I frowned. ‘Simpson? No, should it?’
He stopped and turned in front of the cabin door that proclaimed ‘Master’ on a little brass plate. ‘His dad was chief engineer of Hesperia.’
Hesperia? Eric Clint’s dead ship… Oh, Christ, the bloody war again, breaking up the happy family. Now a mother with both husband and son in the Company service, and both gone along with Big Eric and old Tom Everett. This bloody, bloody war!
Little Bert Samson had risen and held out his hand as we went in, taking our caps off. The hard little eyes weighed me up from under eyebrows that could have been a twin set with Evans’s bushy growths. As soon as I stepped forward I could feel the dynamic personality exuding from the skinny, diminutive frame. The gruff, contrasting voice was exactly as I’d remembered it. ‘Well, Mister Kent, and how are things aboard Cyclops?’
The hand gripped mine firmly as we shook. ‘Very well, thank you, Sir. Captain Evans sends his compliments and apologies for not visiting himself, but he feels he should stay aboard the ship under the circumstances. He’s sure you’ll understand.’
Bert waved to a chair behind me and smiled, which meant he allowed the withered skin to crinkle sourly round the corners of an obstinate mouth. ‘Aye? I can’t say I’m really surprised after him bringing us into a bloody rat trap like this.’
I shrugged deferentially. ‘The only alternative was to run the risk of chasing each other’s tails for the next three days, Captain. If there are U-boats in this area they’d have thought it was Christmas.’
‘And if they see us in here, or watched us squeeze through the entrance, then we’re already gift-boxed and ready for collection, Mister.’
The bushy protrusions rose again. I could see that, despite first impressions, he was in one of his bloody-minded moods, so I tried to duck out gracefully. ‘The Admiralty signal did advise us to attempt an entrance if at all possible… Sir.’
‘Did you query it?’ Sharp and cutting.
Bill shifted uncomfortably next to me as I answered, ‘No, Sir. We wanted to keep radio transmissions to a minimum. The more we emit traffic the better chance the enemy has of getting a D.F. fix on us.’
‘You still should’ve queried it. Three bloody days without an escort… it’s unreasonable.’
I could maybe have added that the whole goddam war was unreasonable, but I was over here to explain the details, not get involved in an inter-master debate on the rights and wrongs of conforming to what were, in Samson’s opinion anyway, ill-advised instructions. So I just nodded and said, ‘Yessir.’
But he wasn’t going to be pacified that easily. The withered old mouth turned down petulantly. ‘No, Sir, Mister Kent! I just about lost my bloody screws with that goddamned sheer to starboard as we came in. And how the hell do we get out, anyway? One touch of the props on that shelf and we’re here till the brass goes rusty.’
I felt Bill grinning sardonically but didn’t dare risk a grin back. We both knew that Bert Samson was as capable of taking Athenian out of Quintanilha as the average bloke is of getting his car out of the garage in the morning, but Bert was Bert.
I tried to look subdued and solicitous. ‘We thought… er, with Cyclops that is of course… that we might run a line ashore from our inside bow to hold her, then heave our stern round with a wire from the starboard quarter to the opposite knuckle of the channel. Then we won’t have to turn the shafts as she swings round against the shelf.’
Of course he knew that perfectly well, but he was laying the doggedness on thick this time. Perhaps this war of nerves was penetrating even his armour-plated skin. He stabbed a bony finger at the air around. ‘That may be all right for Cyclops, Mister. For some reason you seem to be the star turn in this act. But then — you’re not carrying ammunition, are you?’
I stared at him. No one ever told me anything. And he’d brought Athenian through that cleft without even turning one of the few hairs he’d got left. Did Evans know? Somehow I didn’t think so, or he’d never have made the decision to come in here without consultation in the first place. But that was bloody typical of Bert Samson as well. Accomplish it superbly first, then moan like hell about it for the next six months.
Bill confirmed the news expressionlessly. ‘Numbers two, three and five holds, John. General cargo for Adelaide, then sea mines, cased grenades and ball ammunition for Sydney. Twelve hundred tons, roughly.’
I swallowed and suddenly felt a lot happier about being in Cyclops. If a torpedo hit us, all we could do was sink. If Athenian caught one, they’d be flying. Penetrating Quintanilha was, for us, the lesser of two evils, but for Bill Henderson and Bert Samson it was a deadly risk, scraping twelve hundred tons of high-explosive over those clutching shapes that had risen so terrifyingly towards me from the dark green water. I shivered, and that old bastard Samson grinned slyly. He'd made his point.
‘So, perhaps you would be good enough to fully explain why this farce is so necessary, Mister Kent?’ he said, slightly mellowed. ‘Please remember that restrictions on communications between our two vessels have, to this moment, prevented me from doing anything other than what I have been told to. From now on, however, perhaps I may be considered as an equal partner? Along with my dear friend and colleague, Captain Evans.’
The sarcasm now. I didn’t mind, though. The Old Man had given me complete freedom to tell Samson about our cargo in the Cyclops’s strong-room — not only the currency consignment but also the secret bags — and to explain as best I could why we were content to wait for an escort rather than try to run the blockade alone. They listened intently as I went on to say that, while we suspected an enemy plan to force us farther south, there was no real proof and we had decided to follow the remote Admiral Tryst’s instructions accordingly.
When I’d finished Samson leaned back and chewed his thin underlip pensively. I just stared gloomily at the carpet and hoped he wasn’t going to get all bloody-minded and independent again. Finally he glanced at Bill and then, challengingly, at me. ‘So your only justification for suspecting an enemy plot is the angle of attack from the two U-boats and those damned fireworks we saw ahead of us? Oh, plus the possibility that they might have been trying for the escort that time rather than what should normally have been their primary targets… us merchantmen?’
I nodded, as he continued, ‘On the other hand, we have certain proof of enemy activity between us and the Cape through that message from the Kent Star… which couldn’t have had any bearing on plots imagined or otherwise.’
I frowned. There was that indefinable warning bell at the back of my mind as soon as Samson mentioned the Kent Star. What was it that worried me about her? What was so unsettling about the name… Kent Star? Kent? John Kent…? Here I was again on the vicious, negative circle that had kept recurring in my head since poor old Foley had brought that distress call to me on the bridge.
Bill was frowning inquiringly at me, ‘Something wrong, John?’
‘I don't quite know, Bill. It’s just… oh, probably nothing in it anyway.’