officer,’ said Gregory. ‘Quick march!’

  The sailor did not move an inch. He only grinned a little side-ways at the crowded tables, half-closing his eye in the suggestion of a wink. A distinct titter showed the general appreciation of his humour.

  ‘You refuse to obey me?’ Sallust snapped out the words.

  Nobes nodded with silent insolence.

  ‘All right.’ Gregory’s tone was silky now: ‘You realise that the country is in a state of war, and that for the maintenance of general discipline it is my duty to make an example of you?’

  ‘’Ark at ’im?’ said Leading Seaman Nobes: ‘just ’ark at ’im!’ Gregory’s left hand still held the cigarette. He smiled faintly, almost as though appreciating the humour of the crowd at the amazing wittiness of Leading Seaman Nobes. His right hand closed upon the butt of his automatic; in a flash he had advanced into the centre of the compartment within a yard of Nobes, and in the same instant the weapon was levelled at the Leading Seaman’s head.

  Arty Nobes was twenty-nine years of age. He had light brown hair and rather pale blue eyes; his mouth was large with mobile lips, which may be taken as a sign of generosity or of looseness of character—the two very often go together. His nose was short and freckled, his hands better cared for than those of the majority of his shipmates.

  Early in life Arty had associated himself with those discontented elements in his home port whose avowed objective was the downfall of what they termed ‘the bloody capitalist’. He was married to a very decent woman a year or two older than himself who was a good hand at cooking him a dish of steak and onions; she secretly kept a scrap-book of those photographs which appeared in the daily press chronicling the many activities of the Royal Family. She had often told him with a cheerful unbelief that sooner or later his political opinions would land him in jug. He also contributed small but regular sums towards the rent of a small, plump-breasted young woman who occupied a room in the back streets of Harwich. He had one daughter aged five, and was a teetotaller.

  As the flash came, the upper half of Arty’s cranium lifted like the lid of a box. The human head is apt to react that way if the frontal bones are struck in a certain spot by a bullet fired at at close range.

  Arty pitched forward, and Sallust stepped back. The comparatively small amount of grey matter which had constituted the brain of Leading Seaman Nobes, spilled upon the spotless deck.

  14

  Mutiny at Sea

  The smoke drifted away from the barrel of the automatic in a little eddy. The report in that confined space had been so shattering that the silence which succeeded it was almost frightening. Only the sound of the water swishing past the scuttles and the rumble of the engines continued unabated. Then Gregory spoke:

  This man has died, not through his folly alone, but largely through your encouragement. Every man of you here is partially responsible. See to it then, that, by encouraging others, you do not compel me to make further examples. Sergeant!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Order your men to their quarters.’

  ‘Fall in,’ bellowed the sergeant and the troops quickly separated themselves from among the sailors. Even the red-faced Brisket and Saunders of the protruding teeth, who were among Stoker Crowder’s group, suppressed their sullen looks and stepped hurriedly into place.

  ‘Party, ‘Shun! Right turn—up the ‘atch. Quick March!’ Most of the soldiers were little more than boys and few had ever seen a man killed before. With white scared faces they filed past Gregory to the upper deck.

  ‘Chief Petty Officer!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have this cleared up.’ Gregory nodded toward the body of Arty Nobes, and stood there grimly silent, while the remains of the leading seaman were carried away and the deck swabbed down. He then addressed the sailors.

  ‘Now, men, wherever this ship may go, one thing is certain, it must finally return to a naval port. If you continue with your duties satisfactorily until then, I will recommend to your Commander that in view of the very terrible example which I have been compelled to make, he should take no further action against any of you. If you make further trouble, however, bear in mind that your court martial and punishment are inevitable.’

  As he turned on his heel, the C.P.O. called the sailors to attention again, and after a last stern glance round Gregory left the compartment.

  He had no regrets about the swift action which had so suddenly terminated the existence of Arty Nobes. The fact that he had no right to issue orders to anybody
, or to the uniform he wore, hardly occurred to him. He was living for the time being in the part which he had created for himself, and he knew that although many people in his situation might have shirked such a terrible responsibility and endeavoured to restore order by half-measures, the result would almost certainly have been failure. At least he had put an effective stop to the threatened outbreak, but as he breathed in the sharp salt-laden air of the upper deck again, he wondered grimly for how long.

  He answered Harker’s challenge from the upper bridge and with Kenyon and Rudd at his heels ran up the ladders to join him there.

  ‘Where’s Broughton?’ he asked in a sharp whisper.

  ‘Here.’ The American nodded towards the darkness over his shoulder. ‘I’m mighty sorry but I had to knock him out.’

  ‘Hum! What happened?’

  ‘He started an argument at once when I showed up again instead of Fanshawe. Then we thought we heard a gun go off and that settled the matter. He dived for the ladder so I hit him hard. Only thing to do I thought.’

  ‘Quite right. It’s the devil, though, having to rough-house these officers. It’s certain to drive the loyal men into the arms of the mutineers, and they’re a pretty nasty lot. The shot you heard was mine; I had to out one of the ringleaders.’

  ‘Say! that’s bad.’

  ‘Only thing to do. If I’d climbed down it would have meant open mutiny, and if I’d shot to wound we should have had the whole pack on top of us. Now the next act is to slow her up and about ship. The helmsman still thinks Broughton is up here I suppose?’

  ‘Yes; with it blowing like this he wouldn’t hear a thing.’

  ‘Right!’ Gregory turned to Kenyon. ‘Think you can imitate Broughton’s voice, Fane? Mine’s too deep and the chap below us in the wheel-house would notice Harker’s accent.’

  ‘I’ll have a shot if you like.’

  ‘Good man; look, there’s the voice pipe.’

  Kenyon leant over it. ‘What shall I say?’

  ‘Not so close, you fool. Now, just say “put the telegraphs to half speed”.’