One of the white shirts on her control platform raised an arm in careless salute and her lamp flashed stutteringly, SORRY WE WERE JUST ADMIRING YOUR FIGURE. Then the white cap cover flashed briefly in the last rays of the setting sun as the watchkeeper bent over the row of voice pipes under her glass windscreens, and the foam at her counter kicked higher as she started to draw ahead with an acceleration that made me green with envy.
Abruptly our zig-zag clock dinged again from within the wheelhouse, signalling time for the next leg. I still wasn't comfortable about Mallard’s proximity, so I lifted a warning hand to Brannigan who’d already started to give the new helm order to McRae at the wheel. Like me not so long ago, he’d also forgotten to check first on where the other ships in the group lay. The Captain hadn’t moved all this time from his stolid, legs-apart stance, but when he saw me gesture he looked round. ‘That was the bell, Mister Kent.’
I looked at him a bit surprised, then jerked my chin at the escort, by now about three cables ahead and to starboard of our flared bow. ‘Yes, Sir. But the next leg’s the big one… to starb’d!’
Evans sniffed bad-temperedly. ‘Aye? Well then?’
By God but he was needled with the way Mallard had come in so close. I didn’t really blame him, but… ‘I’m sorry, Sir, but I don’t consider the escort to be far enough ahead to risk a sixty-degree turn across her stern.’
He glanced forward and seemed to consider for a moment, then the aggressive jaw hardened almost petulantly. ‘Bugger them! They started this bloody chasing round in circles, Mister. As the escort it’s their duty to keep clear of us.’
I weighed her relative position again. She certainly seemed far enough ahead by now to be clear of our turning circle, assuming that nothing went wrong. But could we be sure? It was almost twilight, the worst time of evening to see perfectly: the time when big ships only a few hundred yards away in reality look small and insignificant. And another thing… Mallard was still the stand-on ship, irrespective of whether she was our escort or not. According to the International Regulations we, as the overtaking vessel, still had the responsibility to keep clear.
It was obvious that the Old Man didn’t subscribe to the rule of the road when it came to escorts, though. He wasn’t alone in this feeling either, come to that. A lot of merchant masters I’d met felt that, with the added strains of zig-zag routing to contend with, it was the responsibility of the Royal Navy to give us the sea room required, especially when there were several thousand square miles of it as in this case. Still, I had to have one more try.
‘We could delay the turn a few more minutes, Sir. Give her time to draw further ahead,’ I ventured.
To give him his due, he didn’t just haul off at me as he could have done. Instead, he glowered critically over at Mallard yet again before answering.
‘She seems to have settled down for the bloody night where she is,’ he grunted irritably. ‘No, Mister Kent, starboard your helm or we’ll never turn at all. If she doesn’t shift when she sees us yawing towards her, then we’ll wake the buggers up with a blast or two on the horn.’
He was certainly right in one way. Mallard didn’t seem to be moving any farther away after her first debonair spurt of acceleration and, if she was keeping permanent station so close under our bows, then we’d never be able to turn in safety. The minutes were ticking past quickly, and on our present leg we were already well to port of our proper heading. I turned into the wheelhouse and crooked a finger at Brannigan.
He came over inquiringly and I jerked my thumb towards the foc’slehead where the small, black shape could be dimly seen cutting ahead of us. ‘The corvette's still close under us, Mister Brannigan. I want you to stand by the whistle lanyard to wake ’em up if necessary… Right?’
He nodded, ‘Aye, aye, Sir.’
I stepped over to McRae at the wheel. For some reason I suddenly found myself whispering, which was bloody silly but, somehow, it just seemed so quiet up there right then. McRae glanced pointedly at the green glowing dial of the zig-zag clock in silent admonishment and I saw we were now four minutes past the pre-arranged zig-zag point.
For some reason I didn’t give him the new course and leave him to it — maybe, subconsciously, I still felt there was something wrong. Instead, I just said, ‘Starboard your helm ten, McRae,’ meaning him to put the wheel over until the ‘Tell-tale’ pointer of the telemotor showed we had a constant ten degrees of rudder. Then I walked forward to the window and watched as we started to swing, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
‘Sing out our heading every ten degrees, Quartermaster,’ I said without turning, eyes fixed on the blob that was Mallard.
‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ McRae answered phlegmatically behind me, then, almost immediately, started calling out the changing course bearings. ‘050, Sir… 060…’
She was swinging really fast now so I called to McRae as I turned, ‘Ease the helm,’ to slow our head a bit. If Mallard wasn’t watching at precisely this moment, then I didn’t want to come round on her too quickly.
‘070, Sir,’ sang McRae, and I could hear the gyro clicking off the points as the lubberline on the card swung in its mounting. The Captain was still a silent, unmoving figure out on the wing.
Suddenly, as I turned back to the window and looked out again for the corvette, I started to get uneasy. Well, I’d been uneasy all the time — now I was plain scared. Mallard had apparently vanished. One minute she was there, steaming ahead and to starboard — now she was gone! Perhaps it was a trick of the half-light. It was getting dark very quickly and the sea seemed to heave sullenly like black, billowing glass.
God! Where the hell was she? I swung on Brannigan.
‘Short blasts, Fourth Mate. And keep on blowing till I tell you to stop!’ I yelled as I headed for the wheelhouse door. Then I saw we were still swinging too fast against the fuzzy grey shading of the horizon. Even if we’d been heading west instead of almost due east I would at least have had the blood-red crack of sky remaining to help me find that vanished escort.
‘MIDSHIPS the wheel!’ I threw over my shoulder as I went through the door itself, eyes clawing for the dark sea ahead.
Then I saw the Old Man running towards me and, with a sick feeling in my gut, I knew it was too late.
Things had happened so slowly at first that it was confusingly unbelievable that they could be piling one on top of another with such terrifying speed. I suddenly realised that the reason I couldn’t see the little Mallard was because she was already hidden from the bridge by the enormous flare of our bows. Already her officers and ratings would be staring up in disbelieving horror at the overhang of steel looming over them like a Damoclesian sword. They were dead men, yet they were still able to scream.
I know, because I heard them.
And Cyclops was screaming, too, as the gravel-throated siren shrieked too late from our funnel abaft the bridge.
Captain Evans and I–I have to include myself — had both been trapped into misjudging our true distance from Mallard as she sat out there on our bow. I found out later what had actually happened when he talked dazedly about it in his cabin.