The Horizon (1993)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Jonathan smiled, strangely excited at the prospect of finding and passing a tow to the Spanish vessel. The Bloke. The lower deck’s nickname for the commander. He guessed that the Gunner (T), a warrant officer, had not been away from the messdecks for very long.

  Torches were held close to the long mortar. It might work, but an ordinary line-throwing gun was more reliable.

  As if reading his thoughts the Gunner (T) said, ‘We’re too big for this sort of lark, sir. We’ll get one chance, you see, there’ll be no time to bend on different sizes of hawser. We’d likely cut the poor bugger in ’alf!’

  ‘What’s going on? Oh, it’s you, Blackwood. Why wasn’t I told?’

  It was Waring, of course. No wonder he got on so well with the rear-admiral, he thought; he even sounded like him.

  ‘The captain sent me here, sir. He’s going to take the ship in tow.’ A thought crossed his mind. ‘You should have been called when they cleared lower deck.’

  ‘Hmm. Well . . .’ Waring sounded less sure. ‘Tell me about the ship.’

  Jonathan caught the strong smell of Scotch despite the wind and sea. Waring had probably been too far gone even to hear the calls and the bugle.

  ‘Light, sir!’

  A solitary red eye glimmered across the surging water. Someone must have managed to light one of the oil navigation lamps. It was unlikely that the Spanish ship had any other kind.

  ‘How are you managing, old chap?’ It was Commander Coleridge.

  Jonathan smiled. The Bloke. ‘Getting it sorted out.’

  Coleridge saw Waring for the first time. ‘Morning, sir.’

  Waring grunted, ‘Is it?’

  Jonathan said, ‘I don’t know how reliable this thing will be.’ He watched the chief gunner’s mate make a few alterations to the elevating gear, saw the sudden bustle of figures along the deck where the stout wire had already been laid out. ‘I’ve never done this sort of thing before.’

  Coleridge showed his teeth in the darkness. ‘Neither has the skipper, not with a ship this size.’

  ‘We’re turning again, sir!’

  Coleridge said to Jonathan, ‘We’re going around the other ship to take her starboard side under our lee. The chief is ready to spread some oil.’ He became very serious suddenly. ‘We don’t have very long.’

  ‘If it fails?’

  The commander rubbed his chin. ‘We’ll try again at daylight.’

  An old ship, probably in bad repair, no power, and with the seas breaking right over her: it was unlikely she would last until then.

  The midshipman called, ‘I can see her, sir!’ His youthful voice was shrill with excitement and several of the seamen grinned at one another. It was more of a sensation than an actual sighting. The red light vanished as the great battle-cruiser passed around her stern, and Jonathan caught his breath as he saw waves bursting against the stricken vessel’s hull like breakers on a reef.

  The midshipman called again, ‘Can’t see the starboard light, sir!’

  It was all getting on the Gunner (T)’s nerves.

  ‘Didn’t you learn nothin’ at that swell college, Mr Blamey? We’re still on ’er bloody quarter!’

  The youth fell silent, completely crushed.

  Then one of Reliant’s huge searchlights seared across the angry crests and settled on the other vessel.

  A handset buzzed in its case and a messenger called, ‘From the bridge, sir! Stand by!’

  Jonathan crouched down on the streaming planking and wondered what would happen if the mortar jammed. It might blow up. He thought suddenly of the girl in his dream. If only it were true . . .

  He saw the searchlight moving across the listing ship, laying bare some fallen derricks, and a lifeboat dangling from the snapped falls like a broken toy. Surely they hadn’t been trying to lower it in these seas? A signal lamp was flashing, and Jonathan could picture Soutter watching every move, counting the seconds while his great ship forged closer and closer to the other vessel. Perhaps the admiral was with him now, properly dressed, in control of his anger if only for appearances. There was no signal from the Ciudad de Palma, although the searchlight clearly showed several groups of people crouched beneath a crumpled bridge ladder, or amongst the fallen spars and rigging.

  Waring plucked angrily at his moustache. ‘What the hell’s the matter with them?’

  Nobody replied, and Jonathan saw a woman waving something white towards the towering battle-cruiser.

  Calls trilled and a voice boomed through a megaphone. ‘Turn out first and second whaler! Clear the quarterdeck!’

  The chief gunner’s mate said thickly, ‘ ’ere’s the firin’ lanyard, sir.’ He looked at the other ship and said quietly, ‘If we lowers boats, sir, we’ll lose a lot o’men ourselves!’

  Jonathan said, ‘Take cover, lads.’

  They needed no second warning, but some wag called out, ‘We’ll pick up the bits, sir!’ Another shouted, ‘Up the marines!’

  Jonathan said to the chief petty officer, ‘You can clear off. No sense in—’ But the seaman with the communications handset yelled, ‘Bridge, sir! Fire!’

  In those split seconds Jonathan saw it all. The soldiers of the Home Counties regiment in France, accents and dialects he heard every day amongst his own marines. Bright eager faces lighting up in the drifting flares, making jokes, scared out of their wits; going up and over the parapet, the horizon as the old sweats called it; some falling straight back into the trench, their grins fixed and still while the rest had staggered on towards the wire and the chattering machine-guns.

  He felt the Gunner (T)’s fist close over his and together they dragged at the lanyard. Nothing happened, and then with a bang and a searing flash the rocket lifted away from the ship, the wire racing out after it with the sound of tearing metal.

  Old Wallace forgot himself and banged Jonathan hard across the back. ‘Bloody good shot, sir! Right up an’ over the bugger!’

  Hope in a storm at sea will do wonderful things for those who have seen all hope fade. Now figures were darting about the Spaniard’s deck, seemingly oblivious to the leaping spectres of water which tried to drag them down, when moments earlier they had been unable to move.

  ‘There goes the second line, sir!’

  Figures were stumbling from cover to watch as the big searchlight held its grip on the listing hull, while Captain Soutter used engines and rudder to con his ship slowly past, and more men scampered along the deck to keep the towing hawser from fouling anything.

  Jonathan felt his limbs shaking. Would he have fired but for the old gunner’s hand on his? As Lieutenant-Colonel Waring had sarcastically commented, he had only been three weeks with the army in France. Was that all it took? He had heard the army officers actually joking about it, that the average life expectancy of a new subaltern at the front was six weeks.

  Jonathan felt the deck lurch very slightly even as the other ship passed clear of the quarter, ready to take the strain on the hawser.

  ‘What was that?’

  Old Wallace gritted his teeth and imagined he could hear the clang of the bridge telegraphs.

  ‘We’ve ’it somethin’, that’s what. Of all the perishin’ luck!’

  Jonathan and the others clung to the guardrail and peered at the frothing water from the great screws.

  They were slowing down. The searchlight vanished as Reliant altered course very slightly. If she had not, the other vessel might also strike whatever it was and the tow would part.

  Commander Coleridge rejoined him. ‘You go to the bridge, Jono. Let the professionals take over down here. That was damned good.’

  ‘What did the captain just say to you?’ It was strange, but he could not recall being given a nickname before.

  ‘Submerged wreck. Probably sunk while it was trying to help our new companion back there. Our port screw is badly damaged.’ He cocked his head. ‘Lucky there are no U-Boats about – they’d hear us all the way from Berlin.’

  On the bridge it was as i
f nothing had happened. The navigator was bent over his hooded table, the yeoman of signals was trying to see the tow with his big telescope. Messengers, boatswain’s mates, marine boy bugler, everybody was as he had left them.

  Soutter stepped from the gratings, his binoculars slung around his neck. ‘Nice shooting, Blackwood.’ He took a cup from a passing tray and waited for Jonathan to do likewise. ‘It was a near thing.’

  The drink was hot and thick: pusser’s kye, the sailor’s favourite for watchkeeping. Cocoa with a good mixing of custard power. It stuck to your ribs, they said.

  ‘Port outer engine stopped, sir! Remainder at seven-zero revolutions!’

  ‘Hold her at that. Tell the wheelhouse, I shall know more in a moment.’ He replaced the empty cup and said, ‘Bad luck, really.’

  Jonathan stared in the darkness. He could have been remarking on a disappointing over at cricket. But in some way he felt the captain wanted him here: a stranger, a passenger even. All they had in common was their loss when the cruiser had been torpedoed off the Dutch coast. And now this.

  ‘What’ll happen next, sir?’

  Soutter studied the sky. A few stars showed themselves through the fast clouds. Soon it would be calm, but too late.

  ‘Dockyard job, I imagine. I’ll make a signal to Flag Officer Gibraltar but we’ll have to wait until Malta for docking facilities.’

  ‘And the eventual attack on Turkey, sir?’ It was still hard to accept what had happened. The searchlight, the roaring hiss of the untried rocket, the woman waving a white cloth.

  Soutter said levelly, ‘Probably just as well out of it. I’d rather rescue a few souls at sea than waste my own people on the impossible.’ He seemed to regret his confidence just as quickly. ‘So cheer up, Blackwood. Come and see me when . . .’ He broke off as a small figure in white overalls stained with oil and grease stepped into the bridge. ‘Well, Chief, what’s the bill?’

  Jonathan knew he should go, but knew if he did he would always regret it.

  Engineer-Commander Donald Kinross peered around the open bridge as if he disliked what he saw.

  ‘Port outer has gone completely, sir, and I fear the shaft is in a bad way. I canna really tell until I can work on it some more.’

  ‘Malta, then?’

  The Chief watched him, wiping his hands on his overalls. ‘Aye. Gib’ll no be any use for this big lady.’

  He turned to go, to rejoin his men in their sealed engine and boiler rooms. The most expensive coffins in the world, as the Chief Stoker had described to them.

  But he said, ‘You canna leave people to die, sir. Nobody’ll blame you.’

  ‘Other people do.’ His tone hardened. ‘Thanks, Chief.’

  The Chief vanished down a ladder, muttering, ‘We’re no like other people!’

  The officer of the watch lifted his face from a voicepipe.

  ‘No injuries in the ship, sir.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Fittock. Pipe cruising stations and tell the galley to prepare something hot. They shouldn’t have to wait for their breakfasts.’

  A midshipman crept closer. ‘The admiral’s compliments and would you see him at eight bells, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes, thank you, Mr Cullen. Tell my steward, will you? I’ll need to get polished up.’

  He sat back in his hard chair. ‘Gibraltar then.’ He touched the gently vibrating screen. ‘Not yet, my lady. Not yet.’

  Three

  Rear-Admiral Theodore Keppel Purves strode past saluting sentries and marched through the headquarters building with Galpin, his flag-lieutenant, almost trotting to keep up. He was so angry that he had found himself here without remembering any detail of the journey in Reliant’s smart barge, and he stared around with distaste. Gibraltar was unusually chilly, with the top of the Rock shrouded in mist and low cloud on this day which could have been a great moment in his life, and would have been, had it not been ruined by a stupid and avoidable accident.

  Purves was forty-eight years old, and so newly promoted to flag rank that he had the world at his feet, or thought he had, but for Soutter.

  The better weather which had immediately followed the storm had brought other vessels to the scene: two Spanish warships and a powerful tug. An unusually heavy presence for an insignificant steamship, he thought. Reliant had slipped the tow, and with the exchange of a few vague signals they had left the Spaniards to manage on their own.

  Purves had seen Soutter privately in his quarters. It had been an unfortunate meeting.

  He felt his temper mounting anew when he recalled the captain’s impassive face, as he had told him that he would do his best for him should there be a court of inquiry.

  Soutter had remarked, ‘Like old times, sir.’ Then in a harder tone, ‘I will stand by what I did. That ship would have foundered without aid.’

  ‘Don’t you realise, Captain Soutter?’ Purves could hear himself now, his voice rising by the second, oblivious to the stewards listening from their pantries. ‘Our passage to Port Said will be delayed because of this – because of you, damn it!’

  And so it would, no matter what happened to Soutter. The Fleet in the Eastern Mediterranean was going to attack the Narrows and so destroy the Turkish batteries and forts which were said to dominate the straits. With a fleet like that, backed up by the French for once, nothing would stop them. There were some great names already at Mudros: the new battleship Queen Elizabeth with her fifteen-inch guns like Reliant’s, the crack battle-cruiser Inflexible, which had proved herself already in her victory over von Spee off the Falklands. There was also a mixed collection of older battleships drawn from the Channel Fleet with destroyers converted to sweep for mines, plus all the necessary supporting vessels required for such a daring operation.

  Purves stopped dead, so that Galpin almost bumped into him. ‘Well, I’m not taking the blame!’

  Galpin started. ‘Quite right too, sir!’

  A lieutenant came towards them and smiled. ‘Rear-Admiral Purves, sir?’

  Purves glared. ‘I am, and I wish to see—’

  The lieutenant glanced at a clock. ‘Oh, yes, sir, but you have been so quick – not even a guard mounted for you—’

  Purves waited, sifting through his words in search of sarcasm or as close to it as a mere lieutenant would dare, then he said, ‘I came ashore to see the Flag Officer in charge. I do not have an appointment.’

  The man looked baffled. ‘Then you didn’t know, sir? An invitation was just sent out to Reliant when she anchored.’

  Purves took a grip on his thoughts. ‘I left in something of a hurry.’

  ‘Well, come along, sir, he’s waiting to see you. If you will follow me?’

  Purves whispered, ‘What is the fool talking about, Galpin?’

  ‘Apparently they were expecting you, sir.’

  Purves glanced at himself in an ornate mirror. Perfectly fitting uniform, the gold lace, one thick stripe and one thin, the oak leaves around the peak of his cap. An imposing figure, tall, broad-shouldered, with a face once handsome; a man’s man with an eye for the ladies. In this war there was no saying what he might achieve. He recalled Soutter’s quiet defiance. What kind of idiot at the Admiralty had caused their paths to cross again? Like old times, sir. We’ll see about that, he thought.

  The Flag Officer Gibraltar was a full rank higher than Purves, a man who could be hard or easy-going as the situation demanded, who dealt impartially with everyone from dockyard workers to impatient captains whose needs were always a priority at this strategic fortress. Whoever held the Rock controlled the Mediterranean.

  The vice-admiral got up from his desk and shook Purves’s hand. ‘By Jove, it’s good to see you!’ He took Purves’s arm and guided him out into feeble sunshine where, beneath a broad veranda, the bay and dockyard were spread out like a giant model. ‘I see you have the water-lighter on your port quarter. Good thinking. Any enemy agent curious about Reliant’s reason for being here might otherwise get too close. The sea is clear enough hereabouts . .
. that damaged screw would soon attract attention.’

  There was a huge telescope mounted on a tripod at the end of the veranda. Reliant’s entrance had been watched all the way.

  The vice-admiral smiled. ‘Cunning idea of yours to dismiss the tugs I had in readiness. One would never believe anything untoward had happened!’

  Purves met his gaze. Was this a softening-up process before the hammer fell? The water-lighter and the refusal to use tugs had both been Soutter’s ideas. He said flatly, ‘Would you mind telling me what this is about, sir?’

  ‘Call me John – or Sir John if it makes you easier. Of course, you’ll know nothing about it – I had forgotten. Here they’ve been talking of little else!’ As the story unrolled Purves’s mind reeled from the incredible to the impossible. The old Ciudad de Palma had gone to the assistance of a capsized coastal vessel, and herself had been smashed by the biggest waves her master had ever experienced. He had apparently given up all hope until Reliant had found them.

  The vice-admiral dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief and chuckled. ‘What we have since discovered was that one of the King of Spain’s favourite nephews – a young rascal if you ask me – was on board, an unofficial passenger who makes a habit of this sort of escapade.’ A white-jacketed steward entered silently and began to lay out some glasses. But the vice-admiral was still enjoying it, reliving it, and would tell all his friends later about Purves’s utter consternation.

  ‘Yes, my dear chap, a message from His Most Catholic Majesty Alphonso XIII no less, thanking the Royal Navy in general and you in particular! Whitehall will be extremely pleased. Things have not been too cordial in their dealings with Spain. Our ambassador was summoned by the King in person . . . So what do you think about that? Can’t do your future any harm at all, I’d have thought.’

  Purves swallowed the cool wine but barely noticed it.

  ‘And now, old chap, this other thing you were coming to see me about.’ He rocked with silent laughter. ‘No wonder you had my staff on the jump!’

  Purves put his glass down very carefully and watched the steward refill it. He was not certain whether to laugh and share his relief, or to tell the vice-admiral about his clash with Soutter.