Frazier said, ‘We must have passed him, the cheeky sod!’
Rhodes grunted. ‘No chance of being anywhere near, sir. That Spaniard was lucky.’
Sherbrooke was thinking aloud. ‘Scaring him off, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He looked out of a scuttle. The sea was as blue as before, at peace.
Frazier said, ‘Could have been intending to steer west, to have a go at the Caribbean, or South America maybe. Might even be a supply or mother-ship.’
Rhodes tapped the chart with his dividers. ‘No reports of any, sir.’
Beyond the door, the telephone squawked. Stagg had received his copy of the signal.
Sherbrooke heard a tap on the door. ‘We’ll have more information soon, with any luck.’
Just one ship, probably a converted merchantman. The raiders usually were. One of Reliant’s fifteen-inch shells would finish it.
But suppose . . . He recalled what he had said to Emma at Portsmouth.
He ignored the watching faces as he strode across the bridge and took the handset from the duty midshipman, the boy who had been so afraid.
His voice gave nothing away to Stagg. ‘Captain, sir.’ Nor must it.
It was afternoon, and Reliant’s big wardroom was strangely deserted. Lunch was over, and the long curtain drawn across the dining area separated it from the place where a few officers not required for duty were lounging in the deep chairs, dozing, or raking over the much-thumbed magazines, some of which were months old. Lilliput, Men Only and London Opinion remained the firm favourites.
Lieutenant Dick Rayner wandered over to the notice board and empty letter rack. He could feel the ship beneath and around him, moving fast, her bows pointing north once more, Cape Town a bright memory, too brief to be more than a dream. And lights everywhere. To men who had become used to blackouts and the shabbiness of their own country at war, Cape Town had been breathtaking. Hospitality, food and drink, where a sailor had only to open his money belt and someone would offer to buy him a round, or show him a good time.
And Reliant, perhaps enjoying a return to the life she had once known, had basked in the middle of it. Awnings spread, the Royal Marines marching up and down to some lively tune, hemmed in by boats full of sightseers, she had been in her element.
That had been three days ago. Now, with the convoy of seven large troopers steaming in two uneven lines, they were going back to the war.
Rayner glanced round, and after a brief hesitation crossed to a chair beside the one in which Lieutenant Gerald Drake was reading a battered book with obvious interest.
Rayner had not had much contact with the ex-barrister, or possibly, he had been avoiding it. Drake was round-faced and had a gentle, almost diffident manner, with deceptively innocent eyes. They were about the same age, and yet, in his company, Rayner always felt vaguely clumsy and unworldly.
Drake peered up at him. ‘Take a pew, old chap. That was terrible coffee!’
Rayner slumped down. ‘I didn’t notice.’
Drake said, ‘I heard about your forthcoming award. Congratulations.’
Rayner shifted in his chair. ‘Nothing’s settled yet.’ Then he smiled. ‘My folks would be pleased, though.’
The deck shivered slightly, and Rayner imagined the great stem ploughing through the deep water. The battlecruiser would be quite a sight, especially from the air.
He asked, ‘Why did you join the navy?’
Drake regarded him mildly. ‘I liked the uniform better than the other services. And now I’m in, I want to do what I was trained to do. I’d only been commissioned for five minutes and someone was assuring me that there would soon be a vacancy in the Judge Advocate’s department!’ He sounded indignant. ‘That wasn’t what I joined up for.’
Rayner looked round, but nobody was listening; some were fast asleep, catching up between watches, or still recovering from the parties at Cape Town.
‘You were a lawyer. I hope you don’t mind my asking . . .’
Drake examined his immaculate fingernails. ‘Are you interested in the law?’
‘Not exactly. In Scotland, before we left Rosyth, I was involved in some trouble ashore. There was a girl, a nurse, as it happened. A guy was trying to . . .’ He dropped his eyes, and did not see the sharp flicker of interest. ‘I stepped in. The rest you probably heard about.’
Drake nodded gravely. ‘I did notice the bruise.’
Rayner hesitated, but Drake was not making light of it. ‘Eddy Buck and I gave statements to the police. It would be attempted rape, wouldn’t it?’
‘A serious charge. Very serious in wartime, with so many servicemen on the loose.’ He sensed the concern, desperation, in the Canadian’s tone. ‘Go on.’
‘He was a civilian. A businessman of sorts. Expensive watch.’
Drake glanced at Rayner’s own watch. Obviously, he knew one when he saw one.
‘Then undoubtedly he would hire a defence. Otherwise, it might ruin him.’
‘But he would have raped her if I hadn’t been there! She was terrified.’
‘Scottish law has a lot of back alleys, so to speak.’ He paused. ‘The man in question would be wise to get the best advocate he could.’
‘It doesn’t seem fair.’
Drake smiled. ‘Well, it probably isn’t.’ He added abruptly, ‘You didn’t know this girl.’ He saw the quick shake of the head. ‘And she accepted a lift in his car?’
‘Yes, but only to the hospital. Everyone knew . . .’
‘In this case, the destination is irrelevant, Dick. May I call you that? Maybe she gave him the come-hither, encouraged him.’
Rayner looked away. It was like hearing her voice, her contempt.
Never tell them you’re a nurse. They think you’re anybody’s!
Drake reached out and touched his knee kindly. ‘I’m only saying what his lawyer would suggest.’
‘It wasn’t like that. She’s a nice girl. Works at the burns recuperation hospital there.’ He stared at him angrily. ‘Is that what you would suggest?’
Drake leaned back in his chair. ‘They will cross-examine her, in detail. The prosecution should be able to deal with it. A lot depends on the witness.’
‘The victim.’
‘Exactly. But your statements are all they’ll have to go on. That, and her side of the story, and whatever physical evidence there might have been.’
Rayner looked down at the well-worn carpet. Where these same officers rested between their watches, concealed their worries with varying success from one another, and waited for the day when war reached out to claim them again.
‘I wish I could attend that court, or whatever it is. I’d have told them!’
Drake glanced at the clock. ‘Then tell her, Dick. Write to her. It might mean a lot to her.’
The wardroom speaker came to life. ‘Lieutenant Rayner report to the bridge immediately.’
Drake watched him. ‘You must take me up for a flight some time.’ He added gently, ‘Sorry I wasn’t more help.’
Rayner turned and smiled. ‘You were, believe me. I’ll do just that.’
Drake saw him stride toward the door, snatching up his cap on the way. A very nice chap. He looked at the coffee cup distastefully.
All the same, if it were my brief, I’d rather defend than prosecute.
Rayner reached the upper bridge, surprised that, for the first time, he was out of breath. No exercise, too much stodgy food. He would have to watch it.
He thought of his conversation with Drake. He had felt an enormous guilt at sharing it with him. Why had he asked, if not for reassurance? And there had not been much of that. He tried to recall her face, feature by feature. Her hair was short and fair, jutting forward over her cheeks like wings. He paused on the ladder, composing himself. Where he had seen the scratches, and the beginning of a bruise. He leaned back on the ladder and stared at the battlecruiser’s ruler-straight wake, the two lines of heavy merchantmen following astern. The small cruiser Diligent, which had joined them from Si
monstown, was Tail-End Charlie, and the destroyers, spread out on the bow and the quarter, were almost lost in the hard, reflected glare.
Rain, he thought, who needs it?
He saw the captain with Commander Frazier, while the bearded navigating officer was writing something in his pad.
Sherbrooke said, ‘Sorry to drag you up here. Quite a climb, isn’t it?’
Rayner grinned. ‘I guess I’ve been living too well, sir.’
‘I’m glad somebody is!’
Rayner realized that Rear-Admiral Stagg was also present, sitting in the captain’s tall chair, moving restlessly, his foot beating a silent tattoo.
Sherbrooke, ignoring him, said, ‘We’re making good speed. Tomorrow, around first light, we shall be about six hundred miles due west of Loango.’
The navigator put in cheerfully, ‘French Congo, sonny. I’ll show you on the chart, if you like.’
Sherbrooke said, ‘After that, we shall alter course to the nor’ west, before another alteration south of Freetown, and then out into the Atlantic. There will be two other convoys on the move.’
Stagg muttered, ‘Storm in a bloody teacup, to all accounts!’
Sherbrooke looked across at him. ‘We can’t afford to take risks, sir.’
Rayner thought of the heavily-laden troopships. He had been watching them through a pair of binoculars as they had steamed past at speed to take over the lead position.
Soldiers, thousands and thousands of them, and aboard one ship there had been women too, waving like mad as Reliant had steamed past. He had been told about the alleged German raider, and the ship it had fired on. It did not seem much of a threat when you looked up at Reliant’s formidable main armament. But certainly no risks, with all those men relying on them, and nurses as well. Like Andy.
Sherbrooke said, ‘I want you to be ready to fly off around first light. Weather should be good. I’ll give you the details then.’
He looked over at him, and added, ‘We may be getting another aircraft to keep you company, take a bit of the weight.’
Rayner saw the others watching him, and thought suddenly of his brother, shot down defending a Malta convoy. And of the girl who cared for airmen like himself, but who had no faces. And he was moved by it, proud.
He said, ‘We can manage, sir.’
Stagg grunted. ‘Depending on it!’
Sherbrooke said, ‘We depend on each other.’
Rayner clattered down the ladders again.
He would write to her. That was it. He would write to her about the captain. What he was like. And about us.
Sherbrooke walked out on to the port wing of the bridge and looked at the sky. First light was always a favourite time; he never tired of watching the dawn. To port, the ocean was still dark, like unbroken velvet; it was only when you leaned over the side that you saw the surge of white rolling back from the stem, and regained the sense of power and speed. Through the bridge on the opposite side, the horizon was a fine gold line, not even bright yet, like molten metal. Another hot day, but not for long: another week, and they would be into the Atlantic, and that bitter world they all understood. The real war, as the Jacks called it. U-Boats, and long-range Focke-Wulf Condors to home them on to their targets, and the overstretched escort groups of frigates, destroyers and corvettes, fighting back all the way.
He turned as the Walrus’s Pegasus engine coughed, and then roared into a healthy growl. He pictured Rayner with his three-man crew, recalling his words on the bridge yesterday afternoon. We can manage, sir. He would, too.
Sherbrooke had heard about the incident while Reliant had been at Rosyth, but had not mentioned it to Rayner. He had read the report from the provost people, and seen Rayner’s bruise for himself. Officer-like qualities, OLQs, did not come into it. It was a natural reaction.
‘Ready, sir!’
‘Carry on!’
The bridge shuddered very slightly, as with a jarring bang the Shagbat lurched from its catapult and immediately began a shallow climb. They would have a good scout round: Rayner might even sight the other convoy, but it seemed unlikely. When he looked again, the aircraft had vanished into the remaining shadows to port.
Rhodes was at the bridge door. ‘Time to alter course, sir.’
‘Very well, Pilot. Inform the convoy commodore.’
The commodore’s ship was the old liner Canberra Star, well known to cruising enthusiasts before the war, those who could afford her. He wondered what her old master would think of her now. Dazzle-paint and rust, and more than a few dents gathered along the way. But she could still offer over twenty knots when need be.
He half-listened to the orders and acknowledgments.
‘Course to steer is three-one-five, sir.’
‘Port ten. Midships. Steady. Steer three-one-five.’
Apart from a leaping spectre of spray over the flared bows, he would hardly know that they had altered course.
The others would follow in their obedient columns, with the light cruiser Diligent turning to keep the nearest destroyer on her proper bearing.
He thought of Stagg, still aft in his quarters, probably enjoying a good breakfast. How much did ‘Olive’ know – about Jane Cavendish, for instance? Perhaps his suspicion was unjustified. Nothing was that certain. Stagg had his eyes on a much higher target. Surely he would not risk any scandal.
But he remembered Stagg’s keen interest at the mention of Emma Meheux. Pretty, is she?
He walked into the bridge and saw faces, where there had been only unrecognizable shadows earlier.
The navigator’s yeoman was sharpening pencils; a boatswain’s mate was helping one of the signalmen to splice a frayed halliard. Another day, with the memory of Cape Town becoming more and more blurred with every turn of the screws.
Lieutenant Frost was watching the gyro repeater as it ticked soundlessly back and forth, while far below his feet the quartermaster held the great ship on her course, not an easy task in the stuffy confines of the armoured wheelhouse.
Somebody gave a yelp of alarm as a tremor echoed dully against Relian’s flank.
For an instant, Sherbrooke imagined that a ship had been torpedoed in the convoy. No U-Boats had been reported in the area, but there was always a chance. He hurried to the wing again and trained his glasses astern. The other ships were growing in size and personality; he could even see the hundreds of khaki shirts that festooned the stays and upperworks of the trooper leading the port column.
Frazier had come to the bridge, and was staring round with the others.
Sherbrooke said, ‘An explosion. But I don’t see anything.’
They both turned as the leading signalman called, ‘Signal from Commodore, sir. Outbreak of fire on board Orlando. Believed serious.’
Sherbrooke said, ‘Acknowledge. Signal the commodore to maintain course and speed. Will assist.’
He heard another gasp from someone as a spark of fire exploded as if from the sea itself.
Rhodes said, ‘Orlando carries vehicles as well as troops, sir.’
Petrol, too, he thought. He said, ‘Reduce to seven-zero revolutions, Pilot. Make to Diligent, take station ahead of convoy.’
Lights were already clattering, and brief replies blinked back. It would take too long to turn Reliant and take station on the Orlando, which was the sternmost ship in the starboard column. He could imagine the excitement aboard Diligent when his signal was received. Elation, perhaps, at taking Reliant’s place in the lead, away from the boredom of ‘following Father’.
It was an uncanny sensation. The big merchant ships which had been half a mile astern were already passing Reliant on either beam, as if they had managed to put on an impossible head of steam.
Sherbrooke crossed the bridge again. ‘I’ll get as close as possible, Pilot.’
Rhodes was watching the new outbreaks of fire, and this time they did not diminish. Thank God they were servicemen on board. Had they been ordinary passengers, they might panic, and start a stampede to the boat
s that nobody would be able to control.
Frazier commented, ‘It could be too dangerous to go alongside, sir.’
‘I know. But none of the escorts is big enough for the job. We might have to lift off every man jack. No destroyer, not even Diligent, could manage with a ship that size.’
‘I see, sir.’ He had made his point, which he saw as his duty, both to Reliant and her company.
‘I want every fire-party you can muster, starboard side. And a full boarding party.’ He saw Frazier’s concern, his doubt. ‘Volunteers, but men who know what they’re doing.’
He saw the commodore’s ship over Frazier’s shoulder, like a pale cliff, her decks already crammed with people even though they might not understand what was happening. On the other side, another lithe shape was moving up fast, smoke dipping from her raked, unmatched funnels: Diligent at full speed.
There was mercifully no wind, but the breeze was strong enough to carry the stench of burning. Fire was hated and feared by sailors more than any other peril on the sea.
‘And have the boats turned out, port side, Carley floats too, just in case some of them jump for it.’ He touched Frazier’s arm, and felt him start. ‘She’s all yours, John. Clear lower deck – full damage control procedure.’
Out on to the wing again, his eyes seeking order from what landsmen might imagine was chaos. Men running to their stations, fire hoses, extinguishers, first-aid teams and stretchers. On the other side, the lowering parties were already turning out the pulling boats on their davits.
In the strengthening sunlight he could distinguish small islands of authority among the mass: Farleigh, the surgeon commander, being helped into his white coat by one of his sickberth attendants. The chief boatswain’s mate, the Buffer, waving his arms and calling to seamen with ropes and wires, fenders and strops: the true sailor.
And here was Orlando at last. Sherbrooke switched on the loud-hailer, seeing the crowds of soldiers being assembled by the forward derricks. Orlando had been a cargo liner in her day, owned by a New Zealand company, and had been trooping since the outbreak of war. She had been a lucky ship, until today. What had happened? Somebody smoking where the petrol for the vehicles was stored? Carelessness, stupidity? It made no difference now.
Battlecruiser (1997) Page 14
