. But he was the first lieutenant, and in Barker's eyes still the senior chief officer in the company. Once the war was over, breeding or not, Goss would get a command. With his seniority plus war experience the company could hardly avoid it. When that happened, Barker would be ready for his own step up the ladder, if he had anything to say about it.
So without too much hesitation he had made a point of visiting Goss that same night. Goss, he knew, had the middle watch, and as was his normal practice stayed in his roomy cabin out of sight until a few minutes before the exact time due on the bridge.
It was not that Goss openly discouraged visitors to his private domain, it was just that his attitude was generally unwelcoming, like some trusted curator of a museum who resented visitors on principle.
If the rest of the ship had been altered and scarred' by the Navy's ownership, Goss had somehow retained his old surroundings more or less as they had always been, so that his cabin was, in its own way, a museum, a record of his life and career.
There were many framed photographs of the ship and other company vessels in which he had served over the years. Pictures of groups, large and small, officers and owners, self-conscious passengers and various happenings in several ports of call. A blue and white house-flag of the company adorned one complete bulkhead, and the shelves and well-polished furniture were littered with models and mementos and more framed pictures. One of them showed Goss shaking hands with old Mr Cairns, the head of the company, who had died just a few weeks before the war.
Whenever Barker visited the cabin he always looked at that particular picture. It was the only place where he had seen Goss smile.
Goss had listened to Barker's casual excuse for the visit without emotion. Stores had to be raised from an after hold the following day and would the first lieutenant arrange some extra working parties for the task? It had all sounded innocent enough.
As he had gone through the motions Barker had studied Goss's heavy features with methodical interest. He had been sitting in one of his fat leather chairs, his jacket hanging neatly on a hook behind the door, his cap . and binoculars within easy' reach. But without a collar or tie, in his crumpled-shirt and a pairof old plimsolls, he had looked like one of his own relics. Had Barker possessed an ounce of sensitivity he might have felt either concern or even pity, but instead he was merely curious. Goss, the great unbreakable seaman, looked old, tired and utterly alone.
Goss had said eventually, `That all?'
`Of course.' Barker had walked round the chair, steadying himself against the table as the ship rolled wearily into one more trough. `Oh, by the way, I did hear something about Maxwell. Seems he was in an accident of some sort.' A carefully measured pause. `de Chair was saying a -few words on. the matter at dinner. Pity you weren't there yourself.'
`Accident?'
Barker had shrugged carelessly. `Gunnery, I believe. Probably shot some poor sod by mistake.'
`Probably.'
Barker had been astounded at Goss's indifference. He had merely sat there staring into space, one foot tapping slowly on the company carpet, a sure sign he wished to be left alone. It had been altogether quite unnerving.
`Just thought you'd like to hear about it.'
Goss had said slowly, `You know, Henry, I was thinking just now.' He nodded heavily towards the photograph. The one with the smile. `Old Mr Cairns was a good owner. Hard, some said, and I daresay he remembered the value of every rivet down to the last halfpenny. But he had an eye for business, and knew every officer on his payroll. Every one, even the bloody apprentices. Now he's dead and gone. And it looks as if the company'll never survive either.'
Barker had gone cold. `But after the war there'll be full compensation; surely? I . I mean, the government can't just take the ships, work the life out of them, and then give nothing back afterwards!'
Goss had heaved himself upright, so that his massive head had almost touched the steam pipes. `Even if we win the war, and with some of the people I've seen aboard this ship I am more than doubtful on that score, things will never be the same. Mr Cairns' young nephew is in the chair now. Snooty little upstart with an office in London instead of down where the ships are. Had him aboard for our last peacetime trip.' His features had hardened. `All gin and bloody shrimp cocktails, you know the type.'
Barker had swallowed hard. He knew. He liked to think of himself like that.
Goss had rambled on, as if to an empty cabin. `I was promised the next command, but I 'spect you knew that. Promised. I'd have had the old Becky by now, but for the bloody war.'
There had been something like anguish in his voice which had made Barker stammer, `Well, I'll be off.then. Just thought I'd fix up about tomorrow-' He had left the cabin with Goss still staring fixedly at the framed photograph.
As the door had closed Goss had taken a small key from his pocket, and after a further hesitation had opened a cupboard above his desk. Inside, gleaming from within a protective oilskin bag, was the cap. The company's badge and the captain's oak leaves around the peak were of the best pre-war gold wire, hand woven by a little Jewish tailor in Liverpool.
After locking the cupboard again he had slumped into the chair and lowered his face into his hands.
`I'd have had this ship by now. It was a promise.'
The words had hung in the sealed cabin like an epitaph.
A week later, as the Benbecula headed south-east away from the patrol area, those who were on deck in the bitter air saw the other armed merchant cruiser steaming past less than a, mile distant. Even without binoculars it was possible to see the fresh paint around her, stem, evidence of her collision with the pier, her guilt which had allowed an extra week in harbour while Benbecula endured the gales and the angry seas.
Lindsay sat in his tall chair and watched the other ship until she had passed out of his line of vision. The obvious excitement he had felt all around him as he had given orders to leave the patrol had momentarily given way to a kind of resentment as the relief ship had forged past. Not so much perhaps because she was late, but because she was heading into what appeared to many was calmer weather. The wind was fresh but no longer violent, so that the watch below was called less often to hack and blast away the clawing ice from decks and guns. To the men who imagined they had now seen and endured everything the Atlantic could offer, it seemed unfair their relief should get it so easy.
Lindsay sat back and looked at the hard, dark horizon line. With the ship so steady it made the list allthe more apparent. The horizon seemed to be tilting across the bridge windows like an endless grey hill.
Behind him he could hear a signalman talking quietly with Ritchie, the occasional creak of the wheel and, Maxwell's clipped voice from the chart room door. The afternoon watch was almost finished, and the sky above the horizon was already duller with a hint of more snow. It was natural for the new hands to complain about the other A.M.C.'s luck, he thought. The more seasoned men would know the real reason for the change. Ice. Before winter closed in completely there would be plenty about to the west and north, some perhaps as far down as this. He had already discussed it with Goss, but as usual it was hard to fathom the extent of his words.
Lindsay had been a first lieutenant himself to several commanding officers, and he could not get used to Goss's total lack of feeling for hiss new role. A first lieutenant in any naval vessel was the link between officers and captain, the one man who could and should weld the ship into one tight community. Goss was not a link. He was like a massive watertight door which kept his captain even more aloof and remote than usual.
There was no doubting his efficiency in seamanship and internal organisation. But there it ended, and unless he could bring himself to change his days were numbered afloat, Lindsay decided.
Maxwell crossed to his side and stood fidgeting with the chain around his neck. 'D'you think there's any chance of leave, sir?'
Lindsay watched the lieutenant's reflection in the saltsmeared windows.
`Unlikely, G
uns. A lick of paint, a few bits of quick welding and we'll be off again, in my opinion.'.
Strange about Maxwell, he thought. He had been very quiet lately. Too quiet.
Maxwell said, `Oh, in that case.' He did not go on.
`You worried about something?'
`Me, sir?' Maxwell's fingers tugged more insistently, at the chain. `No, I was just thinking. I might put in for an advanced gunnery course. Not much scope in this ship.'
He spoke jerkily, but Lindsay thought the words sounded rehearsed. As if he had been planning the right moment.
`And you want me to recommend you?'
Maxwell shifted his feet. `Well, in a manner of speaking, yes, sir.'
Lindsay took out his pipe. It couldn't be much fun for Maxwell. A gunnery officer of the old school, who because of time lost on the beach was watching men far more junior being appointed to brand-new warships just as fast as they were built. But there was more to it than that. Maybe it was his assistant, Lieutenant Hunter. Only a temporary officer perhaps and in peacetime the owner of a small garage many miles from the sea, but Hunter had got to grips with the ancient armament as if born to it. Probably because he had not had many dealings with any other kind, or maybe, like Fraser, his natural mechanical bent made him accept the old guns like some sort of personal challenge rather than an obstacle.
`I'll think about it, Guns. But I need either you or a damn good replacement before I recommend anything, right?'
Maxwell nodded. `Yes, sir.'
The duty bosun's mate said, `Beg pardon, sir,, but Number Six. gun 'as just called up. They say one of the liferafts is workin' adrift again on th' poop.' He sounded disinterested. Ten more minutes and he would be in his mess. Hot sweet tea and then his head down until suppertime.
Maxwell glared. `Right, tell Lieutenant Aikman to deal with it.'
The man continued to stare at him, the telephone in his first. `But you sent 'im to the chart room, sir.'
Maxwell nodded jerkily. `Oh, yes.' To Lindsay he added, `He's fixing the plot.'
Lindsay turned slightly to study him. Maxwell was not usually rattled..
He asked, `What about young Kemp?' He had appointed the midshipman to Maxwell's watch for the experience, as well as to keep him from being bored to death by the ship's correspondence duties.
Maxwell nodded. 'Yessir.' To the seaman he barked, `Mr Kemp is up in control. Pass the word for him to lay aft, chop, chop. The buffer will lett him have a couple of hands.' He added angrily, `Bloody well get a move on!'
Lindsay faced forward again, troubled by Maxwell's sudden irritation. Perhaps it was his own example which had done it. Maybe his outward mask of self-control was not so strong as he believed.
He heard the bosun's mate passing the order on the handset, his voice sullen.
Maxwell returned to his side and said vehemently, `Number Six gun, was it. Those marines are just trying to rile me.' He seemed to realise he had spoken aloud and swung away, adding sharply, `Pipe the port watch to defence stations. And-I'11 see that rating who was smoking on duty in five minutes, got it?'
The bosun's mate faced him coldly. `Got it, sir.'
Lindsay thought about Goss and came to a decision. Maxwell's attitude was dangerous and could not be tolerated. But it was the first lieutenant's job to deal with internal grievances, and deal with them he would.
By the time Midshipman Kemp had made his way aft to the poop the daylight was almost. gone. As he groped along the guardrail he could feel the ice-rime under his glove and wished he had put something warmer than an oilskin over his other clothing. The sea looked very dark, with deep swells and troughs, through which the ship's wake made a frothing white track, fading eventually into the gathering gloom.
Beside the covered twelve-pounder he found Leading Seaman Swan waiting for him, one foot on the lower guardrail while he stared astern with weary resignation.
Kemp asked, `Where are the others?'
Swan straightened his back and looked at him. He was a big man, his body made even larger by several layers of woollens beneath his duffel coat He had already done several repair jobs about the upper deck in the freezing weather and was just about ready to go below. His neck and chin felt sore, mainly because he had started to grow a beard, and the cold, damp air was playing havoc with his patience. Kemp's arrival did nothing to help ease his irritation. Swan was a regular with seven years service to his credit and was normally quite tolerant of midshipmen in general. They were the in-betweens. Neither fish nor fowl, and were usually taken at face value by the lower deck. Hounded by their superiors, carried by petty officers and leading hands, midshipmen were more to be pitied than abused. But just this once Swan did not feel like carrying anyone, and Kemp's obvious uncertainty filled him "with unreasoning resentment.
He replied offhandedly, `They'll be here any second.' He waited for Kemp to pull him up for omitting the sir.
Kemp shivered and said, `What's the trouble anyway?'
The leading seaman gestured with a massive, leathergauntleted fist towards the nearest raft. It was poised almost vertically on two wooden skids, so that in a real emergency it could be released to drop straight down over the port quarter.
`Trouble with some of these bloody O.D.'s is that they paint everything. Some idiot has slopped paint all over the lines, and in this sort of climate it only makes 'em fray more easily.' He saw Kemp's eyes peering doubtfully at the heavy raft and added harshly, `Not that it matters much. What with paint and the bloody ice, I doubt if the thing would move even if Chatham barracks fell on it!'
Two seamen loomed up the poop ladder and he barked, `Where the hell have you been? I'm just about two-blocks waiting in the sodding cold!'
The first seaman said, `The officer of the watch 'ad me on the rattle for smokin'.' He looked at Kemp. `That's wot.'
Swan waited for Kemp to say something. Then he said angrily, `Well, just you wait here. I'm going to get some new lines. You can start by checking how many of the old ones are frayed, right?'
As he stamped away one of the seamen muttered, `What's up with Hookey then? Miserable bastard.'
Kemp gripped the guardrail with both hands, willing himself to concentrate on the raft. He knew the two seamen, like Swan, were testing him, that almost any other midshipman from his class would have snapped back at them. Won their obedience, if not actual respect. It was always the same. He seemed unable to face the fact he was here, that no amount of self-deception would change it. He could almost hear his father's resonant voice. 'I can't think where you get it. No moral fibre, that's you. No guts!'
He heard one of the seamen duck behind the twelvepounder gunshield and the rasp of a match. If Kemp was unwilling or unable to act, they were quite happy to wait for Swan's return.
One of them was saying, `Did you 'ear about that stoker in Scapa?' Ad a cushy shore job stokin' some admiral's boiler, an' they found 'im in 'is bunk with a bloody sheep!'
The other voice said,, `Never! You're 'avin me on!'
'S'truth.' He was enjoying the much-used yarn, especially as he knew the midshipman was listening: `When the jaunty slapped 'im on a charge he told 'im that he didn't know it was a.sheep. But that 'e'd been so long in Scapa 'e thought it was a Wren in a duffel coat!'
Kemp thrust himself away from the rail. `That's enough, you two!'
They both stared at him in mild surprise.
`Start working on those lines!'
One of them said, `Which lines, sir?'
The other added, `Can't see much in this light, sir.'
Kemp felt the despair rising like nausea. It had been the same when Dancy had been questioning him about his father. It was always like that.
He seized the nearest seaman's sleeve and thrust him towards the raft. `Get up there and. feel them one at a time!' He swung on the second man. `And you start freeing the ice from the metal slips. Swan will probably want to splice them on to the new lines.'
Behind his back the seaman on the raft made an obscene gesture and
then looked away as Kemp returned to the rail.
Kemp was shivering uncontrollably beneath the oilskin. He knew it was partly because of, the cold, but also due to his inability to play out his part as he, knew he must if he was to keep his sanity. Kemp was an-only sonand in the beginning had been prepared to try and see his father's point of view. From as far back as -he could remember it had been like that. The tradition, the house full of naval portraits and memories, even now he could understand his father's desire to see him following the family's heritage. Perhaps if he had known what he had wanted to be, had found-someone to help and advise him, then his father might have relented. But at eighteen Kemp was still unsure. All he did know for certain was he did. not want or need the Service, and that his father had become more than an adversary. He was the very symbol of all he had come to hate.
When he had been appointed to this ship he had, known his father's hand was in it. To knock some sense into him. Smooth the rough edges. In some ways Kemp had almost believed it himself. The officers were so unusually mixed and totally different from those he had met before.
He was not so inexperienced that he could not recognise the antagonism and occasional enmity between the officers, but when it came down to it they all seemed to be the same. In the action, as he had crouched inside the chart room he had heard their voices. Flat, expressionless, moulded to discipline, no matter what the men really thought behind the words.
He looked up startled as Swan bounded up the ladder carrying a huge coil of line.
Swan shouted, `What the hell are you doing up there, Biggs? Come down immediately and fix a lifeline, you stupid bugger!'
Even as he spoke the other seaman inadvertently cut through a lashing with his knife. Perhaps because' his fingers were cold, or maybe the icy planking beneath his boots took him off balance, but the result was the same, and immediate. The end of the severed lashing, complete with a metal shackle, slashed upwards like a frozen whip, cutting the seaman Biggs full in the face as he made to scramble back to the deck. Kemp. stared horrified as the man swayed drunkenly, his duffel coat pale against the black sea at his back. Then as Swan flung himself on to the raft Biggs fell outboard and down. One second he was there, the next nothing. He had not even had time to cry out.
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