The use of his name made Chesnaye start. He knew she would only be asking him to speed the agonising hours remaining before her brother had to leave, but it would be enough. It would have to be. Chesnaye reached for his cap. `Thank you. I would like that very much.’
Outside the sky was suddenly dark, but necklaces of lights sparkled about the base of the Rock and across the harbour the moored ships shone invitingly beneath ridinglamps which reflected and multiplied in the black water.
Groups of seamen pushed their way past, faces turned to watch the young dark-haired girl and to envy the two officers whose arms she linked.
Chesnaye felt like singing. Yet the sense of sadness which his companions seemed to convey should have acted as a brake, and he knew he ought to feel ashamed of himself.
It was a short, priceless evening, the quiet house brought dive with gay, brittle conversation and laughter.
Then Chesnaye and the young subaltern took their leave, each to his separate ship.
As they stood in the doorway the girl hugged her brother and pulled his crumpled uniform into shape. Chesnaye could see her eyes shining in the lamplight and wanted to turn away.
Then she crossed to him and laid her hands on his shoulders. `Thank you, Dick.’ That was all she had said. She pulled herself up and kissed him very lightly on the mouth, and then in one movement turned away and was gone.
As the liberty boat bounced over the darkened water Chesnaye sat silent and thoughtful in the cockpit, his ears deaf to the drunken singing of the returning seamen. He tried to see the moored troopers, but it was too dark.
Next morning, when he stood quietly watching the deck parties busy with hoses and scrubbers, their feet pale in the early light, he looked again. But the moorings were empty.
He thought of the girl and touched his mouth with his fingers. He would never hear Sunset played again without remembering.
‘Another boat approaching, sir!’ The quartermaster spoke over his shoulder with bored resignation as a small bobbing light wound its way across the dark harbour towards the anchored monitor.
Chesnaye jerked himself from his thoughts and took a quick look around him. The gangway staff were all present, and like himself were made painfully conspicuous beneath the glaring overhead lamp and the long garlands of coloured fairy-lights which had transformed the ship into a floating carnival.
The wide quarterdeck was almost completely enclosed in immaculate awnings so that the packed crowd of officers and their guests should not be bothered by the cool evening breezes, and the small orchestra which was comprised of marines from the ship’s band made a bright and colourful centrepiece to the noisy, moving throng. Long tables had been rigged on either side of the deck, and a small army of stewards and marine messmen offered drinks and a wide assortment of food to the ever-changing faces before them.
Chesnaye readjusted his unfamiliar dress-jacket as the latest arrivals drew near the gangway. He had tried hard to immerse himself completely in the business of entertaining, but he was unable to fight down the strange feeling of bitterness, almost disgust. There was an air of mad gaiety, something like pagan excitement, in the ship which affected him deeply. Everything had changed yet again, even the faces which had started to become familiar seemed like strangers once more. The bright glitter of full mess dress, dazzling white shirts and bow ties, gold lace and gleaming decorations, and, above all, the alien pre. sence of the women who prowled the quarterdeck in such noisy profusion. He had never seen women like these before. They too seemed infected by the general excitement, and as he had waited on the gangway with his weary staff he had become dazed by the profusion of bright, laughing mouths, low-cut dresses, the bold, daring eyes. The gangway quivered and another group of officers stepped into the light, casual salutes followed by noisy anticipation as they saw the crowd already assembled beyond the awnings. Like most of the other guests, the officers wore long boatcloaks lined with white silk, which for Chesnaye only added to the sense of unreality he already felt.
Two women paused laughing at the top of the gangway. Chesnaye watched them warily, his face impassive as they stared round them with bright, shining eyes. One had beautiful breasts only just concealed by her flamecoloured dress, and from the corner of his eye Chesnaye could see the corporal of the gangway as he ran a hot, appraising glance over her slim body.
It seemed as if these women, like many of the others, were acting this way deliberately. They must have known the effect they were having on the stiff-backed, regimented seamen and marines around them. The sure knowledge that they were equally beyond these men’s reach must have given them added confidence, he thought.
The arrival of Lieutenant Travis, the Officer of the Day, broke into his thoughts.
Travis, his neat beard making him look almost Elizabethan, swept the women before him, his words flattering, even insolent, as he piloted them into the noisy crowd which already had started to overflow from the quarterdeck.
Another boat, and yet another. Salutes, quick greetings, and then Chesnaye was alone again, immersed in his speculations. At length the flow ceased, and to Chesnaye’s mind it was just as well. It seemed unlikely that the deck could hold any more. The ship’s officers, once in the comfortable majority, were lost in the press. That too had been different, he thought. Usually the various grades of officer stayed apart except for matters of duty. This wild guest night had shown Chesnaye his superiors as something else again.
Commander Godden played his own part well, the busy, jovial host ably supported by the Chief Engineer, Innes, and several lieutenants.
The ship’s warrant officers, hardy professional seamen, who for all their service were more strange to the wardroom and an officer’s life than they were to the lower deck, kept mainly as one body, flushed, noisy, yet seemingly lacking in their younger superiors’ confidence. There was Mr. Porteous, the Boatswain, his bald head crossed by one slicked wing of hair, which from a distance looked like a feather, flanked on either of his ample sides by Mr. Tweed, the Gunner, and Mr. Jay, the Gunner (T).
There was Holroyd, the pasty-faced Paymaster, and Mildmay, the Surgeon. The latter was a fierce, nuggety little Welshman who rarely seemed to work. Chesnaye had often seen him sitting in his Sick Bay reading while his attendants dealt cheerfully with the waiting line of bruises, cuts and other afflictions.
Even Nutting, the Chaplain, looked different. Chesnaye could just see his narrow head with its ridiculous centre parting jerking and bobbing like a bird’s as he shouted at someone across Major De L’Isle’s broad shoulder.
The marine, of course, was already past the danger marks of discretion. He stood very stiffly, untroubled by the pushing bodies around him, his face getting more and more flushed, so that his neck seemed to merge with his scarlet jacket. Every so often he would drop a sharp, harsh insult into the throng and watch for results. It was a game he played very often. Women, he contended, enjoyed this form of approach. They admired his strength, his obvious virility, and they only needed that extra touch of his verbal brutality to find themselves completely defenceless. Unfortunately De L’Isle’s conviction in this direction seemed to be shared by no one but himself. So he drank harder, if only to bolster his own belief.
“Evening, Dick!’ Pickles stood blinking in the bright gangway light, his uniform sparkling with droplets of spray. ‘I don’t think my boat will be required again for a bit. Shall I send them below for a breather?’
Chesnaye grinned. Lieutenant Travis had instructed him to make all the necessary decisions should he not be present on the gangway; it was surprising how easy the role had become.
‘You do that, Keith.’ He waited as the small midshipman waved to an anonymous dark figure on the maindeck. ‘Kept you busy, have they?’
Pickles puffed out his cheeks. ‘Like wild beasts to the fray!’ He gestured towards the dark shadow of the Rock. ‘Not a woman under sixty ashore tonight!’
Chesnaye’s nose twitched. Pickles was reeking of beer.
&n
bsp; ‘Have you had the good fortune to booze yourself, Keith?’ He frowned with mock disgust. ‘Never a thought for the poor watchkeepers !’
Pickles smiled unmoved. ‘There is a whole gang of petty
officers at the landing stage. Boat coxswains and various other skivers ! They’re not too proud to remember the poor snotties !’ He winked. ‘However, since you are my particular blood brother, I have brought you this.’ From beneath his jacket he produced with a flourish a large bottle of port.
To the watching quartermaster he said, ‘Any glasses?’
The quartermaster stared at the bottle, his eyes hungry. ‘Only the gangway mugs, sir.’
Pickles belched. ‘Can’t have that. Must have proper glasses ! This happens to be vintage port. The ViceAdmiral apparently left it in his pinnace this evening!’ He looked sad. ‘Very careless, you will agree?’ Then, in a sharper voice : ‘Right, Corporal ! Double away smartly and explore the underside of the awning there ! Some idle drinkers always put their empty glasses on the deck so as not to waste time!’
Chesnaye smiled. It was amazing what confidence Pickles exuded with the beer under his belt. It was obvious that the men liked him too. They liked him for himself, not out of respect or necessity. They were a little sorry for him as well. Pringle’s bullying was well known on the lower deck. With other midshipmen they might have said the usual, ‘Well, he shouldn’t have joined if he can’t take a joke!’ or ‘What the hell does it matter, they’re all bloody officers!’ But Pickles they accepted as they would a ship’s mascot.
The corporal of the gangway eyed the bottle. ‘How many glasses, sir?’
Pickles grinned. ‘One each, of course !’
The gangway staff brightened visibly, although Chesnaye wondered what would happen if Travis returned unexpectedly. He felt naked beneath the glaring. lights, but strangely reckless.
The marine returned with an assortment of glasses, and the Admiral’s vintage port was slopped into them like so much cider.
Pickles lifted his glass with obvious relish. A thin trickle of red port ran down the corner of his mouth and splat tered across his shirt like blood. He said, at length, ‘At least I don’t have to worry about bloody Pringle!’
It was strange the way Pickles was prepared to talk about Pringle, Chesnaye thought. Not as a person, but as a, disease or a strange filthy circumstance which was unavoidable.
`Good.’ Chesnaye gestured towards the quarterdeck awning. `I suppose he’s enjoying himself with the other sub-lieutenants ?’
Pickles darted him a sharp glance. `You might have thought so, yes.’ He eyed the glass. `However, for a change Mister bloody Pringle is attached to the most gorgeous little piece you have ever laid eyes on!’ He bobbed his head forward and mimicked Lieutenant Hogarth’s high voice. `The most alluring, quite the most alluring, creature aboard!,
‘This I must see!’ The port flowed like hot oil across Chesnaye’s empty stomach. Followed by Pickles, he walked to a slit in the awning and peered across the swaying, sweating concourse.
The women looked wild and abandoned, their naked shoulders pale beneath the coloured lights and strings of gay bunting. Their escorts surged and jostled for position, but whereas Chesnaye could see Major De L’Isle’s tall frame well enough, the Captain was invisible. His eye fell on Pringle’s cropped blond head. He was endeavouring to dance to the muffled beat of the sweating orchestra, his broad shoulders acting like a battering ram for his partner.
Pickles grinned unfeelingly. `That girl deserves a medal ! She’s keeping that ape off our backs for a bit yet Chesnaye hardly heard him. As Pringle passed beneath a cluster of fairy-lights he saw the girl’s upturned face. It was Helen Driscoll.
For the very first time since the Saracen had left home waters the sun was at last making itself felt. It seemed to enfold the ship and the water beyond, so that the air felt heavy and humid. Gone was the Atlantic grey and silver. Instead, from the clear water alongside the hull to the hazy bridge of the horizon, the sea shone in a mixture of blues both dark and fragile, while every unbroken wave and roller reflected the sun in a million glittering mirrors.
The monitor leaned slightly, as if putting her shoulder into the inviting water to test its wasuuth, whilst from beneath her stern the wake curved and continued to curve until the ship had altered course yet again, the other vessels astern following suit in a slow and ponderous `follow my leader’.
Richard Chesnaye stood on one of the bridge gratings and levelled his telescope astern. He imagined he could still see the Rock’s brooding outline, but could no longer be sure. There, the horizon was lost in a mirage of vapour and reflections, so that it appeared to be shrouded in steam. He steadied the glass with his elbow resting on the screen and allowing it to swing slowly over the assorted craft which had followed the monitor from Gibraltar while the town had still slept and the stars had not yet begun to fade. Like two white ghosts the tall hulls of the hospital ships cut through the water with all the elegance and grace which had made them famous less than a year ago as crack Atlantic liners, whilst astern of them three bulky colliers and an ammunition ship plodded heavily in their wake, their ugliness made apparent by the competition. On either wing of the assorted convoy a sloop moved watchfully and with the patience of a sheepdog, and far astern, her outline merely a masthead above an indistinct shadow, another sloop maintained a wary eye on the stragglers.
Chesnaye blinked as a shaft of reflected sunlight lanced up the telescope. Through the screen beneath his arm he could feel the steady, pulsating beat of the monitor’s engines as the power transmitted itself to every corner and rivet of the hull. He lowered the glass and looked quickly around the upper bridge. It looked different in the bright sunlight, and the officers and ratings in their white uniforms seemed by their contrast to have severed the last link with the other world of damp and cold.
Royston-Jones was sitting in his tall chair, his head turned to watch the manmuvring ships. His cap was low across his forehead, but Chesnaye could see the glitter in the Captain’s eyes as lie followed each movement.
`Make a signal to sloop Mystic.’ Royston-Jones’ voice was sharp and seemingly out of place in the warm enclosure of the bridge. `Maintain position four miles astern of convoy. Report presence of any other ships immediately.’
The Yeoman of Signals wrote quickly on his slate, the pencil squeaking viciously and reminding Chesnaye briefly of a far-off schoolroom.
Lieutenant Travis looked down from the compass platform and rubbed his eyes. He looked pale and tired against the clear sky, and Chessaye wondered if he was still recovering from the week in Gibraltar.
`Course south seventy east, sir!’ Travis waited, watching the Captain’s foot as it tapped gently on the grating.
`Very well.’ Royston-Jones did not sound very interested.
`Speed of convoy is steady at eight knots, sir.’ Travis added bitterly, `No wonder the Admiral delegated us to this lot !’
Chesnaye knew that the bulk of warships had gone on ahead, a fine picture, even without the blessing of daylight. The remaining battleships from Gibraltar, a rakish cruiser squadron and three flotillas of destroyers, their hulls almost hidden in eager bow waves, had steamed into the darkness and vanished as if wiped from a slate. The monitor was too slow to work with the Fleet, so RoystonJones had been ordered to make his way eastwards with this small convoy. Although senior officer present, he was probably being cursed by the three sloop commanders, who must know that he was as much their responsibility as the colliers and the others. For the hospital ships, too, the slow progress must be infuriating, Chesnaye thought. They could manage twenty-three knots without too much effort, yet at eight knots they had to take their time from the slowest ships present.
Commander Godden removed his cap and wiped the band with his handkerchief. `The hospital ships are a waste of time in my opinion. With all the troops we’re mustering it will all be over in a day or two.’ He looked at the Captain’s shoulders. `Before we get there,
I shouldn’t wonder !’
Royston-Jones crossed his legs and settled back in his chair. `We will spend the forenoon at gun drills and damage control, Commander. All heads of departments will stand fast and their subordinates will take over.’ He added sharply, `Even if we are too late this time it may prove to be a long war !’
As the sun climbed higher the monitor’s guns crews were led through one crisis after another. While Hogarth looked on, edgy and helpless to intervene, his assistant, a baby-faced lieutenant named Yates, sent the men sweating and cursing to obey the situations which Royston-Jones seemed to conjure up without effort. The secondary armament were divided to track and carry out mock attacks on the other ships in convoy, while the giant turret endeavoured to follow the tiny shape of the escort astern. The sloop only appeared occasionally, as it was usually hidden by the Saracen’s own bridge. This meant that one minute the twin fifteen-inch guns were swung round one side of the monitor’s superstructure, and the next, almost before the ranges and deflections could be checked, the sloop had sidestepped daintily to the other quarter, so that the great turret had to swing through an angle of nearly two hundred and eighty degrees.
Once Hogarth, all but wringing his hands, had voiced a short protest. `They’re not meant for this, sir ! The sort of targets they are designed for are stationary.’
Royston-Jones was unimpressed. `Suppose the Turkish Fleet breaks out of the Straits, eh?’ His eye was pitiless. `What am I expected to do then? Send the Major and his marines to board ‘em, I suppose?’
Once the training mechanism had failed in the turret, so that it stayed pointing impotently at an empty horizon while Royston-Jones barked a series of orders and complaints which became more savage as the minutes passed.
Godden, who was supposed to be `dead’ for the exercise, said in a strangled voice, `Shall I order Secure, sir?’
`No, of course not ! Mister Chesnaye, get forrard and check what is wrong!’
HMS Saracen Page 6