The Horizon (1993)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Swan said, ‘Cook’s got something nice for your supper, sir.’

  Jonathan reached for one of the old General’s finely-cut goblets and saw that his hand was shaking. But the Scotch was superb, one of the General’s prize malts.

  He said, ‘Here’s to the Royals, eh?’

  Swan watched him warily. ‘Is it going badly over there, sir?’

  Jonathan held out his goblet again and stared at it. Was it empty already? Then he looked at the wall where one of the great pictures had been and said softly, ‘It’s not a war, Swan.’ He held the refilled glass very tightly, and saw that his hand was steady. ‘It’s sheer bloody murder.’

  Some time later, Swan picked up his own glass and tiptoed away as Jonathan’s head fell against the chair.

  He paused and looked back. With his face relaxed in sleep he was very like his brother, he decided.

  Albeit for one night only, a Blackwood had come home.

  Twenty miles south of Hawks Hill and the surrounding Hampshire countryside, the bustling naval port of Portsmouth seemed to cringe under a blustery wind. The broad harbour, usually so sheltered from all but the fiercest gales, was alive with cruising wavelets that broke into cat’s paws against the sides of anchored and moored warships, while smaller craft were tossed about in clouds of spray. Every kind of ship was in evidence. Light cruisers, two elderly pre-Dreadnought battleships, and low-lying torpedo-boat destroyers, somehow sinister with their raked black hulls, seemed to fill every buoy and berth. Beyond them, poking above the dockyard jetties and walls, were the upper-works and fighting-tops of many more, being repaired, refitted, or constructed to prepare for rising losses at sea.

  At the top of the harbour and shining in spray like the symbol she was, Nelson’s old flagship Victory, painted now in Victorian black and white, was a reminder, if one was ever needed, that this was the home of the world’s greatest navy.

  But on this particular January morning the eyes of almost everyone from sodden boats’ crews to idlers on the walls of Portsmouth Point or across the tossing water on the Gosport side, were turned to the largest ship ever to appear. H.M.S. Reliant, one of a new class of super battle-cruisers, seemed to rise contemptuously above them all. There were other battle-cruisers in the fleet; in fact they had been the only major warships to have been committed to action with the Germans off Heligoland Bight, when, in support of vessels of the Harwich Force, they had sunk three enemy cruisers in the first weeks of the war.

  But Reliant was something quite new and entirely different from her predecessors, and mounted six fifteen-inch guns in three turrets, all of which could be trained on separate targets at the same time. She also carried a formidable armament of seventeen four-inch guns. But it was her size that awed the casual onlookers, while to those who served such ships her massive armament, thirty-two thousand tons and length of nearly eight hundred feet spoke of unprecedented strength. Big as she was, she retained the graceful lines of a light cruiser. She had two funnels, the forward one slightly taller than the other, so it seemed that this huge ship was leaning ahead, as if eager to go.

  Her abbreviated trials had been completed just before Christmas, and now fully manned with a complement of twelve hundred and fifty officers and men, stored, ammunitioned, her bunkers topped up with oil, she was as ready as any untried ship could be.

  Aft in his spacious day cabin the man who would control Reliant’s progress in a war which had already spread beyond anything any of them had envisaged, Captain Auriol George Soutter, stood by a polished scuttle and stared out at some passing picket boats. In a comfortable green leather armchair the captain of the dockyard, with a coffee-cup at his elbow, regarded him curiously. They were friends of a sort. The Royal Navy was like a family and you usually ran into familiar faces along the way. He had been a cadet and then midshipman with Reliant’s captain, but there was little else in common. Whereas he was comfortably round, as the result of too good a mess life over the years, Soutter was lean and straight-backed, young for his rank, younger still for the command he had been given. But his face, now in profile, had an old-fashioned look, and would not have been out of place with Drake or at Trafalgar. Eyes grey-blue like the North Sea, a tightness around the jaw which had developed on the precarious climb up the ladder. From twelve years old, to this. The other captain said, ‘What d’you think, George? You’ve not had much time to get your people into shape. I know they’re all hand-picked apart from the last intake, but it’s a hell of a responsibility, especially . . .’

  Soutter turned from the rain-dappled scuttle and smiled at him. ‘Especially as after today, we are no longer a private ship – is that what you were about to say?’ Like all those who knew him, his friend had used his middle name. He had always loathed being called Auriol, and had been made to suffer for it as a cadet.

  The other shrugged his plump shoulders. ‘Well, you know what they say.’

  ‘No. Tell me.’ Even his words were sparing, as if everything unnecessary had been honed away.

  ‘He has just been appointed rear-admiral, and when he makes Reliant into his flagship, not too many hours from now . . .’

  Soutter looked past him. ‘One hour, fifty minutes to be exact.’

  The ship’s crest, hung between pictures of the King and Queen on the white bulkhead, was an upraised, double-edged sword surrounded by a victor’s laurel leaves. Reliant’s motto, Gedemus nunquam, stood out in bright gold below the naval crown despite the grey light. We will never give in. Rear-Admiral Theodore Keppel Purves would like that.

  ‘Of course, I forgot. You served with him . . .’

  Soutter’s mouth relaxed slightly in a smile. Oh no. You didn’t forget. ‘Under him. I was his gunnery officer in the Assurance. I doubt that he’s changed much.’

  The other captain waited, but that was all there was. Gossip had it that Soutter and Purves had never really got on, and there had been talk of a court-martial or something damned close. The lords of Admiralty obviously thought it did not count for anything now. Soutter had been given command of this, the largest man-of-war in the service, when many others had been praying for it. As for Purves, he was known to be ambitious – another Beatty, some said. If Beatty, who commanded the battle-cruiser squadron, got to hear about that, the tension would be between them.

  A door opened and Drury, the chief steward, peered in at them. ‘Beg pardon, sir, the commander’s respects an’ the dockyard launch is ’ere.’ He vanished, his accent hanging in the air like a piece of London’s East End.

  The visiting captain reached for his cap and glanced at the fine cabinet which he knew contained Soutter’s decanters. ‘Best be off then.’ He held out his hand. ‘Bit of a mess, isn’t it?’

  Soutter watched him gravely, recalling the wild cheering, the strident beat of the Royal Marine band when ensign and Jack had been hoisted for the first time above his Reliant. There was not much cheering any more. ‘Wish us luck.’ Soutter returned his handshake firmly. ‘We’ll make them sit up when we join the fleet, or I shall know the reason!’ He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

  But it gave his friend confidence. He said, ‘I’ll do my best to speed repairs – get the ships turned round without delay.’

  Soutter walked with him through the adjoining office and past the rigid Royal Marine sentry beyond the bulkhead.

  He was thinking of the battleship Audacious, in which he had served for a brief period. In the first month of hostilities she had been sunk off the Irish coast, mine or torpedo nobody knew for certain. But a great ship like that, with far heavier armour plating than Reliant, gone in a moment. Only one thing was blatantly obvious: either way it had been a German submarine, even so far from base, which had fired or laid the fatal blow.

  On deck, where a cold wind swept across the broad expanse of perfect pale planking, all was as it should be. The officer of the day in frock coat and sword; probably for the last time, Soutter thought grimly. Duty midshipmen, their cold hands in white gloves, the boatsw
ain’s mates with their silver calls, all waiting to see the captain of the dockyard over the side where his launch pitched up and down at the foot of the long, varnished accommodation ladder.

  Soutter glanced past the streaming White Ensign at the quarterdeck rail and saw Victory almost lost in the approaching drizzle, like some phantom ship. He heard the marines snapping to attention, the slap of hands on rifles with fixed bayonets. His own hand went sharply to the peak of his cap as the calls shrilled out. Nelson would have approved, he thought.

  Commander Thomas Coleridge waited for the launch to stand away, with the dockyard captain staring up at the battle-cruiser, before an onslaught of spray forced him to take cover in the cockpit.

  Then he said, ‘I’ve been right round the ship, sir.’

  For a few seconds he and Soutter regarded each other like strangers. There had not been time enough to get to know one another much beyond the demands of duty and the need to pull a new ship into one company, if not yet a team. But as second-in-command Coleridge knew his responsibility, which was to keep his captain content and confident and to present the ship to him as a going concern.

  ‘Good, but do it again before you pipe the guard and band.’

  Coleridge said, ‘I have some good heads of department, sir. We’ve been lucky. Later on it may not be so easy.’

  The grey-blue eyes hardened. ‘We shall worry about that later on.’ He deliberately turned his back on the dockyard and the busy signal tower with its crazily gyrating semaphore and the flags that were darting up and down as if the signalling staff had gone berserk.

  Rear-Admiral Theodore Keppel Purves would be up there now. It was exactly his style, watching his new flagship with the yeoman of signals’ big telescope. Seeking flaws. Even as a captain Purves had never learned that all criticism and no praise did nothing to boost the morale of the lower deck. Soutter refrained from mentioning Purves’s custom to the commander. He was already nervous enough.

  Coleridge saw a lieutenant and some seamen trying to catch his eye and hurried away.

  Soutter walked slowly along the perfectly tarred deck seams, oblivious to the drizzle across his back. He was seeing this ship, his ship, as others would. More powerfully armed even than the battleships. He tried to thrust away the picture of the Audacious falling onto her side after the explosion. Reliant had done thirty-one knots on trials, faster even than the light cruisers. Faster than anything. Oil-fired, too. Every soul aboard would appreciate that, with the memories of the misery of coaling ships fresh in their minds.

  Yes, this was a proud moment. He stared up at the masthead where Purves’s flag would soon be flying. The greatest moment of his eventful career. He halted and looked down at a passing paddle-wheeled tug, from which some of the crew were waving at the glistening battle-cruiser. If he had one regret, it was that over there on the shore there was nobody to care.

  Captain Jonathan Blackwood stood by a window in the adjutant’s office watching the familiar activity on the square of Eastney Barracks. The parade ground was still too wet from the recent rain to allow any dust, otherwise it would have formed a cloud above the platoons and squads of marines as they stamped and drilled their way through one exercise after another, from the new recruits, stiff and awkward even at this distance, to smaller groups who were being instructed in the mysteries of the machine-gun.

  Jonathan still could not believe the speed of events since his brief visit to Hawks Hill. He had reported here, as ordered, to discover that he was being sent without delay to the new battle-cruiser Reliant lying in Portsmouth just down the road, although he was not, as far as he could understand, to join Reliant’s Royal Marine detachment. He turned towards the other door as it swung open and the adjutant, looking even more harassed than usual, beckoned to him and murmured, The Colonel is ready to see you.’

  Jonathan went in and closed the door behind him. ‘Sir?’

  Colonel St John Tarrier looked up from his littered desk. Take a pew, Jonathan. Good to have you back with us.’

  He sat, and glanced at the ledgers, clips of signals and several large maps which covered the desk from side to side. He liked the colonel. A bluff, no-nonsense marine with steely eyes and a mustard-coloured moustache, Tarrier was one of the old school who had seen action just about everywhere that the Union Jack flew.

  ‘Not back for long, it seems. Colonel—’

  The colonel did not seem to hear. ‘Read your report from France. Sobering. Very. Can’t have a stalemate for ever. Young officers and N.C.O.’s should be training now to take over the new army, not be thrown into useless trenches and slaughtered. We need leaders, not old duffers like me.’

  He seemed to recall Jonathan’s comment and snapped, ‘Everything’s moving fast. See that company drilling out there? Most of ’em as green as grass. It’ll take more than the Corps tradition to train them in a hurry. They’re R.M.L.I., came over from Forton barracks a week or so back. I’ve been ordered to send the whole company aboard the Reliant in two days’ time.’

  The mystery of his own situation was no clearer. ‘I’ll bet her captain will enjoy that.’

  The colonel gave a brief grin. ‘He’ll be hearing about it for the first time around now from Rear-Admiral Purves. He’s hoisted his flag in Reliant.’ He dragged out a much-marked map of the Eastern Mediterranean. ‘B Company is being sent to Port Said to reinforce the other Royal Marines already there.’ His finger moved away from the Suez Canal and halted at the Turkish coastline, to the narrow approach and entrance of the Dardanelles. ‘I expect you’ve heard the story, or most of it. The Turks have already made a few thrusts towards Suez, so a major operation is the obvious solution.’ His finger tapped the Black Sea beyond the Dardanelles. ‘If we can destroy the Turkish forts here and get our ships into the Black Sea, the fleet can bombard Constantinople and knock the stuffing out of ’em. Then, but only then, we can offer support to our Russian ally from that flank, give them heart when they need it most. The Kaiser’s army is making mincemeat out of the Tsar’s troops. It has to be done. If Germany forces Russia into some kind of armistice, the Kaiser will bring even more men into play on the Western Front and we don’t want that until we’ve made some progress.’

  In his mind Jonathan could see the explosions, the huge columns of earth and burned trees being blasted into the sky. Men running and falling, soundless as in a nightmare. Any progress there would be something, he thought, but he said nothing. As a very senior colonel who had been recalled from retirement to command here, Tarrier would not need much telling. It was said that casualty lists were to be posted throughout the country, instead of relying merely on those dreaded telegrams. The War Office regrets to inform you that your son, or your brother, or your father . . . What would people think about the war then? It was not a matter of a few hundred, even a few thousand. Jonathan had heard it from officers he had met in France, reinforcements dragging their boots to the front line. In one attack, they had lost twenty thousand men in three hours. Unless you had been there it was impossible to imagine.

  ‘And me, sir?’

  The colonel scowled as he heard voices in the outer office. More visitors. Requests, questions, apologies. It never stopped.

  ‘I want you to draw your gear and tropical helmet and report back to me.’ He hesitated, making a decision about the officer facing him across his paperwork war. ‘There’ll be a lieutenant-colonel in overall charge once you reach Port Said. He’ll be sailing with you.’ He glanced at the wall clock. ‘Be on board now if I know Jack Waring. The marines will have to work as a team, all day, every day while on passage through the Med. Once the pressure is removed from Suez, new orders will likely be despatched. Some men will be posted to the ships already there, others—’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows? In this damned war you can’t plan for tomorrow, never mind a few months from now. I’ll make sure your majority comes through.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘I don’t want you to be out-gunned by the R.M.L.I., do I?’

  He walked with him to the door
. ‘You’ve got the experience, and the men will look to you. Two V.C.’s in one family – well, dash it, man, who wouldn’t? Reliant will probably be joining the squadron out there. It might be all over by the time she drops anchor. I can’t see Johnny Turk standing up to a battering from all those broadsides.’ But he did not sound confident.

  ‘One thing, Jonathan.’ The colonel rested a beefy hand on his shoulder. ‘I am sending a subaltern with you. Bit young – too young, his mother would say . . .’ He added harshly, ‘My son as a matter of fact. No favours. But keep an eye on him, eh?’

  He roared, ‘Stop whispering out there, and come in if you must!’ But it was too late. Just for those few moments St John Tarrier had shown himself as an ordinary man, who could still care and worry like any other parent.

  Jonathan found himself outside in the damp air beside the busy, marching figures. Would this place ever be the same again, he wondered. The contests, the lively garden parties, with the ladies in summer gowns and the girls looking bold-eyed at the young officers in their smart uniforms. Would anything be the same, come to that?

  ‘Squad,’alt!’ A sergeant stepped out smartly and saluted him.

  ‘Yes?’

  The sergeant swallowed hard. ‘ ’eard you was ’ere, sir. Cap’n Blackwood, right, sir?’

  Jonathan waited as the man composed what he was going to say.

  ‘I’m Sarn’t Fox, sir. My brother was sergeant-major with your . . . er, Cap’n David. We was all sorry to ’ear about him goin’ down in that cruiser.’

  Jonathan nodded, unable to speak. He should have been prepared. The Corps was a family, and many of the marines, like their officers, came from generations of sea-soldiers. He recalled starkly how this sergeant’s brother had commiserated with David when Neil had been shot dead in South Africa. The family.

  ‘Thank you.’ He knew that the waiting squad of marines were staring with curious disbelief as captain and sergeant shook hands.