The Horizon (1993)

by Reeman, Douglas

  His voice was quite calm again as he said, ‘I thought it might save time, sir, if I discussed the docking arrangements at Malta?’

  Then he sat back, relaxed again, in control. After all, if you shared the blame, you might as well share the reward.

  At dusk on the same day as her arrival, Reliant weighed anchor and moved into the calm waters of the Mediterranean. She had three destroyers as escorts, and even at her much reduced speed she made a splendid spectacle as she turned and headed due east for the nine hundred and ninety mile passage to Malta.

  Once the hands had been dismissed from their stations for leaving harbour, and the Royal Marine Band had gone through its entire repertoire of jaunty marches and old sea songs, most of them were unwilling to go below and miss the last sight of the Rock with its scattered lights glittering like fireflies in the sunset.

  Jonathan stood by the davits of one of the whalers. He had been to Gibraltar several times, so that it gave him a strange feeling to hear the young marines of B Company calling excitedly to one another while they pointed at the fading shadow of the land. Pride at what they had helped to do, and above all the exhilaration of youth which even Waring’s drills could not bridle for long. Very few of these marines had ever been out of England before; many had never left home until they had enlisted with the Corps. But the rough seas of Biscay, the danger of collision, even the damage to their own ship was in the past now, something they had shared, and which in turn had drawn them closer together.

  It was a fitting moment, he thought. Like the walls of Hawks Hill and the vivid painting of battles fought and lost, the Royals had been in so many campaigns, and yet the honour they displayed on their helmet plates and badges was Gibraltar, which they had taken from the enemy.

  The street vendors and beggars would soon discover the youth and innocence of these marines when they reached Malta. Then what? On to Port Said as planned? Most of the officers seemed to think they would be too late for any action there. Some were genuinely anxious that they might miss it altogether, at least the bombardment.

  He wondered what had really happened between Soutter and the rear-admiral. Was everything as normal as it now appeared? Or were there still true differences?

  He had seen the rear-admiral walking along this same deck just minutes before weighing anchor. Amiable, speaking to seamen and marines alike, his fine cap tilted at the now-familiar angle, asking names, where they came from. It seemed to make quite an impression, but when he had passed Jonathan the smiles and the easy chatter had gone, as if it had all dropped off like a carnival mask.

  A bugle blared from the bridge. Men under punishment to muster. Soon it would be calling the cooks to the galley, then supper throughout Reliant’s crowded messdecks. The sea routine of a capital ship. He tried to think of Port Said and what might be waiting there, but around him this great ship, now in total darkness, refused to release him. A lot of men scoffed at the idea that ships lived and had character. Jonathan was not certain what he believed.

  He thought too of young Roger Tarrier, the colonel’s youngest son. As I once was. He moved to the guardrail and stared at the gleaming water, moving so slowly, for this ship anyway.

  But why? Because it was expected, because of duty or family pride; was that why he and others like Tarrier had followed the tradition?

  ‘All on your own, Jono?’ It was Coleridge. The Bloke. ‘Come down and have a gin. I can tell you about the King of Spain!’

  Jonathan turned from the side, mystified by the remark.

  But behind his back, the ship was still there. Waiting.

  The damage sustained by Reliant’s port outer shaft was less than had been feared, but while the ship waited for the new propeller which was being sent with all haste from England, an almost holiday atmosphere prevailed. With the ship in dock, and the limited facilities the yard had to offer, local leave was the order of the day. There was not a street on the island where you would not run into men with H.M.S. Reliant on their cap tallies, or marines who saluted their officers with a kind of knowing smirk.

  The weather improved, the sun shone, and but for the ranks of anchored troopships in Grand Harbour, their rigging adorned by endless khaki washing hung out to dry, the war seemed like part of another world. In the Eastern Mediterranean the assembled fleet had bombarded many of the Turkish defences, with some success according to the reports. But the channel was known to be sown with lines of anchored mines, of a German pattern which could be relied on to explode even if brushed by a passing vessel.

  Despite the massive bombardment by the heavy ships, whenever minesweepers had attempted to enter the channel they had been deluged with heavy gunfire of every calibre, so that they suffered casualties and serious damage and achieved very little.

  And all the while, the enemy were flooding the peninsula with reinforcements, guns, men and engineers who were said to be under the instruction of German field officers.

  On March 18th the battle-cruiser, re-stored and with all repairs completed, moved out into the crowded anchorage with the aid of tugs, and was, as Commander Coleridge had said, ‘Ready for anything!’

  Rear-Admiral Purves left his hotel and rejoined his flagship. The band played, his flag broke at the masthead, and the soldiers who lined the rails of the troopers watched the ritual with wonder and frustration at their own enforced idleness.

  The next day found Reliant steaming at half-speed with her escorts ahead and abeam, heading south-east by south, Malta and its cheerful markets and other temptations already far astern.

  Jonathan was on the upper bridge with the watchkeepers, the nerve-centre of any warship, looking down at the squads of marines who were lying prone on the forecastle, their rifles protruding a few inches over the side, waiting for the order to open fire as soon as the nearest destroyer released some of her makeshift targets. It was unlikely they would hit anything, but it made a welcome change from inspections, drills, and more inspections.

  ‘Morning, gentlemen.’ Captain Soutter walked into the bridge and returned the commander’s salute.

  Lieutenant Rice, the navigator, carefully rolled away the cover from the chart-table and a boatswain’s mate waited to repeat the captain’s first order of the day, should he choose to give one.

  They all waited for the captain to follow his usual routine but he stood quite still, one brown hand resting on the back of his tall chair, his eyes in deep shadow beneath the peak of his cap.

  More feet on the bridge ladders, and then Lieutenant-Colonel Waring with the two other senior marine officers climbed into view, their faces as surprised as those of the watchkeepers.

  Jonathan glanced round as Quitman the gunnery officer arrived; then lastly the engineer-commander, almost unrecognisable in his proper uniform with clean white cap cover, entered the crowded bridge and gave Soutter a casual salute.

  He felt a sudden chill in his spine. Except for the paymasters, and the many junior and warrant officers, these men were Reliant’s heads of department. What had happened? He could tell by the commander’s expression that he was as much in the dark as the others.

  Soutter turned to the yeoman of signals. ‘Pass the word, yeoman. I want all the bridge staff to pay strict attention to their duties. I will personally see anyone who fails, be it as lookout or as tea-maker, at the defaulters’ table.’

  Nobody smiled. In fact, when the first shots echoed up from the deck there was not even a blink. Jonathan thought how far away the rifles sounded.

  Captain Soutter glanced around their tense faces and then said, ‘I thought you had all better know without delay. You can sift the information through your departments and parts of ship as you will, but better truth than rumour.’ He looked briefly at the rear-admiral’s white flag, crossed in red with its two bright balls as it strained out in the steady breeze, its cleanness made more obvious by the funnel smoke.

  ‘I have just seen Rear-Admiral Purves.’ There was no emotion in his tone. ‘I have to tell you that the attack on th
e Dardanelles, the minefields and Turkish forts, which was carried out yesterday, failed to crush the enemy’s defences. Despite the gallant behaviour of our people and the combined efforts to force home the attack, the fleet was forced to withdraw.’ He looked up suddenly as two flags, an acknowledgement to one of the destroyers’ signals, darted up the yard and then dipped again. Afterwards Jonathan recalled that glance. It was clear on his face like a shaft of real pain.

  He continued. ‘The operation was costly. The battleships Ocean and Irresistible were both damaged by mines and shellfire, and were subsequently lost. The French battleship Bouvet suffered the same fate, and their two battleships Suffren and Gaulois received very severe damage and were put out of action. Our own fine ship Inflexible also struck a mine, but is thought to have been still afloat when this news was released.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘There will be other losses, gentlemen, and the minefields and the forts will still be there.’

  Coleridge exclaimed, ‘What will they do, sir?’

  ‘They?’ The smallest shrug, nothing more. ‘The Admiralty and the General Staff will have to think again. And with each turn of our screws the Turks have more time to prepare. You all saw the troopships at Gibraltar and at Malta. They will have to storm the peninsula which still commands the Dardanelles. Down the years fighting sailors have achieved much. But until the British soldier, or—’ he shot the captain of Reliant’s marines a glance, ‘the Royal Marines can plant their flag alongside their boots on enemy territory, there can be no victory.’

  ‘Orders, sir?’ Coleridge looked dazed, shocked by the incredible losses in only half a day.

  ‘No change, Commander. Port Said as before.’ He looked suddenly at Lieutenant-Colonel Waring. ‘You can call off the shooting-gallery, Colonel.’ He saw the argument in the other man’s eyes. ‘It’s all right, you know – the admiral agrees with me.’ His voice had a sudden edge. ‘It seems likely we shall need all our ammunition before long!’

  He gave a curt nod. Dismissal. But to Jonathan he said, ‘You stay here if you like.’ He climbed onto his chair and settled himself where he could reach his powerful binoculars. In a matter-of-fact tone he added, ‘You know, Blackwood, Nelson once confided that no wooden man-of-war could succeed against a properly sited shore battery. I don’t suppose anyone listened to him either, until a costly lesson was learned.’

  Jonathan watched him, fascinated. This terrible news, which had shocked them all and which would go through the ship like a ball of fire, had somehow left the captain removed. He was already assessing it. Seeking solutions.

  He asked, ‘May I ask what you think will happen, sir?’

  Soutter turned easily in his chair, but did not reply directly. ‘I was reading the second part of your report, when you returned from France.’ Jonathan started. That part had been top secret, to give private scope to his own observations, with suggestions if he had had any to offer. Soutter smiled. ‘I see it in your face, Blackwood. All secret stuff. But I do still have a few friends.’ He shaded his eyes as a solitary gull floated around the masthead, its cry lost in the roar of Reliant’s great fans. ‘Another poor Jack,’ he remarked absently. Then he changed again. ‘You said in the report that you thought the terrible losses at the front were because nobody could accept stalemate, yes? That the general staff knew of no solution, no fresh tactics that would prevent such casualties. That was brave of you. I’ll wager it raised a few temperatures in high places . . . Perhaps stalemate might be the solution after all. We are not fighting the Zulus or the Mahdi’s fuzzie-wuzzies, and this is not the thin red line, either. The Germans are brave, resourceful and, it has to be said, well led for the most part. We on the other hand . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, in answer to your question, I believe an all-out landing of troops will be considered, and very shortly too. A month or two ago, we could probably have taken and held the Dardanelles with twenty thousand men.’ He sounded bitter and unusually angry. ‘But Lord Kitchener would not release more battalions from the Western Front when it might have made all the difference. Winston Churchill obviously believed in the strategy of it, or did, before these latest losses.’ Soutter leaned back in his chair, his cap tilted over his eyes. ‘You can cut along, Blackwood.’

  Jonathan smiled. What he had said that night when they had rescued the drifting steamship.

  It was a strange bond between them, he thought, as he made his way down to the deck where two squads of marines were using their pull-throughs to clean out their rifle barrels.

  A corporal called them to attention but Jonathan said, ‘Carry on – stand easy.’

  The corporal said, ‘Just heard, sir, about them ships. Terrible, innit? I got a mate in the old Inflexible. Hope he’s all right.’

  A young marine called out, ‘When will us get a chance at them murderin’ Turks, sir?’ The corporal glared at him but said nothing.

  They did not seem to mind talking with Jonathan, perhaps because he was R.M.A. and not R.M.L.I. like them. But they were all khaki marines now, as the old warrior had pointed out. In any case they all did the same basic training, and when required performed the same duties. It never occurred to Jonathan that they actually liked him. An officer with two V.C.’s in his family, but one who could still stop and speak to them, or offer advice.

  ‘You’ll get your chance soon enough. Barlow, isn’t it?’ Something his brother had always impressed on him. Remember names; it’s all they own in the Corps!

  The youthful marine flushed. It made him look about twelve.

  Another asked, ‘Where’s Port Said, sir?’

  The corporal had had enough. ‘Never you mind, Petit! It’s where we’re goin’ an’ that’s all you need to know!’

  Jonathan smiled and walked on. So young and eager to fight, and yet most of them had no idea where they were going or why. After Malta and their first sight of the Rock their appetites for adventure and more foreign places were well and truly whetted. They probably thought it would be all camels and mysterious dancing girls in veils. If so, they were in for a shock.

  He had glanced at Lieutenant Rice’s charts on the bridge. About another eleven hundred miles to go before they reached Port Said. At this economical cruising speed it would be another five days before Reliant’s big anchor splashed down. He thought of the other marine officers, most of whom were as junior as the men they commanded. It might be a good thing to become acquainted with them. He paused to watch a gull rise from the sea – another poor Jack, as the captain had remarked. Surely the spirits of dead sailors could find another form in which to reveal themselves, he thought.

  Some seamen with paint pots and brushes passed him, so he turned away to conceal his face from them. Why should he get to know them? After Port Said he might never see them again. Like Soutter and this ship, it was an experience, nothing more.

  High above his head, the captain was sitting in his small sleeping cabin abaft and just below the bridge. Somewhere he could snatch some rest, or in this case find a temporary haven from curious stares and the gritty taste of oil fuel.

  His steward had provided some cold beef sandwiches and a chilled half-bottle of hock. He always knew. Never too much mustard, and always a perfect cut-glass goblet.

  Soutter smiled to himself. The Captain’s perks. He thought too of the news from the Dardanelles. He knew many of the people who must have died by drowning or explosion when they had tried to force that narrow, deadly channel. He opened a drawer in his small desk and took out his leather-bound personal log. As he did so he saw his wife’s photograph looking up at him from the silver frame he still carried. He lifted it out and placed it on the desk, searching her pretty English face for something – some hint, some warning. He had been expecting her that day when Reliant had commissioned, the proudest event for any captain, especially with a ship like this one. Nobody had said anything afterwards, not the Members of Parliament who had been there nor the port admiral. He had seen a small girl in white silk being hustled away, the bouquet of flowers she h
ad been going to present to the captain’s lady still clutched in her hands.

  Soutter had sent his steward Drury to the house they had been renting, but it was no accident or unexpected illness that he came back to report. There had been just a short letter.

  Do not try to trace me. You have the ship you dreamed of. Now I must find another.

  Another what? A separate life? A lover, whom she had been concealing from him during the first grinding weeks of the war?

  But for this ship, he thought he might have gone out of his mind. Daphne. He glanced around the gently vibrating sea-cabin, angry and guilty that he might have spoken her name aloud. She had always seemed so pleased when he had returned home from whatever ship he was serving, and their lives had been so full for the weeks, or the days, before he went away again.

  A lot of his contemporaries had married into the service, the daughters of senior officers. It never did any harm to marry somebody who already knew the navy’s ways, the ache of long separations.

  He had met Daphne at a reception in Hong Kong when he had been on the China station. A doctor’s daughter who was staying with her parents there at the time.

  What might happen if by chance they met?

  He thought of his brother, who had died when the Aboukir had been torpedoed. ‘Treat her gently,’ he had said. ‘She’s not like the others, you know. She’s a proper person, not out of the mould like some.’

  Had that been what had made her leave him?

  The handset buzzed and he picked it from its hook.

  ‘Captain.’

  It was Quitman, who was in charge of the watch. ‘Signal for you, sir. Being decoded now. Top secret and Immediate.’

  Soutter looked at his untouched sandwich. Reliant even had her own bakery, and fresh bread was always available.

  He pictured Quitman, very earnest and intense, a true gunnery officer.

  Quitman said less confidently, ‘Shall I inform the admiral, sir?’