‘Well I never!’ exclaimed Hett, newly stunned. ‘What’s all that about?’
‘Not an earthly,’ the captain admitted, as the shore battery returned their fire. ‘B gun, open fire! Might as well add to the confusion, eh?’
By now it seemed nothing was making sense. I jumped down from my station on top of the electrical box, and prudently took up a lower one below it. Keen as I had been to see as much as I could of the action, the words ‘sitting duck’ were now again fresh in my mind, and as the fizzing balls of light winged their way over and around us, I felt glad of the protection and security of the bulkhead. As my paws hit the corticene, I realised I was shaking all over. Was the captain shaking too? Was Lieutenant Hett? Lieutenant Strain?
If they’d not been up before then, then they certainly were now. No sooner had we passed the smoking hulk of the Chinese merchant ship than an enormous explosion at the bow of the Amethyst almost knocked all three officers off their feet.
The captain grabbed the windscreen and regained his balance. ‘They’ve found us!’ he barked then, to the voice pipe, to Jack. ‘Message to C in C. I am under heavy fire and have been hit! ’ He then sent orders for our remaining four-inch gun to open fire, and moments later, I knew from the reassuring vibration beneath my belly, that we were now travelling down the Yangtse at full speed. More than full speed, in fact. A whopping 22 knots, according to the engine room – faster than the Amethyst was supposed to even be capable of. But like a cat with a dog on its tail, she gave her all. She really was running for her life – and for ours – after almost three and a half months of captivity.
Not that it was plain sailing from then on. We sailed downriver without incident till long after midnight (Captain Kerans even found time to pull me from my safe place and reassure me, presumably thinking I was a great deal more stressed than I was by this time). Then, on approaching the shore batteries at Kiang Yin at 01:00 hours, he realised another substantial obstacle lay in our way: the make-shift defensive boom the communists had stretched across this part of the river, made up, the captain explained to Lieutenant Hett, from sunken merchant ships from an earlier war. Almost impossible to make out in the darkness, bar a few broken masts, it only allowed safe passage though a narrow stretch midstream.
We approached the boom, the Amethyst a deeper dark within the dappled dark of moonlight. It soon became clear that the passage – which would normally be marked on either side by guide lights – would not be very safe to negotiate after all, as only one of the two lights was lit.
There was a tense silence as the officers strained to make out some detail in the blackness that might help guide the ship through the channel. ‘Port or starboard?’ asked the captain finally. ‘Which way do you think, Number One?’
Hett shook his head. ‘I really wouldn’t like to say, sir.’
It was soon clear that we also weren’t alone on the river. Not that we’d expected to be. The captain knew that the communists upriver almost certainly would have alerted their comrades by now that the Amethyst had eluded them and was on her way. And it seemed they had, because a patrol boat was already speeding out to meet us, opening fire with tracer shells as it ploughed through the dark water.
I don’t think there could have been a man or beast on board who wasn’t once again holding their breath as we neared the boom. I thought once again of my mother, and how she’d told me that, sometimes, all you have to fall back on is instinct; a voice inside which you must listen to very carefully.
I looked across at the captain, and I could see him doing exactly that; trying to conjure up the instinct that would tell him what to do to preserve the safety of his ship and the lives of his men.
‘Five degrees port!’ he said at last, his voice strong and decisive, and, as we watched and waited for the sickening crump of metal that would mean he’d made the wrong choice, it was as if time had slowed down to an agonising crawl.
But he hadn’t made the wrong choice. The single light slid silently by us and, though I doubt they really did, given the still precarious nature of our bid for freedom, I felt sure I could hear the men cheering below.
‘We’re not out of the woods yet, Simon,’ Captain Kerans was quick to warn me, as I leaped back up onto the electrical box in order to resume moral support. ‘Bridge to wheelhouse,’ he said, ‘Woosung – what time are we likely to get there?’
‘Around 03:00 hours, sir,’ came Frank’s voice up the voice pipe, ‘barring any more unforeseen incidents. Though I doubt we’ll get past without some sort of response from them, do you?’
The captain didn’t really need to answer.
There was one unforeseen incident, just before the fort at Woosung was reached. We were travelling fast – still as fast as the Amethyst could manage – the same full, and – barring gunfire – unstoppable 22 knots. The Chinese junk that suddenly loomed in front of our bows was no match for us, and left little room to take avoiding action. The smaller boat was sliced clean in half.
There was no time to wonder if the crew had leaped to safety, as almost as soon as we’d left the junk’s debris in our wake, the fort’s searchlights began dancing on the water.
‘Here we go . . .’ observed Lieutenant Strain, his profile grim as he raised his binoculars. ‘If they didn’t know then they must surely know now. If we’re for it, this is where we’re going to cop it.’
But then a curious thing happened. Though the searchlights repeatedly found us, not a single shore gun opened fire, not even when one of the lights caught us in its beam and rested on the ship for almost half a minute.
‘Well, I’ll be jiggered,’ said Hett, as the light slid away again.
‘What on earth’s going on?’ wondered Fearnley, who’d now joined us on the bridge.
‘Do you know what, men?’ Captain Kerans said, lowering his binoculars. ‘I think they’ve had enough. I think they’re actively letting us pass.’
‘Really, sir?’ asked Hett, voicing exactly my question. After the way they’d attacked before, it seemed hard to believe.
‘I do,’ he said, visibly beginning to relax now, as the lights of the fort began sliding back astern. ‘I wonder if perhaps they feel well rid of us, don’t you, Number One? Yes, I think that might be it. In fact, I’m sure I’m correct,’ he finished. ‘I suspect Mao Tse-tung is very glad to see the back of us.’
There was a sound from below. A familiar one, too. A distinct ‘woof!’. Peggy obviously agreed.
PART THREE
Chapter 19
We were united with the fleet – well, our friends on HMS Consort, who’d come steaming along to greet us – just as we cleared the river’s estuary. Now it really was time for congratulations and celebrations. We’d spent a full 101 days trapped up the Yangtse, and we were finally back on the open ocean.
As soon as we were free – and, oh, how glorious it was to be out on the open sea again! – Captain Kerans had Jack send a message. ‘Have rejoined the fleet south of Woosung. No damage or casualties. God save The King.’
And The King, to the delight of everyone on board, signalled back.
‘Please convey to the commanding officer and ship’s company of HMS Amethyst my hearty congratulations on their daring exploit to rejoin the fleet. The courage, skill and determination shown by all on board have my highest commendation. Splice the mainbrace.’
Needless to say, everyone did.
The next twenty-four hours passed in something of a blur. The Concord came alongside us and resupplied us with much-needed oil, and then, soon after dark, we were joined by another ship, the Jamaica, which was carrying all our mail – this had the men almost beside themselves with excitement. There was also a band, who were out on deck and playing for us, as she steamed all around us, a tune Frank said was called ‘Rolling down the River’.
‘Not that we had much chance to do any rolling!’ he pointed out to Petty Officer Griffiths as we watched them from the quarterdeck. ‘Rolling? No ruddy time for any of that!’
I wasn’t sure what ‘one hell of a reception’ might feel like, but with the mood on board so buoyant, I was as swept up in the atmosphere as everyone else was. Had I a tail like Peggy’s, I would have wagged it. As it was, I hadn’t – my own tail ‘wagged’ for rather different reasons – but I don’t think I’d spent so much time purring in months.
‘You know, young fellow,’ Captain Kerans said, as we steamed towards home, ‘you’re still so very young, but I reckon you’ve lived more lives than many cats do in their entire lifetimes!’
I thought I probably had, too.
And then, before I knew it, we were home. Gazing out towards the hills that rose steeply in the distance, I felt almost as if we’d never been away.
It was good to see Hong Kong again. Good to see the sheer, happy bustle of it. Good to see the sampans bobbing in the bay, their brightly coloured sails like the wings of so many butterflies, all of which had chosen this perfect shimmering bay on which to settle.
Approaching the docks, I was also pleased – if a little overwhelmed – to see the thousands of people who had come out to welcome us back.
In truth, I found it difficult to believe what I was seeing. Despite there having been many signals back and forth to prepare us for the escort we’d be receiving – and for the throng that would likely be greeting us – the sight of all the sailors lining the decks of the escort convoy was quite astonishing. Even more astonishing was the sheer volume of the cheers and whoops and whistles that kept ringing out, again and again, across the bay.
Peggy, true to form, was like an animal possessed. Had it not been so firmly attached to the rest of her, her tail would have been in danger of becoming detached. As it was, she was kept from getting too over-excited by a makeshift leash tied around her neck, which seemed to be fashioned from a length of sailmaker’s twine. At least it kept her from leaping bodily into the water at the dockside, which had been suggested several times as a strong possibility. It also silenced her to an extent, because she couldn’t seem to understand that if she strained too hard against it, it prevented her from barking, so she kept trying to do both at once.
Watching her doing this, I was very glad no one considered me enough of a nuisance to put such a contraption round my neck. Though, once I thought about it, if they had got such an idea into their heads, I’d have probably ‘skedaddled’, just like George used to, before they even tried.
I felt very much like skedaddling, in any case, if I was honest, because the closer we got to our berth at the dockside the more the press of people began to alarm me. So much shouting, so much waving, such a huge number of people, adding an extra layer of anxiety to that which was already welling, at the fire crackers and hooters that kept going off and making me jump.
Not that I would be given much chance to escape, because while the ship was being oiled, resupplied and fixed up as much as was necessary, there was a certain naval function Peggy and I had been told we must attend.
‘You are the hero of the hour!’ Captain Kerans announced a few days after we’d docked. ‘You and Peggy both, but particularly you, it seems, Simon. And guess what. You are not only going to be awarded an Amethyst Campaign Medal, you are going to get another medal too!’
He was sitting in his cabin, with Lieutenant Hett and Lieutenant Berger. Berger had rejoined the ship after our escape, having recovered from the wounds he’d suffered back in April.
The captain was half hidden under mountains of paperwork. It had been the same since we’d docked. All sorts of paperwork had been delivered, to replace all the charts and documents Lieutenant Weston had had to burn, I supposed, as well as all sorts of official-looking files.
He flapped a piece of paper he held in one hand, and patted his knee with the other. I didn’t need to jump, though, because Lieutenant Hett scooped me up and plonked me on the captain’s lap.
‘Now then, see this?’ he told me. ‘This is a letter of confirmation that you are to be officially awarded the Dickin Medal, which is a decoration awarded to only the bravest and most courageous animals, who have helped their human friends in times of war. And there’s more – you are the very first cat ever to be awarded one. How about that? How about that?’ he repeated to the other men. ‘I had no idea about that, did you?’ Both shook their heads. ‘Pigeons, dogs, horses, but never a cat. Quite something, eh?’ He turned back to me, his eyes bright. He seemed amused by it all. ‘And now a cat has been awarded one. You, Simon.’ He looked pretty pleased with himself, I decided. ‘You are going to be decorated twice! At the Royal Navy Fleet Club, tomorrow night, as it happens.’
‘If we manage to get him there,’ Lieutenant Hett pointed out.
‘Shall I have Dusty see if he can rustle up a crate for us?’ asked Lieutenant Berger. ‘We can’t risk carrying him down there, can we?’
The captain shook his head. ‘No, we can’t. Good idea. Or a strong cardboard box. See what he can come up with. Anyway, how about that, Simon? The hero of the hour!’ he looked more than pleased. He looked delighted.
‘Or a trunk,’ Lieutenant Hett was saying. A trunk? I was alarmed now. ‘We could always pop him in a trunk. And if we put a lead on him, just in case . . .’
A lead? I was not liking this one little bit.
‘And you can be sure there’ll be a hullaballoo once this hits the press,’ the captain added. ‘They’re sending a collar for him as well, by all accounts. That’s for you to wear in lieu of the medal, Simon,’ he explained to me. ‘Then, when we return to England you’ll be presented with the medal itself – in London. Bit of pomp and circumstance for you to enjoy!’
He still looked delighted. He couldn’t have looked more delighted. But all this talk of collars and hullaballoos was beginning to make me anxious. Not to mention trunks and leads and strong cardboard boxes. And presentations at fleet clubs, whatever they were. It all sounded very, very worrying to me.
I decided that a course of evasive action would be necessary. They would have to have their presentation without me. I made myself scarce. For two days.
We were just over a month in Hong Kong. The Amethyst was restocked with supplies and refuelled, and such repairs that were immediately necessary were completed, and such hullaballoos as were deemed necessary were also completed, all of which I tried to give an equally wide berth.
Not so my shipmates, who seemed to revel in their new status as heroes, and deservedly so. It was only now, with them safe and rested, that I think I truly realised how much of a toll the whole experience had taken.
Everyone had been given leave, and they were making the most of it, allowing me to see them in a very different and welcome light. Now our ordeal was over, they seemed energised; bright-eyed and smiling. To an extent it was as if they’d been reborn – as if they too had nine lives and, having just lost one, were determined to plunge enthusiastically into the next.
So, while I kept to my routines (the Amethyst might be berthed, but there were still rats that needed hunting) my friends came and went, often seeming almost as over-excited as Peggy. I was reminded of the tottering revellers I used to observe at night back when I was still a kitten, sitting on an oil drum or pile of pallets in the moonlight, more often than not mystified by all the strange activities.
Now I studied my friends’ antics from up on the bridge, where I still stood watch for at least some portion of the night, my view of them so different now, and in such an unexpected way.
What a long way we’d all come together.
Though I’d had no particular desire to leave the ship during our time in Hong Kong, on our last day in dock I had a sudden change of heart. It suddenly struck me we’d be sailing for England in a matter of hours.
I knew everything and nothing about this fabled pla
ce called England. I knew it was home for most of my friends, that it was always spoken of with love and reverence, and that the men seemed to almost ache for it, so keen were they to see it again. But I also knew it was far away – far further than I’d ever been – and in the north, where it was apparently often cold; a kind of cold I’d been told I would’ve ‘never known the likes of’ and which, in the oppressive heat of a Yangtse night, my friends would yearn for.
I had no such yearning. I didn’t see why anyone would like the cold. As with being ‘wet through’, which had turned out to be decidedly unpleasant, I suspected I wouldn’t like ‘cold’ one little bit. But as all I wanted was to stay on the Amethyst, I was happy enough. I would go where she went; where my friends went.
It did occur to me that with England being so far away, it might be a very long time before I saw Hong Kong again. Who knew? I might never come back here. In thinking that, I felt a sudden powerful urge to say goodbye to it. To sit, for a while, on the end of the jetty. To be close, for just a short time, to my mother. So while everyone was busy with the last of the preparations I slipped away down the gangway onto the dock I hadn’t set my paws on for well over a year.
It was the strangest thing. I remembered the way. All that time away at sea – all those adventures, all those trials, all those lives I’d been living – and yet it wasn’t even as if I had to consciously remember. It was the opposite. It was as if I’d never been away.
I padded away from the quay, feeling unexpected waves of nostalgia and sadness come over me. Having been away so long, I soon realised just how much I’d forgotten, from the sight of my beloved banyans and the caws of the cockatoos, to the green softness of the hills that rose up beyond the city, as if hugging it in their protective embrace. Particularly intense was the feel of sand and earth beneath my paws, both so unexpectedly soft and warm and fragrant after the cold unyielding corticene I’d grown so used to. But I also understood why my senses had forgotten them. Because that was what being a cat was all about. We thrived because we knew how to live where we were, rather than – as humans often seemed to, I’d discovered – where our hearts wished to be.
Able Seacat Simon Page 14