He saw Holland turning abruptly from the porthole, and the sudden smile on his rugged face. He remembered the strange collapse of Holland's opposition to his request for men, and he recalled his exact words:
"I've got a good bunch here," Holland had asserted in answer to Bentley's own claim, "except..."
It was then that the queer, cynical expression had crossed the older man's face, and his opposition had changed to genial acquiescence. Holland must be still grinning his head off - he and the first-lieutenant who had been angered, and then delighted, on the quarterdeck.
Now Bentley had all the answers. Holland, cunning as an old fox, had unloaded his fowls, his mess-deck malingerers, on to him.
Rennie stopped talking. In the silence Bentley's voice came low and clear.
"The old bastard! It had nothing to do with my father at all!"
"What's that, sir?" Randall queried quickly.
Bentley gave a self-conscious laugh. It sounded more like a grunt.
"Nothing, nothing at all. I was thinking." He glanced at Randall. "We've been taken-bamboozled by an old devil I should have had more sense than to try to handle."
Then his eyes trained on to Rennie, and his voice changed.
"You knew that at least three of the men who joined with you from Pelican were fowls. Why didn't you tell me?"
Alarm bells rang suddenly in Rennie's head. This was a completely unexpected development. He had to think, fast.
"It all depends what you mean by fowls, sir," he sparred.
Bentley looked at him. Grey eyes, cold, penetrating; mouth a taut line, curved down at the corners.
Perversely, Rennie felt a stirring of anger at that bleak, knowing look; at the ease with which his evasion had been dissected for what it was. His own face tightened.
"I'll admit those three weren't the best aboard Pelican, sir," he said, defensively, "but different ships, different cap tallies. They might have made out here all right. It's not right that I..." The idea came to him: it was tailor-made, and it was true. "I didn't want to cruel their chances in a new ship." His voice after the minute pause had firmed. "It's not right that I should put their weights up before they had time to prove themselves."
The steady stare was still fixed on him and he knew that the only person in that room he was kidding was himself.
"Not right at all," Bentley nodded. "But now they have proved themselves. I want to know everything you know about those three men."
Disgust at his own pretence, as well as irritation at Bentley's prescience, made Rennie still resist.
"Excuse me, sir, but I don't agree that they have proved themselves."
He stopped, his face stubborn. Bentley said, very quietly:
"Go on."
The need for a cigarette in this unfriendly atmosphere was a physical sensation in Rennie's mouth. He said:
"Pascoe fouled up the pom-pom's shoot, and he was adrift. But we're not talking about that, sir. The question is thieving and gambling. There's no proof Pascoe took that money, and none that Beuring was running the crown and anchor. There are two hundred men in this ship, sir," he ended.
Bentley saw Randall fidget impatiently in his chair. He could appreciate his deputy's irritation - he was fighting to contain his own. He took up the box of cigarettes and offered it to Rennie.
"No, thank you, sir."
"As you wish." Bentley laid the box down on the table and leaned forward with his elbows astride it. "Now, cox'n, you listen to me."
The voice was level, reasonable. Rennie's eyes narrowed watchfully. He had seen captains like this before - reasonable until they'd got you to admit your wrong, and then the change, the whipcrack of accusation.
Bentley noted Rennie's expression. He said;
"I don't for one moment believe you're being loyal to those men for the reasons you've given. There is another reason. What it is doesn't concern me at this time. What interests me is this. You mention Pascoe in connection with the stolen money, you said it was a crown and anchor board in the foc's'le. You mentioned those things, cox'n. Therefore it's quite obvious that those two men fit the offences. And that you know they do."
Rennie opened his mouth to speak and Bentley raised his forefinger. He was the captain. It was enough.
"This is not a legal court ashore, cox'n. You know damned well we haven't the time or the skill to worm our way through the accepted processes of proof and prosecution. Damn it all, man!" he snapped abruptly, "it's the efficiency of my ship at stake!"
Silence hung heavy in the sun-dappled cabin. A searchlight of sunshine came through the porthole and speared the pistol cupboard, the circle of brightness moving rhythmically up and down as the ship rolled.
Bentley breathed in. He tapped his forefinger gently on the table His voice was controlled.
"I must know whether you suspect Pascoe and Beuring of these things. Knowing that, we can watch them. Instead of two hundred men, we narrow it down to two. You understand that? Of course you understand it." He paused. "I must remind you you're the cox'n," he finished evenly.
Yes, you must remind me of that! Rennie thought. Even though no man in this bloody Navy's ever had to do it before! His thoughts were confused. He rubbed his chin uncertainly, and Bentley's eyes on him were not watchful, or condemning - they were oddly sympathetic.
"Well?" he said, gently, and Randall cleared his throat, angrily.
"Yes, sir," Rennie said slowly, "I suspect those two. We had trouble in Pelican... Nothing proved, but it was there." His eyes came up and held Bentley's. "I tried everything I knew to clamp down on it there," he said, his voice defensively bitter, "but you can't identify money, you can't beat a cockatoo placed at every hatch to the messdeck. And try and find a rolled-up crown and anchor sheet in a ship! You'd search for a month. You can't do it!"
"Yes, `Swain, we can do it," said Bentley quietly. The familiar title made Randall stare at him. "We'll bring the Buffer in on it and have a talk later. That's all for now."
"Yes, sir."
Rennie got up. His face was still stubborn, but there was misery in his eyes. He stepped out into the passage and closed the door behind him.
"Well!" Randall exploded, "that old coot unloaded his fowls on to us, all right - but he might have kept his bloody cox'n! In all my experience..." He shook his head angrily. "He's worse than those three chooks put together!"
"You're dead wrong, Bob," Bentley said slowly.
"Eh? Wrong about that...! Any cox'n worth his salt would've had those slobs up here with their caps off now!"
"And I would have had to dismiss the case," Bentley answered drily. "No..." he shook his head slowly. "Rennie's all right. There's something bothering him, that's for certain. I think I know what it is. Right or wrong, we've got to find out, fast. There's a hell of a lot depends on just how fast."
Wind Rode's men had been trained by their captain - so had her officers. Many doubts in his time had entered Randall's practical and unimaginative brain, but never the slightest regarding Bentley's intelligence.
"All right," he said now, "let's have it. What's up with our touchy cox'n?"
"You've hit it in one," Bentley said soberly. "He is touchy, and in a way I don't blame him. Normally I'd expect a senior rating to get on top of his grouch in double-quick time. But Rennie's got more to overcome than an outsize whinge."
"The hair?" Randall asked. His face was interested, thoughtful.
"I'd say so, yes. He must have had a pretty nasty time in Bantam to shock him like that. In fact, I'd say it was some incredible experience. The man is tired out. All interest in the job and the ship has been wrung out of him. Our job is to revive that interest. We've got to... we'll make him proud of the ship."
"You seem sure of yourself," Randall said curiously, "how did you get on to all this?"
"I've given it a deal of thought. Cox'ns are a pretty taut bunch, you know that. When one comes along who's off the beam there's a damn good reason. Somewhere."
"I imagine you're r
ight," Randall sighed, "though how we go about ramming discipline and pride into a man who's supposed to be responsible for it beats me."
"There's another thing," Bentley went on musingly. "Rennie must have heard we're a pretty sharp bunch. In fact, I claimed that for us myself... So what happens? We come up against two lousy Jap fighters and they come near to towling the hide off us."
"But that was only one action!" Randall expostulated.
"That's right - the only one he judges us on." Bentley's hand went out to the cigarette box, and he pulled it back. His mouth felt dry. "What we have to do," he said deliberately, "is get into another action and show that fellow just what we can do."
Randall looked at him, his eyes squinted. "It's as important as that?" His voice was incredulous. "As important as that," Bentley nodded definitely. "Without a solid cox'n we're sunk. You might even take that literally. None of the chiefs or petty-officers will act over the cox'n's head to stop this rotten business. Nor should they. It's Rennie's job, exclusively. Surely you see that?"
"I see it," Randall growled. His big fingers fumbled in the cigarette box. "What in hell are you going to do? Make a signal to Tojo?
Please come and get us, chum?"
"Not quite," Bentley smiled, "but we can deliver a few messages."
"To who?" his friend asked ungrammatically. "To the sponsors of that little raid this morning. Their airfield could do with a visit."
"My God!" the big man ejaculated, "you're not going to send a landing party?"
"Not on your life - once is more than enough." Bentley grinned reminiscently. "But there's nothing to stop us bombarding."
Randall leaned back in his chair. He breathed in and out, very slowly.
"All right, chum, you've got the chair. But next time I ship to sea I'll be in a cruiser - where there's a bloody admiral with some sense always hanging around!"
"You'd die of boredom in half a dogwatch," Bentley grinned.
He bent forward and this time took up a cigarette. He lit it and for a moment stared at the circle of light from the porthole. There was an intent, speculative expression on his face. Randall, watching, had seen that look before... Bentley's mind now was meshing smoothly along the tracks of judgment and experience. He had had this idea nebulously in his head ever since, on the bridge, he had come to his decision as to why the second fighter had broken off the attack, and why nothing had been sent out to get them. Wind Rode was on a more or less detached mission: she had been ordered by the Admiral to those islands back there. There was nothing to prevent his putting his idea into operation.
"Right!" Bentley swung in his chair to face Randall. "Have you wondered why that fighter didn't send out his friends after us? So have I. And I came up with this. They wanted us to clear out. My bet is they could have mounted an attack that would have swamped us. Why didn't they? Because that would have shown their hand. Those fighters came from the Archipelago - they must have, with their limited range. I say the Japs have built a long-range airstrip - and already they've got it very well-stocked!" Randall lacked his captain's perceptive imagination, but when he was confronted with a familiar situation his reaction was quick enough. And to Randall fighting was more than familiar.
"Guadal Canal?" he said quickly.
"It must be. The Americans have been there only a bit over a fortnight. The harbour's crammed. Even if the Japs don't intend landing and retaking the island, a large bomber raid on that shipping would return very juicy dividends. And as soon as the build-up of shipping is completed, then the Japs send over another raid. The strategy's perfect, and simple. The Yanks have to keep their men ashore supplied - the fighting's not over by a long shot. All our friends back there have to do is to wait each time for the transport position to improve again, and then - bombs away!"
"M'mm." Randall sounded a little doubtful. "it looks plain enough
-but you're basing all this intention of the Japs on the fact that they simply didn't send a flock out to do us over."
Bentley was not worried.
"What more do you want? They sighted us, they had a crack at sinking us. Obviously, there is an airfield back there. And just as obviously it carries more than two fighters. I tell you they wanted us to get to hell out of it! I wouldn't be surprised if that bloke who got away hasn't already been hauled over some very hot coals for attacking us in the first place."
He got up and walked to the porthole, looking out at the iridescent blue. But he wasn't seeing the water. He turned suddenly and came back.
"I'm sure of it, Bob! Those two fighters were a patrol, nothing more. When they saw we were scooting on our way clear they shouldn't have attacked at all. But they had big ideas. They didn't come off. But do you think the Japs would let a lone destroyer get away? Unless they wanted it to?" Randall was convinced. He nodded his heavy head. "Okay, I'm with you. We sneak back tonight and bombard. Providing we can find the airstrip..." He pulled thoughtfully at the loose skin of his throat. "But there's one thing that still bothers me."
"The airstrip? There's sure to be some activity on it. And don't tell me you're concerned about whether we can hit a ruddy great airfield?"
"No, I'm not worried about hitting the strip. It's our other problem."
"The cox'n?"
"Damn it all, haven't I convinced you yet how important it is to bring him back on the ball!"
"Don't jump down my blasted throat!" his friend growled, "let a man get a word in, will you?"
"All right," Bentley smiled, "word away."
"Thanks!" The big lieutenant squinted up at his chief. "I know it's important to get him moving again - what d'you think I am? A Wren or something?"
"I could make one or two interesting suggestions if you were," the captain answered crudely.
"I bet! Seriously - there's one thing that bothers me. You think Rennie's okay. In short, a normal cox'n." "I'm sure of that, too," Bentley nodded. "All right, then. Then tell me this, bright boy. If Rennie's such a crack hand why in hell did Holland unload him? You've spent the past half-hour convincing me just how important a cox'n is. I wouldn't be surprised if old Dutchy Holland wasn't of the same opinion. Then why? I can understand his offloading his fowls. But why his cox'n?"
"I can answer that one too."
Bentley sat down and smiled into the waiting, sceptical face.
"I'll have to delve a bit into psychology," he warned.
"You always do," Randall grunted. "But we've got till nightfall."
"Just a minute."
Bentley leaned sideways and juggled out of its containing hooks the flexible speaking-tube to the bridge. His buzz was answered almost at once.
"Officer of the watch sir?"
"Decrease to 15 knots, Pilot."
"Fifteen knots. Aye, aye, sir."
Randall heard this exchange clearly. It jolted him a little. Now that he had heard Bentley's order the reason for it was immediately apparent. But he, the first-lieutenant, hadn't thought to decrease speed. The ship was careering on at thirty knots, gulping up fuel and distance - at a time when it had already been decided to return to the archipelago after nightfall.
But maybe, he solaced himself for his remissness of forethought, if I were the captain I'd have thought of it. The solace gained was consciously minute. He looked at Bentley, and behind his facade of tough, burned face the old admiration and respect for a superior ability was tingling.
We make a good team, you and I, Randall thought - just so long as you're there, on top. What he omitted to think was anything at all about his complete lack of envy and chagrin at his friend's superiority. That, he would have been surprised to know, formed the basis of Bentley's respect and liking for him.
"All right, Freud," Randall grunted, "lay it on the couch."
"It's nothing complicated," Bentley smiled. "Certainly, old Dutchy's as foxy as they come, and tough as overdone steak. He got rid of his offal, and he's probably still grinning his ugly old head off about it. But I happened to mention - probably because he'
s an older man, and you sort of feel you can talk to him like that - about how hard we'd worked to get this bucket up to scratch.
"He's shrewd, but he's fair. Also..." his smile as he looked at his friend widened a little, but the significance of that facial gesture was lost on Randall. "Also, he hasn't an envious or really nasty bone in his leathery old body. To him I must have been a young commander who'd worked fairly hard and who now saw all that work going down the drain for lack of a senior rating. So, to compensate for the fowls, he handed over a taut hand."
Bentley pressed back in his chair and crossed his legs.
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