Suppose the ratings had seen him? The very idea made him sick, and he went over the happenings carefully, to ensure he had got his facts in the right order.
He placed his hands flat on the table, studying them vaguely, as they lay like two bundles of fat sausages. The first warning had been that damned picture hurtling past him into the dock, and the Captain shouting at the top of his voice. When he had run to his cabin, he had been flaked out on his bunk, groaning and swearing like a lunatic, and the whole place stinking of booze. God, he mopped his head automatically, that’s all we need now. A drunkard for a Captain, who’ll probably want to leave everything to me! The very thought made him grind his teeth with frustration. He stared blankly at the framed picture of the Queen above the polished table, the light dawning slowly in his mind. So that was the cause of the court-martial. A woman, and then the bottle. He frowned, his eyes disappearing between the rolls of flesh. Or was it the other way about?
He belched angrily, what did it matter anyway? The Captain was off his head, there was little doubt about that.
Fallow had met plenty of drunken officers during his long career, and he had seen lots of the other kind, too. The calm and quietly efficient type, who had been respected and looked up to as the navy’s best. This one was neither, or rather, he was both. Fallow permitted himself to sit down for the first time since Rolfe had come aboard. It was all too much for him to understand. He reached for his writing-pad. He’d tell Mary about it. She’d understand. Mary would know what to do.
The sound of footsteps and feminine laughter on the dockside made him sigh, and his spirits took an even lower plunge. Now Vincent had come back, and with one of his bloody, fancy lady-friends. He pushed the writing-pad away and sat back, facing the door, his hands twitching in his lap.
Lieutenant David Vincent had long ago decided that there could be little in life to enjoy without the company of a beautiful girl, or girls if possible. At twenty-four he retained the sleek, well-groomed aloofness of a head prefect in an exclusive school, and his finely chiselled features, mocking blue eyes, and fair wavy hair gave him all the physical weapons to achieve his aims. He was also ambitious, and the very reason he had elected to serve as an interpreter in this out-of-date gunboat was proof of that other hidden driving force. He had been told that it would be the first step to Flag Lieutenant to the Admiral, and once he had the Admiral’s ear he had the way clear for promotion and comfort. After all, as he told himself repeatedly, in these days, when the navy was no longer run on the old lines, and when ignorant rankers found themselves in the wardroom, a really well-bred officer, with generations of captains and admirals in the family behind him, could hardly go wrong.
He raised his tennis racket negligently to return the Quartermaster’s salute, and then turned to assist the dark-haired girl down on to the deck. In his open-necked shirt and impeccable shorts, his well-tanned limbs gave him the appearance of a Greek god.
“Careful, Janet,” he drawled. “We don’t want those little feet skidding off into the dock, eh?” He laughed shortly, watching her from beneath pale lashes. She was quite a good type, he mused, and being Gore-Lister’s daughter, she was a good foothold at Government House.
“Isn’t it tiny?” The girl clasped her hands, and stared round at the deserted deck. “How can you live here, darling?”
“I can manage for a bit,” he squeezed her arm. “Now come and have a drink. I’m fearfully sorry that old Fallow is aboard, but you can ignore him!” He never referred to Fallow as the First Lieutenant unless he could not help it.
His eye fell on the gangway board. Opposite the tag labelled Captain was the word Aboard.
“Well, well, so the Old Man’s arrived, eh?” He smiled with real amusement. “Another Has-Been for the old Wagtail!”
“Shh! He might hear you!” But the girl was laughing, too, and allowed herself to be piloted to the wardroom.
Fallow rose awkwardly and smiled.
“Miss Janet Gore-Lister, er, the First Lieutenant.” Vincent’s lip curled contemptuously. It was obvious that her name meant nothing to the fat fool.
The girl strolled casually round the wardroom examining the pictures and trophies with bored indifference, but pleasantly conscious of Fallow’s pop-eyed glances on her long legs and tight tennis shorts.
Vincent rang savagely for the steward, and immediately Peng, the senior wardroom assistant, a tall, stooped individual with a bland and innocent expression, glided round the pantry door.
“Brandy and ginger, Janet?” Vincent looked at the girl detachedly. He was getting angry. It always spoiled his evenings out when he had to come back here. The girl nodded.
“Two Horses’ Necks, Peng!” He ignored the fact that Fallow had no glass in front of him. “And answer the bell more quickly next time!” he snapped.
They sat sipping their drinks, Vincent leaning carelessly against the bulkhead, the girl in a deep arm-chair, and Fallow perched uncomfortably on the edge of the settee.
“New Captain’s aboard,” said Fallow at length.
“Really? What’s he like? Not that I care, of course!” Vincent shot a secret smile to the girl, who blew a little kiss with her moist lips.
“Er, ’e’s a bit different,” began Fallow cautiously. “Not quite what I’d expected,” he ended lamely. He hated the way Vincent discussed service matters in front of his painted little birds. If I was a proper Number One, I’d tell him to go to hell, he thought savagely. Both been out drinking, an’ that, and then come on here to drink our stuff. He watched the girl cautiously. Mary’s worth a dozen of her, he concluded, with something like triumph.
“What d’you mean, different? Has he got two heads, or something?”
The girl giggled: “Oh, David, you are funny sometimes!”
You’re a bloody little twit, thought Fallow darkly. Aloud he answered, “You’ll see when he comes down. He’s been resting most of the day,” he added inconsequently.
“Hiding, is he?” Vincent’s laugh was a short, barking sound, the sign of a man lacking a sense of humour.
“No, it’s not that, it’s just—” he stopped and looked up, startled, as a loud thud echoed from overhead.
“Christ! What was that?” Vincent forgot the presence of the girl.
Fallow swallowed hard, and moistened his lips. “I suppose it was the Captain, er, moving something,” he finished unhappily.
Vincent’s eyes sharpened. “Look here,” he began, watching the other man’s obvious discomfort, “what’s been going on? What are you trying to keep from me?” His sharp tone revealed his eagerness, as well as his lack of respect for his superior.
Fallow noticed neither, his mind was now a torment, and although he wanted to dash from the wardroom, and wash his hands of the whole affair, his heavy body felt glued to his chair. He lifted his eyes again to the deckhead, wondering desperately what he should do.
“What’s come over you two men? Why are you both behaving as if you’d heard a ghost walking?” Her voice was petulant.
“Oh, shut up, Janet!” Vincent jerked his head irritably. “The First Lieutenant’s got some secret or other, and I think I should be allowed to—”
“Beg pardon, sir!”
They all started again, at the interruption from the doorway. The lean brown face of the Quartermaster poked round the curtain.
“Well, what is it?” Fallow’s voice was unsteady, he felt that the seaman’s arrival could only bring bad news, in some way connected with the Captain.
The seaman jerked his eyes away from the girl’s legs. “Telephone call from Operations, sir. Commander Pearce, the Ops Officer is on ‘is way over.” The man’s cockney accent struck an unreal note in the little tableau.
“Coming over?” Fallow repeated dazedly. “Now? Bit late, isn’t it?”
“All right, you can carry on!” snapped Vincent, who despised Fallow all the more for showing his uncertainty in front of a rating. When the seaman had gone, he whistled absently. “You know
what this means?” No one answered. “Some special orders for the poor old Wagtail. I thought they were in a bit of a hurry to get us out of dry dock!”
“Er, yes, I suppose so,” muttered Fallow, reaching for his cap, “I must tell the Captain.”
As he blundered out on to the darkening deck he heard the girl laughing.
“Blast them!” he groaned. “Blast them all!” And blinded with worry, he scrambled up the ladder to the battery deck. He staggered violently, and almost fell across the small squatting form of Chao, the steward.
“What the hell are you doin’ ’ere?” He paused in his stride, his breath rasping in his lungs.
He saw the black eyes flash momentarily in the upturned face. As the boy didn’t answer, Fallow steadied himself and, reaching down, pulled him to his feet. He pushed his great face forward and shook the thin shoulder demandingly. “Answer, boy! ’Ave you bin told to wait out ’ere?”
“No, Mr. Fallow, sir.” The voice was a mere quaver. “Captain-sir is very ill, is very sick. But he does not call for me.”
“’E’s sick alright,” breathed Fallow, half to himself, then gripping the boy’s shoulder even tighter, as if to add force to his words, he spoke slowly and carefully. “Look, Chao, you’re a good lad, and it’s up to you an’ me to get the Captain well again, see?” He paused, studying Chao’s darkened features, and half-wondering if he had committed himself too much. “There’s a big man comin’ to see ’im. Now! Right now!” he added, frightening himself again by the implication his words held.
“I see, sir.” The darkhead nodded eagerly. “Him sick. We fix!”
“We fix all bloody right!” And Fallow advanced along the deck, the steward’s white jacket flitting behind him like a shadow.
Rolfe lay on the carpet beside his bunk, his dark hair ruffled like a wig, arms and legs flung in every direction, and his breath panting against the deck.
Fallow had handled his drunken messmates a hundred times in the past, but even in this state, his Commanding Officer seemed to hold him back, undecided and nervous.
As he moved clumsily round Rolfe’s body, Chao suddenly flitted past him and, bending down, started tugging Rolfe’s shoulder, until with a moan, he rolled over on to his back. The white uniform was now filthy, and Chao’s hands darted swiftly across it, undoing the buttons and pulling at the sleeves.
Over his shoulder he flung a quick glance to where Fallow stood uncertainly. “Please, Mr. Fallow, sir, we must get him in the shower and I cannot do it alone!”
“Yes, all right, lad,” muttered Fallow humbly, and almost gratefully he reached forward to help with Rolfe’s corpse-like figure.
The next few minutes were a series of anxious ones for both of them, and but for an occasional grunt from the sweating Fallow, or the hissing whispered request by the boy, the job was carried out in silence.
Rolfe was only vaguely aware of the hands which flitted across his aching limbs, and the cool air upon his naked body, but at the first icy blast from the shower, he shuddered and struggled weakly, choking under the needle-like persistance of the jets. Supporting himself by the taps, he stared down vaguely at the anxious eyes which watched him like a bird, while the busy hands pommelled his body with a wet towel. He tried to speak, but only after clearing his throat several times could he even manage a croak. His head sang unbearably, and his legs felt like two dead things.
“Thanks, Chao,” he muttered at length. “This is treatment if you like.”
He laughed shakily, and in the next cabin, Fallow paused to listen, trying to gauge from the sound the seriousness of the situation. Shaking his head wearily, he continued fitting the buttons and shoulder straps to a clean uniform, his thick fingers and his shattered nerves making the task doubly difficult.
Eventually Rolfe was sitting in a chair, clad in a damp towel, and grimacing horribly while Chao poured glass after glass of milk down his throat. “No time for coffee, Captain-sir!” he explained breathlessly.
Rolfe stood up carefully, and permitted himself to be dressed. As he ran a comb through his unruly hair, he used every faculty he possessed to control himself and his reeling thoughts. He concentrated instead on Fallow’s news of the expected visitor.
“Very well, Number One. Go below, and receive the Commander, and I’ll be down as soon as I’m ready.”
Fallow ran his finger round his collar. “I ‘ope you’ll excuse the liberty of pullin’ you about like this, sir? We, that is, I felt that it was only fair-like, when you wasn’t well, an’ that.” His voice trailed away, and he stood awkwardly shifting his feet, his brown eyes fixed on Rolfe’s face.
Rolfe grinned, and then winced as the effort made a shaft of hot iron roll over in his brain. “Thank you, Number One, I am very grateful to you.” He ruffled the boy’s hair, and Chao’s face split into a smile, “To both of you!”
Fallow fled, charging to his next encounter like an elephant with a sore tooth.
Rolfe stared across the top of the dock wall, towards the strings of twinkling lights of Kowloon, and at the blazing arc lamps of the P. & O. liner. You fool, he thought slowly. You did it that time. Can’t you ever learn? He laughed aloud, a bitter sound, now he hadn’t even a picture to remember her by. As that struck another cord in his memory, he turned back to Chao, who, in his shower-soaked uniform, looked like a half-drowned monkey.
“You’re a good influence around me,” he smiled. “Forget about the bottling I gave you, in fact forget about everything! Understand?”
Chao nodded, and grinned happily. Everything was fine now, he decided, the Captain was sane again.
When he entered the wardroom, he gritted his teeth together in a new determination to stifle the sweeping waves of nausea which threatened to reveal his true feelings, and if Fallow’s shining face was anything to go by, his jaw hanging open in astonishment, he was succeeding pretty well. He shook hands with the ruddy-faced Commander, who glanced meaningly at his watch, and then at his empty glass, and then murmured a brief greeting to Vincent. The latter’s obvious scrutiny and general freshness jarred his nerves slightly, and when Vincent offered him a drink his sharp refusal brought a flush to the young man’s face and a gleam into Commander Pearce’s watchful eyes.
Rolfe nodded to the girl, only dimly aware of her sleek prettiness, and the very touch of her hand brought back an edge to his troubled mind.
She smiled quickly at him, uncertain of herself for once and resentful of Rolfe’s cold stare.
“I must be off now,” she announced. “It’s been charming meeting you all.” She shook her head at Vincent. “It’s all right, David, I have my car, I really must go.”
“Yes.” Rolfe’s comment, flat and uncompromising, only added to the new air of discomfort, and as he wondered vaguely how long this nightmare would last, he saw Vincent escorting the girl out of the door while the Commander was pushing a thick sealed envelope towards him.
“Your orders, old boy,” nodded Pearce softly. “You leave the dock tomorrow morning, and take on stores as arranged. I’ve been working like hell to get it all fixed up for you.”
“Yes,” said Rolfe again, and Pearce’s eyebrows shot up in brief annoyance. So that’s it, he thought, relieved that he had solved the problem which had been troubling him since the Admiral had started all this, it’s, drink which has finished him. Women, too, most likely. Then, almost cheerfully, he said, “You’ll sail tomorrow at eighteen hundred.” He tapped the red top secret label on the envelope, “This’ll give you the whole gen. Open it when you clear the harbour limit.” He stood up, thankful to be leaving this strange ship.
Rolfe saw him over the side, and then returned to confront his two officers.
“You heard that? Good. We’ll sail at eighteen hundred tomorrow then.” He tucked the envelope carelessly under his arm, conscious of their eyes upon it. “I’ll tell you more about the operation later, when I know myself.”
Fallow watched him unhappily, wondering if he should pluck up courage and ask t
o be relieved of his appointment beforehand, so that his relief could put up with whatever lay in store for him. Instead, he said, “Thank you, sir.”
“I don’t suppose I could just slip ashore tomorrow afternoon for an hour, sir?” Vincent flashed his charming smile.
“You’re right. You couldn’t!” answered Rolfe calmly, and with a nod, stepped out on to the deck.
The lights were still bright, and he felt somehow cleaner inside.
2
ROLFE PROPPED HIS elbow on the desk, while he concentrated on reading through the typed lists of stores and fuel to be taken aboard once the ship was clear of the dock. A cold cup of coffee stood untouched at his side, and his ears were deaf to the rattle of crockery as Chao cleared away the remains of a hasty breakfast as he methodically filled his mind to the brim with details and figures. His head still ached from the previous night’s drinking, and that, too, gave him a sense of urgency to get the ship moving, to get clear of the harbour and the contact with the shore.
Apart from the fact that he knew he would be away for some time, he knew nothing of the operation ahead and could conjure up little enthusiasm about the venture. Anywhere would do now, and one job was much like another, or so he told himself.
He glanced at his watch and stood up stiffly, he could hold back his impatience no longer.
It was strange to find the bridge full of people. It was as if the ship itself was coming to life and enjoying it.
A tall Leading Seaman stood loosely at the wheel, his lips pursed in a silent whistle, his eyes disinterestedly watching the dockyard workers scurrying along the catwalks at the sides of the dock, casting off the lashings on the beams supporting the cradled gunboat. A steady swish of water filled the stone area with noise, as the sea poured into the opened vents and the sluggish water began to rise under the flat keel.
Send a Gunboat (1960) Page 4
