First, the news of Eric’s death, and now — This! I felt my anger flushing into my face. ‘Athenian’s just a bloody decoy, then? And the Frenchie? She went down so we could save a few days by travelling in a straight bloody line instead of taking reasonable evasive action?’
Evans scratched his barrel chest uncomfortably. ‘Not so that we could save a few days — so that we could save a few ships. And the Commandant Joffre wasn’t just thrown away, man. She was still loaded with cargo that had to be shipped one way or another. Any merchantman rounding the Cape is at risk. Good God, even a zig-zag can bring you right into a sub’s range instead of taking you out of it.’
I stared out at the little corvette, now skipping playfully abeam of us. Aft, a torpedoman moved among the rows of ready-armed depth-charges, seemingly unmoved by the knowledge that he was surrounded by tons of high explosive and that, in the event of Mallard’s being sunk, the water pressure acting on the charges would send the whole bloody lot up, back out of the Atlantic, as high as Cyclops’s mastheads.
I pointed accusingly at her with the butt of the Players. ‘What about the Grey Funnel boat? Is she expendable too?’
Evans’s face started to get red but he kept on trying to be nice. ‘She’s our escort, John.’
I savagely ground my stub in the Company ashtray on the chronometer case. ‘Escort? That motorised skitter-bug? We’d be better off with a yellow bloody duck in a tin bath for an escort.’
Now the Old Man was really getting needled. I could see it would be ‘Mister’ any moment now. Maybe he didn’t like the things that were happening either, but he had the sense to accept them and not keep knocking every idea the Navy had.
‘All right, Mister Kent. If you must know… Mallard’s not so much with us as an escort — we both know she can’t do much to protect us from submarines working on her own— she’s with us more to ensure that the enemy don’t get their hands on those confidential bags. If we are hit, Commander Braid is charged with the duty of trying to take the bags aboard Mallard. If there isn’t time, if the strong-room is inaccessible due to the ship being down by the head, say, or through any other reason, then he has orders to sink us himself!’
I stared at the Captain. This was getting better and better. Not only were we carrying enough secret information to make us the target of every Kriegsmarine unit in the South Atlantic if they knew, but also, apparently, the Royal Navy were quite prepared to give them a hand with it, if convenient. I remembered Sparks’s thin, self-confident sneer at breakfast, and the contemptuous voice. ‘…Not me, Mister Mate. And I’ll get a proper signal off first, too. Don’t you worry!’ Well, I was worried now — bloody worried! And I had a sick premonition that Larabee was going to have the opportunity to prove himself.
‘What happens if the bags are captured, Sir?’ I asked without enthusiasm. ‘If Mallard’s sunk, and we’re boarded?’
He looked at me very hard, the warning cone was being hoisted. ‘In that case we must make every effort to jettison them over the side, Mister. I repeat… every effort and sacrifice!’
‘But if they are captured?’ I persisted, starting to feel bloody minded. ‘If there’s no one left on board to dump the goddamned things? What happens then? The whole idea’s crazy. The enemy will have enough information to sink every ship in the Eastern Hemisphere by appointme…!’
Evans slammed his fist down on the chart table savagely. I had pushed my luck too hard with him and, as the red weatherbeaten face glared at me angrily, I remembered my own reaction to young Conway’s display of little-boy pique that morning. Now I was in his position. We all had a superior to chew us out when we forgot ourselves. A ridiculous, almost forgotten childhood rhyme started running through my head. ‘Big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite them; And little fleas have littler fleas, and so ad infinitum.’ The particular flea on my back crammed the gold-braided cap on his head and stuck his jaw out ferociously.
‘If you don’t like it, Mister Kent, you can complain to the bloody Board of Trade! Until then you will carry out your duties as required by me, the master of this vessel. My orders are not that you should dedicate yourself to finding flaws in everything the Admiralty does, despite your seemingly unerring capacity for so doing.’
He turned away and, reaching the chartroom door, hesitated. The stern features softened slightly. ‘I, myself, confess to a little disenchantment with the circumstances surrounding our present voyage, but I can, however, pride myself on my ability to carry out my duty as master of a British vessel. The Owners have dictated that I accept my instructions from the Royal Navy without demur, and this both I and my officers will continue to do.’
He smiled suddenly and it was like the sun coming through a cloud. ‘Duty, Mister Kent, does not necessarily equate with common sense. But, if common sense prevailed over every decision, then perhaps we wouldn’t be at war?’
I nodded silently, at the same time wondering how far Eric Clint would go along with that profundity — washing about face down in some anonymous patch of oily sea, his long blond hair floating like dead tentacles and the wreckage of his beloved Hesperia as an obscene shroud — A monument to ‘Duty.’
The Old Man must have read the doubt still in my white face. ‘Don’t worry about the capture of the bags, John. Common sense still retains a foothold, even in Whitehall. In the event of our being unable to destroy the documents we are to attempt to get a signal off advising them…’
‘Larabee fancies himself a bloody hero,’ I murmured sardonically.
He didn’t catch the sarcasm. ‘…the Shipping Control people will, of course, immediately alter all codes, sea routes and so forth, rendering the majority of the captured intelligence useless. If we are… er…’
‘Sunk?’ I suggested brutally.
‘…sunk,’ he affirmed smoothly, ‘then they will pick up a message either from us or either Mallard or Athenian, wireless silence then being unnecessary. They will at least know that the documents are still out of enemy hands and they must hope to God the ships behind us get through. The plans will remain unchanged.’
I didn’t like to risk appearing bloody-minded again — Evans in full battle rig was something to be avoided — but there was one thing I just had to know. The most obvious flaw in the whole proposition. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. but what happens if they don’t receive any call from us? If every ship in the group disappears without trace?’
To my relief he smiled tolerantly. ‘It’s hardly likely, is it? I mean, for every ship here to just vanish into thin air without leaving any indication of what’s happened? But, to set your fertile mind at rest, if we don’t arrive on our E.T.A., and the Admiralty have no certain proof that we have taken the bags down with us, then they are to assume that the documents have been captured and act accordingly. I trust, Mister Mate, that the Royal Navy’s proposals have your approval?’