Batt Collins, later: ‘A wedge ’ere and there – maybe five or six in all – was half loose, needed a whack in, like. Nothin’ adrift noplace else. I were up by the winch, port for’ard corner, like – Possie’d begun his sounding an’ packed it in – packed up his gear and begun looking for wedges as might be loose up that end – found a couple, come up off of his knees wanting a ’ammer which he didn’t ’ave, see, and Mr Halloran passed him his one. Well, Possie let go of his pack – reachin’ over for the ’ammer – and a sea comes over, takes charge of it like, washes it over Mr Halloran’s side but abaft him see, he’s like grabbing for it an’ can’t reach, his lifeline where he’s turned it up won’t let him. Next thing I seen is he’s cast it off – his line, that is – and she’s dipping her stem in, scoops up a load the size of a double-decker and green as you ever saw it, and afore you can say knife it’s took him with it – there one minute large as life then bloody gone…’
16
He’d not been wearing a lifejacket. The Old Man had of course seen this when they’d come into his sight running forward, had looked (Fisher said) at first incredulous then furious, focusing his glasses on them. Questioned about it, the bosun said he’d asked the mate whether he shouldn’t have had one on – he and Postlethwaite had been wearing theirs, naturally – and Halloran had replied, ‘No bloody point, Bosun. Oh, skipper’s orders, sure – but not for this lark… Get on with it, shall us?’
Andy had to agree that there’d been a certain logic behind that ‘No bloody point.’ Wrong entirely in putting his own interpretation on captain’s orders, setting such an example of indiscipline, but as Postlethwaite had remarked, ‘If you was going over the side in a sea such as that, what’d you want to float around for? Bloody vanish, don’t you – ’ad your fuckin’ lot!’ A shake of the narrow, balding head: ‘Sooner have it done with, like.’
But on top of that to have cast off his lifeline – not shifted it further along but simply cast it off, for no better purpose than recovering the sounding-rod assembly, which of course had gone with him in that same sudden, overwhelming rush of sea – and right there under the skipper’s eyes, was typical of Halloran’s show-off arrogance. As Batt Collins put it – to Andy and Fisher, in an admiring tone – ‘Never give a toss for no one, that bugger didn’t.’
The immediate problem was still that of keeping the ship afloat, but with the advantage now of knowing that (a) the flooding was from submerged hull damage, and (b) the hold was full, so its effect could hardly get worse, unless – barely thinkable, true and total disaster scenario – by its extension from number two into one or three through the collapse or splitting of either bulkhead. That possibility obviously did exist, could happen in the next minute, hour or day: might in fact be put crucially to the test when she was turned across the wind, getting her round on to an easterly course with wind and sea behind her.
‘Morning’ll be soon enough for that. Long as it goes on easing as well as backing. Say our prayers for that, Holt. Eight o’clock maybe. If it looks like we’d get away with it, I’ll aim to put her on oh-seven-five about then. That’s accepting the DR we got on now. Sooner than that maybe if it shifts quicker. And revs then according to how it looks. Uh?’
Asking not for his third mate’s concurrence, but whether he’d hoisted that in. Andy had nodded – shoulder to shoulder with the Old Man at the chart, Finney up front meanwhile, maintaining lookout, and Timms on the wheel. Andy had the navigator’s job now, and Fisher had been elevated to acting mate. The Old Man was going to stand the watches that had been Andy’s, eight to twelve a.m. and p.m., with Janner in support; Andy would take over the twelve to fours with Finney, and Fisher with Gorst would have Halloran’s four to eights. Three p.m. now, so this watch was Andy’s; PollyAnna meanwhile on a course of 015 degrees, sluggishly stemming a force seven.
There were to be no obsequies for Halloran. This happened to be a Sunday, and soon after daylight the Old Man had had him – Andy – pass the word that since he didn’t intend leaving the vicinity of the bridge there’d be no Divine Service aft; and to lay on anything of the sort for him now – well, lay on what? Not a ‘burial at sea’ service: you could say he’d already conducted that, single-handed, and the fact was that it had been an utterly stupid thing he’d done, as well as a direct contravention of orders regarding lifejackets. The Old Man being a forthright, plain-speaking, as well as God-fearing man wouldn’t have found it easy either to gloss over that or to speak ill of the dead; and in the situation they were in, and thanks to that idiocy having only two junior officers to back him up, he’d told Fisher, who’d asked him about it, ‘First things first, no bloody folderols…’
The Old Man had gone down for an hour’s kip, but resurfaced at four when Fisher had come up to take over the watch; the skipper first checking the state of things then asking Fisher whether he was happy to remain in the cabin he was now sharing with Finney. The point being that in taking over the mate’s job, Fisher could really have laid claim to that guest-room cabin – which in fact he did not, saying he’d as soon stay where he was.
‘Job for you then, Holt. Get Mr Halloran’s gear together, pack it out of the way, have that room cleaned out and ask Miss Carr if she’d care to move into it. Make sure she does. Then have my little hole swept out and the cot returned to store.’
‘Aye, sir. Mate’s cash and personal correspondence, though –’
‘Personal correspondence can go with the rest of it. Cash and accounts, ship or company business – on the desk in my day cabin, please.’
The lovely Leila’s portrait, too, with a package of violet-shaded letters, would go with the rest of the former mate’s gear in two suitcases he’d had stowed for’ard. Batt Collins dug them out – incidentally crossing the fore-deck to get them – and sent them up by hand of the Chinaman, Ah Nong, who was to take care of laundry requirements. Glancing at Leila’s letters, though, Andy’s eye was caught by a faded postmark: London SE3. Whereas she was supposed to reside in Greenock, in some rented house, which the mate had complained had been costing him ‘an arm and a leg’. On the brothel evening in Calcutta he’d groused about it: about the Grant Line having done him down, all that. The Greenock address – 11 Merriwell Way – was on other papers – things the Old Man wanted. To make sure of it, though – or out of plain curiosity – fiddling the flimsy sheets out of their still slightly scented London postmarked envelope, taking care not to focus on any of the text, only looking at the top right-hand corner of the first page, he was surprised to find no address, only the words: You know where.
Of course he’d have known where – seeing that he was paying the rent. There was an allotment form among his papers – none of Andy’s business and he wasn’t prying, but the stuff had to be looked through, sorted. The Old Man would know of this one anyway; in dealing with advances against pay, he’d have to. It was a surprisingly large allotment, something like three-quarters of the mate’s pay that was being remitted directly to Mrs Halloran by the owners. He himself presumably making do with funds arising from whatever other source – legacy or somesuch, he’d referred to it as a bit of luck he’d had, some windfall that had saved him from disaster when Grant Line had declined to renew his contract. Andy imagining some old aunt’s or granny’s life savings permitting young Dave to patronise Queeny’s in Calcutta and the Casa Colorada in Vitoria – to name but two of them – while still doing the right thing by Leila.
Which undoubtedly he had, financially.
There were some other items, though, which might have surprised her, when she came to sort through the contents of these cases. Might, but then again might not: Leila did have a racy look about her. Part of her attraction. Anyhow – best do the decent thing, take charge of these oneself.
* * *
He found Julia in the washplace laundering underwear. Presumably not entrusting such a personal chore to Ah Nong.
‘Sorry to intrude. Old Man wanted me to ask if you’d mind moving to a larger room.�
��
‘You mean to Mr Halloran’s?’
‘Right. It and the one Chief Hibbert has were intended for the owners or their valued customers. It’s roomy, you’ll be more comfortable, and the Old Man’d get his own bunk back. D’you mind?’
‘Course not. It’s been very kind of him to let me have it. He is a kind man, isn’t he. Of course I’ll move.’
‘Fine. I’ve been packing Halloran’s gear away, and Benson’s doing the room out now. Clean sheets, so forth. Give him half an hour, then it’s all yours.’
‘All right. But, Andy, how could a man like him – experienced, Master Mariner for God’s sake – how he’d be so crazy –’
‘Perhaps he was slightly nuts. Had a tendency to show off, anyway. Odd chap, in some ways.’
‘Married, wasn’t he?’
‘Was indeed. The one who wrote to him on that violet paper?’
‘Oh, yes. But – tragic, anyway. Stupid – such a waste… Will your owners notify the wife?’
‘In due course, I suppose. When they get to hear about it. We won’t be breaking wireless silence just for this, though.’
‘No – of course.’
‘Wind’s slowly dropping, anyway. Notice the difference?’
‘Still plenty of bumping around. But – yes, I suppose…’
‘We’re adjusting course all the time, keeping her head into it. Once it’s round to the west or northwest we’ll be turning for home and cracking on a bit. With that hold full as we now know it is – she’s managing all right, and it can’t get any worse –’
‘Can’t?’
‘Can’t get any fuller. And the Old Man reckons by morning we’ll be steering east with wind and sea astern.’
‘How long then before we’re in U-boat waters?’
‘Can’t say exactly. Don’t know where we are, for one thing. Just guessing, though – say, two or three days. To latitude twenty west, that’d be – mightn’t be any that far west anyway.’
Might indeed not, if U-boats didn’t like foul weather. Dewar produced a BBC report later that evening to the effect that in the past week Britain had been subjected to the worst storm of the century, with an accompanying cold front that had frozen the Thames for the first time since 1888. Part and parcel of the rough stuff PollyAnna had been through – and since the BBC had been allowed to mention it one might assume it had blown itself out, which if the U-boats had been off-station, might now bring them back. There was a lot of unidentifiable chatter on the airwaves, Dewar said, all in cipher, some of it maybe of Hun origin. He’d shrugged: ‘We’ll learn to know it when we hear it, by and by. Right now being new to it we’re guessing.’
‘Can’t tell where it’s from – how far or which direction?’
Jock Howie had asked that. Earlier the talk around the table had been mostly of Halloran, but they’d been avoiding that subject after Steward Benson had chipped in, moaning that he thought Mr Halloran might have been allowed a prayer or two; it had been McAlan who’d shut him up. Dewar’s jowls wobbling now as he shook his head, ‘Strength of signal isn’t necessarily –’
‘Sooner not know, anyway.’ Julia, eyes down on a game of Pelmanism she was having with Finney, Andy and Willy Gorst. ‘Sooner be like the three wise monkeys.’
‘Hardly be like all three of ’em.’ Finney. ‘But with that whole convoy to go after, why bother with little old us?’ Scooping up a pair of Jacks and asking Andy, ‘Sea’s quite a bit down, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Feels easier, doesn’t it? What other news on BBC, Bill?’
‘Russians versus Finns, mostly. Russians launching new attacks through Karelia, Finns holding firm, reckon they’ve killed fifty thousand of them. Russians all at sixes and sevens, apparently.’
The weather was still easing during Andy’s midnight to four watch. Wind down to about force five but variable in direction, shifting frequently between north by east and north by west, sea confused and PollyAnna corkscrewing, scooping up the solid black and tossing it back streaming white. The Old Man feeling the roll in her motion came up twice, both times went back down to his regained bunk, muttering, ‘Give it until daylight.’ Andy had her on due north when Fisher took over at four: sunrise would be at about seven-thirty and it made sense, he thought, to wait for daylight. It might be tricky, making that alteration; as well to be able to see immediately how she reacted to the new conditions. Stemming the weather, OK, she was holding up, but when you put wind and sea astern and increased revs, she’d be as it were in new surroundings, all bets off. Simple truth being that she wasn’t in any natural state to be afloat: and the vision of her suddenly sliding under was a background to all the rest of it – including the fact you had only two boats for more than fifty men and a girl.
Not that boats were likely to come into it. If she was going to slide under, that was what she’d do. Wouldn’t give advance notice. You could be on watch on the bridge or asleep in your bunk, and next minute – whoosh, hello Davy Jones.
Nobody’d ever know. One or two of the ships in convoy might have seen her dropping out and recognised her as the PollyAnna of Vitoria fame, but that would have been the last anyone would hear of her.
He was in the bridge soon after six-thirty. Had slept and dreamt of Manuela, woken in surprise, and resolved that with the thought Horses for courses… Next surprise being the amount of roll on the ship. Steering across the weather now? Thoughts of navigation following: sunrise according to the Nautical Almanac being due at 0729; and a possibility of broken cloud, stars or the odd planet visible maybe. He’d prepared a notebook for use as a Sight Book – which all navigators (and most deck officers) kept, recording every sun, moon and star-sight they took, all in neatly pencilled figures and capitals. Don Fisher’s was a model of neatness and clarity. Andy had started one for himself on his first voyage as third mate, but it had got a bit messy and he’d scrapped it; now in the capacity of navigator he had to start again.
Arriving in the wheelhouse he yelled to Fisher, ‘Come up in the hope of stars.’
‘No hope. But it’s practically a millpond – eh?’
Some millpond. Heavy swell from – he checked the compass, grunting a good morning to Edmonds – eight- or ten-foot swells rolling at and under her from a point or two north of west. PollyAnna being on due north still was consequently rolling like a drunk.
Black overhead. Certainly no chance of stars. Ice in the wind.
‘Skipper know we’re steaming across this swell?’
‘No, he did not!’
Speak of the devil: the Old Man himself. Fisher quick to explain, ‘Your orders were hang on until first light, sir – not far to go for that, and you wouldn’t want us steaming west, so –’
‘How long like this?’
‘Very rapid change, sir. Less than an hour. Still backing.’
‘Should’ve called me.’
‘I thought you’d feel it, sir, and if you didn’t – well, with first light about seven –’
The Old Man had grunted, turned away: looking all round, assessing sea-state, wind, sky, PollyAnna’s motion and the amount of ocean she was shipping over her frighteningly low freeboard. Wind was from west-nor’west, say; Andy thinking she wouldn’t be any less comfortable on an easterly course, as long as these swells didn’t overwhelm her from astern. The Old Man turning to him then, having apparently reached a similar conclusion: ‘From the DR we have, what course to clear Bloody Foreland?’
‘I’ll check, sir, but near enough oh-eight-oh.’
‘Check it. Second – warn the engine room I’ll be calling for revs for ten knots.’
After days and nights at these low revs, just as well to warn them. Trimmers and firemen having had a comparatively easy time of it through several days of fairly minimal coal consumption would be having to put their backs into it again. Poor sods. Except it was the life they’d chosen – presumably… At the chart, Andy laid the parallel ruler from the three-day-old DR to clear Bloody Foreland – northwest corner of
Ireland, which one had heard from gossip in the Liberty Inn canteen in Montevideo was an area much frequented now by U-boats – and the course to clear it by, say, twenty miles. He ran the ruler to the compass rose, and lo and behold – 080 degrees. He went back and told the Old Man.
‘Second – revs for ten knots.’
Waiting. Wanting to have a bit more way on her before putting the wheel over, bringing her stern around. Voice-pipe whistle: Fisher answered it and McAlan confirmed the increase.
But although the engine would be providing that number of revs per minute, propeller ‘slip’ meant she’d still take a few minutes to reach the desired speed through the water. Old Man still waiting, therefore, although you could feel the increased vibration.
‘Gorst – ask Mr Hibbert please to come up.’
‘Aye, sir…’
‘All right, Edmonds. No more than ten degrees of rudder, bring her to starboard to oh-eight-oh.’
Nursing her round. PollyAnna rolling heavily, her deep-sunk forepart wallowing in the swell. She was answering all right. At this stage, broadside-on to it, shipping it more or less continually – forepart submerged, swells simply rolling over. One had foreseen this as a hazardous manoeuvre and of course it was: if she shipped enough ocean at any one time, a weight of it six or ten feet deep over the full length of the well-deck from bridge structure to foc’sl-head – weighing her down even further while the screw’s thrust drove her already down-angled bow into the troughs and the rising slopes beyond them…
Cut revs until she’s round?
He didn’t suggest it. Third mates kept their mouths shut and their misjudgements to themselves. Was a misjudgement too: she needed that much engine-power to get her round.
‘Chief engineer’s on his way, sir.’ Gorst: of whom no one took the least bit of notice.
PollyAnna leaning her shoulder into the depths of a trough: would drag herself up out of, please God – please, PollyAnna…
Was doing so – laboriously enough. Into corkscrewing again, swells racing in on her quarter, lifting her stern, forepart slumping while listing hard enough to send you staggering if you’d not been holding on. With that huge weight in her – in terms of which at an earlier stage he’d guessed that if the hold filled she wouldn’t float. The swells were driving in from directly astern now: angle of approach would be just a few degrees on her quarter when she was on her new course.
Westbound, Warbound Page 26
