‘Course oh-seven-five, sir.’
‘Try her on oh-eight-oh now.’
‘Oh-eight-oh, sir…’
‘Riding better, Holt, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yessir. But – suggestion, sir –’
‘Uh?’
‘If you’re handling her, I’m assistant OOW, we don’t need Finney; he might best see Miss Carr’s all right?’
15
They had a pump sucking on the bilge of number two hold, Hibbert had been up to tell the Old Man. They’d tried the fore-peak and the deep-tank and got nothing out of either, then number one hold – which was also dry – and after finding water in number two – a real gusher, Hibbert had called it – had tried number three and were able to confirm that that was dry. So now you knew where it was: but not how deep it was or whether the pump could cope with it, extract more than was getting in there. When Hibbert had come up it had been running for about ten minutes, and that had been a quarter of an hour ago.
Another question currently unanswerable was whether, if the pump could not beat the inflow, the ship would float when that hold was full. Andy didn’t think she would, and the Old Man’s silence on the subject made it fairly obvious that he didn’t either. Ten minutes to midnight now. Andy had taken over as OOW again before Hibbert had come back up, Old Man retiring to his corner and lighting his pipe; scent of shag now filling the wheelhouse. If you could call it scent. Finney hadn’t returned, which was fine, what Andy had intended – for Julia to have help at hand if she should need it, and meanwhile have her mind taken off whatever fears she might have. If Finney was up to that – which he would be, surely, the pair of them having been close companions for a long time now – long, arduous time, and they’d come through all that, so…
So fingers crossed, and God be with them. With us all, for Christ’s sake. Glasses up meanwhile: concentrating on the wilderness out there. Looking out was still important – always was, naturally, always would be, but specifically here and now because the effect of having been in convoy was to make you feel you were now entirely alone, whereas there might well be other drop-outs around, none of them likely to be showing lights.
As to the rest of it – well, she was certainly rolling less. Would be, head to sea. Pitching less violently too, he thought: attributing this to a combination of (a) lower revs, and (b) weight of water in her forepart. This was his own opinion – assumption – based on observation and the feel of her. Had not discussed it with the Old Man, hadn’t exchanged a word about it since that optimistic, ‘Riding better, Holt?’ an hour ago. But her bow was lower in the sea, he thought. There’d been no more of the hurricane-sized waves since the one that had smashed the boats – although that didn’t mean you’d seen the last of them– and in any case there were still big ones crashing in over the foc’sl-head several times a minute; you still had it boiling over the for’ard hatch-covers really most of the time. She wasn’t rising to the oncoming seas as she had been, which could undoubtedly be put down to the weight in number two: she was driving into them, whereas before she’d been soaring and then slamming down on them.
It had become more evident during the past hour – through most of which they’d had the pump running.
‘Bearing up, are we?’
Fisher, arriving to take over. Lifejacket on over his oilskin. Skipper’s orders – men on watch to wear them, those below to have them within reach at all times. Turning to the skipper: ‘It’s Fisher, sir.’
‘Before you take over, Second, have a look at the DR I’ve put on. Guesswork mostly. But’ – voice clearer as he took the pipe out of his mouth – ‘steering oh-eight-oh since then, like as not standing still.’
Gorst, who’d come up with him, also lifejacketed, had gone to the chart anyway. Fisher yelled – to Andy – ‘Water in number two, I hear. Spoke with McAlan. Pump’s running a bit hot, he says.’
‘Put the auxiliary on it then, couldn’t they? Turn and turn about maybe?’
‘I’m sure. Anyway – still afloat, that’s the main thing.’ A chuckle. ‘And come daylight, see to the hatch-cover, any luck.’ Peering down at a sea flooding over deep enough for foam to be flying in white streamers from more than halfway up the kingposts. As much as ten feet deep on deck, that meant. Fisher adding, ‘But not in that we won’t, will we. Well, Christ…’ Turning away: ‘Hang on. Dekko at the chart.’ Over his shoulder then: ‘Finney there, is he?’
‘Didn’t need him. Skipper’d taken over for a while, I sent him down.’
Odd that he’d thought Finney might be up here – or in fact why he’d have cared whether he was or wasn’t. But they were sharing a cabin, and as a matter of routine Fisher would have looked into the saloon – the pantry, anyway – for a mug of tea before coming up.
Only left one place he could be.
Well. Glasses up again. Why not? What he’d sent him down for, after all. And they would not – well, bet your life they wouldn’t – either of them, but certainly not her.
Big one coming. Towering black wall, white-topped – the kind that curled before it fell on you, smashed down on hatch-covers, boats in davits, battered at the super-structure and made decks unusable…
* * *
Hatch-covers could stand that, they’d stand anything. Low in the sea as she was, it did virtually drown her. Bakewell cursing, battling with the helm… This midships accommodation block was often referred to as an island – PollyAnna as a three-island ship: foc’sl, bridge structure and poop – and for something like a minute the bridge and upper bridge – monkey island – were effectively an island: you were looking out and down on nothing but a murderous rising pile of ocean and not finding it easy to trust in the staying-power of steel plates and rivets, iron beams, the ship’s ability to withstand, survive… Foc’sl-head and the ventilators’ intakes – ventilators abreast the foremast – suddenly – surprisingly – out and clear of it, and the heavy whiteness thinning, dividing, streaming, howling away down-storm, PollyAnna fighting her way up out of it, even the darker rectangular shapes of hatch-covers visible to binoculars now. She wasn’t bow-up: would have been if she’d been in anything like proper trim, but –
Wasn’t. Nothing like.
‘All right, Bakewell?’
‘All right now, sir. Was twenty degree off, but –’
Gorst blundered in from the wing: ‘Boats are still there, sir.’
‘Makes a change to have good news.’ The Old Man – grabbing for fresh support, having moved from where he had been. Andy telling himself there could be more of those to come. Why shouldn’t there be? The Old Man bawling to Fisher, ‘What d’you make of it, Second?’
The charted DR position. Fisher was coming from the canvas-curtained chart alcove, telling him, ‘I’m sure your DR’s as good as it could be, sir, but don’t you think if we made the course oh-seven-five rather than oh-eight-oh –’
‘Head to this muck is oh-eight-oh. Time being we’ll stay as we are.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Andy handed him the binoculars: ‘Revs for five knots, course you know –’
‘And they’re pumping on number two. All right. Sleep well.’
It had been a long four hours. He would sleep well. She’d been banging around like this for days now, one’s system was tuned to it. Not exactly music to the slumbering soul, but – hell, apart from those huge ones, which might disturb one… Might wake with nightmarish pictures in mind – of number one going as number two had, another of those great avalanches smashing through number one’s hatch-cover, for instance. If that happened you wouldn’t have many minutes, perhaps not even one. Or if the bulkhead split between one and two – same thing, similar effect – if you woke at all you’d wake drowning.
Better to sleep than think, was what that amounted to. And here and now, better maybe not to bother about tea. Because Julia and Finney might be in the saloon. If she’d not been able to sleep and the boy was keeping her company? Well – Christ, he should be… But if you di
dn’t look in there you could tell yourself that was where they must have been, that Fisher might have gone straight up to the bridge from his cabin – might have, and you could leave that question unasked too… While another view of it was as he’d thought earlier – more or less – who cared, in all these circumstances who gave a damn?
Well – he, Andy Holt, did. For some reason. And if he stayed out of the saloon now it would be primarily for his own peace of mind. Shielding himself from any discomfiture on that score – from knowing they could only have been in her cabin.
Did want a hot drink, though…
They were sitting at the pantry end of the table, and she was playing patience – one-handed, the other curled round a leg of the table, holding herself in place – as if that came naturally, was simply what one did – the cards laid out in columns alternating red and black, and Finney watching the game – or watching her – both of them glancing round as Andy came in and pushed the door shut behind him. Julia saying to Finney, ‘Told you…’
Their two lifejackets were on a chair between them. His own was slung over his shoulder.
‘Told him what?’
‘That you’d be along for some tea when you came off watch.’
‘Exactly what I’m here for.’ Heading for the pantry – and thankful that he’d come. ‘Either of you want some, while I’m at it?’
‘We’ve got it coming out of our ears, thanks all the same. But thank you for sending Mark down to hold my hand.’
‘That what he’s been doing?’
The galley fire was out, but there was hot water in the cistern. Fairly hot. He made himself a mug of tea and went back to them. ‘Holding hands, indeed!’
‘That was a colossal one a few minutes ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Biggish. But she’s riding it quite well now.’
Julia asked, ‘Going to be all right then, are we?’
‘Of course we are. Not making much headway at the moment, but as soon as it eases off –’
‘Think it will?’
He smiled at her. ‘Ever hear of a storm that went on for ever?’
‘Can go on for weeks, can’t they? Especially this time of year?’
‘No reason this should. Four days is average, as it happens. I’m not saying we’ll get a flat calm, exactly –’
‘But if the cover of another hatch gave way –’
‘You know about that, then.’
‘I’ve got ears, Andy – and no one’s keeping it exactly secret.’ Patting the lifejackets. ‘Stone the crows, what might these be for?’
‘We’re pumping on that bilge, she’s holding up well, and when it does ease – as believe me it will –’
‘This one’s going to come out, I think.’ Talking about the game of patience. ‘It doesn’t often.’ Shaking her head: ‘You don’t have to worry about me, anyway. I know the spot we’re in, but – got through it once, get through it again. Mark thinks I’m bluffing, I’m supposed to crack up or something. Damn.’ Throwing the cards down: ‘Not coming out. Stupid game. It’s true, though – came tapping on my door shaking like a leaf; I had to have him on the bunk with me, hold him tight. You needn’t look like that – I’ve been sleeping in my clothes, and all he took off was his oilskin and woolly hat – drew the line at them…
* * *
He was asleep before one a.m. and awake again just after six, having slept like them – fully dressed – and not been disturbed even once by the still violent motion or the noise of it. No point in any early visit to the bridge for stars – knowing there wouldn’t be any. Black sky and angry sea was all: although – on his bunk still, listening to it and comparing the ship’s motion to what it had been – might be a little quieter?
The fact she was still afloat with her engine pounding was the main thing. Last night there’d been no guarantee of it. Could have taken in more water during the night and given up the ghost, just slipped under: he’d been very much aware of it, and so he thought had Julia. Finney too, probably. Julia by some kind of instinct or intuition maybe, or reading it in others’ eyes – including one’s own – and Finney as much as anything because he was scared for her.
Which made two of them.
When she’d gone up last night, leaving them on their own while Andy finished his lukewarm tea, he’d said to Finney, ‘That business in her cabin – cuddles on her bunk –’
‘I know. Shouldn’t have.’
‘Innocent, I know, but someone might get the wrong idea, and – for instance, someone like our first mate?’
‘I take that point. And it won’t happen again. I didn’t know what to do – she might have been lying there scared stiff – whatever she says, might have been… Isn’t she terrific?’
‘Quite a girl. Truly is.’
Finney smiling – a touch self-consciously, Andy had thought. As if taking that as a compliment to himself – seeing himself and her as one entity, even? Love’s young dream, he’d thought, when he was turning in. Calf-love, though, little brother love: and no harm in that, absolutely none – as long as Finney came to recognise it, in due course. But as for himself – well, for one thing he wondered whether he should have said even as much as he had about the shared bunk. If Finney had sneaked back up to her cabin, stayed with her through a night in the course of which they might all have drowned, (a) could one have blamed either him or her, and (b) what business was it of Andy Holt’s?
Fair enough to warn him about Halloran, though. And interesting that the warning had seemed not to surprise him.
Fisher arrived for breakfast soon after Andy had settled down to it, told him his own midnight to four watch had been uneventful, with none of those huge ones which truly did make you feel the end was nigh, but that he doubted whether it would be possible to inspect number two hatch-cover with conditions as they still were. ‘Feel it, can’t you – that’s how it is…’ Get a better notion of it in daylight, obviously. He thought she was deeper for’ard than she’d been at midnight: every wave that came now did swamp over and come lumping down from the foc’sl-head on to the hatch-covers. There’d been some discussion of it between Halloran and the Old Man when the watch had been changing over at 0400; Halloran had been putting his view that number two should be sounded at the first opportunity – and the hatch-cover attended to – Old Man maintaining stolidly, ‘We’ll see how she is, come daylight.’
The pump – a pump – was still running, Third Engineer Shaw told them. They’d switched several times between the main one and the auxiliary; those pumps did tend to run hot when overworked. Another danger was of the intake choking up – getting choked with fragments of dunnage, for instance.
‘But’ – a closing of the eyes, and rapping the table – ‘so far, so good.’
‘If the intake did choke up, that’d fix both pumps and not a damn thing anyone could do to clear it – right?’
‘Right. But there’s a thought Tom McAlan and I was having – if anyone’d care to hear it.’
Andy nodded. ‘Sure we all would.’
‘If it’s decent.’ Starkadder, that was, between slurps of porridge. Others listening were Clowes, the junior Marconi boy, Fourth Engineer Howie, and Willy Gorst.
‘It’s like this.’ Shaw’s Lancashire tones resuming. ‘Suppose it’s not the hatch-cover – suppose when we rammed the German – Glauchau – we started a few rivets like – only loosened a couple, I mean, nothing as showed up on the way north, but now the seven, eight days’ bashing around’s really done it?’
Fisher shook his head. ‘We hit the Glauchau a bit of a tonk, but I wouldn’t say rammed her.’
‘Slammed into her, then. Jesus, how it sounded to us down below there, I’ll tell you.’
‘Everything does though, doesn’t it.’
‘Eh?’
‘Like banging on a drum? The motion now, for instance, ain’t that –’
‘Not all that bad. Louder here, this level. What I’m saying, stuff we’ve been through these last days – hell, coul
d’ve done more ’n knock a few loose rivets out – if there was some – could’ve opened a seam, broken her bloody back even!’
Fisher said, frowning, ‘Could have, but wouldn’t necessarily have started with bumping into the Hun.’
‘Carpenter went round sounding tanks and bilges, didn’t he? On the way down-river?’
Andy put in, ‘Conscientious guy, Postlethwaite. Sounded all round – on his own initiative – and didn’t find an egg-cupful. I’d say that if there is hull damage, that tells us there’s no connection.’
‘Don’t prove there is, but if there was only rivets loosened then – we had an easy passage north, remember –’
‘I agree with Holt.’ Fisher, Andy had realised from the start of this, didn’t want the Old Man accused of ramming anything. If there was any such damage, perhaps it could have started there, but at present there was no reason to look further than the hatch-cover. He put in – as Finney arrived, but no Julia with him, she no doubt making up for the late night she’d had – to her great credit, if she could sleep soundly – ‘May get a proper look at the hatch-cover some time today.’ To Shaw then, ‘If you’d been up there when those dirty great bastards were coming down on us – hell, you wouldn’t believe the size of ’em. Big enough to break the Queen Mary’s back, let alone this old steamer’s.’ Looking round at the pantry hatch: ‘Any more coffee there, Watkins?’
* * *
Except that her forepart definitely was lower in the water, so that as Fisher had said, every roller as she dug into it was coming greenish over the foc’sl-head and/or gunwales and filling the well-deck with a white flood covering the hatch-covers several feet deep – so if there were leaks in number two the topping-up process would be more or less continuous – there wasn’t much difference from how he remembered it at midnight. Except that then of course one hadn’t been able to see anything but the whiteness, and now it was startling to see how little freeboard she had for’ard there. He guessed the hold might well be full – in which case the pumps were wasting their time and effort, sucking out less than was coming in, achieving damn-all. On the other hand, the Old Man was clearly right: you couldn’t make that assumption and have them stopped – perhaps have the hold fill up then and sink her.
Westbound, Warbound Page 24
