by John Winton
‘What you looking for?’ asked the Yeoman of the afternoon watch.
Paul told him.
‘Well, it’s no good looking in that lot. Any premature sprog in there’ll be on pension by now. Try the P.T. and Welfare Office. They’ve got a special log there for compassionate cases.’
The P.T. and Welfare Office was empty when Paul arrived but a large file lay on the desk.
Feeling as though he were approaching one of the books of the Sybil, Paul opened the file and straightaway plunged into one of the most appalling catalogues of human disasters ever collected under one cover. The Welfare File was a tale of catastrophes unsurpassed by any of Dante’s in the Inferno or of Poe’s in the realm of the supernatural.
He read of ratings whose families had vanished without trace, ratings who arrived on leave to find their families in the street, and of ratings who had discovered their houses infested with rats, cockroaches, mice and ants. Some had swarms of bees in the back room, others had lorries crashed into the front room. There were mothers electrocuted in the bath, grandmothers scalded by Lancashire hotpot, uncles who died of a surfeit of winkles, babies choked by rattles, fathers who fell into the coal-cellar and grandfathers who dropped dead whilst clearing snow off the front step.
Just as Paul was becoming absorbed in the Welfare File and was lighting his second cigarette, the P.T. and Welfare Officer himself came into the office.
‘Hello’ he said, ‘reading my “Tales of Mystery and Imagination”? What can I do for you?’
‘I was looking for a signal about a Stoker Foster, sir,’ Paul said. ‘His wife is having a premature baby.’
‘Oh, that one. It’s not in there. I sent the whole pack down to the Commander’s cabin before lunch.’
The loudspeaker outside the cabin door suddenly blared.
‘Cadet Vincent, report to the Commander’s cabin at the double!’
The Commander was waiting.
‘Where in Hades have you been, you little worm?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve still been looking for that signal, sir.’
‘You mean to tell me that you’ve been three hours looking for a signal?’
Paul’s stomach had long since given up its struggle for its constitutional rights and had lain in uneasy, mutinous but nevertheless silent quiescence. Now, however, in close proximity to the Commander once more, it began to stir itself for a fresh attempt. The Commander glared at Paul.
‘I will not tolerate a doggie who cannot control his digestive processes. Go away, go right away, and don’t come back until Evening Quarters. And in the meantime for pity’s sake get something to eat!’
In the days of sail, Evening Quarters had two functions, to exercise the Ship’s Company and to check their numbers for absentees. In Barsetshire only the first object was applicable, since the loss of a cadet overboard was hardly considered a sufficiently grave reason for stopping the ship and inconveniencing the entire Ship’s Company, and it was achieved by sending the seaboats away to pick up danbuoys, while the cadets who were not in the crews doubled round the upper deck to the music of the band until the boats came back.
When Paul followed the Commander up on to the quarterdeck, the divisions had already fallen in and the boat’s crews had been detailed. The day’s exercise was meant as a demonstration for the junior cadets and the boat’s crews were entirely composed of senior cadets. Looking over his own division’s boat, Paul saw that Tom Bowles was the coxswain and Michael was also in the crew as stroke and looking, Paul thought, scared.
Michael was scared. When he heard the seaboats piped away and saw the sea that was running, Michael had assumed that the pipe had been made by an inexperienced junior bosun’s mate only because he had seen it written on the routine. But when Michael noticed that the ship was slowing down and Tom Bowles told him he was in the crew Michael looked over the side, where massive waves were flinging their crests up at the waiting keels of the boats and sliding aside to leave dark abysses far below, and felt again that fear which had gripped him on the day Maconochie was drowned.
Watching Michael sitting in his lifejacket, bearing the boat off the ship’s side with the butt end of his oar, Paul sensed his fear and knew they were both thinking of Maconochie.
Tom Bowles checked the oars, the disengaging gear and the tiller. He caught Michael’s eye.
‘Going to be a bit dicey today, Mike,’ he said.
‘You can say that again. Tom, will you shout out the time all the way? With this kind of sea it’s murder trying to keep the stroke. It makes it much easier if you sing out all the time.’
‘Roger. Let’s hope old Pontius drops us on the wave this time. Last time it felt as if we fell about twenty feet.’
They felt the jarring of the falls as the ropes passed through the blocks and the ship’s side rose up beside them. Just before they passed under the level of the deck Michael saw Paul and grimaced. Then the boat sank slowly, until it was poised over the sea.
Pontius the Pilot bent over the guard-rails and studied the sea. He was glad he was not in the boat as he watched the waves sweeping past. He waited for a large wave on which to drop the boat.
‘Ready in the boat?’
‘Ready in the boat, sir’
‘Out pins.’
‘Pins out in the boat, sir.’
The wave came.
‘Slip!’
With the jangle of the dislocated chains and the thud as the boat hit the water. Tom Bowles slashed the twine securing the tiller to the inboard gunwhale and took the tiller in his hand. The first crash and spatter of spray drifted over the bows as the boat forged ahead on the boat-rope.
‘Slip the boat-rope!’ Tom shouted.
The rope flicked over the side.
‘Hold water port, give way starboard!’
The boat wheeled away from the ship, rolling and plunging across the line of the waves. When the boat had turned the waves seized it and forced it downwind. A larger wave cradled the boat on its slope and Michael could see its bubbling crest above Tom’s head. He shut his eyes momentarily and concentrated on nothing but Tom’s voice calling out the time.
From the quarterdeck Paul watched the boats go downwind to the red and yellow specks of the danbuoys. As it reached a buoy, the leading boat rolled until Paul could see its pale belly and the oars sticking up into the air. The crew had disappeared on the lee side and Paul was sure the boat was capsizing until it rolled back and he could see the coxwain holding the danbuoy in his arms, the crew already pulling to position the boat for its return.
On the way back the boats disappeared into the hollows of the waves and soared up again, their oars spreadeagled between sea and sky. The nearest boat was close enough for Paul to recognise Tom Bowles leaning forward to urge his crew.
‘One . . . out, two . . . out, three . . . out, quicker, Mike, quicker, quicker.’
Michael was unable to reply and kept his venomous eyes on his oar. He caught a glimpse of Barsetshire’s stern out of the corner of his eye. Several more pulls brought it plainly in view. Tom moved the tiller sharply to the side and back again. The boat slid in under the falls and the crew ducked to avoid the swinging blocks.
On deck, lines of cadets stood holding the falls, waiting to hoist the boat. The Commander started a stopwatch.
‘All hooked on in the boat, sir!’
‘Hoist away the forrard fall.’
Leading cadets and petty officers stood at intervals to relay the orders along to the end of the line.
‘High enough. Marry the falls.’
The lines of cadets moved together, each cadet grasping both falls.
‘Hoist away!’
The lines of cadets ran backwards until they reached the end of the line when they threw down the falls and doubled forward again, keeping the pot boiling like schoolchildren on a slide. The boat came swaying up out of the water, the crew looking hunchbacked and exhausted in their lifejackets.
‘High enough!’
The c
adets on the falls leaned back and took the weight while the crew rigged lifelines between the blocks and the davit-heads
‘Ease to the lifelines.’
The falls slackened as the weight of the boat came on the lifelines. The crew set up the disengaging gear again.
‘Lie to. Carry on, hands on deck.’
The falls were thrown down and gathered in. The blocks through which the falls had been led were unrigged. The boat was triced to the boom by grapnels and the crew climbed over the jumping net and down to the upper deck. The Commander stopped the watch.
‘Not good,’ he said. ‘Four minutes, twenty-one seconds. You’ll have to do better than that, du Pont.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The Commander remembered Paul.
‘All right, Vincent. You can carry on.’
Thank you, sir.’
Drinking tea in the Wardroom with The Bodger, Pontius the Pilot said: ‘I do think Dickie might have been a bit more pleasant. For the first time in the cruise I thought today’s effort was damned good.’
‘What was Bowles like?’ The Bodger asked.
‘Couldn’t have been better. Came in like a bird and stopped the boat dead under the falls. It almost hooked itself on.’
‘I’m glad of that. I was afraid last term’s little episode might have shaken him.’
‘Not it. It takes more than that to shake Bowles. He’s almost a genius in boats.’
‘He’s almost a genius in everything. A natural.’
Back in the gunroom, Paul was greeted with sympathetic interest.
‘You had a pretty sticky time today with Dickie didn’t you?’ said George Dewberry. ‘He shaved off at me this morning before I’d even had a chance to get a grip on things. How the hell should I know what a Cadet E.M. does?’
‘What did The Bodger say to you?’
‘Oh, just gave me a Bodgerism to remember and sent me on my way rejoicing. Always look as though you know what you’re doing, even when you don’t.’
‘Typical Bodger.’
‘Dickie seemed to be piping for you a lot, Paul,’ said Raymond Ball. ‘Were you avoiding him or something? Was it the end of a beautiful friendship?’
‘No, he just didn’t like my stomach.’
‘Good God! How come?’
‘Hell, I hadn’t had anything to eat all day for one reason or another, mostly reasons to do with Dickie, and my poor old turn began to complain a bit. Dickie objected so we agreed to differ, or rather he differed and I agreed.’
The whole gunroom burst into laughter, even Spink, who had just seen on the Cadets’ Notice Board that he was the next Commander’s Doggie.
‘I’ve heard of senior officers not liking someone’s face’ Michael said, ‘but that’s the first time I ever heard of one not liking someone’s stomach!’
Later that night, just before they turned into their hammocks, Michael said: ‘Were you thinking of old Ted today, Paul?’
‘Yes. Were you?’
‘I thought we were going to have a repeat performance with me as Ted’s stand-in.’
‘You looked a bit scared.’
‘I was petrified. There was a time when I really thought we were going over. Did you see it?’
‘I saw it but I wasn’t sure it was you. How did Tom react?’
‘He was superb. Really good. He didn’t look at all scared, or worried, or concerned, or anything. He just went on and did about the finest recovery and approach to the ship I’ve ever seen in weather like that.’
‘I’m glad. That business last cruise might easily have shaken his nerve. If someone had been drowned today, on a bloody silly exercise which they could easily have cancelled if they’d felt like it, I would have resigned, I think.’
‘Why, you sorry you joined?’
‘No,’ said Paul doubtfully. ‘I just hae me doots.’
Barsetshire settled imperceptibly into the routine of a long ocean passage. Each day brought warmer weather. The sea took on a deeper, richer blue and the trade wind blew steadily day after day carrying the funnel haze ahead of the ship. Flying fish appeared at the bows, skating away from the approaching ship in silver swarms. The water over which Barsetshire steamed was not now a landlocked sea but the heart of the Atlantic itself, the home of the whale and the dolphin and the playground of the trade winds where huge waves, generated by the wind over thousands of miles of untrammelled ocean, had time and space to reach their full stature. Uncurbed by any land upon which to dash their power, undisputed in their strength, the mighty hillsides of water gathered behind Barsetshire and lifted her on her way to Trinidad.
A week after Paul’s day as Commander’s Doggie the Ship’s Company changed into tropical whites and Tom Bowles was Captain’s Doggie. His duties began with breakfast with the Captain.
The Captain was a thickset, barrel-chested man with a brick-red complexion. Dressed in any clothes he would still have been taken for a sea captain. In private life he was an enthusiastic, almost fanatical breeder of red setters and he lived for little else, and certainly not for his service career, in a gigantic house built by an ancestor who had won a packet off the Prince Regent. Apart from its convenience as a base for breeding setters the house had nothing to recommend it, but the Captain continued to live alone in it because he was unable to find a purchaser or have it taken over by the National Trust. The Captain had not seen his wife for over fifteen years, having separated from her soon after the birth of a son whom the Captain visited once a year at Eton. Apart from his annual visit (and one consultation of a Harley Street eye specialist to satisfy himself that his son’s eyes were good enough for the Navy) the Captain ignored his paternal responsibilities. His wife meanwhile devoted her energies to running a women’s magazine and to preventing her son joining the Royal Navy. Having renounced his family, the Captain’s two pleasures were his red setters and the satisfaction of seeing the remaining members of his term at Dartmouth being passed over and, one by one, retiring.
The Captain was already eating breakfast and reading a bunch of signals when Tom Bowles was shown in by the Captain’s steward.
Tom Bowles waited for a few moments but the Captain showed no sign of having noticed, or wishing to acknowledge, his presence, so Tom Bowles quietly sat down.
Silently, the steward served him with bacon and eggs. Tom Bowles began to eat silently and without relish.
‘Tea or coffee, sir?’ the steward whispered.
‘Tea, please,’ whispered Tom Bowles.
The steward brought the tea and Tom Bowles drank it quietly, without tasting it. The cabin was so quiet that he felt as though he were drinking tea in an empty library.
Suddenly the atmosphere changed. There was a subdued hum of merriment, a gentle, mirthful murmuring. The Captain was laughing.
The signal he had just reached in the log was affording the Captain enormous amusement. His shoulders shook. He looked up and noticed Tom Bowles. He grinned. Tom Bowles awkwardly grinned back.
‘Old Fruity Manchester has run Vertigo aground in the Skagerrak, I see’ the Captain said, pointing at the signal. He shook his head jovially. ‘That’s him finished. Never laugh that one off.’
The Captain took up his cup and drank it off.
‘Knowles!’ he shouted.
The silent steward appeared at the door.
‘Sir?’
‘Bottle, Knowles.’
Almost without disappearing, Knowles reappeared with a bottle of gin and glass on a silver tray which he placed in front of the Captain.
‘I won’t ask you to join me’ the Captain said to Tom Bowles. ‘This is a celebration. Private one, you know. Sorry about Old Fruity really. Damn bad luck.’
The Captain swallowed and said: ‘Well? We ready?’
‘Yes, sir’ Tom Bowles said.
Outside, the Captain paused. He searched his pockets and found a piece of paper which he read closely, turning it over several times. Then, putting it back in a pocket, he said: ‘Ah, yes, Bowles. Stuf
fy’s boy. Bowles, I’m going to have my Morning George now. Report to me again at nine o’clock.’
At ten past nine, the Captain came back, the rite of the Morning George completed. When he saw Tom Bowles, he searched for and found the piece of paper again.
‘Ah, yes, Bowles. Stuffy^ boy. Bowles, always have your George in the morning. Your father used to have his during the First Watch and while he was away his clot of an Officer of the Watch ran into a merchantman. They asked your father at the court martial where he was at the time and what could he say?’
The Captain proceeded to the bridge followed, in column of route, by Tom Bowles and the red setter Owen Glendower. Officers and ratings coming in the opposite direction stood at attention, flattened against the bulkheads, to let the Captain pass. They remained flattened for Tom Bowles and Owen Glendower; it was a rash man who came between the Captain and his Doggie or his dog. Tom Bowles felt himself borne along on a wave of reflected glory, like a member of a successful matador’s cuadrilla. Owen Glendower, on the other hand, was used to the deference paid him and carried himself like one born to greatness.
A deputation waited for the Captain on the bridge. It consisted of the Navigating Officer with the morning’s star sights and the ship’s dead reckoning run for the day; the Communications Officer with a fresh batch of signals; the Gunnery Officer, who was Officer of the Watch, with a nervous smile; and Raymond Ball, who was Cadet of the Watch, wearing a look of deep depression, having been on watch with the Gunnery Officer for an hour and a half.
‘Anything special there?’ the Captain asked the Communications Officer.
‘No, sir.’
‘I shall be in my sea-cabin if anyone wants me then.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
In his sea-cabin, which was a spartan apartment containing a bed, two chairs, a small bookcase and a writing desk, the Captain picked up a book and began to read. After a time he remembered Tom Bowles, who was still standing uncertainly by the door.
