ii
Along with the fresh stores, the port authorities at Aden had provided canvas already cut into shroud lengths: modern liners didn’t carry sailmakers with their sailmakers’ palms and horny, deft fingers. But among her crew was an old-time able seaman who had done his time in the sailing ships like both Kemp and Bracewell. Able Seaman Brownlow was an old man by seafaring standards, 65-plus and should have been due for retirement not long after the outbreak of war; but there was that war on, and anyway Brownlow didn’t hanker much after the shore. He’d never married and he had no relatives left now. The sea was his life, the Orlando had been his home for many years past; as each set of Articles expired and the crew was paid off by the purser in the presence of a deck officer, a Ministry of War Transport official and the local representative of the National Union of Seamen, old Brownlow always automatically signed on again when the new set of Articles was opened.
He was always wanted, because he was a good hand, reliable and conscientious, a seaman to his fingertips but one who had never wanted to rise to the rank of bosun or even bosun’s mate. He was an individualist and preferred a quiet life without responsibility over others. He knew his place in the scheme of things, knew he wasn’t cut out for command however lowly the capacity. But he was a mine of information on many things, notably on how things were done in the old days, in the old way of the seaman. And after Aden, though he was no qualified sailmaker, it was to him that the ship’s bosun came for advice on the lengths of canvas sent aboard from the shore.
‘Not like the last lot, Brownie.’
‘Eh? What’s the difference, then?’ It had fallen to Brownlow to complete the home-produced shrouds after Suez, after the first deaths; he did the sewing up, in the traditional way, with the last stitch through the nose of the corpse, the idea being that in the old days, with no doctor embarked, the fact of death was at times uncertain and in theory at any rate the needle through the nose would bring the not really dead to life double quick before it was too late. He had enough sailmaking knowledge for that; when sails had been storm-ripped on passage of Cape Horn, say, it had been a case of all hands to the assistance of the sailmaker himself.
‘Too ruddy short, some of them,’ the bosun said. ‘Take a look, Brownie, see what you can do.’
‘Stitch two lengths together, I reckon, if they’re that short.’
‘Right, I’ll leave it to you, then.’ The bosun hesitated. ‘Got to look ahead. I keep an eye lifting on the sick list, the really bad ones, in the orderly room. That big bloke, the sergeant-major. He’s bad.’
Brownlow sucked in his cheeks; he had few teeth and the indrawn cheeks gave him a skull-like aspect. ‘Six-foot plus, and big with it. I’ll get a big ’un ready. Mind, I reckon they do shrink with the cholera. All that vomiting, and the diarrhoea.’
Unaware of the preparations being made for his disposal, RSM Pollock lay in the cabin which, like PO Wren Hardisty, he had to himself. His breathing was hard and his face had fallen in and the terrible cramps were racking his body, which felt as cold as ice. The diarrhoea and the vomiting had left him as weak as a kitten physically, but his mind was crystal clear and now it was going home across the long sea distances to his home in Carlisle. He was seeing Louise his wife as clear as if she were alongside his bunk; he saw his children, four of them, three boys and a girl, all in their teens and the boys, when last he’d been home, raring to join the war and follow in his footsteps, almost praying that it wouldn’t end before they could join up. He’d told them not to be so daft, war was no ruddy picnic, not like peace-time soldiering and even in peace-time until you became at least a corporal, soldiering could be a kind of hell under some NCOs.
Not that there had been many bad ones in his regiment, which was The Border Regiment. His home regiment, with its depot in Carlisle Castle itself. Lying in his bunk, drained and knowing he was close to death, he saw himself when for the first time, dressed in civvies, he’d made his way across the drawbridge, under the arch and onto the parade ground between St Mary’s Tower and the barrack blocks, to report for recruit training. He’d been very raw, though no more so than the other lads; and over the next months he’d come to know that parade ground too well, marching, doubling, forming fours, handling a rifle, fixing bayonets, stared at and criticized by drill sergeants, the sar’nt-major, the company officers. How they’d all detested that sar’nt-major until they came to realize he was more, much more than a loud voice and a Sam Browne belt across an ample stomach.
Passing-out as a Trained Soldier under the eye of the Colonel had been a red-letter day in Private Pollock’s early life. He’d taken to it all like a duck to water and in no time had had his first stripe as a lance-jack. Then pretty quickly to corporal and the pride of standing out from the rank-and-file when the battalion had marched through the town, admired by the civvies, behind the fifes and drums playing D’ye ken John Peel.
There had been training periods among the Cumberland fells when the battalion had marched, again behind the fifes and drums, out from the town through Brampton and along by Hadrian’s Wall into the wild country … days often enough of hardship in the wintry weather, pleasant days in the summer season, all days that had helped to make men of young soldiers. Then there had come overseas drafts when young Corporal Pollock was attached to the foreign service battalion. Trooping to Bermuda, Gibraltar, India … home on early relief from India after a bad go of blood poisoning following a wound sustained on the North-West Frontier, home as a full-blown sergeant, promoted young, to marry a local girl — her old man had been a respected butcher in Carlisle and was always on at Bill Pollock to chuck the army and go into his business, which was a flourishing one, but Sergeant Pollock’s life was the army, or more specifically the regiment. He had been determined to end up as RSM, the Colonel’s right-hand man, the very embodiment of the regiment and the regiment’s pride.
And all for this?
RSM Pollock groaned aloud: the pain of the cramps, the sickness, was almost more than a man could bear, but bear it he must and would. It might not be for much longer.
He was aware of persons in his cabin, looking down at him. Two men, seamen he fancied. One with a peaked cap and a badge, the other an old man in a white singlet and blue trousers. They were examining him, but they certainly were not medics. They muttered and nodded and then someone else entered, RSM Pollock made an attempt to straighten his limbs, hearing the brisk voice of OC Troops.
‘You two. Who the hell are you?’
‘Bosun, sir, and —’
‘What do you want with my sar’nt-major?’
The answer came clear as if the sick man had cloth ears or was too far gone to hear. ‘Measuring up, sir. Question of the —’
‘Get out.’
‘But —’
‘Get out!’ Pumphrey-Hatton was shouting. ‘Get out at once, damn you!’
When the two had gone, OC Troops, simmering down, spoke to the RSM. ‘Well, Pollock. Very sorry to see you like this. How are you?’
Pollock made a big effort. ‘Not … too bad, sir.’
‘H’m. Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. Very glad. I’ll be gladder still to see you back to duty. With Captain Archer gone, we’re more in need of you than ever, Sar’nt-Major. Dammit, man, you run the ship for me — can’t be without you.’
‘I … I’m very sorry, sir.’
‘Oh, I’m not casting blame!’ OC Troops gave a high laugh. ‘But you know that. Well — get better.’ It was an order.
‘Yes, sir.’
Pumphrey-Hatton made a curious trumpeting sound and turned away. From the doorway he looked back briefly. He hoped he’d put some spirit back into the RSM by his words, given him encouragement, but was in fact very certain he was looking upon imminent death. As he went along the alleyway towards the companion to the fresh air of the open decks, OC Troops encountered the ship’s chief officer.
‘Well met, Mr Bruton.’
‘Yes, sir?’
Pumphrey-Ha
tton’s eyes gleamed up at the chief officer. ‘Two of your men. Damned ghouls. In my sar’nt-major’s sick cabin — checking him for a shroud! I’ve never heard of such a thing and I won’t damn well have it, d’you hear me, Mr Bruton?’
‘I do —’
‘Any more like that, and I’ll make a report to your captain. You’re in charge of the seamen, are you not?’
‘Yes —’
‘Then damn well take charge of them!’ Pumphrey-Hatton stalked away. Bruton collected a deckhand and sent him to find the bosun. The buck, and Bruton reckoned it was a legitimate buck this time, would be passed on.
iii
By now the cholera had made its way into the engine-room: several of Mr Stouter’s engineers and greasers had gone down with it. Extra strain was being thrown onto the fit men as the watchkeeping rotas were altered and Mr Stouter himself was spending much of his time below and worrying as he did so about the possible proximity of the German surface raider. Of course, even if she was around, she might not venture within range of the heavy batteries of the Valiant, coming along in so stately a fashion behind the convoy. Stouter, when on deck, had looked astern at the great battleship and had been much impressed. Fighting-tops, signal bridges, admiral’s and captain’s bridges, a great festoon of war-camouflage steel rising to the heavens from the upper deck behind the two fo’c’sle-mounted 15-inch batteries. In Stouter’s eyes she was the very embodiment of British sea power, descendant of a long line of ships that had kept Britain in full command of the world’s oceans since the days of Nelson and his line-of-battle ships that had stood between Napoleon and the dominion of the world. Those few, far distant, storm-tossed British ships: a French admiral’s own words, Stouter had read somewhere.
It wasn’t stormy now and they were a long way from the Channel where the British fleet of old had kept its long vigil. The Arabian Sea was flat, deep blue, almost as airless as the Red Sea. An alien part of the world in which, should it come to that, to take to the boats. There were said to be cannibals around in the Horn of Africa. But the escort, if the enemy came, would be sure to protect them.
Somebody else aboard the Orlando also had cannibals in mind: ex-Colour-Sergeant Parkinson, walking the promenade deck and meeting Petty Officer Ramm.
‘Glad to leave Gardafui astern,’ he said.
‘How’s that, then, eh?’
‘You don’t know about Gardafui?’
‘Lighthouse there, that’s all I know.’
‘Ah! Unwatched — remote controlled. Didn’t use to be.’
‘Manned, eh? I never really thought, like.’
Parkinson nodded. ‘Doesn’t do, to think too much. Of course, there’s a reason the light’s unwatched now.’
‘Go on?’
‘Cannibals, in Italian Somaliland. They ate the keepers. No more were sent after that, too chancy.’ Parkinson moved away, leaving Ramm to stare astern in the direction of Cape Gardafui, now out of sight and, Ramm thought, good riddance to it if that was what went on. He carried on with his work, checking round the guns, chivvying the hands, still feeling sour about the way old Perryman had turned the patch of rust against him. But checking done, he went down to see Perryman, doing his duty, half hoping things he shouldn’t be hoping. When he got the news, he was quite shaken: Perryman had had a very sudden relapse, passing into the typhoid state according to the RAMC orderly.
‘Very unexpected,’ the orderly told Ramm. ‘Very rapid. Mostly, they last longer, maybe as long as ten days.’
‘Mean he’s bought it, do you?’ Ramm was unbelieving.
‘Dead as a doornail,’ the orderly said, jerking a hand towards a sheet-covered hospital bed. ‘Matter of minutes before you come down.’ Ramm looked from the doorway at Perryman beneath his sheet, just a lump with a protrusion where the sheet met the nose. He went away shaking his head and feeling that he was in some way to blame, thinking those thoughts about him being left in charge just when old Perryman was in the very act of kicking the bucket.
But by that afternoon, when he stood at the salute along with Commodore Kemp and watched Perryman slide from under the White Ensign, he’d managed to massage his conscience quite a lot and he turned away and marched around his guns with a new authoritativeness in his step.
iv
Some died, some lived, some escaped it altogether, Ramm being one of the latter. Unexpected things happened, like Perryman’s death. Rose Hardisty struggled through her state of collapse just as Jean Forrest had done. According to the medical report to the Commodore, she was likely to make it.
‘Basically, a strong constitution,’ Crampton said. ‘And a teetotaller, which helps in cholera cases.’
‘And Miss Forrest?’
‘Fine, sir. More bed rest, that’s all. She’s been overdoing it. So had the PO Wren come to that. She too will need to be off duty for a while yet.’
Kemp nodded. ‘As long as it takes, Doctor. Do you feel we’re coming through it?’
‘Too early to say. But the signs are reasonably good. We’re probably going to get more go down with it yet, though. On the other hand, with cholera, the later cases don’t seem to get it so badly. So the books say, anyhow.’
‘And your personal experience?’
Crampton grinned. ‘Nil. Never met it before.’
‘Really? I’ve an idea it’s just as well you didn’t mention that earlier!’
Crampton was cheerful. ‘That’s precisely why I didn’t mention it. The confidence of the patient is more than half the battle.’
Kemp grunted and said, ‘There’s a saying in the Navy. Baffle ’em with bullshit. Does that describe it?’
‘Dead on, sir.’
‘You’re all witch-doctors,’ Kemp said.
Crampton was proved right. Next day, the sick list showed 18 new cases, this time mostly amongst the ship’s catering staff. Chief Steward Bliss went down with it; so did a number of galley hands, which was alarming to the lay mind but Crampton tended to shrug it off. Everything was still being treated, what was left of the fresh fruit and vegetables from Aden being washed thoroughly in Condy’s Fluid, and the stench of carbolic was everywhere below decks. Nevertheless, OC Troops took this news badly and sent down once more for the purser.
‘Now look, Purser. The damn thing’s in the galleys. And amongst the stewards. What are you going to do about it?’
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ Rhys-Jones said, ‘that isn’t being done already. The doctors —’
‘A fig for the doctors! Doctors talk as much twaddle as anyone else and are not necessarily to be believed. As OC Troops I’m at risk from my own steward it seems to me. And as OC Troops I can’t damn well afford to be on the sick list, surely that’s obvious?’
‘Well, I —’
‘I’ll tell you what I want, Purser. I want personal immunity. Is that clear? Personal immunity so far as is possible. That means I want Condy’s Fluid sent up here to my quarters. I’ll douse my own fresh rations myself. And I’ll see to it that my steward washes his hands in it the moment he enters my stateroom, each and every time. And I want special attention paid to my lavatory. Plenty of carbolic — double quantity. I trust I shall not have to repeat any of this.’ Pumphrey-Hatton turned and paced his carpet, face working, eyes staring into space. Then he halted and when he spoke again his high-pitched tone was back. ‘Do you know what I found this lunchtime? Do you?’
‘No, I do not, Brigadier.’
‘Well, then I’ll tell you. It was damnable, utterly damnable.’ Spittle appeared at the corner of the brigadier’s mouth. ‘A slug. A live — damn — slug, an Arabian slug. On my lettuce. How the blasted thing survived I know not, but it doesn’t indicate adequate precautions having been taken. Sheer damn inefficiency and neglect of duty. And I intend having words with the Captain, I may tell you. That slug … it could well have had the cholera in it! Wait there.’
Pumphrey-Hatton turned away and went into his bathroom, where the makeshift shower was still in position. A moment late
r he returned with a plate on which sat a very limp lettuce and a slug. He thrust this at Rhys-Jones. ‘There.’
The purser left the stateroom carrying the plate. On his way down to his office he met the Staff Captain returning from a visit to the new cases.
‘What’s that?’ Staff Captain Main asked.
Rhys-Jones told him. ‘There’s a complaint going in, I’m afraid.’
‘Another? But I must say, a slug’s a pretty poor show.’
‘Yes, it is, I agree, and I shall investigate, of course. But I would not think the slug has the cholera.’
‘Nor would I, somehow. I wouldn’t like to meet it on my lettuce, though.’
Rhys-Jones said, ‘Yes, again I agree. But the brigadier has a bee in his bonnet, you know. I —’
‘And now a slug on his lettuce.’
Rhys-Jones pursed his lips. ‘I think it is no laughing matter. The brigadier, I mean. He is in a great state, a state of nerves and jumpiness. Do you know, it was almost as though he was expecting me to order the cholera germs not to attack him —’
‘Fall ’em in and number from the right. Good God! But a lot of senior army officers are like that, Rhys-Jones. Anyway, thanks for the timely warning. I’ll brief Father,’ he added in reference to the Captain, ‘before OC Troops surfaces. By the way what are you going to do with the slug? Keep it as evidence?’
v
Staff Captain Main was on his way to the bridge to make routine reports to the Master. But Bracewell’s face stopped him in his tracks. The expression was grim and anxious.
‘Staff Captain, you’ve appeared at the right moment. There’s been a signal from the Valiant. She’s picked up a wireless report, a mayday call from a freighter sailing independently, a Greek. A surface raider opened on her and sank her. Her position was forty-five miles sou’west.’
‘And the German? Where’s he heading?’
Kemp came across. He said, ‘The German was on course nor’east. We might miss him, we might not —’
‘I doubt if we need worry too much about the Neuss,’ Main said. ‘What with Valiant and our own cruiser escort?’
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