‘Barrow. Barrow-in-Furness? Where they build ships?’
‘Build more than ships.’ Andy once more intervening. ‘My father was based there just after the last war. He was still in the navy but teamed up with Vickers, building airships – naval airships. During that war he’d piloted them, in the RN Air Service. By golly, that lot were intrepid…’
* * *
August 10th, noon position 49 and a half north and just on 40 west. Course unchanged, ditto revs, still the same zigzag throughout daylight hours. In view of that westerly longitude, which surely had to be about the limit of U-boat operations, he’d asked the Old Man, when up top at midday to get his meridian altitude and take over the afternoon watch from Waller, whether the zigzag might not be discontinued, increasing the day’s run by fifteen percent and saving pretty well a whole day in passage-time to New York.
After spending a few minutes at the chart the Old Man agreed they’d steer a straight course as from sunset that evening, would not resume zigzagging at first light on the 11th.
Quilla had made-good 230 miles in the past twenty-four hours. In the next twenty-four, with improving sea-state and no zigzag, might reckon on 250. And better than that thereafter. Every little helped, and the sooner one got to New York the sooner one might get into dry dock and out of it again. Chief Verity had said that if the shoreside engineers were on the ball, one full day’s work should see it fixed: so a couple of days’ wait, maybe, then say another three for docking, pumping down, doing the job and getting out again, two more for bunkering, watering and taking on stores – a week in all mightn’t be far out. Then 1,200 miles to Cuba – say five days for that transit, and with ETA New York 16th, call it eighteen days from here to Nuevitas. Then the loading of 10,000 tons of bagged sugar: a lot would depend on the Cubans, but say another five days, which would bring one up to twenty-three. (All mental arithmetic, this, with glasses up and searching, while Waller tidied up his entries in the deck-log.) So, after Nuevitas, now deep-laden, you’d have the long haul up to Halifax to join a home-bound convoy – 1,500 miles approximately, making-good, say, twelve knots – looked like six days. Might call the running total thirty days: one over the odds to allow for the possibility of bad weather slowing one down.
A few days at Halifax then, awaiting convoy assembly and departure. Could be a week or even more, but call it a week, bringing the total to thirty-seven days. A rough enough estimate, sure, but call it that. Then the crossing – in an HX convoy, meaning the sort that was categorised as ‘fast’, comprising ships capable of maintaining between 9 and 14.9 knots, anything faster than that being sailed independently. Estimates necessarily on the wild side now, home-bound convoys being subject to various influences such as major rerouting in avoidance of U-boat packs, but guess at twelve or fourteen days?
Depending on U-boats. And weather. Mostly on the U-boats. And a fourteen-day crossing would bring the notional total to fifty-one. Call it fifty. August 10th now, so – seven weeks, which would see Quilla back in home waters at the end of September.
He’d told her ten or twelve weeks from the start of this month, and in point of fact – believe it or not – it looked more like eight weeks that they’d have been away. If that figuring had been right, which he was pretty sure it had been. Even if one had to wait a fortnight or three weeks at Halifax, you’d still be inside the limit. From Julia’s point of view maybe not exactly splendid, but a hell of a lot better than it had begun to look in the last day or so.
So scrap the second letter. Write a new one, tell her things were running pretty well as forecast, and leave it at that – leave room to give her a nice surprise.
Really, huge relief. And Waller hovering, awaiting his release.
‘All right, Gus, I have the weight. Enjoy your shepherd’s pie.’
A grimace. ‘That again.’
‘Don’t like shepherd’s pie?’ Glancing at him in surprise. ‘One of the best things Loomis does, in my view.’
Loomis being the cook. Waller shrugging as he turned away. ‘Not saying all that much, is it.’
‘You have higher culinary standards than I do, maybe. Compared to what I remember of cadet days, we eat like kings. And looking further back, well, ask Mr Brown how it was in his apprentice days. Damn near starved, and worked like slaves. For three-and-ninepence a week, what’s more – and deck officers carried whistles for summoning them when they thought of some other filthy job that needed doing. Going to help with the nippers again this afternoon, are you?’
‘Oh.’ A cautious look… Dixon smirking as he put his glasses up; Elliot had gone down. Waller nodding to himself as if in recognition of a surprising but quite good idea. ‘Perhaps I will. If they’re going to be out there.’
‘Bound to be. This calm – just right for them.’
By her own in-ballast standards Quilla was virtually rocksteady. There was still a swell but it was even lower than yesterday’s, and the surface was barely ruffled, the westerly down practically to light airs. The CRO had circulated a transcript of a BBC news bulletin to the effect that the Luftwaffe were now concentrating on southern England, and particularly on the airfields, in an all-out attempt to break the back of the RAF.
* * *
He’d asked Dr Creagh last night, over coffee after supper, how he thought Samantha was taking the shock of the Sarawak disaster and the unspeakably dreadful fate of so many children whom she’d known, been caring for.
The doc’s eyes held his. Grey eyes in a seamed, tanned face. Long-fingered hands opening questioningly. ‘Not easy to be sure. The last thing she’s going to allow at this stage is to have it show. In fact I only see her when she has children around her, and she’s certainly not going to bare her soul in their sight or hearing. Especially as she’s deeply concerned for them – four or five of them especially, including a pair who’re barely capable of speech. Nods and headshakes are the best one gets. Not a hint of a smile, sobs at night and tear-stained faces first thing. You might say to be expected, at least not entirely surprising, but…’ A sigh.
‘Bloody tragic.’
‘As of now it is. Except that it can only be a temporary affliction, and coping with it I think helps to keep her mind off her own distress. She’s at pains to be seen as weathering it, you know?’
‘Seen that way by the children, you mean?’
‘Yes – mainly. And very much contributing to their own recovery, you see.’
‘She’s terrific, isn’t she?’
‘Well – yes… Anyway, thanks be to God most of the kids barely seem to realise what’s gone on – infantile water-off-the-duck’s-back syndrome, might call it. Although there again, there could well be delayed reactions.’
‘And – if you don’t mind me asking – how about yourself?’
A silence: slow blink. ‘I’m old. Case-hardened, you might say.’ Deep breath, then. ‘Not to the incineration or drowning of small children, I admit, but – in more general terms…’ Checking the time. ‘And right now, better be getting back up there, bid them all goodnight.’ Pausing then, asking quietly, ‘Taken with Sam, are you?’
‘Oh.’ He was surprised at the question: wondering then whether something she’d said might have provoked it. But in any case, straight question, straight answer: ‘Taken – yes. Meaning attracted. Admire her, too. But as she knows, I’m engaged to be married – soon as we get back from this trip, as it happens – so that’s it.’
‘Quite.’ Moving. ‘Quite. And good luck to you – the getting back, to start with.’
‘Thanks. One trifling question though, Doc. She mentioned you read to the children at their bedtime, and I was wondering, read what?'
‘Brer Rabbit.’ Wide smile. Huge teeth, the man had. Yellowish, like tusks. ‘Know him?’
‘Well – heard of him – it – I think—’
‘It’s a book of stories I’d been reading to some of them on board the Sarawak. Brought it with me in my bag.’
‘Gladstone bag slung from your be
lt, I remember.’
‘I’d an idea some reading matter might come in handy, stuffed it in at the last minute along with more obvious items. They love it – same stories over and over, must know ’em almost by heart. Look, must go…’
* * *
August 11th: course 246, no zigzag, clear sky for the morning sunsight. Was going to let Dixon put the position-line on the chart and run it up to noon, then thought better of it, told him to get out the ship’s slightly battered old sextant and take his own sight. The cadets’ sight-taking was a regular exercise, but for some reason had been neglected in the past few days – at any rate Dixon’s had. But one never lent one’s own sextant. No more than you’d lend anyone your toothbrush. Andy had learnt this way back, in the old Burntisland, when as a cadet he’d asked to borrow the third mate’s and been bawled out for his bloody cheek.
Today in fact there couldn’t be the least doubt of the ship’s position. The Old Man had taken a set of stars last night, and Harve Brown had done so this morning during his four to eight watch, and both fixes confirmed that by noon Quilla would be as near as damnit 290 miles due east of St John’s, Newfoundland. And making-good eleven knots, say 265 nautical miles a day, she’d make New York now in five days.
He found himself explaining some of this to Samantha in the afternoon. The children were on the boat-deck as usual, with Waller as well as cadets Merriman and Elliot in attendance, and Harve Brown had asked her whether she’d like to see the bridge – the Old Man having authorised this, apparently. It was about three p.m., the Old Man had come up and had his pipe going, hadn’t said anything about expecting visitors, and the first Andy knew of it was Harve’s ‘Miss Vaughan, sir…’
‘Ah, Miss Vaughan. How’s your little lot?’
‘Mostly very well, Captain, thank you. As I dare say you can hear?’
‘Can indeed. They all on deck?’
‘A few still aren’t up to it. Dr Creagh’s with those. It’s kind of you to allow me up here in your holy of holies.’
‘Ah, you’re more than welcome.’
‘Afternoon, Miss Vaughan.’ Andy had taken the glasses from his eyes for long enough to exchange smiles with her. Back to the ever-continuing search then, leaving her to the Old Man. Dixon had murmured politely, ‘Miss Vaughan…’ and had his glasses up again, and Harve was excusing himself, to keep an eye on proceedings on the boat-deck. Andy feeling annoyed with himself for having addressed her as Miss Vaughan rather than as Samantha, as if that small degree of familiarity wasn’t to be aired in the presence of the Master. Master meanwhile showing her the telegraphs and now the helm, so forth, and introducing Able Seaman Samways, quartermaster of this watch. ‘Gyro compass, this – in fact gyro repeater, what we call a pelorus. The gyro itself’s two decks down, out of harm’s way as you might say. While the standard compass – magnetic – is up there’ – pointing at the deckhead – ‘on what’s called monkey island. There’s ladders up both sides, out there in the wings, see. But I’d not recommend that you – ah—’
‘Disturb the monkey?’
‘Well.’ A laugh, of sorts: Old Man explaining that the ladders were narrow and vertical, and she’d find nothing up there to interest her.
Samantha accepting this advice and changing the subject. ‘Captain, hasn’t been a chance to until now – may I thank you for saving our lives? I know it was a terrific effort finding us – Mr Brown’s explained to me, the odds against it—’
‘We were lucky, Miss, that’s the long and short of it. Only wish to God we’d been closer and could’ve got there quicker. Although from as much as I’ve come to know of it, from Chief Officer Barclay, seems however close we might’ve been—’
‘I’m afraid you’re right. But might I see it on the chart – where we were, and where you were, and—’
‘Why, by all means.’ A moment’s hesitation, then: ‘Holt. Show Miss Vaughan…’ To her then, ‘Second Officer Holt is our navigator – you’re acquainted, I’m sure.’
‘He pulled me out of the lifeboat, after all!’
‘Oh, aye…’ The Old Man nodded to him, gestured towards the chart corner, turned for’ard then, raising his own binoculars.
Samantha looking at him – Andy – expectantly. He told her, ‘This way… Passing around Samways, and aft to the chart table. ‘Here we are – the chart we’ve been on for some time. About to change to this one, now we’re approaching the US seaboard. Ever see a chart before?’
‘D’you know, I haven’t?’
‘Well. Here’s where we were at noon. Land features here, see – Newfoundland, Gulf of St Lawrence, Nova Scotia. This pencil line’s our route down to New York. New York here.’
‘How far is that?’
‘You take the scale from the side here. Latitude scale, that is. One minute of latitude is one sea mile – on the equator, that is; it varies slightly with the curvature of the earth as you go north or south. So to check, say, this distance, you measure it on the scale at about the same level. Get it? Here, see – when we pass Cape Race around noon tomorrow, the distance-off will be’ – measuring it with brass dividers – ‘that. Seventy miles. OK?’
‘If you say so.’
‘It’s very simple. But you’re looking absolutely marvellous, Sam.’ He’d dropped his voice to tell her that: knew he should not have said it, but – well, the sight of her in such close-up, and the proximity itself. Had never been so close to her. Her eyes on his now, and not smiling, quite disturbingly serious. He moved the chart slightly, ran his finger northeastward up what had been Quilla’s track. ‘This is the way we’ve come. And back here – on the seventh, that was the noon estimated position, and we were here – at 1500, three p.m. – when we took in the distress call. Turned here ten minutes later, estimating sixty miles to this point here, which was the position given in that message. Would have taken five hours at the twelve knots we were doing, and we increased to our maximum – on which basis we’d have had a decent chance of getting to you in daylight, but partly because of the increased revs she developed a mechanical problem and we had to come down by several knots. Not the best time for it, eh?’
‘You’re really very happy in all this, aren’t you? The way you look and sound, when you talk about it?’
‘Sam, the way you look and sound—’
‘Hush. Hush.'
‘Yes. All right. But—’
‘You were saying you had to slow down – engine trouble?’
‘Shaft trouble: propeller-shaft. Definitely wasn’t the best time for it, I can tell you. Down to low revs then, and the weather not helping much, visions in mind of – of how actually it must have been, pretty well, and – conscious of losing hours. And – well, looking for boats then, because if the ship had still been afloat the flames would have been visible a long way off, and with wind and sea as they were, boats would have been drifting down-wind – this way – all that time. So approaching the position given in that signal we sort of aimed-off – guesswork mostly – and eventually started letting off snowflakes, as they’re called.’
‘Which we saw, and thought, “Oh thank God!”, but it faded away, and Mr Barclay didn’t want to use up all his Very lights—’
‘Might have been the second or third of those that our lookouts spotted, and we turned towards it. Hadn’t aimed-off enough, you see. But another snowflake or two then, and there you were.’ A hand on one of hers – it had moved of its own accord. ‘At that stage we were thinking yours was just the first boat, there’d be others, but…’ A pause. ‘I’m so sorry, Sam. We all think the world of you for the way you’re standing up to it. Sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, but—’
‘Children to think about, and keeping busy’s the great thing.’ She retrieved her hand. Voice up again. ‘New York when?’
‘Sixteenth. Probably early.’
‘Friday… What’s the little blue flashing light?’
‘The log. Type known as a Chernikeef. Distance run’s shown on the dial, and that table pr
inted on the switch-box converts the time for twenty-one flashes into knots. See – “Time in Seconds” in this column, “Speed in Knots” here? The log itself sticks out about eighteen inches below the hull, little impeller inside it buzzes round and the results come up here electrically.’
‘Marvels of modern science.’
‘As long as it doesn’t get bunged up with mud or seaweed, it’s all right.’ He turned back to her: she’d edged away a little but they were still eye to eye. ‘Anything else I can tell you?’
‘There is, actually. Keep meaning to ask – what’s “Barranquilla” mean when it’s at home?’
‘It’s a seaport in Colombia, in the Caribbean. Our company, Dundas Gore of Glasgow, bought her not long ago from owners who mostly traded out that way. And if they wanted to change it now they couldn’t: changing ships’ names in wartime isn’t allowed, for some reason. Love your name, Sam.’
* * *
That evening in the saloon she was distant both in manner and location, sitting between Harve Brown and Chief Officer Barclay and chatting mostly with the second engineer – Bridgeman – who was facing her across the table, with the Sarawak’s radio man on his left and CRO Foster on his right, Andy thus effectively excluded. In fact a lot of her conversation was with Harve – about the children, how most of them seemed to be as right as rain but just a few – older ones, oddly enough – still subject to nightmares and crying fits and largely unresponsive to efforts by herself and Dr Creagh to cheer them up. Andy chipped in at that stage, asking whether they listened with the others to the doctor’s Brer Rabbit stories, and she replied with a laugh, ‘Oh, they’re all crazy about old Brer. Rather keen on him myself, tell you the truth.’ Explaining to the others then, ‘Book of stories the doc reads to them. He’s worth his weight in gold. Honestly don’t know where we’d be without him.’
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