Maddon's Rock

by Hammond Innes

  “No,” Halsey answered. “Conversations about the weather occur too frequently on board a ship for one to remember them.”

  “I will refresh your memory then. You said, ‘It suits us.’ Would you explain why dirty weather suited you?”

  Halsey leaned a little forward. “I don’t understand the point of this question. One of the prisoners I suppose has been listening with too much interest to conversations which have nothing to do with him. However, I can answer your question easily enough. The Russian convoy route passes a little too close for comfort to the northern tip of Norway where Germany has bases. Dirty weather is quite a good protection against U-boat attacks.”

  “You said, ‘Well make it to-morrow night,’” Jennings went on. “And you then asked Mr. Hendrik whether he had switched the watches so that Jukes was at the wheel between two and four—it was between those times and on that night that the Trikkala was mined.”

  “The suggestion behind your question is offensive, sir,” Halsey said sharply. He turned to the Court. “Have I got to explain every scrap of conversation overheard by people who could not understand what I was talking about? The watches were switched because we were short-handed. My remark about making it the next night referred, if I remember rightly, to the necessity for switching over duties so that the men would not be unduly taxed.”

  “I am merely trying to show the effect of a scrap of conversation upon the mind of Corporal Vardy, knowing that he was in charge of a very important cargo,” Jennings pointed out. “I have one other point I would like cleared up. And let me say in advance that this conversation was overheard by Miss Sorrel, and not by either of the prisoners. Shortly after you sailed from Murmansk, Captain Halsey, you said to Mr. Hendrik: ‘I’ll think up some reason to cover that,’ What did you mean by that?”

  “I can’t say I remember the conversation,” Halsey replied. “But if that is what I said, I was no doubt referring to some stores we’d wangled from a Naval vessel.” And he gave a slight chuckle. The Court also chuckled. They understood the point.

  “Immediately afterwards,” Jennings continued, “you quoted a passage from Shakespeare—from Hamlet. You said: ‘Henceforth my thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.’ Why?”

  “I often quote Shakespeare,” Halsey replied shortly, two little spots of colour appearing in his sallow cheeks.

  “So I understand,” Jennings answered quickly. “I am also given to understand that you choose your characters to fit your mood: that morning you were Hamlet—and Hamlet in a mood contemplating violent action. And that, I submit, is an important point when you consider that had you known about the loose planks in Number Two boat a lot of lives might have been saved. One more question,” Jennings hurried on before Halsey could protest. “Were you by any chance the owner and master of a ship called the Penang in the China Sea before the war?”

  It was then that Halsey’s black eyes flashed with unmistakable anger—anger and something else. That something else I realised later was fear. But I didn’t know him so well then as I came to know him later.

  And whilst Halsey hesitated uncertainly, the prosecuting officer came belatedly to his rescue. “I protest,” he cried. “These questions have no bearing on the case.”

  “I agree,” the Judge Advocate said.

  “I will show that they have—later,” was Jennings’ reply and he sat down.

  With Hendrik, who was the prosecution’s next witness, Jennings had more success. He questioned him about the same scraps of conversation. Hendrik with his shifty eyes and white scar was not the type of man to impress the Court. But he was not easily put out, and though his replies differed from his Captain’s the difference was not great. And then Jennings sprang on him the question about the Penang and the scar became a livid streak in his ashen face. “Is it true,” Jennings rapped out, “that in the China Sea the Penang had a reputation for being in the neighbourhood of several ships that sank with the loss of all hands?” Whilst Hendrik was still searching confusedly for an answer and before anyone had time to protest, he said, “I understand, Mr. Hendrik, that you were working on Number Two boat with one of the crew whilst the Trikkala was in Murmansk. What was the work that had to be done to the boat?”

  “On the Captain’s instructions I was carrying out a general overhaul of all boats,” was the answer.

  “There was nothing definite that needed repairing?”

  “No. Just a general overhaul.”

  “Who was the member of the crew who was working with you?”

  “Jukes, sir.”

  That was all he asked Hendrik. The next witness was Jukes. As soon as Jennings came to cross-examine him, he said, “You worked on the boats with Mr. Hendrik whilst you were in Murmansk, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Jukes replied.

  “Was your watch switched so that you were at the wheel at the time the explosion took place?”

  “Yes,” Jukes said. But he was beginning to look worried.

  Then Jennings suddenly leaned towards him. “Were you a member of the crew of the Penang by any chance?”

  There was no doubt about it this time—Jukes was scared. He was the type of man that is scared in any court of law. His broken nose, tough features with missing ear lobe, were not calculated to impress a court. He was clearly a man who gravitated by nature to the shadier quarters of the ports he shipped in and out of. He had not expected to be questioned about the Penang and he was frightened.

  But Jennings had made his point. He had too little to go on to press it home. He let it go at that. Evans was never called. The case for the prosecution, being closed, Jennings opened for the defence. After a short speech, he had me give evidence on oath. Under his guidance I took the court through the whole story of those two days from my point of view. I kept nothing back. I told of my suspicions, my growing sense of uneasiness, what the cook had told me of the Penang, how I had actually felt the looseness of the planks of that boat. Here the Judge Advocate interrupted me to ask whether it was dark and if I had inspected them with a torch. When I had finished, Jennings called Bert to corroborate my story. And finally he called Jenny to show that my attitude to embarking in the boat had been so strong that she had felt convinced that a raft was safer.

  That concluded the case for the defence. There followed the final speeches of defence and prosecution. And then the Judge Advocate gave his summing up.

  Finally, at twelve-fifteen, the Court was closed for consideration of the finding. The only people who were allowed to remain in the court-room whilst this was happening were the two officers under instruction.

  Back in the little waiting-room, Bert rubbed his hands together and grinned at me. “Cor! I wouldn’t’ve missed that for anyfink. Did yer see their faces each time Capting Jennings mentioned the Penang? Bet yer it was piracy they was up ter. And Miss Jennifer—she impressed ’em.”

  I nodded. It had been exciting whilst Jennings had been cross-examining the witnesses for the prosecution. But all I could think of was the cold, factual summing up of the Judge Advocate. And now back in this dreary waiting-room with the military policeman at the door, all elation was stripped from me. Jennings had done his best. He’d tried to show the state of suspicion and uneasiness that had prompted our actions. But this wasn’t a civil court. There was no jury to impress. The men who were sitting in judgment on us were Army officers, concerned primarily with the maintenance of discipline in a civilian army at the end of a long war. And against our frail case was the solid, factual statements of witnesses reporting what had actually occurred. Jennings had warned us not to expect an acquittal. And now that the case had been presented and we were out of the court-room, I realised how thin were our chances.

  “Come’n, mate—’ave a fag,” Bert said in a chirpy voice. “You look as though we was hincarcerated in the beastly Glass’a’se already. I know the ruddy prosecution didn’t mince ’is words in ’is final speech. An’ the summing up of that Judge Advycate bloke—that won’t �
��ave ’elped us much.”

  “Oh, it was fair enough,” I said.

  “Well, I reckon we got a chance, see. Jennings made Rankin look pretty cheap. Wot d’you fink?”

  He was holding a packet of cigarettes out. I took one. I didn’t want to damp his cheerfulness, so I said nothing. “Oh, well,” he said, “maybe they’ll ’ave ter find us Guilty fer the sake of appearances. But I reck’n the sentences’ll be light.”

  “Well,” I said, “we won’t know what the sentences are for some time. If we’re found Not Guilty they tell us right away. But if we’re Guilty we’re not told anything now.”

  We smoked in silence for a moment. Then the door opened and Jenny and her father came in. With them was Bert’s missis. I don’t know what we talked about—anything but the trial. Jenny’s father was a gentlevoiced man with bright twinkling blue eyes and white hair. He was a Scot. He had great charm. Though they were not in the least like each other physically, he and Jenny had much in common; the same trick of looking constantly surprised with the world, the same easy almost childish delight in things, the same soft, musical voice. But where her father’s enthusiasm for life merely twinkled, hers sparkled gaily.

  They were an odd contrast to Mrs. Bert, who was a solidly built, angular woman with a rollicking sense of humour that shook the walls of that wood-lined room. She might have been a barmaid or kept a winkle stall in her youth. But now there was only the faintest trace of the buxom Cockney beauty she had once been. She was worn with work and cares. But beneath the wrinkled skin and faded clothes was a warmth that did me good. It was the warmth of a friendly nature that seemed to expect the worst from a hard world, accepted it and triumphed over it so that you felt in her that flood of good-neighbourliness that is the spring of happiness.

  Time passed slowly. Conversation was not easy. It was like waiting for a train to go out. At a quarter to one our visitors were ushered out and we were marched back into the court-room. Nothing seemed to have changed. Everyone was seated in the same places. But there was a subtle difference. And the difference was in the attitude of the five officers of the Court. Their faces were no longer receptive. They had made up their minds. Their eyes watched impersonally as the court-room settled itself. I suspect they were impatient for their lunch. No doubt there were more cases to be dealt with and ours had taken longer than they expected. I felt a chill void inside me as we were ordered to stand to hear the sentence of the court.

  Tobacco smoke drifted in a splash of sunlight. They had relaxed, smoking, whilst deciding our fate.

  The voice of the President was cold and impersonal as he addressed us. “The Court has no announcement to make.” The signet ring flashed in the sunlight as he massaged his jaw. “The findings of the Court, being subject to confirmation, will be promulgated in due course.”

  The court-room stirred restlessly. I felt cold and numb as though nothing could hurt me any more. The Judge Advocate turned to the prosecuting officer and asked, “Have you any statement to make with regard to the accused?”

  The prosecuting officer produced our Army records. Jennings made a speech of mitigation, stressing our excellent record and the fact that our actions had been prompted by good intentions. Once again the Court was closed, this time for consideration of sentence.

  Ten minutes later we were taken in again. This time we were told, “The sentence of the Court, being subject for confirmation, will be promulgated later.” And then the President glanced round the room. “And, therefore, the proceedings now in Open Court are accordingly terminated.”

  A buzz of conversation swept through the room. Chairs scraped. I found myself being marched out. I remember a brief glimpse of Jenny, smiling brightly, and then we were behind the wire cage of the three-tonner and roaring back along the road we had come.

  Two weeks later the sentences were promulgated. I shall never forget the shock I experienced when I stood before the Camp Commandant and heard him say: “Corporal Vardy. At your trial, which took place at Exeter on 28th April, 1945, when you were charged with mutiny, you were found Guilty and sentenced to be discharged the Service with ignominy and to serve four years penal servitude. That sentence has been confirmed by the confirming authority, and findings and sentence are accordingly promulgated.”

  Bert got three years.

  I don’t think we really believed our ears for the moment. It took time for the harsh reality of it to sink in. But during the evening we went through a process of mental readjustment which was frighteningly humiliating. We had to accustom ourselves to the idea that we should be cut off from the world as we knew it for three and four years. It seemed like eternity.

  Next morning we were packed into the same three-tonner with the wire-caged back and driven off. “Where d’yer reckon well serve our time?” Bert asked. All the cheerfulness had been beaten out of him.

  “God knows,” I said.

  We skirted Plymouth and drove inland through Yel-verton. We turned right there and began climbing. It was sunny with cotton wool clouds and the plain below us a patchwork of cloud and sun. The earth looked warm and glowing. A tor with an RDF mast on the top of it appeared away to our left as we sat looking down the winding road to the flat country of the Tamar. And suddenly an awful fear gripped me. For I knew where I was. I knew this part of the country. Several times I had stayed with a friend of mine at his family’s place at Dartmeet. This was the Moor. And the road we were on led to Prince town.

  I had heard some talk about long-term military prisoners being imprisoned there. I hadn’t thought much about it. But now that rumour gripped at me like a stomach ulcer. I looked at Bert, blissfully unconscious of his whereabouts. He caught my eye and grinned wanly. “Turned a’t nice again, ain’t it,” he said. Then he shook his head. “The kids’d like this sort of country. D’yer know they ain’t never seen the country? Bin in ruddy Islington all their lives. The eldest is only four. The missus was kind o’ lonely an “I reck’ned I’d soon be going overseas. That’s why we started raisin’ a family. Poor little chaps! All they seen o’ the world is bombs an’ rubble an’ dirty tenements. They ain’t never seen street lights after dark, nor eaten bananas—but the eldest, already ’e knows the difference between a Spitfire and a P38, can tell a bomb from a V-i an’ knows the barrage balloons by ’is own pet names. An’ now, when the stupid war’s nearly over an’ I reckoned ter be able ter show ’em the sea an’ a spot o’ country like this on me demobilisation leave, this ’appens. It’s just damnable!” he added savagely.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. There was nothing I could say. Thank God I had no family. But I felt I’d let him down. I ought not to have acted so hastily—I ought to have thought of the consequences. And yet if we’d obeyed Rankin, we should have got into that boat and we should not have been alive now. I thought then what irony of fate it was that Rankin, who had brought the charges against us, owed his life to me. He, too, would have been in that boat if I hadn’t refused to obey his orders.

  The truck had reached the top of the long climb out of the plain. We were in the moors now and all about us were fire-blackend hills. Here and there patches of gorse that had escaped the flames blazed golden in the sunlight. The road snaked out behind our humming wheels, curving like a white ribbon over the shoulder of a rock-crested tor. Behind the tor the sky was dark with smoke. Away to our left the moors rolled endlessly to the sky-line, and everywhere smoke curled up from the warm, peaty earth. In a valley close below the road men with flaming brands were setting fire to grass and gorse, the flames crackling merrily in a great curve that the wind had made. They were burning the moors over to improve the grazing—swaling, they call it. They do it every spring. They were not supposed to do it during the war because of the blackout. But they did it all the same, beating the flames out at night.

  We picked up the railway and a few minutes later drove into Princetown. I waited with my heart in my mouth. If we turned left in the market square … The truck slowed and then turned. I suddenly felt
frightened. To suspect the worst is one thing. To see your suspicions confirmed is another. This meant solitary cells and the coldest, dampest, most horrible prison in the whole of Britain. Cold little stone houses bristled at the road edge. They were warders’ houses. Then a high, bleak wall beat back the sound of our engine. The truck stopped and the horn was blown. Voices and then the heavy sound of bolts being withdrawn. I looked quickly at Bert, surprising a dumb, hurt look in his eyes as he stared with horror at that blank wall. I looked away. A voice called out, “Okay!” The truck ground forward in bottom gear and bumped noisily between great iron-studded gates that had been thrown back. As we went down the slope into the prison, the gap in the wall through which we had entered closed on us as the two great doors were swung to and bolted.

  The truck stopped. Our escort came and unlocked the wire cage. There was a warder with him. “Come on, you two—out you get,” the warder ordered. And then added automatically. “Come on, look sharp now.”

  Bert and I jumped out. We were in a kind of V formed by two of the many wings of the prison. The wings were ugly rectangular blocks built of solid granite from the nearby quarries. The roofs were of grey slate rising to a shallow crest. Each prison block was punctured by rows of neat little barred squares. Cell windows! Rows and rows of them like square portholes in grim, age-old prison hulks. A round brick chimney dominated the prison, belching smoke in the sunlight. Bert looked about him, dismayed and awed by those sombre granite blocks. He turned to the warder. His voice sounded husky as he said, “What’s this place, mate?” The warder grinned. “For goodness’ sake where are we?” Bert repeated.

  “Dartmoor,” the warder answered.

  It took a moment for this to sink in. The warder didn’t hustle us. Bert gazed about him, an expression of surprise and horror on his face. Then he turned to the warder again, “Come orf it, chum. You’re kiddin’. That’s the place they used ter send the ol’ lags to, the ones wot were sentenced ter long stretches.” He turned quickly on me. “’E’s kiddin’, ain’t ’e, Jim?”