J. E. MacDonnell - 025

by The Blind Eye(lit)

  Granville picked up a pencil and tapped it on a sheet of blotting-paper. Bentley said quickly:

  "It's most important to stage a heavyweight bout, sir. Especially nOW since the men expect one." He hesitated. "I'm not-ah- completely a novice in this game, sir."

  Granville's eyes flicked up to him.

  "I'm aware of that, Bentley. And I'm not concerned so much about your capabilities. It's the disciplinary side."

  "Yes, sir."

  He was about to add more. He saw the thoughtful frown on the admiral's face and he desisted. Granville was no fool. He had made his points, and the decision would be reached without further pressing from him.

  Granville tossed down his pencil. It made a sharp rapping sound against the wood in the quiet of the cabin. He looked up.

  "All right, Bentley. Good luck."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Bentley stood up and Granville said:

  "That other matter."

  "Yes, sir."

  "It will be sooner than we expected. Possibly in a few days."

  "I'll have a tube cleared at once, sir."

  "Do that. Goodbye."

  Bentley stepped out into the hot sunshine of the quarterdeck and a pleasant voice said:

  "Well, well. I'll have to victual you in if this keeps up."

  Bentley turned to see the slight figure of Commander Letchford under Y's barrels.

  "Morning, sir. I've just arranged to have my head knocked off."

  It was a curious statement to Letchford, who knew nothing of the interview with the admiral, yet it was the beginning of a plan Bentley intended to follow until the fight came off. He knew his own capabilities, he knew that Floss would be in first-class condition, a powerful adversary, and he meant to play for all it was worth his knowledge of the man's real character as revealed to him by the gunner's mate's victory.

  Floss was rightly confident that he could win easily over Gellatly: Bentley wanted him to know as soon as possible that he now had another contender to face, a man with a heavyweight title to match his own.

  "I beg your pardon?" said Letchford.

  "I've just entered the lists against your man Floss," Bentley told him as they walked towards the gangway.

  "You? I mean-yes, I see. Hence the high-level discussions?"

  "That's right." Then, because Letchford had said that he knew of the Fleet title the Australian owned, and would therefore spread the word about, Bentley subdued his modesty and the thought of what Letchford might think of him.

  "It's not so long ago since I won the heavyweight title," he said casually. "I'm sure I can get in shape before the fight."

  "I certainly hope you can!"

  The words were spoken with such unexpected emphasis that Bentley glanced sharply at him. Letchford saw the look.

  "Floss," he said in explanation, "there's nothing I'd like to see more than this fellow take a hiding."

  "That type, eh?" Bentley said, hiding his pleasure. Letchford nodded.

  "There is of course no betting allowed on the tournament... But I suspect that a good deal of money will swing in another direction when it's known a title-holder is in against him."

  They halted at the head of the gangway and the motorboat came surging in. This could be helpful, Bentley thought-if the crowd's with me because of Floss's bullying, then they'll certainly give voice when I land a punch. And every little bit could help towards the demoralising of Gellatly's attacker.

  "It seems I've got to beat this fellow of yours," he said lightly, and he was never more serious about anything in his life. If Floss won, or easily showed his superiority, he would succeed in becoming more of a swine than he was now.

  Letchford looked at him, a silent glance of understanding. The officer of the day ordered "Pipe," and Wind Rode's captain ran down the ladder.

  Bentley took half an hour against the heavy punching-bag before he sent for Hooky.

  He had worked-out solidly, almost savagely, for he was under no illusions about the job he had set himself. It was true that he could have taken every man aboard his own ship, and most in the Fleet, with one hand; it was also just as certain that the single man be had to fight was trained to the limit, a tough and skilful boxer, and that Floss's opponent had not been inside a boxing-ring for more than a year.

  He stood near the guard-rail, pumping air into his lungs, and he knew with absolute certainty that he had so little time to train that he would have to take Floss inside three rounds. A year is a long time when the challenge is against an evenly-matched and vicious opponent, and if he did not finish it in three rounds then he knew that Floss could do what he liked with him.

  "Yes, sir?" Hooky said behind him.

  Bentley turned. He saw Hooky looking puzzlement at the warlike preparations.

  "You haven't heard?" Bentley smiled.

  "No, sir I had me head down in the mess."

  "I'm fighting Floss," Bentley said simply.

  There were thirty men gathered about the tubes, but Hooky was not worried about that.

  "You bloody little hum-twicer!" he said, with fervent and unofficial emphasis.

  "You might change your mind when you know what I want you for," Bentley told him.

  "Oh? What's that, sir?"

  "You're the heaviest man in the ship. I'll get in some sparring with the first-lieutenant, but I'll need you to batter against."

  Hooky nodded his big head slowly.

  "It'll have to be short and sweet, sir?"

  "You were never more right! I haven't nearly enough time to train for fifteen rounds."

  "Count me in, sir! And if I wither away there's a few heavyweights on the messdeck could do with some fender drill."

  That's about it, Bentley grinned to himself-I want a fender to hammer against. He said:

  "Right then. Strip off and let's see what a year's beer has done to your belly."

  Bentley had told Randall not to mention his discussion with the admiral-he wanted news of its outcome to originate from a lowerdeckman, the Buffer for preference. The men had been close around them, and they had heard his talk with Hooky. Now he saw two or three of them slipping away forrard. Smiling slightly, he shaped up in front of Hooky.

  He punched and ducked and punched again and he thought now as he had done many times before-science or no science, he would not have liked to get embroiled with the chief bosun's mate in a fracas ashore. Hooky was close to sixteen stone, and what Bentley was punching against could have been laid profitably over a gun-turret as armour-plate. The big man grunted as the punches slammed against his gloves, but he didn't fall back an inch. Under the limited circumstances, it was excellent training for Bentley. He had a human body to aim against, face and heart and solar plexus, one that moved, if not like a sparring partner, then with more sympathy than a punching-bag.

  He had pulled his punches, but now that he realised what oak he was practising with be smashed them in with almost his full strength. And for Hooky it was comparatively safe, for Bentley aimed only where his gloves were.

  He punched for nine minutes without a break, then stepped back and lowered his hands. Hooky cautiously kept his own gloves up.

  "Relax for a moment," Bentley panted.

  "Thank Gawd for that!" the punching-bag growled, and promptly sat down on the deck.

  "How do you feel?" Bentley asked. His query concerned the power of his own punches more than it did Hooky's welfare.

  "Like hamburger steak," Hooky grunted, and took in great gulps of air.

  "Excellent!" Bentley grinned. "That's fine."

  "Glad you think so," Hooky snorted. "Is this to be daily drill... sir?"

  "Of course. I'm sorry you can't hit back, but with that thing on your right hand..."

  "There's nothing wrong with me left mitt!" Hooky growled. "It might help if I wasn't on the receivin' end all the time!"

  Catcalls and rude suggestions from the mob. Bentley said:

  "All right, then. Any time you like you can lash out. In fact, t
hat will make it even better. In a week's time you'll be the perfect sparring partner."

  "I always told you, you open that big mouth too much," the gunner's mate exulted.

  Hooky opened his mouth now. He remembered the captain's presence, and shut it. "You'll keep!" his glare said to the jaunty little bottle-fighter.

  "All right?" Bentley asked.

  "Sure, sure," Hooky lied, and got up.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHORTLY AFTER A LIGHT lunch the next day Bentley was again down near the torpedo-tubes. One of them was empty, but he was not concerned about that now.

  After he had finished with Hooky the day before he had kept at it, skipping, doing body-presses, returning again to the punching-bag. He knew that he was going about it the wrong way for a 15round fight: what he was doing could be likened to training a Melbourne Cup entrant to sprint for three furlongs, hoping that the judges would be so impressed by the performance they would hoist the nag's number in Number One position.

  But then he was entered for a three-furlong run, a three-round fight. Floss did not know that, and Bentley had to concentrate on so toughening himself for a swift killing nine minutes that Floss would know little at the end of them.

  The novelty of their captain's pistoning exercises had worn down a little for the crew. Now it was only passing men who stopped for a few minutes to watch him. Bentley noticed this, but he knew that the actual fight would see every possible man ashore. This satisfied him. He had a personal, vengeful interest in whittling Floss down to size, but there was the added inducement of providing for thousands of men the spectacle of a bully humbled. As well, he found himself beginning to enjoy the unaccustomed exercise; he quietly revelled in the feel of his tightening muscles, and the sweat running from his body.

  Now he was intent on his task. He had just delivered a whistling right hook that had the bag swinging, when a voice spoke behind him:

  "Excuse me, sir."

  He turned, recognising the officer of the day's voice.

  "Yes?"

  "This is Lieutenant-Commander McQueen, sir. Just joined."

  Bentley was wiping the sweat from his eyes with the back of a glove. He had not seen the officer with Pilot. He squinted at him, and then found he had to raise his sight to meet his eyes.

  "Good afternoon, sir," greeted a slow voice. "I'm here for the test."

  Pilot's face was puzzled. There had been no signal received about this Reserve officer joining the ship. But Bentley was not surprised-a signal is seen by all sorts of junior eyes, and it was an elementary security precaution to have the scientist come on board without fanfare.

  "Glad to have you with us," Bentley said. He was thinking that the test must be close, and he said:

  "Ever done any boxing?"

  "Boxing... ?"

  Pilot now had a companion in puzzlement. It was understandable-a Reserve officer 's experience might be comparatively limited, but still sufficient to realise that meeting one's future commanding-officer dressed in nothing but boxing shorts and boots, and slamming away at a big bag in the middle of a hot afternoon, was unusual. And then to be asked, as the first question, if he boxed... "Boxing, pugging, stoushing, swapping leather. Done any of it?"

  The Reserve officer looked at him.

  "No," he answered carefully, "I have done none of those things. Nor, if I may say so, do I have any particular wish to."

  "Pity," the captain answered seriously. "You've got the size for it and I need another heavyweight."

  The look on McQueen's face was such that Pilot thought an explanation was in order; as well, be was a loyal officer, and he was averse to having a stranger think that his ship was commanded by a madman.

  "The captain," he explained, "is entered for the boxing tournament the Fleet is holding shortly. He's a bit short on sparring partners."

  "I thought I'd made that quite clear," Bentley said.

  "Ah-yes, sir," Pilot answered. "Shall I show Lieutenant-Commander McQueen to his cabin?"

  Bentley nodded, and wiped his face again.

  "The spare cabin. He's to be on his own. See that the locks on the desk work properly."

  "Ah-yes, sir," said Pilot again. He tried, and failed, to hide his puzzlement and curiosity, and turned away. Bentley said:

  "When?"

  Pilot swung back. He was a bright young navigating-officer, and now his mental processes were striving overtime. But McQueen

  answered the enigmatical question:

  "Tomorrow, sir."

  "That close? Where is it?"

  Pilot heard, tried to digest, and gave up.

  "It was flown in this morning. If you're ready it can be brought onboard within an hour."

  Bentley's query as to the whereabouts of the weapon had been rhetoric-he assumed it was in the same boat which had brought its operator. He remembered clearly the admiral's information that the thing was safely stored in the flagship's magazine.

  "But I thought..."

  "I brought a replacement with me, sir," the large officer explained in his slow, careful tone. "We will use the modified version for the first test."

  "I see, Pilot?"

  "Sir?"

  "Keep quiet about this. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right, old chap," Bentley said to McQueen. "You can get the beastie on board just as soon as you like. The first-lieutenant will give you any hands you need. You want it loaded straight away?"

  "That would be best, yes."

  "Very well. Pilot-all shore-leave is cancelled. Warn the torpedo-gunner's mate he and his team will be required in half an hour."

  "Aye, aye, sir." Pilot's voice, to the credit of his mental stability, was almost normal.

  "Now you can send the Buffer down here. I have even less time than I thought."

  He nodded dismissal, and they moved off. McQueen's sojourn aboard the Australian destroyer was to be memorable for several things, but he would remember most vividly of all the manner in which news of his brainchild had been received by this captain, and the sound of gloves smacking forcibly against padded canvas as a postscript to that casual reception.

  "He's always like this?" he asked Pilot wonderingly as they headed for the wardroom ladder. Pilot grinned.

  "I suppose it does look a bit odd. But he's got a tough match, and there's not much time. You see, he hasn't fought for more than a year."

  "Really? And who is he fighting? Another destroyer captain? A cruiser officer, perhaps?"

  "Hell no! He's up against an A.B. from the flagship."

  "Democracy..." murmured the scientist, and followed his guide down the ladder.

  It was, Bentley realised, to be as the admiral had advised him- a Fleet sailing for the first test.

  He waited on the bridge while the big ships heaved in their anchor cables. The rest of the destroyer flotilla had sailed, their object the usual one of sniffing around outside for any surface skulkers before the main weight of the Fleet stuck its nose through the boom.

  Wind Rode had her orders, delivered by hand in a sealed envelope. The order which concerned Bentley immediately was that one commanding him to keep station on the flagship's port beam until the time came for him to discharge what was now resting in one of his torpedo-tubes.

  He had watched the loading himself, interested in a first sighting of the new weapon. As before, when he had seen the photograph, he was disappointed. Cameras don't lie, and the weapon's main distinction was its bulbous size. It had no new-fangled and mysterious gadgets breaking up its smooth outline, and the men who had gathered to watch the loading had soon drifted away.

  Apart from Randall, whom Bentley had put in the picture, none of them knew the purpose of the thing in the tube. They guessed that it might be some sort of backroom-boys' idea of a torpedo. Their knowledge told them that it would be hard to imagine anything less likely to be effective as a torpedo, but as the Fleets were regularly receiving novel, and useless, ideas from the research departments, Wind Rode's men dismissed
their new weapon with short and pungent comments, and looked to their well-tried guns.

  "Flagship under way, sir," reported Ferris, and Bentley gave his engine orders.

  The Fleet had been at sea an hour, with Ceylon an indistinct blue blur dead astern, when Bentley sent for McQueen.