Maddon's Rock

by Hammond Innes

  “Oh, Jim.” She rested her hand lightly on my arm for a second. “And it was only me. I am sorry.”

  I looked at her then. The sight of her warm, friendly look made me feel suddenly happy. “Don’t be,” I said. “I’m so very, very glad to see you. It—it just never occurred to me that it might be you. That day when you left the ship—you never looked round or waved—I thought I should never see you again.” She offered me a cigarette and we smoked in silence for a moment. Then I said, “Tell me what you’ve been doing since you got back.”

  “Oh, seeing friends,” she replied. “Helping Daddy with his stamps. Doing things that needed to be done to the house. And seeing about the refitting of the Eilean Mor. The Navy de-requisitioned her about four months ago. She’s in quite good shape. I had her out the other day. Went as far as Ardmore Point at the tip of Mull and back. Now MacPherson—he’s our old boatman—has got the engine down. In a few months I’ll have her in fine condition again.” She got down off the table then. “Jim,” she said, “who’s defending you at the Court-Martial? There will be a Court-Martial, won’t there?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A fellow called Captain Jennings has offered to defend us. He’s a solicitor in private life and seems quite competent.”

  She had fallen to pacing the room. “You know,” she said, “it’s a strange thing, but I met the skipper of the minesweeper that picked up Captain Halsey and the others. It was at a party in Oban. As soon as he learned that I was one of the survivors of the Trikkala, he said ‘That’s funny. I landed the skipper of the Trikkala and several other members of the Trikkala’s crew here in Oban about a week ago.’ He’d picked them up about 50 miles northeast of the Faroes. I think he said it was on the 26th of last month. I know he said it was twenty-one days after the Trikkala went down. He was a bit puzzled at finding them in that position. He says that according to reports he’d had of the weather in the area through which they must have sailed, it was fair with a moderate sea and the wind mainly from the north. His point was that sailing from the point where the Trikkala went down he would have expected them to have been in the neighbourhood of the Dogger Bank in a week’s sailing. Instead he found them north-east of the Faroes after twenty-one days.”

  “Did he question Halsey about it?” I asked.

  “Yes. Halsey’s reply was that the wind had been changeable, as often as not blowing from almost due south.”

  “And he believed what Halsey told him?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Naturally. His weather reports had only been gathered from vessels he had spoken to. After all, Halsey was hardly likely to prolong a voyage in an open boat unnecessarily.”

  “What was their condition when he picked them up?” I asked.

  “Not good,” she replied. “But better than he would have expected after twenty-one days in an open boat at that time of the year.” She suddenly stopped pacing and looked at me, her forehead puckered in a frown. “I can’t understand it,” she said. “Halsey promised he’d pick the raft up at dawn. When I thought we were the only survivors, I presumed he had failed to get clear of the ship in time and that he and the others must have gone down with it. But now that I know he got his boat clear in time, I just can’t understand why he didn’t wait to pick us up. It’s almost—oh, I don’t know.”

  “Almost what?” I asked.

  “Well——” She hesitated. “It’s almost as though he had some reason for not waiting in that area. I know it was blowing a gale and visibility was bad. It’s quite possible for him to have missed us. But—well, I began remembering all your suspicions and wondering whether there was some truth in them.”

  “Jenny,” I said, “you were in the officers’ quarters on the Trikkala. You must have heard them conversing. Did anything strike you as strange—not at the time, of course, but now.”

  “Ever since I got your letter to say you’d been arrested,” she replied, “I’ve been racking my brains for any scrap of conversation that would help. But I’m afraid I’ve not been very successful. The relations between the various officers seemed reasonably normal. The Chief Engineer was a detestable drunk and as far as I could see was generally ignored, except by Rankin. The second officer, Cousins, seemed a likeable and efficient young man. Hendrik was little more than the Captain’s shadow. He was dour and brusque. I should say efficient, too. He was often in the Captain’s cabin. And it was outside that cabin that I overheard the only piece of conversation that I can remember as being at all unusual. It was the afternoon we sailed. I was going up on deck and I stopped to fix my greatcoat. It was outside the Captain’s cabin and I suppose the door must have been ajar. Hendrik was just making a remark. I didn’t hear what he said, but I heard Captain Halsey’s reply. It was: ‘Yes, I’ll think up something to cover that.’ Then he gave a sharp chuckle and quoted: ‘Henceforth my thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!’ I didn’t pay much attention to it. The first part might have referred to anything. As for the quotation, well he was always quoting Shakespeare, as you know. You could hear him almost any time you passed the cabin.” She looked across at me. “Do you think he might be a bit mental?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. I didn’t know what to think, but I was certain Halsey was not a mental case—or if he was there was some sort of twisted method in his madness.

  There was a gentle knock at the door and I said, “Come in!”

  It was Bert. “Only me, chum,” he said. “’Ere we are—free mugs o’ the ol’ Rosie Lea.”

  He put the mugs of thick, brown liquid on the table. “Well done, Bert,” I said and handed one of the mugs to Jenny. “I’m afraid it won’t taste much like tea, but it’s wet and warm.”

  Jenny stayed chatting until our lunch arrived. As she prepared to go, I said, “Will I see you again?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m catching the afternoon train to London. There are things I’ve got to do there. But I’ll come down for the trial. And if you need me as a witness——”

  “I think we probably shall,” I said. “We’re going to be a bit short of witnesses for the defence by the look of it. Thank you for promising to come for the trial. It—it’ll help a lot knowing you’re there, even if we can’t speak to each other.” I hesitated. “Jenny,” I said. “Will you do something for me before you leave the camp?”

  “Of course,” she answered at once.

  “Will you have a word with Captain Jennings? Tell him what you can. I think he’s inclined to believe my story. If you spoke to him—well——” I suddenly laughed. “With that ridiculous little hat you’d convince him of anything.”

  She smiled. “Is it only the hat?” she asked in mock disappointment.

  “No,” I said, “you look bewitching enough to bias anyone.”

  “Oh, you want him bewitched, do you? Well, I’ll do my best.” She said goodbye then. As she shut the door behind her, the drab wooden walls of the room closed in on us again.

  When I next saw Jenny three weeks had passed. It was outside the hut in which the Court-Martial was being held. She was standing amongst a little group of people, some civilians, others in khaki. She smiled at us as we were marched in. Captain Halsey was also there, so was Hendrik and Jukes and Evans and Rankin.

  The Court-Martial was held at a camp just outside Exeter. It was due to start at nine-thirty. We left our quarters at eight in a military police three-tonner, one of those cumbersome trucks with a post-office grill at the back that they use for rounding up drunks. It was a glorious day. The sun shone out of a blue sky and the roadside was bright with spring flowers. The primroses were thick on the hedge banks and the woods were carpeted with bluebells. “Makes yer wish you was a nipper again, don’t it?” Bert said as the tyres of the three-tonner hummed on the tarmac. I didn’t say anything. I felt wretched.

  But the sight of Jenny cheered me immensely. It was so wonderful to feel that someone cared about what happened to us—cared enough to come all the way down from Scotland. She was standing
next to an elderly, grey-haired man with a little moustache and sharp, bright eyes. I guessed it to be her father. She had written to say that he would be coming down with her. We were marched straight into the hut and put into a small room on our own. A military police corporal remained with us.

  As the door closed on us, Bert said, “Did yer see my missis?” He was excited. He hadn’t seen her for a long time. “She was standin’ on ’er own by that tree. No,” he said with a grin, “I reck’n you’d only have eyes for Miss Jennifer. Nice of ’er ter come down. Was that ’er father wiv ’er?”

  “I think it must have been,” I said.

  We didn’t talk much after that. It was like a dentist’s waiting-room. We heard the shuffle of people going into the court-room. A sergeant came in and asked if we were the prisoners. I had got accustomed to being referred to as a prisoner. “Prisoners! Prisoners, shun!” It had happened every day as the orderly officer came round to make the formal request of “any complaints?” But now it seemed to have a special significance. We were in the grip of the military legal machine. We were no longer individuals. We were just the day’s quota of prisoners to be tried by Court-Martial.

  The sergeant read from a sheet of paper. “Number 025567342 Corporal James Landon Vardy. That’s you, is it, Corporal?”

  I said, “Yes, sergeant.”

  He checked Bert’s identity. Then he went out. A broad shaft of spring sunlight stretched from window to floor. Dust flecks sparkled in it every time we moved. Lorries lumbered by on the road outside. Once a tank clattered past. And all the time a blackbird sang in a tree directly above the hut.

  At last we were called. “Give me your hats,” said the military policeman. Bareheaded we were marched into the court-room. We were told to sit facing the plain trestle table at which our Judges were seated. The atmosphere of the court gripped me the moment I entered. It was cold, impersonal—a place for the weighing of facts. And the facts were all against us. The very impermanence of the surroundings—the wooden benches, the trestle tables, the blackboard on the wall behind the judges, the plain matchboard walls—all emphasised the emergency conditions of the country. The windows were closed to block out the sounds of the normal world outside. The sunlight made bright patterns on faces, uniforms and fresh-scrubbed floor. The Judge Advocate rose and read the convening order. When he had finished, he turned to us. “Do you object to being tried by either the President or any of the Court you have just heard read?”

  We said, “No.”

  He faced the Court again and in his cold, precise voice said, “Everybody will stand uncovered whilst the oath is being administered.” The court-room clattered to its feet. He turned his alert eyes on the President. “Now, Sir, will you repeat after me?” The clear, precise voice, followed by the gruffer tones of the President, patterned the hushed room with sound—“I swear by Almighty God … that I will well and truly try the accused before the court according to the evidence … and I will administer justice according to the Army Act now in force … without partiality, favour or affection.…”

  After the President, the various officers of the Court and finally the witnesses were sworn in.

  And whilst this was going on I had an opportunity to look around. Facing me were the five officers who sat in judgment, the President, a Guards’ officer with the crown and two pips of a colonel, in the centre. He had a heavy, commanding face. The red tabs on his lapels were bright daubs of colour against the drab khaki of his service dress. His sharp eyes roved restlessly over the Court. He had a habit of massaging the left side of his jaw with the fingers of his left hand. A gold signet ring glittered on his little finger. The officers on either side of him were younger. On the table in front of them lay white, clean sheets of foolscap on fresh pads of pink blotting paper. There were five pads and a pen and an inkpot beside each pad. To the left of us was the prosecuting officer. There was a pile of papers and a brief-case on the table in front of him. Captain Jennings was on our right. Near him were two other officers. I gathered afterwards that they were under instruction. At the back of the court-room the witnesses stood taking the oath. Jenny was standing next to her father. She caught my eye as I turned. Just behind her were the four Trikkala men and Rankin. Strange—every single survivor of the Trikkala was gathered in this stuffy little courtroom.

  The swearing-in was finished. The witnesses were ushered out. The Court settled in its seats. “Think we got a chance?” Bert whispered as we sat down.

  “God knows,” I answered.

  The court-room was full of nervous little coughs. A tank rumbled by, the sound of its tracks muffled like the distant tattoo of a drum. The blackbird’s song was a faint, unreal echo of spring. The Judge Advocate was on his feet again. He had a sheet of buff paper in his hands. “Number 025567342 Corporal James Landon Vardy, R.A.O.C., attached Number 345 Holding Company—is that your correct name and description?” he asked me.

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Then he turned to Bert. “Number 43987241 Gunner Herbert Cook, R.A., attached Number 345 Holding Company—is that your correct name and description?”

  Bert said, “Yes, sir.”

  The Judge Advocate put the paper down on the table and looked across at us. “You are charged with joining in a mutiny in His Majesty’s Forces.” His voice was cold, impersonal. “Contrary to Section 7, sub-section 3 of the Army Act. And the particulars are that you, on board the s.s. Trikkala on the 5th March, 1945, joined in a mutiny by combining among yourselves to resist and offer violence to your superior officers in the execution of their duty.” His eyes fixed on me. “Corporal Vardy—are you Guilty or Not Guilty?”

  “Not Guilty,” I replied.

  He turned to Bert. “Gunner Cook?”

  “Not Guilty,” Bert answered.

  The Judge Advocate went on then: “Do you wish to apply for an adjournment on the ground that any of the rules relating to procedure before the trial have not been complied with and that you have been prejudiced thereby or that you have not had sufficient opportunity of preparing your defence before trial? Corporal Vardy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Gunner Cook?”

  “No, sir.”

  Then finally the proceedings opened. The prosecuting officer rose and began to put his case. I don’t remember his speech in detail. But I shall always remember his opening words. He addressed the President and in a sharp, vibrant voice said, “May it please the Court, the two accused are charged with joining in a mutiny, which is one of the most serious offences known to military law and for which the maximum penalty is death …” Those words—the maximum penalty is death—rang in my ears throughout his speech. I turned to Jennings trying to see in the lines of his face some flicker of hope. But he sat, impassive, almost disinterested, watching the prosecution.

  Rankin was called as first witness for the prosecution. He seemed nervous. His large, round face was white and puffy. I noticed for the first time that his dark hair was flecked with grey at the temples. The gilt buttons of his navy blue uniform looked dull beside the gleaming brass of the officers ranged behind the trestle table.

  Rankin’s eyes flicked once in my direction. There was no sign of recognition. He looked at me with the cold appraisal of a man looking at some object known by a lot number that was up for auction. He straightened the dark blue tie in his spotless white collar. He gave his evidence in a dull voice, without inflection; the sort of official voice that policemen use when giving evidence. My heart sank. It was so coldly factual, the way he said it. And his facts were correct. I felt there was no more to be said, that all the Court had to do was decide on the length of sentence. I looked across at Captain Jennings. He was sitting back comfortably in his chair. The paper in front of him was white in the sunlight, unmarked. He was watching Rankin’s face.

  The prosecuting officer began to emphasize the points of the evidence by asking questions. The President took it all down in the form of notes. The prosecuting officer had a little ginger
moustache and a freckled face out of which blue eyes peered, as though he were in a state of perpetual surprise. His voice was sharp and quick, not a pleasant voice, but a voice that impressed itself on the ear so that the points he made were easily remembered. Now he was hammering home the point that Rankin had given us every opportunity to obey his orders. “Mr. Rankin,” he said. “I want the Court to understand this point clearly. You say you ordered the Corporal into the boat three times?”

  “That’s correct, sir.” Rankin was more assured now. He even had an air of smugness as though he were enjoying his own performance.

  “And on the second occasion did you make it clear to all three soldiers that it was an order?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rankin turned towards the President. “But the Corporal still insisted on taking a raft. And Cook said he’d go with him.”

  “Did all three of them understand that it was a military order you were giving them?”

  “Yes, sir. That was when Sills said he’d get into the boat. And he advised the other two to do the same to avoid trouble. I told the Corporal I’d give him one last chance. I then ordered him again into the boat. But he still said he’d take the raft. Cook stayed with him. I reported to the Captain on the bridge.”

  “Was it whilst you were on the bridge that the Corporal persuaded Miss Sorrel not to get into the boat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The boat was cleared then and as you left the bridge you saw the two soldiers cutting the raft clear. Was that when Captain Halsey ordered you to stop them cutting the raft clear?”

  “Yes, sir. The order was given to myself and Mr. Hendrik, the first mate.”

  “Why did you think they were cutting the raft clear?”

  “The Corporal had said he intended taking a raft,” Rankin answered. “I presumed they were clearing it for their own use.”

  “What did the Corporal do then?”

  “He ordered Mr. Hendrik and myself to stand back. He unslung his rifle and held it at the ready.”