He seemed confused by my question and it was only then that I noticed his face. Our cabins were quite small; even the Commander’s, despite its position under the wheel-house, was not large and none of them were brilliantly lit. For this reason most of us, mates, engineers, sparks and our specialists, spent our time round the ward-room table under a large sky-light. I had caught a glimpse of Hanslip a few moments earlier when he had first come onto the bridge and I had retreated onto the bridge-wing. As he always had been up to then, he had been properly dressed, shirt, collar and tie, his number-two reefer jacket – every inch what he purported to be, a Commander in the Royal Naval Reserve. But within minutes of going below, collar and tie had been torn off – I remember they lay on his settee – and his shirt was open-necked, the brass collar-stud reflecting what light there was as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down below a face that looked as though he was either on the verge of tears or had actually been crying, for his eyes were blood-shot and watery and he held a crumpled handkerchief which he waved at me with a curt ‘Yes, yes, of course, Two-Oh,’ dismissing me smartly, coming forward and closing the door on me.
One can teeter on the verge of alcoholism oneself without the sight of a real alcoholic who’s fallen over the edge filling you with a sense of disgust. I don’t know why Hanslip had become one, or what he had suffered during the last war, or even if the war was responsible. Who knows? But something had robbed Hanslip of his innocence and he had found nothing to replace it. As for your father’s employing him, if he was aware of Hanslip’s problem, perhaps Lord Southmoore wanted to pick-up a reformed alcoholic and give him back his self-respect and self-esteem.
To reiterate, I can see now why he, Hanslip that is, had employed Alan Tomkins, Nat Gardner and myself as his deck officers. We were, as it were, no threat to him. As I said before, Tomkins’s solid expertise was vital while Nat and I, both coming from a back-ground familiar to Hanslip, were the right sort of boys, so to speak, whereas had he employed the Arctic experts, the old whaling and sealing men that sat hopefully in the Fleet Street waiting room, he would have felt inadequate from the word go. As it was it was only as we approached the Arctic Circle that Hanslip realised what he had let himself in for and I think it was this that triggered his drinking. I’m sure he left London fully dried-out, but there was gin, scotch and beer in the mess, and he saw us enjoying our daily tot or two in a cheerfully carefree way. It is what one did at sea, a small compensation for the things we gave up by following our curious calling. But he found it intolerable; my guess is our stop at Blyth unsettled him while the prolonged sojourn at Bergen did the real damage. However, we might have avoided all that followed had we not steamed into Reine.
I wasn’t on the bridge when the pilot boarded, being called for stand-by shortly before we arrived off the berth, but Nat, who was, told me that when the pilot asked, Hanslip told him we had come in for some repairs. What these were was a mystery, for Owen Jones’s engines were running smoothly, we had used very little coal since leaving Blyth, and that mainly in the galley stove, while the only damage we had suffered was aloft, when we blew out those three sails. Being the good man he was and having a Bosun as good as he was – I wish I could remember his name – Alan Tomkins had had the remains of the wrecked sails sent down and new ones sent aloft and bent on the instant the weather moderated. Nat, being the decent chap he was, thought Hanslip was just being cagey and that the change of plan was due to some reason connected with Southmoore’s secret mission. It had bizarre enough foundations to lend credibility to this hypothesis, but as the barque lay idle alongside with Hanslip off ashore and the officers and specialists – let’s call them the wardroom gang – milling about for a pre-dinner noggin at noon, it was clear this was unlikely because it was Hardacre that was the first to voice his misgivings.
A newspaper-man not used to the kind of restraints we seafarers felt, he stared round us with his bullish glare and almost demanded Alan Tomkins tell us what the hell we were doing in port again. Without waiting for a reply he turned on poor Owen Jones, virtually accusing him of the incompetent running of the engine-room department, whereupon Jones read him his fortune.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my engines, nor my boilers, steering gear, auxies, pumps or anything under the fiddley, damn you. Keep your fucking’ – excuse the language, but it conveys much of the mood of those using it – ‘nose out of what doesn’t concern you and if you write a word of slander to that effect, Boy-oh, I’ll have your guts for garters.’
Used to rebuffs, Hardacre swung round on Alan. ‘Well, Number One,’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Perhaps you can tell us…’
Alan, who was already onto Hanslip’s sudden drinking, shrugged loyally. ‘I guess Commander Hanslip has his reasons,’ he said mildly.
‘You bet he has,’ retorted Hardacre, thereby hinting that he knew more than he was saying.
‘Well perhaps you can tell us then,’ snapped Jones, ‘instead of playing your cocky London games with us.’
Hardacre stared round the wardroom at us all. I could see the effect his raking glance had on our scientists; they were distinctly uncomfortable. Nat and I might have been public school boys in the widest sense of the expression, but our three boffins were hot-housed, graduates, not at all used to disruption which wasn’t of their own self-indulgent making. I sensed them rather frightened of Hardacre who certainly lived up to his apt surname. Interestingly John Sykes, though standing next to him as though in support, seemed less of a threat, but the outcome of this relatively mild little upset was that Maddox, Cronshaw and Doughty withdrew to their self-styled ‘lab,’ Owen Jones took John Rayne off to his beloved engines and Sparks announced that he would take advantage of not being required in his radio shack to write home. ‘I suppose I’ll be allowed to post a letter,’ he remarked rather plaintively as he departed for his caboose.
That left us three mates and Crichton, the Doctor. ‘Well, Doc?’ Alan asked relaxing and taking his pipe out of his pocket, ‘Any theories?’
Crichton, a man much older than the rest of us and one of very few words, who seemed to exist entirely inside his head, and that was generally in a book, sighed and lifted one hand from its place on the ward-room table beside a gin-and-water, then dropped it with a faint thump. ‘You should know better than to ask a physician…’
‘So he is your patient,’ broke in Nat, sharp as ever, ‘you know there’s a reason behind our good Commander’s conduct.
‘I didn’t say that, young man,’ Crichton responded coolly. ‘All I know is that the ship is alongside in port and the prospect of it being so is scarcely alluring…’
At this point the steward entered and asked if he could lay the table for lunch, whereupon Alan said quickly to Nat and me, ‘you two, the chart-room, bring your drinks.’
We scrambled after him and gathered in the empty chart-room from where we had a commanding view of the quay and gangway. When we had perched ourselves on the chart-room settee with Alan leaning on the chart-table, half turned towards us he said:
‘Closet drinker, I suspect. I also suspect Crichton and Hardacre know something about our gallant Captain, all of which makes our position invidious…mine in particular, as I am sure you are both sufficiently experienced to appreciate.’
‘Appreciate it, yes, but…’ Nat said hesitantly.
Neither of us had actually been in such a situation where a Master’s authority might require challenge and I heard Alan Tomkins sigh. He smiled wanly and looked from Nat Gardner to me.
‘Well no, I understand.’ He looked ashore where a road led uphill, away from the small quay among the brightly painted houses and buildings that, for barely a quarter of a mile, constituted Reine. It had begun to – appropriately enough – rain, as it did so often on the Norwegian coast and I think he expected to be caught by Hanslip plotting his downfall, but the two or three stalwart Scowegians in the street just turned up their collars and plodded on, about their business; of Herbert Henry there was no sign.
The place was essentially a fishing port, so where Hanslip was, we could only guess. Tomkins turned back to us.
‘Well, we will just have to carry-on as though everything’s fine and dandy, but I will say one thing, we must all three of us be extra vigilant that the ship is not endangered. If our voyage is prolonged, I shan’t complain, for any employment is better than nothing, but I’m damned if I am losing my ticket and you two would do well to think about your own.’ He paused to let the words sink in, adding, ‘I can smell a decent meal, let’s go and eat.’
By some tacit telepathy Nat and I let him go, clattering down the chart-room stairs back into the saloon from whence arose the aroma of pea-soup.
‘What d’you think?’ Nat asked me, as if I had any better idea than he did. ‘Is this as big a bugger’s muddle as he suggests?’
I considered the question a moment. ‘Lush or not, the Old Man was sober when he joined the ship, which suggests that he did not join with a vast quantity of booze and had every intention of behaving himself. If he got booze in Blyth or Bergen he must have run out of it. As long as we weather the interim, maybe he won’t be a problem once we get into the High Arctic.’
‘The High Arctic,’ Nat repeated in his booming voice and with a grin large enough to match as he turned away and followed Tomkins down into the saloon. ‘That’s very poetic, Ned,’ he added as he drew out his chair and took his seat at the ward-room table. Tomkins was already tucking-in his napkin and Owen Jones had just finished the soup. ‘But,’ Nat went on, having ordered soup, ‘have any of us actually been there?’
‘Where’s that boyo?’ the Chief Engineer enquired.
‘The High Arctic,’ boomed Nat.
‘Bin in the Antarctic, whaling,’ said Owen Jones, shortly. ‘Lot of ice,’ he said simply. ‘Made a nice warm engine-room the only place to be. I suspect the High Arctic is much the same.’
We laughed and then Alan said quietly, ‘I’ve been north; Labrador, the Davis Straits, sealing out of Newfie, St John… As the Chief says, lots of ice.’
‘And penguins,’ added Jones.
‘No, no penguins in the north,’ said Tomkins. ‘Polar bears. No polar bears in the Antarctic.’
‘Well,’ said the Chief genially and somewhat consequentially, ‘you pays your money and you takes your choice.’ He lifted his napkin to his lips and belched discreetly before staring at the Chief Officer across the table. ‘When’s the Old Man going to rejoin us and give us some sailing orders then, Alan?’
‘In his own good time, I imagine, Chief.’
‘Well,’ replied Jones, digging into the meat pie the steward had just set down before him, ‘then I think that I’ll get some shut-eye on the old settee this afternoon… What are you young buggers laughing at?’
‘Well, isn’t that what you always do, Chief, Old Man or not,’ said Nat Gardner with a wide grin.
‘You should teach your young colleagues some respect, Mister Mate,’ Jones said with mock severity, dabbing his lips, ‘we can’t have oil and water riling each other on a ship this small.’
‘Well, that’s true, Chief,’ replied Tomkins, pouring himself a glass of water and turning to regard Nat and I who were both still amused by the Chief’s desire to explain away his quotidian habits. ‘You mind your manners my young friends,’ Tomkins said, good-naturedly. ‘Ah, here’s the Doc….’
Crichton entered the saloon and took his place. ‘Now, see, boys,’ said Jones, ‘here’s another busy man.’
Crichton looked round the table and gave his thin-lipped smile. ‘I am your insurance policy, gentlemen, and like all insurance policies, am not obliged to do anything until something goes awry.’
‘Well, I hope you remain a gentleman of leisure for the whole voyage,’ put in the journalist Hardacre, catching the mood of gentle banter. ‘Can’t say I’m much overworked at the moment either. What about you lot?’ he asked the three scientists.
‘We take our readings and record our data,’ answered Cronshaw the geologist, ‘but I must confess being stuck here isn’t exactly what I expected. Anyway, where is the Captain?’
It was, of course, the question the professional seafarers amongst us had been avoiding and only a somewhat naive outsider could have asked in that situation, in front of the steward.
‘Ashore on ship’s business,’ answered Tomkins shortly.
Prompting Owen Jones, who was by then well into the spotted-dick, to add bluntly, ‘so mind your own.’
‘Sorry,’ responded Cronshaw, mightily offended.
‘Forget it,’ said Tomkins with an air of finality which ended the brittle mood. As far as I can remember no-one said anything else until, for some reason, Nat and I found ourselves back on the bridge, yarning.
‘Well, now we know why Alan got the job of Mate,’ He remarked, his voice unusually quiet. Clearly he was of the same mind as myself.
‘Yes,’ I replied, my opinion of the Chief Officer rising by the day.
‘I reckon he’s scared,’ Nat said after a moment’s silence.
‘Who Hanslip?’
‘Yes, sorry. I don’t think much scares Mr Tomkins.’
‘No, nor do I.’
‘He’s either frightened of the job of command – lost his nerve as so many blokes did after the war, or there’s some more personal reason.’
I shrugged. ‘In my experience you don’t need an excuse or a reason for turning alcoholic. It’s my theory that some personalities have a predisposition to become a lush.’
‘I dislike that word.’
‘What, “lush”?’
‘Uh, huh. It’s a euphemism and fails to carry weight. “Drunk,” “sot,” are all much better.’ He paused, then said: ‘Hey, maybe it has something to do with his being up north during the Allied Intervention.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said yawning. ‘Nor do I care much as to why, just having him in charge is going to be more of a problem than Alan is prepared to admit just at the moment.’
‘He’s pretty worried about it, I think.’ I agreed and Nat suppressed a belch. ‘Christ, that plum duff certainly makes good settee ballast. Maybe the Chief’s got the right idea… There’s nothing else to do, is there?’
I remember looking round the wheelhouse, then walking into the chart-room where all my charts were in as good an order as the paucity of instructions permitted, before coming back into the wheelhouse. ‘No, let’s get some shut-eye ourselves.’
‘D’you think the Mate’ll mind…’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ said Alan from the bottom of the companionway with a smile, puffing on his pipe so that he looked up through a wreath of aromatic blue smoke, his face caught in a shaft of sunlight coming through the companionway skylight. Funny, I shall always remember him like that: quiet, confident, every inch the professional sea-officer…a great guy in his unassuming way…
‘Stop nattering like women round the parish-pump and get your heads down for an hour if you’re sure there is nothing else demanding your attention.’
I, no, we, were woken two hours later by a great bellow. Thinking something was seriously wrong all of us who had retreated into our cabins for a post-prandial snooze appeared in our cabin doorways to be treated to the sight of Commander Hanslip DSC RNR descending the companionway under the influence of alcohol and gravity, and certainly not his own legs, for he fell into a heap at the bottom, his black tie awry, his hat by his side and his face florid with anger. It was a farcical sight actually, though it was immediately clear no good would come of it.
Tomkins attempted to pretend Hanslip had – forgive the pun - slipped on the steps of the companionway. Indeed the wretched man made some comment about them being slippery before shrugging off the Chief Officer’s proffered hand and getting to his feet. He found it necessary to support his dignity by holding onto the nearest chair back at the mess-table before looking round at us.
‘Is this what you do when I am absent on the ship’s affairs? Where was the officer of the deck? I was receive
d by no-one at the gangway, no-one at all…’ his voice increased in vigour and conviction as he went on in similar vein for some moments, berating us all for our general slackness and incompetence, telling us that in an earlier age he would have had us all cobbed, or flogged, or mast-headed, or some other such ridiculous nonsense until he simply ran out of steam, whereupon Alan Tomkins put his oar in.
‘I apologise if the quartermaster was not on the gangway to greet you, sir,’ he said reasonably, ‘but as things are very quiet here and I thought there was no danger of unwanted visitors, I have had him checking some stores with the boatswain. As for the officers, Commander Hanslip, they had my permission to relax as I was up and about, though I was in my cabin working.’
‘You’re a fucking liar, Mister,’ Hanslip said unpleasantly, slurring his speech.
‘I think you ought to turn-in yourself, sir,’ Alan responded coolly.
‘Turn-in? Turn-in? Whatever for, the ship’s sailing in half an hour. The pilot will be here soon. What d’you think I have been doing ashore?’
‘I wasn’t aware that it took four days to arrange a pilot, even in a dead-and-alive place like this and I still suggest that you turn-in. We’ll see the ship safely to sea…’
‘The devil you will, Mister. She’s my ship and my responsibility…’ He lugged at his pocket watch, appeared to have some difficulty reading it and then said, ‘pipe the men to stations for leaving harbour in ten minutes.’
‘I think that I had better check they are all on board first, sir, if you don’t mind.’
‘What?’ roared Hanslip, ‘I didn’t give permission for any shore-leave…’
‘No, but in your absence, I did,’ Alan said quietly. I knew he was making a point and that he had ensured no-one was ashore at eight o’clock that morning when he had all hands out to wash down the decks and then clean paintwork, but, of course, Hanslip saw this as just one more chip at his own authority. ‘Mr Manners went to leave some mail for the Hurtigruten,’ he explained, ‘I’ll see if he is back on board.’
Cold Truth Page 6
