The hatch-cover looked OK – in moments when it was in clear sight, tarpaulin gleaming blackly in the early light. But it was more likely to be the cause of flooding than Tommy Shaw’s allegedly loosened rivets. Secondary danger: if the hold was full, or even half-full – was of the holds’ dividing bulkheads giving way to the pressure of that mass of water being slung constantly to and fro with the still violent motion of the ship, the frightening but inescapable truth being that if they or even one of them gave way, the flooding would instantly spread right through and she’d be on her way to the bottom, finish the century on a bed of sand 9,000 feet down. Pitch darkness, white crabs, no ocean movement in that deep silence, PollyAnna resting easy while the crabs clawed into whatever they found that took their fancy, and over the years rust consumed the rest.
Shaking his head. Something of that sort might come about – at some later stage, some other voyage. But not this time. This time you were going to get her and her cargo home.
Cargo and passenger.
‘All right, Holt?’
Halloran back from the chart where he’d been conferring with the skipper. They’d come back together, skipper into his usual corner, beyond Axe-man Parlance who was on the wheel now and for the next half-hour. Crazy-looking, with that squint – no wonder the Huns had tended to keep their distance. Eight o’clock now – course still 080, revs the same, DR position on the chart the same as yesterday and the day before that, only a matter of rubbing out the previous date and substituting today’s – 27th. Assuming, with no certainty and no way of checking, that to all intents and purposes you’d been standing still.
He’d nodded to Halloran. ‘Got her.’
Forepart buried. Vibration from aft was from the racing screw. Skipper bawling – an afterthought to the discussion they’d been having – ‘We’ll also think about flooding the deep-tank aft, Mister!’ Halloran moved away in the Old Man’s direction and Andy turned back to his looking-out. They knew a lot more about it than he did, but he suspected the decision might still be a tricky one. Deep-tanks were essentially trimming tanks, filled for instance when the ship was in ballast, although they could also be used as cargo-space, were empty now because the iron ore had her down to her winter North Atlantic marks; flooding the after one would trim her stern down, thereby level her to some extent and increase the working depth of the rudder and propeller. By the same token, though, you’d be increasing her already excessive weight and draught: with the hold flooded she’d already be below her marks.
Decision for those who knew. And a biggish sea coming now: mound of dark-green, white-fringed water higher than the foc’sl-head, PollyAnna dipping her bow deep in the trough preceding it as it came towering, drawing itself up as they always seemed to – bridge-height, that streaming crest – and on her now – smothering her forepart, foc’sl-head buried, green sea piling over, drowning not only hatches but ventilators, winches, lashed-down derricks, thundering around this bridge structure, spray sheeting and rattling like bullets. Old Man bellowing at Halloran as the bulk of it flooded aft and overside, ‘Care to’ve been down there then, would you?’
Bark of what might have been a laugh. Then – ‘But this past half-hour – and maybe the next again –’
‘We’ll see how it goes, Mister.’
Halloran must have been arguing in favour of inspecting the hatch-cover and sounding the depth in that hold. Skipper obviously not in favour: his flat tone had indicated decision reached, no further argument. And another of that kind coming now, Andy saw – likely to confound Halloran’s theory and reinforce that decision. He yelled, ‘Another coming!’ Halloran moving swiftly to the ladder and the Old Man crooking an arm round the stanchion that carried the engine room telegraph, watching how Parlance handled her through this new thundering maelstrom. Then, as it subsided – PollyAnna shuddering, but holding her own despite the weight in her – telling Andy, ‘Going down for a spell, Holt. Any problems, whistle, don’t fuck around – all right?’
* * *
By ‘don’t fuck around’ he’d meant not to dither over interrupting his captain’s forty winks, but in fact there’d been no reason to until in mid-forenoon he realised the wind was backing, was on the bow to port, the ship beginning to roll as well as pitch. In accordance with Master’s Standing Orders this did need to be reported, and he’d been on the point of doing so when the Old Man reappeared of his own accord after only a couple of hours below – his full ration of sleep out of the past twenty-four, and some of that time he’d have been eating, one might guess… Arriving back up then he’d spent a few seconds sniffing the wind and watching the sea before telling Andy, ‘Try her on oh-seven-oh.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ He looked at Ingram, who was on the wheel now, and having heard the skipper’s shout was waiting for Andy to formalise the order with, ‘Steer oh-seven-oh.’
Acknowledgement, and wheel over. And Finney getting something to do at last – entering the alteration and the time of it in the log. PollyAnna’s fore-deck was still under water most of the time, but there’d been no more giant ones. In fact you’d have said force ten rather than force eleven now. Wouldn’t count on any lasting improvement, though – not yet. There’d been false hopes raised more than once in the last few days.
‘Course oh-seven-oh, sir.’ Ingram’s grey mop of hair showing under his tam-o’-shanter. Deepset eyes, jutting brows, hooked nose. He was from somewhere in Argyll, had mentioned that he’d been a lifeboatman at one time. His chief distinction in PollyAnna now was that he’d been one of the stalwarts of the boarding operation. PollyAnna was coming round to the new course readily enough, despite the weight for’ard and the stern-up angle which one would expect to be reducing the rudder’s effectiveness. The wind might have helped: was on her nose now, but having backed by about a point before that had maybe helped nudge her afterpart around.
Confused sea, you’d call this. Heavy enough, but less regular.
‘How long since it began to shift?’
The Old Man, at his side. PollyAnna scooping a load of green over her bow, port side, flinging it back across and out to starboard. Andy told him, ‘Only minutes, sir. I was making sure of it before calling you.’
‘Backing this quick, may end up where it should be this time of year.’ Wave of a hand westward. ‘Won’t make it any warmer, eh?’
Meaning – Andy guessed – that in passing through northwest it would be coming from the ice. He put his glasses up again. It had been brass-monkey cold these last days. Gales all the way from Spitzbergen, maybe. Greenland, a shade west of north, was of course a good deal closer. He asked – chancing his arm, third mates weren’t expected to engage their skippers in conversation when on watch, but the Old Man seemed to be in a chatty mood – ‘Will you flood the after deep-tank, sir?’
‘If we get the blow astern of us – not like it has been, mind – least, pray God it won’t’ – pausing, with his round blue eyes on Andy’s – ‘we’d bloody need to – uh?’
‘To trim her so she’ll answer her helm better?’
‘And the screw in deeper, and less chance she’d drive under, maybe.’
Meaning that with the wind astern and enough revs to push her along a bit, the bow-down angle plus excessive weight for’ard, might – might – cause her to drive herself under. And levelling her even slightly should make that less likely.
He nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Try her on oh-six-oh.’
* * *
Fisher came up shortly before noon, to take over his twelve to four, and Halloran also reappeared. Andy had sent Finney down to keep Julia company, the Old Man had also allowed himself another break, and Gorst had come up as usual with Fisher; so there were three officers and one cadet on the bridge, with Ingram still on the wheel.
Andy told Fisher, ‘Still pumping on number two, course is oh-three-oh, revs unchanged, wind’s been backing steadily over the past two hours, sea’s all over the place.’ Meaning erratic, having problems making i
ts mind up. PollyAnna dipping into it, though, as a standard-size wave came rolling in fine on the bow, swamping over and smashing itself into lather on and around the steam windlass, sluicing down to swirl three or four feet deep in the well-deck then. With her pretty well constant bow-down angle she wasn’t getting rid of it as fast as she would have even four hours ago.
He thought the hold might have filled in that time.
Halloran shouted, ‘That as big as they’re coming now?’
‘Well-deck’s awash three-quarters of the time.’ He added, in case the mate hadn’t heard what he’d told Fisher, ‘Wind’s down a notch and backing.’
‘Old Man got his head down?’
Fisher had a comment overlapping that: ‘She’s got damn little freeboard for’ard there!’
‘I know. Not good, is it.’
Fisher was looking shocked, and was probably right to be. It was the shape she was in, though, nothing you could do about it. He supposed that actually it wasn’t far off a disaster scenario: for some time now, had not been far off it. Nodded to Halloran, his question about the Old Man. ‘Or he’s getting an early meal. Said he’d be back up inside the hour.’ Checking the time. ‘Gives him twenty minutes.’ Back to Fisher then: ‘So – all right?’
‘Can’t say I’m exactly happy with her.’
‘Orders are to keep her head to wind. Speaking of which –’ He shouted to Ingram, ‘Bring her to oh-two-five!’
‘Oh-two-five, sir…’
‘How’s she feel, Ingram?’
A quick glance in Halloran’s direction, while holding rudder on her, eyes then back on the compass. ‘Heavy, sir. Not much different, though.’ To Andy then: ‘Course oh-two-five, sir.’
‘All right, I’ll take her.’ Fisher’s hand out for the glasses; Halloran indicated that he was staying put, guessed the Old Man would agree they might take a look at number two now. Nodding down towards what was more a big swell than a wave as she drove into it – or you might say it enveloped her, whereas in normal conditions she’d have ridden over it. At higher revs she could do that and drive herself under, Andy thought. Asking Halloran – ‘If he agrees to that, d’you want me with you?’
‘No. Me, bosun and Postlethwaite. Postlethwaite can take his soundings – then we’ll know if the pumping’s doing any good. If there’s, say, six or ten feet in there, it’s doing its job; if she’s full up it’s a waste of time – unless we can fix the hatch-cover.’
‘Shaw has a theory it could be hull damage. Loosened rivets.’
‘If we find the cover’s intact, he could be right.’
* * *
He told Julia in the saloon what was happening weatherwise and what Halloran hoped would be happening in regard to the flooded hold if the Old Man went along with it. Telling Julia and Finney, but also as it happened McAlan, Howie, Janner and young Mervyn Clowes. All of them with lifejackets handy. He slung his own over the back of a chair: ‘Damn thing.’
‘Why say that?’
‘Because I’ve been wearing it on the bridge, and the tape that goes over one’s head gets in the way of this and makes it sore.’ Touching the back of his neck. He was still wearing the dressing the Canadian doctor had put on it in Halifax, securing it with sticking-plaster; it had seemed desirable to keep it covered, where the removal of stitches had left it raw, and nothing that Halloran might have produced out of the medicine chest was likely to measure up to that doctor’s effort. He remembered the doc warning him, ‘This may hurt some,’ and while snipping the mate’s stitches out asking him, ‘What kinda pain-killer’d he give you when he put ’em in?’ Andy had told him, truthfully, ‘Large tot of whisky,’ and he’d demanded, ‘No morphine in your ship’s stores?’
‘Do have morphine tablets. Didn’t think of it, though. All in a rush, and didn’t expect it to hurt all that much.’
‘Huh. What Nelson might have said when they cut his arm off. Hold on now…’
Actually, he and Halloran had thought of the morphine tablets, but there hadn’t been so many of them in the jar, and the Cheviot’s first mate – Sam Cornish, whom later they’d landed to hospital in St Lucia – with his broken ribs and a leg wound that looked like turning gangrenous, had had greater need of them. Halloran had in fact done a good job on Andy’s neck, but not a neat one. Julia, when she’d helped with re-winding the bandage – somewhere off the north-east coast of Brazil – had murmured, ‘Crikey. Regular dog’s dinner. . .’ and he’d thought of suggesting, ‘Kiss it better?’ She might have, if he had proposed it – knowing her better now than he had then. But even at that stage, two or three days out of Vitoria, he’d begun to think she was something special. Asking him now – after he’d groused about the lifejacket – whether he’d like her to change the dressing. ‘If I asked Mr Halloran –’
‘No. Thanks a lot, but – only an irritation, doesn’t hurt.’
The mate’s scars must have healed, too.
Although he hadn’t shaved since Vitoria, only clipped his beard with scissors.
PollyAnna was rolling a bit. Fisher should be bringing her another 5 degrees to port, maybe. Slamming thud followed by the after-shake of digging into a head sea then… Behind him, Steward Benson telling Dewar, who’d just walked in and wanted to know what they were getting for lunch, ‘Corned dog and mash today, sir.’
‘Again?’
‘First time this week, sir!’
‘Well.’ Pulling back a chair and dumping his lifejacket on the deck beside it. ‘If you say so.’ Looking round the faces: ‘Anyone interested, mate’s about to inspect the cover of number two. Taking Collins and Postlethwaite for’ard with him. I just met ’em.’ A nod to McAlan: ‘We’re cutting revs while they do it.’
Finney got up – reaching for support and leaning against the motion. ‘Want to see this.’
‘From monkey island then. Skipper won’t want the bridge cluttered.’
‘Right –’
‘Finney.’ Andy pointing: ‘Lifejacket…’
It was tempting to go up and see the show, but having spent the last four hours up there Andy opted to keep Julia company instead. In any case, the Old Man wouldn’t want spectators getting in the way.
Julia asked him, ‘Going out on that fore-deck? Sea washing over it all the time?’
‘Not seas like we have had. The Old Man’ll have been watching, must reckon it’s OK. We doto know what’s happening in that hold.’
‘Where the water’s getting in.’
‘And how much – and if possible seal it up. We’ve been just stemming wind and sea – as you know – only know very roughly where we are – but if we’re going to have a westerly behind us now –’
‘Make tracks for home?’
‘Exactly. Next stop Newcastle. Here comes your lunch.’
* * *
He heard afterwards how it had gone. The bare facts of it went round the ship within minutes; he had fuller accounts of it after that from eye-witnesses Fisher and young Finney, close-up detail later from Batt Collins.
The three of them had judged their moment and gone trotting for’ard when there was a slight up-angle on her and no more than a foot or so of water left from the last inundation, hatch-covers and other gear thus in plain sight. Halloran leading, then the bosun, then Postlethwaite with his haversack containing the sounding-rod slung over one shoulder. Access to the sounding pipe for number two was immediately for’ard of its hatch, between it and the foremast and laterally between two cargo winches; he had a special tool for unscrewing the brass cap that covered it, and he’d be concentrating on that job while the other two looked for damage to the cover and/or wedges that might have been loosened. Each of the three had a fathom and a half of hemp line secured in a bowline around his waist, tail-end to be hitched to some solid fitting, and when he moved, shifted to another. Gear to which they could attach themselves included the winches and the cargo derricks, two of which were lashed horizontally above the hatchcover, between the foremast and the kingposts.
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br /> PollyAnna was rolling as well as pitching because the wind was more variable than it had been, the helmsman – Harkness, under the skipper’s close and watchful eyes – holding her as near as possible bow-on to it but not always closer than 5 or even 10 degrees. She was shipping plenty, despite having reduced to revs for three knots: at anything less than that you’d have risked losing steerage-way, and then – broaching-to, broadside-on to it, say, and in her state of trim – well, God forbid… Although these weren’t the great swamping seas she’d been running into earlier; the ropes’ ends would be needed for sure, but as long as they were used intelligently – when shifted, for instance, shifted quickly…
Halloran threw the end of his line over the starboardside derrick’s boom, securing it there with a round turn and two half-hitches; any experienced seaman would be able to do this one-handed in the space of about three seconds. He and the bosun each had on his belt a seven-pound hammer for driving in loose wedges; they’d share the hatch’s after (thwart-ship) coaming, then move for’ard each on his own side – looking for loose wedges, rips in the tarpaulins etc., – while Postlethwaite crouched at the hatch’s for’ard end between the two winches, to either of which he could secure his lifeline while he was sounding the hold. The ‘rod’ was in fact a flexible chain of flat metal plates, each six inches long and half an inch wide, with point-line spliced to one end so the rod could be lowered down the pipe to the striking-plate in the bilge. But he didn’t need to go that far or anything like it: it took him less than half a minute to discover that the hold was full. While neither Halloran nor the bosun found any damage to the hatch-cover.
Westbound, Warbound Page 25
