Then they saluted one another and as Jonathan walked away he heard the sergeant shout, ‘Now once again! When I says “fix”, you don’t fix! But when I says “bayonets” you whips it out an’ you whops it on, see?’
‘Ah, there you are, sir!’ Jonathan’s Marine Officer’s Attendant, Harry Payne, who had once presented himself to a recruiting party in Winchester, fell into step beside him. They had been together for three years and the arrangement worked well. Payne was a chirpy, sharp-witted marine who could do most things from polishing boots to reloading Jonathan’s revolver faster than any man he had known. He thought suddenly of poor Swan at Hawks Hill, soon to be surrounded by the medical staff, the wounded, and the reminders of what he had lost.
‘There’s some packing to be done. We’re joining the Reliant.’
‘All done,’ Payne replied cheerfully. ‘Got your sun-helmet too. Must be going to the Arctic, I thought – you know what the quartermaster’s department is like!’
Payne glanced contemptuously at the marching figures, back and forth across the square, while here and there small pillars of authority, the N.C.O.’s, stood and bawled out their commands.
‘Good to be back, eh, sir?’
Jonathan stared down at him. Payne was quite short for a marine. ‘Is it?’ Then he said, as if in response to a whispered word, ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
It came as a surprise. After what he had seen in France perhaps he had believed he would be too sickened to overcome it.
But as he had heard David say: It is what I am. What I do.
‘After all, sir,’ Payne reflected, ‘you an’ me’ll be sort of passengers.’
Jonathan smiled and saluted the sentry by the gates.
Payne had never served in a flagship before. It would certainly not be a pleasure cruise.
Payne glanced at him quickly. That was a bit more like it. He had seen that stupid sod Sergeant Fox stop the captain to speak with him and could guess what he said. He had already had more to put up with than most. New start, that was what he needed now. And a bloody great battle-cruiser should be safe enough.
Two
Lieutenant-Colonel Jack Waring R.M.L.I. nodded curtly to Jonathan as he entered the Royal Marines’ office and said, ‘You must be Blackwood. Sit down and we’ll get on with it.’ Jonathan glanced at the other two officers, Captain Bruce Seddon who commanded Reliant’s own detachment, and a major he had already met in the busy days since leaving Portsmouth Harbour, whose name was Livesay, the hastily-embarked B Company’s commander. He looked fed up, while Seddon was careful to show no expression at all.
Jonathan had seen the lieutenant-colonel several times, jabbing the air with an ebony walking-stick as he pointed out something or other to the ship’s commander. He seemed to be very friendly with the new flag officer, Rear-Admiral Purves, who was rarely seen in contact with anyone else. Jonathan had only once seen his cap on the upper bridge, set at a rakish angle, its double line of oak leaves gleaming like pure gold. He turned his attention to Waring and hid a smile. He was not called ‘Beaky’ for nothing behind his back. His nose was hooked and high-bridged, so that his eyes appeared to be set in his cheeks.
Some plates crashed in a passageway and someone shouted out with alarm as Reliant tilted her flank almost contemptuously into a deep trough. The sea was heavy, the Atlantic crests curling and booming along the great hull with the noise of wild drums. It said much for her builders, John Brown of Clydebank, that even in the worst seas Reliant’s decks were rarely awash.
The battle-cruiser was standing well out to sea, a wise precaution with one of her two destroyer escorts already gone back to harbour with half of her bridge stove in.
The second destroyer was somewhere abeam, her low silhouette rarely in sight except from the bridge.
To know that the destroyer’s small company was suffering the discomfort of the heavy seas was little compensation to most of B Company’s new recruits, who were sick for much of the time, and no threat from the toughest N.C.O. could shift them. For this was the Bay of Biscay, angered perhaps by the battle-cruiser’s invincible thrust as she parted each wave like some giant cleaver.
Jonathan waited, expecting to see some maps, hear proposals for the immediate future when they reached Port Said.
Lieutenant-Colonel Waring bit his lower lip so that his dark, sprouting moustache seemed to put an edge to his displeasure.
‘I am not satisfied, gentlemen. I am in overall charge and you are my senior officers. And yet every day I find the marines wasting valuable time with things which are not our concern. I discovered some of them practising seamanship, and up with the boats in their davits. And yet on Sunday at Divisions I should imagine that even the padre was sniggering behind his Bible!’
It had been quite rough at the time, and whereas the lines of seamen and stokers had swayed easily with the rolling hull, their voices roaring out, ‘For those in peril on the sea . . .’ the Royal Marines had reeled against their rifles as if they had been paraded immediately after leaving a dockside pub.
‘I will not have it, d’you see?’
Jonathan saw Reliant’s R.M. captain watching him, despair in his eyes. It could not be easy to have over a hundred extra marines pushed into this limited space, and then to have Beaky Waring venting his wrath in this way.
He said, ‘May I comment, sir?’
Waring eyed him calmly – or was there a glint of triumph there? ‘Do so.’
‘It was largely my idea. I thought the constant repetition of rifle and bayonet drill was a bit pointless. These men will eventually have to know how to handle boats, to move weapons and stores with tackles . . .’He got no further.
‘Of course! I was forgetting, Captain Blackwood, you have had experience of land warfare – I mean, should they decide to let us loose on the Turks.’ He paused, and Jonathan thought later that it had been like an actor making the most of his lines. ‘Three weeks, was it not?’
Major Livesay said bluntly, ‘More than any of us, sir. The last enemy I shot at was a Chinese pirate off Kwangchow.’
‘How interesting.’ Waring gave a cold smile. ‘May I suggest that your wretched company would do well to learn instant obedience, so that in the unlikely event they are asked to prove themselves they will have loyalty and discipline enough to provide what some of their officers obviously lack!’
They sat in grim silence, the sea sounds and the creak of steel through Reliant’s great length intruding, as if the ship herself were listening.
‘So arms and bayonet drills will continue.’ His head jerked round. ‘Well? I said I was not to be disturbed!’
A small midshipman, with water streaming from his cap and teeth chattering, gasped, ‘The Admiral’s compliments, and would you join him on his bridge?’
The lieutenant-colonel glanced at his three officers and remarked casually, ‘Of course. Always a pleasure.’ As the youth turned to flee he snapped, ‘Is anything happening?’
The midshipman swallowed. ‘The second escort is leaving us, sir. Trouble in her engine room. We are proceeding alone.’
Waring nodded, satisfied. He said, ‘Double the sentries around the ship, Major Livesay, your best marksmen. Captain Seddon, rig two additional machine-guns where you think best. Unlikely to be a periscope about in this weather, but be ready at all times. I shall be along later to see how you have arranged things.’ He strode from the office, his words still hanging in the damp air like a threat.
Jonathan imagined the small destroyer, tossing about as her engine-room crew tried to put things right, while their great consort vanished in a squall. No wonder they said destroyer men were the best. He was reminded suddenly of Reliant’s captain, who had been in destroyers for some of his service. A good choice, he thought. Soutter, despite all the demands on his time, and unlike Beaky Waring, had made a point of welcoming him aboard.
Captain Bruce Seddon breathed out slowly. ‘Roll on Port Said!’
The major scowled. ‘It’s fine for y
ou. I’m stuck with him!’ Then he looked at Jonathan. ‘Better get on with it then. I’ll take young Tarrier, if that’s all right with you?’
‘Yes. Anything helps.’
The colonel’s son was still a month or so from his eighteenth birthday. His age was not so unusual when officers were in short supply, but Second Lieutenant Roger Tarrier really was so young; there was no other way to describe it. Like the day when Reliant had left Portsmouth and was passing the Isle of Wight. They had met a hospital ship, her elegant hull revealing her as a peacetime liner, now painted white with crosses along her side which would be illuminated at night in case some German submarine commander should mistake her for a supply ship. Her deck had been crowded with khaki figures, their bandages and dressings clearly visible even in that dull light.
The wounded men had begun to cheer, so that the sound had mingled and become one great shout, while seamen on the battle-cruiser’s deck had waved their caps in reply.
Jonathan had been talking with young Tarrier, and had been shocked to see the tears in his eyes as he had said with such obvious pride, ‘What courage, sir! They can still cheer after what they must have been through!’
How could he explain that the wounded soldiers were cheering because they were free of that hell beyond the wire and the murderous shellfire? Whatever happened to them now they could not be sent back. It was what they dreamed about in the trenches. A wound, just enough to send them home. A Blighty one, as they called it.
Jonathan seized a handrail outside the office as the sea roared against the bilge, enough even to make this leviathan shiver.
There would not be too many at dinner tonight, he thought.
The girl was young and very pretty, her hair rippling in the breeze, one of her shoulders almost bare as she moved her feet in the stream. She was smiling; and he recognised the old gamekeeper’s house, with Hawks Hill in the background. But the sun was too bright; he could not see properly.
‘Cap’n Blackwood, sir!’ It was Harry Payne, a large bull’s eye torch trained on the pillow. ‘You’re wanted!’
Jonathan rolled over in the bunk, his legs tangled in the blanket, his mind reluctant to admit it was only a dream.
He stared around, but apart from the dipped torch the cabin was black. Every scuttle and deadlight was sealed throughout the ship.
‘What time is it, for God’s sake?’
‘Three in the morning, sir.’ Payne sounded wide awake. ‘Captain wants you on the bridge.’
He swung his legs over the side and grappled with each item of news. For one terrible second he had thought that the ship had gone to action stations and he had failed to hear the alarm.
Payne was kneeling with his boots. ‘There’s a ship of some kind in distress, sir. We’ve altered course a bit to have a look-see.’
Slowly Jonathan’s senses were returning. He could even feel the steep angle of the deck. Reliant must have turned broadside to the waves. What kind of ship?
‘Is Lieutenant-Colonel Waring up there?’
Payne hid his grin in the darkness. ‘No, sir. I heard from the ship’s colour-sergeant that the Old Man – beg pardon, sir – Cap’n Soutter wants to speak to you about mortars.’ Payne knew all about the lieutenant-colonel; the marines were moaning like whores at chucking-out time. Beaky would love to hear about this little lot.
Door by door, with a weary-eyed marine sentry at each one to close it behind him and slam the clips into place, Jonathan felt the same surprise as always at times like these. How could all these people, officers, ship’s company and an additional company of marines, be here with him? Apart from sentries, there was not a soul to be seen.
The weather greeted him like a bucket of icy water, and as he climbed higher he caught the down-thrust of acrid smoke from the two funnels. Faintly against the black water and the great wedge of foam rolling back from Reliant’s tall stem he could just make out the pale outlines of guns, black swaying shapes in oilskins, loose gear flapping on the signal bridge. He groped his way through the bridge gate and would have fallen but for someone gripping his arm.
‘No place fer soldiers, sir!’
Another said, ‘He’s here, sir.’
Reliant’s upper bridge was vast when compared with a cruiser. There was a faint glow from the ready-use chart table as someone ducked out of its protective cover.
‘Steer south-thirty-west, sir.’
‘Very well, bring her round.’ Another figure came across the slippery grating and touched Jonathan’s arm. ‘Sorry to wake you up. There’s a ship in trouble. Ciudad de Palma, Spanish. According to the navigator’s estimate she’s about seven miles away. As a neutral she should be showing some lights.’
Jonathan waited, feeling the strength of Soutter’s presence. He sounded preoccupied, rather than troubled.
A voice suggested, ‘All her power must have gone, sir.’
‘Come with me.’ The captain turned to another officer who was standing by the main compass platform. ‘I’ll be in the chartroom.’
‘Sir.’
Inside the chartroom everything seemed different yet again. The gently vibrating top of the large table, the slight rattle of pencils and dividers kept handy where they would not roll onto the deck.
‘Here we are.’ Soutter darted him a searching glance for the first time. ‘I’ve just heard about your brother. A great pity.’
‘Yes, sir. He was in the Aboukir.’
Soutter picked up the dividers and said absently, ‘He must have known my brother then. He was lost too when she went down.’
Jonathan stared at him as he crouched across the table. Was that how it was – how it had to be? As the sailors sang at Divisions, putting their own words to the familiar hymn: We’re here today and gone tomorrow . . .
He frowned and concentrated on the last wedge of Spanish mainland, the end of Biscay, the neat pencilled crosses, bearings and course alterations. Hardly what you might have expected from the massive, bearded Lieutenant Rice, Reliant’s navigator.
Soutter jabbed the dividers down. ‘About here then. Pass the word – half speed, please.’ The navigator spoke into a brass handset and Jonathan felt the vibrations lessen, the motion grow heavier as she reduced speed. Soutter looked up, his eyes very grey. ‘We were issued with a new Mason mortar before we left Portsmouth. Unfortunately nobody aboard has any experience with the damned thing.’ He smiled, his old-world face suddenly much younger. ‘I believe you know all about the beast?’
‘Yes, sir. They can throw a much larger line than the others. We use them for moving equipment across ravines and high escarpments.’
The captain looked away, but not before Jonathan had seen the upturned hint of a smile. He said, ‘I am sure Colonel Waring would approve.’
How did he know about Waring? And how did he find the time to concern himself while this great ship revolved and shivered around him?
Soutter said, ‘I’ve ordered the gunnery officer to give you his best men. A midshipman will guide you there, and will then act as a go-between.’ He gave a slight cough. ‘It seems likely I may be busy.’
Somebody hissed a warning but it was too late. A broad-shouldered figure in a greatcoat, the protruding collar of his pyjamas already sodden with spray as he stepped into the open bridge, roared, ‘Just what the hell is going on here?’ He lurched about, blind in the streaming darkness. ‘Fetch the Captain!’
‘I’m here, sir.’
Jonathan felt the midshipman touch his arm. ‘This way, sir.’
He hesitated as the admiral bawled, ‘I didn’t order a change of course!’
‘A neutral ship in distress, sir. May already have gone down – the wireless was a bit broken up.’
Rear-Admiral Purves still did not seem to believe it.
‘Neutral ship? What about it? Let some other vessel go to her aid!’
The answer was flat calm, like a mill-pond. ‘There are no others, sir.’
Purves had to shout to make himself heard, while a
round the two unmatched figures the watchkeepers listened, fascinated or embarrassed as their fancy took them.
‘When we get into harbour, Captain, we shall see about this!’
‘It’s all in the log, sir. Every detail.’ He glanced across. ‘Still here, Blackwood? Cut along, there’s a good chap.’
Reliant’s fighting top and the forward turrets shone in a green light as a rocket exploded far ahead. Soutter saw that the admiral had gone. But it was by no means over. He said to the bridge at large, ‘Maybe we’re in time after all. Pipe all hands and clear lower deck, if you please, Mr Fittock, and close all watertight doors!’ He waited for the order to be passed, then snapped open the red-painted handset and pictured the noise and heat of the great ship’s engine room, far beneath his scrubbed wooden chair.
‘This is the Captain, Chief. I may need some oil presently. There’s a ship adrift, no power. Might have to take her people off.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. What ship, by the way?’
Soutter told him, and heard the engineer-commander exclaim, ‘I know her! Runs between Barcelona and the Canary Islands. Usually carries a lot of passengers – too many, but ye know about these dago ships, sir!’ The line went dead, leaving the Chief’s hard Glasgow accent ringing in his ear.
‘Prepare the main searchlights.’ He tried to imagine a U-Boat and discarded the thought. Not down here. Not yet, anyway.
Lieutenant Howard Rice, the navigating officer, bent over the chart-table again. If anything went wrong . . . He shook his head and put it out of his mind, his pencil already busy on the chart.
After this, he was not sure that he ever wanted a command of his own.
Jonathan Blackwood found the gunnery officer’s selected crew already gathered beneath the doubtful shelter of the aftermost fifteen-inch turret. The deck seemed to be strewn with wires and jacks, coils of line and a massive grass-hawser.
A rotund figure in streaming oilskin peered at him through the pattering spray. ‘Wallace, sir, Gunner (T).’ He looked at the stooping figures around him. ‘Careful with the deck planking, Parker! The Bloke will do you in if you cut that about!’
The Horizon (1993) Page 3
