Transfer from boat to net was going to be the most difficult part – one took account of this before it started: not all that difficult for grown men, at any rate for seamen, but for children, lacking much strength or understanding of the dynamics of it – for instance, that you needed to be on the net and climbing as the ship rolled away to port, not hanging there to be dunked under and maybe crushed between boat and ship’s side as she rolled to starboard – well, not easy, and hazardous in the extreme. One’s own job being to receive them from the arms of adults, of whom it seemed there were ten or twelve, release those capable of it on to the net to climb, or carry them up: as it turned out, carry most of them, passing them to men waiting higher up. Most frequently to the carpenter, Fellaby, ABs Patterson and Morton, or a fireman by name of McPhaill, but there were others at the rail who’d at times come over to help when things were difficult. Climbing one-armed with the weight of a child in the other did have its moments, especially when the child was struggling.
Then the adults, giving them as much help as they might need – mainly getting them on to the net, then staying close to assist as needed. The first, pushed up from the boat by a ship’s officer with some quantity of braid on his sleeves, this one helping another younger one who turned out to be strikingly athletic, needing no help once on the net, fairly racing up; followed more slowly but steadily by an elderly civilian in a donkeyjacket, grey-headed, even longer-limbed than the young one who’d preceded him – he’d shouted upwards, ‘All right, Sam?’, and the answer as that one reached the top was a yell of, ‘Don’t worry about me, Doc!’ Girl’s voice, for God’s sake: girl in soaked trousers and sweater, wool cap as worn often enough by sailors, and with a knapsack on her back – at the ship’s rail already and helped over whether she needed it or not by Harve Brown. Others swarming up under their own power were the mate – a chief officer’s three gold stripes on each sodden sleeve, who’d offered assistance to the elderly one, ‘Doc’, who’d declined the offer, waved him off – had a Gladstone bag slung from a belt, one saw as he climbed on up – and then the rest. Half a dozen maybe, Sarawak crew.
Leaving the boat half full of water crashing around down there. Had served its purpose, saved thirty-seven lives. Heaving-lines still attached to it for’ard and aft, to be cut now at the rail, new ones to be made in due course by young seamen under McGrath’s eagle eye and tutelage. Snowflake light still brilliant, but Elliot in the bridge-wing keeping the Aldis beam on the boat drifting away downwind.
6
In the light of day, thinking about Julia and her situation, inevitable delay now to its resolution, since they were heading for New York to land the children before pushing on down to Cuba. Mightn’t necessarily be held up more than a day or two – he was trying to convince himself of that but still worrying. Exhaustion might have been part of it: he’d slept fitfully instead of going out like a light as he might have done, a part of that being nightmare images of drowned children.
Which still lingered. On the bridge again now, relieving Gus Waller; Waller with shock in his round, red face, muttering, ‘Bloody nightmare – honest to God. More than a hundred drowned?’
‘More than two hundred.’
Some not drowned but burnt. Or killed by the exploding bombs. Waller had added, ‘I meant the kids. God almighty…’
‘Yeah.’ Hardly credible, thinkable. Adding as an afterthought, ‘Anyway, twenty-seven fewer than there might have been.’ Putting his glasses up, starting a sweep from beam to beam, telling Waller, ‘Off you go, I’ve got her.’
Sea and wind well down, surface ruffled white and Quilla still corkscrewing – enough of a swell still running to warrant that – but compared to how it had been at the time of the rescue or during his own middle watch, the midnight to 0400 – well, summer days were here again. Sky a pale blue except for scraps of flying white, and sun well up: 0830 now. He’d come up as usual to relieve Waller for his breakfast, and while up here would take his morning sunsight. Routine – except for awareness of the thirty-seven survivors on board, some of them with burns or other injuries, and – having the figures now – 214 men, women and children drowned or killed in the bombing or its aftermath.
Not long after midnight the Old Man had broken wireless silence to report the rescue, SS Sarawak having been bombed and set on fire, only one boat having got away, thirty-seven survivors, including twenty-seven children, now on board SS Barranquilla and no possibility of other passengers or crew having survived. Names of those rescued as followed, first name on the list being that of Chief Officer Raymond Barclay, who’d made it clear that there could be no other survivors. He’d described to the Old Man, with CRO Foster making notes, how at least one bomb had penetrated to explode deep inside the ship, blasted a hole in her side at the waterline somewhere between engine room and boiler room and releasing bunker oil which had ignited. The bridge itself and the for’ard part – initially only the fore part – of what had been a very long central superstructure already blasted and in flames by then, some of the boats smashed, others unreachable on account of fires which, driven by that brisk wind, were rapidly taking charge, that whole central part of the ship, boat-deck and promenade-deck below it, ‘A’ deck below that, becoming an inferno. The children had been in their cabins, mainly on ‘A’ deck, but some, who’d seen themselves as the lucky ones, on the higher level, promenade. It had been their afternoon rest period, on which the lady in charge of them, a former hospital matron, had insisted. There’d been two other children’s nannies, including Miss Vaughan, who’d been wonderful with the twenty-seven in the boat.
Barclay had told the Old Man that within minutes of the attack the midships section of the old liner had been ablaze at all levels. Foster quoted him as saying, ‘If you was for’ard you couldn’t get aft, and abaft it couldn’t get for’ard. Well, she’d been hit for’ard too. And the bridge – bridge structure, captain’s and officers’ cabins, forward end of it at lower level, all of that was done for in the first minutes. I’d been aft, seeing to one thing and another, then – well, started for’ard at the double when the first bomb hit us. Hun circling then but coming back, wasn’t finished with us, not by any means – however many bombs it carried he didn’t reckon on taking any home with him: did three runs over us in all, masthead-height like. I got knocked off that external ladder, not sure how, got myself up it then any road – on the boat-deck then, sort of dazed and guessing I’d not get much further – did have a go, but that was after I’d mustered this lot abreast the boat. Tell you, though – one boat – I never seen this, steward by name of Price did – would’ve had its quota of kids and crew, in charge of the third mate if he’d got himself to it – should’ve, but I never saw him… Price says they had it started down and it got caught in a gust of flames from inboard, the falls must’ve caught alight and burnt through – that was that. There was oil-spill afire on the surface by this time, so – well, Christ, horrible…’
He’d begun to shake, Foster said. Crouched over on the chair, face in his hands. The Old Man had put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Nothing you could’ve done you didn’t do, was there?’
‘No, but—’
‘Crew’s quarters aft, in your Sarawak?’
‘For’ard, foc’sl itself and two lower decks. Been hit there too – gone on fire in the foc’sl-head. But with the fires amidships, see, bridge structure and below—’
‘Then the boat you came away in—’
‘Mine. Starboard side, the aftermost. My boat’s what it was, them I brought away with me was allocated to me, had the luck or savvy to get aft to it quick. Miss Vaughan had rounded some up right at the start, ones she could get to, them as was missing she’d reckoned had gone already – gone the right way, she hoped to God. We’d given ’em boat drills enough. Well, a couple of ’em had, must’ve run like rabbits. Then when we’d mustered, seen which we’d got and – well, how few like – she’d’ve gone chasing off into the worst of it again, but I held her back, told her the o
nes we already had there needed her with ’em, state they was in, poor little sods; we’d try for others as might be wandering or trapped like, but – see, did try, far as we could get, trying different ways, that’s to say levels – me and the doctor and Searle – third wireless officer – and an AB name of Houghton, but, like I said, not a hope, just bloody wasn’t. Not much time for us neither, by the time we knew it, so – give up, nothing else you could do, I swear to God, so—’
‘Mister—’
Nodding, swallowing, getting his voice back under control.
‘Got back to the boat, put the doc on board, and RO Searle for want of a deck officer to take charge if I came to grief. I kept four seamen with me as lowerers – saw to that all right, wouldn’t have five minutes later, I tell you that – and we slid down the falls and joined ’em – cast off, searched the water up for’ard and around her stem to search port side too, but – Christ, the sight of her from sea-level, flame stem to stern, smoke pouring away downwind, oil-fires on the sea that side…’
CRO Foster had given Andy all this verbatim and with a surprising amount of sympathetic mimicry when they’d met in the washplace before early breakfast. He, Andy, having been on watch last night when the interview had taken place in the Old Man’s cabin, and by the end of that four-hour stint fairly groggy when Harve Brown had been taking over, hadn’t really put much of it together, main thought in mind being to get his head down. Whereas earlier, immediately after the rescue operation, he’d had to move fast to shift into dry gear – in Waller’s cabin – before taking over the watch a few minutes after midnight. Foster, anyway, had wound up his performance with: ‘Old Man had a job calming Barclay down, telling him more than once no-one was going to blame him for having been where he had been and thus surviving and getting at least these few away, God’s sake. Decent fellow, looked and sounded as if he’d been through hell – still was, know what I mean. But you can imagine – like some massacre you walked away from?’
‘What’s the doctor like?’
‘Haven’t met him, but Steward Hastings says he’s sixty-seven and six-foot-four.’
‘And the girl?’
‘Haven’t had that pleasure, either. She’s with the kids in the suite, have her hands full too, I’d guess.’
Orders to divert to New York had come in during Harve Brown’s morning watch, the diversion necessitating an alteration of course of no more than three degrees. Quilla was on course 245 now, and Chief Verity had grudgingly consented to an increase in revs that should be giving her about ten knots, which under present conditions would get her to New York in about nine days.
Delay of up to a week, say, in terms of getting back to Julia? Having told her ten weeks, or twelve at the most. Nothing to be done about it, obviously. Except post letters to her and to Annabel – should get there quickly enough from New York, he thought.
Nine and a half days to New York maybe. Two or three days’ steaming closer to the US seaboard, you’d be safe enough without the zigzag, thereafter make better progress. At this stage though, on longitude 27 west, realistically speaking one was still in U-boat territory. At least, where any longer-range U-boats might be. In reach of marauding Focke-Wulfs too – all too obviously – and with no more defence against them than the Sarawak had had. And having last night kept the sky alight for the best part of an hour, then broken wireless silence with a report that had necessarily included one’s position.
Couldn’t cross fingers – except mentally – with glasses up, sweeping steadily, continuously; with Dixon, who’d temporarily relieved Elliot, similarly engaged eight or ten feet to his right. Just as yesterday, it had to be about a thousand to one against spotting any periscope cutting that choppy, whitened surface, but one was paying attention also to the horizon, where any FW would be likely to make its first appearance.
Evil bloody thing. On board the Sarawak, Barclay had said, no lookout had seen it until it had been practically on top of them.
A buzz from the zigzag clock. Didn’t need to interrupt one’s search to know that Selby would be easing on port rudder.
Anyway, as far as it went the rescue had been something of an achievement, from Quilla’s point of view. That number of kids alive and kicking who otherwise might not have been, and their families at home spared the misery of those of the other hundred. Absolutely crippling misery, you could imagine. While here, from the point of view of one’s own state of mind, it was certainly a lot more comfortable to concentrate on being glad for those saved than to think about the rest of them.
Although one did. So how might that wretched girl be feeling, who’d known them all?
* * *
He didn’t meet her until supper that evening. Hadn’t expected to then, either, since Harve Brown had told him at some time during the forenoon that she was going to mess with the children in the owners’ suite. They were to have all their meals up there, cafeteria-style, using some folding card tables borrowed from the saloon and the crew’s mess room. Harve also mentioned that the Old Man had given the doctor the use of his sleeping cabin, which he – Dr Creagh – would also use as a dispensary. Injuries amongst his patients were in fact surprisingly few – one broken arm, a few cuts, sprains and bruises, inevitably some burns, but thank heavens all quite minor.
One of the Sarawak's seamen had the worst burns, actually quite severe, the doc had admitted. He’d been given a berth down aft, of course, and the doc was spending quite a bit of time down there with him.
‘Pretty lucky kids on the whole, eh?’
Harve had nodded. ‘Say that again. Anyway, I’ve given Creagh the medicine locker. In return he’ll deal with any problems our own people may have. But he’ll be helping out generally as well as medically with the nippers. Physical injuries apart, most of ’em are to some degree in shock, he says. Absolutely natural – they’d need to be made of cast-iron not to be. But you can see they all like him, and he and Miss Vaughan get on as if they’d known each other all their lives. What the kids need, of course, is their mothers.’
‘Is Miss Vaughan a nurse?’
‘No she’s not. She’s nursing ’em all right, but not qualified, just hired as a nanny, so I gather.’
‘As well she’s got the doc’s help, then.’
‘And two of the other survivors are stewards, who’ll do the donkey work, meals and so on.’
‘Unpaid?’
‘Up to the Sarawak's owners, isn’t it.’
When a man lost his ship he lost entitlement to pay. Ancient tradition of the Merchant Navy which still applied, but wouldn’t for much longer, so it was said. The British Shipping Federation were setting up what was to be called the Seamen’s Pool, which would control appointments to ships and the pay to which all registered seafarers would be entitled, even when ashore between voyages, not only between formally signing on and signing off, or the signing on and then being sunk. It was expected to come into force within a few months, apparently.
Harve Brown was talking about the Sarawak now. Intermediate passenger and cargo liner, 14,000 tons and seventeen knots. Re-engined quite recently, switching from coal to oil, with bunkers in her double-bottoms and so forth, but otherwise a bit of an antique. Hence her readiness to burst into flames, maybe. Had had Chinese owners at one time. There’d been a high proportion of Lascars among her crew apparently – Indians mostly from Bombay, stewards from Goa, Chinese seamen, as well as laundrymen, greasers and firemen from all over. He’d got all this from Barclay, he said.
‘What cabin have you given him?’
‘Cadets’. They’ll doss in here. And the wireless officer – Searle – is using one of our Marconi boys’ berths, so they’ll work hot bunks with the other two.’
Hot bunks meant the man coming off watch taking the bunk of the one who’d just gone on watch.
‘Owners’ suite, though – twenty-seven kids and the girl – day and night and meals—’
‘Once she and the doc have got ’em settled in, we’ll see to some e
ntertainment for them. Boat-deck as a recreation area, for instance. Weather permitting, of course. Off-watch cadets supervising and organising games, I thought. And tours of the ship – in small groups, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m working on it. Any ideas, let me hear ’em.’
‘How about employing them as lookouts?’
‘You serious?’
‘I mean pretend lookouts. Pretend tricks at the helm, even?’
* * *
At supper that evening – pilchards and beans again – he’d just been served with his, by Chumley the rat-faced assistant steward, when Harve Brown arrived with the girl in tow. Like a stroke of magic – one minute the sporadic talk mainly of ‘shop’, this extremely unexciting canned fish and the same old boringly male faces – second and fourth engineers, cadets Dixon and Merriman, Newton with his awful sideboards. One new face was that of Searle, the Sarawak’s somewhat podgy second wireless officer – for as much as that was worth – then suddenly this vision: quite tall – five-nine or ten, he guessed – slim, with dark-brown hair, straight nose, wide-apart eyes over high cheekbones, noticeably elegant, slim neck. Eyes light blue, in pleasing contrast to her dark hair. He’d made this much of an appraisal in the few seconds while pushing his chair back and standing up, observing then that she was wearing dark-coloured slacks, white shirt, yellow pullover. Either she’d had those items in the knapsack or there’d been a very swift job done of drying-out and ironing. Ironing anyway: she actually looked quite smart. Last night, one had heard, the engine room gratings had been fairly laden with clothes drying-out. Quilla’s officers all on their feet now, Harve announcing rather pompously that he had the honour to introduce Miss Vaughan, children’s nanny, who was joining them for dinner and he hoped would make a habit of it, since the kids had their high tea much earlier and were now either asleep or having stories read to them by Dr Creagh, who’d be down for his supper later.
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