"Don't think so," said Feathers. "More likely this has something to do with that new German battleship we've been hearing about over the wireless."
"The one named after that Prussian. Otto von something-or-other."
" Bismarck," Patterson supplied in his smoky rasp. "Ah, she's no threat. Remember, lads. We've got the Hood." A cluster of men had come up behind Feathers for a look at the cat. They all broke into shouts when they heard the flagship's name. "The Hood, the Hood, the mighty Hood. Three cheers for the Hood!”
Fists lifted in the air and voices bellowed out. Feathers, still encumbered with the life ring and its occupant, couldn't lift his hand, but he shouted along with the rest. For twenty years the battleship H.M.S. Hood had been the staunch symbol of British sea power. With her 42,000-ton displacement and her fifteen-inch guns, she was the most powerful battleship in the world.
The cheering faded as the ArkRoyal's loudspeaker crackled to life again. "This is the Captain speaking. The War Office and the Prime Minister have requested that the following information be announced to all members of the British Armed forces. This morning, at six hundred hours, the H.M.S. Hood blew up and sank during an engagement off the coast of Iceland with the enemy battleship Bismarck and the heavy cruiser, Prinz Eugen. Three survivors were taken aboard H.M.S. Repulse. Their names are…"
Feathers stood, stunned. The Hood gone? Bang, just like that? And three survivors out of how many? The Hood had carried a crew of more than fourteen hundred. He felt a burning lump in his throat. Three survivors out of fourteen hundred! And he had been messing about with a bloody cat after the pride of the British Empire had gone down beneath the waves.
The "bloody cat" gave a sharp meow. Feathers meant to answer its imperious glare with an indignant one of his own, but he noticed something about the animal's neck. It was a brown leather collar with a buckle and bronze nameplate. As Feathers turned the collar, letters in a flourished engraved script came into view. They read, "H.M.S. Hood."
At the sight, the pilot felt his face flush, then pale. He stared at the half-drowned shivering cat, then at the collar. The words didn't change, as he half-expected them to.
"It can't be," he muttered.
In principle there was no reason why the animal couldn't have been the Hood's ship's cat. Many British vessels had cats aboard, whether officially or otherwise. The stores of food aboard were too tempting to the rats that infested the most well-run ships. Therefore a cat, or perhaps a pair were an essential part of a warship's crew.
Feathers was still baffled. According to the announcement, the Hood had gone down in the Denmark Strait, between Iceland and Greenland. The Ark Royal was, at this moment, only a few hundred miles off the coast of Spain.
How could this cat have gotten here, more than three thousand miles from the Hood's last known position. No. This had to have another explanation. Perhaps the cat had been on another ship, being brought to or from the Hood. Maybe it had fallen ill or grown too old and had to be retired. The Hood's crew might have let it keep the collar and nameplate as an honor for years of service.
Feathers admitted his reasoning was pretty flimsy, but it was the only explanation that made sense.
And then he noticed something else about the cat. In the light gray fur on its left haunch, the pilot saw a sooty mark. When Feathers touched it, the cat flinched and stiffened. Even though the fur was soaked, the hairs looked black and brittle. Burned. And in the cat's fur was the lingering smell of cordite.
Suddenly an image came into his mind. A small four-footed figure darting across the tilting deckplates while guns roared and fire licked out from the superstructure of a doomed battleship.
The Hood had blown up. A tower of fire amidships. Fire and smoke and scorched fur. And the collar.
"Well, some cook could have thrown a hot kettle at you in the galley," muttered Feathers, looking down at the cat, but suddenly all his contrived explanations fell apart.
As he backed through the hatchway with cat and ring still held out in front of him like a tea tray, Feathers Geoffrey-Faucett could not help wondering if he held a fourth, if unrecognized, survivor from the H.M.S. Hood.
Since the orders had been changed and the Swordfish biplanes were again being stowed below decks, Feathers Geoffrey-Faucett decided that he could spare a moment to look after the cat. The animal was shivering after its drenching in the sea, though it clung as stubbornly as ever to the life ring.
As the pilot carried the cat between decks to his cramped cabin, he felt the deck vibrate as a roar shook the carrier, then subsided into a rumble. The ArkRoyal's engines were coming up to full throttle; she was no longer at station but bound for some destination. Feathers guessed that they were heading for the North Atlantic, where the battleship Bismarck must be lurking.
As he was tilting the cat and life ring against his chest to squeeze them and himself through the narrow cabin hatchway, he heard Jack Shepherd's voice. The air controller stopped, stared, then broke into a grin beneath his neatly clipped mustache.
"So there really was a cat out there. You weren't just ragging me, Feathers."
"Get some rum from your kit, would you, Jack? This little perisher needs it and I could use a nip as well."
Feathers spread a slicker on his bunk, laid cat and ring down, then grabbed a terrycloth and toweled the animal until its fur stood up in spikes. When Shepherd came in with the bottle, Feathers laid a gentle hand over the top of the cat's head and slipped his fingers into the corner of its mouth, prying its jaws apart. Shepherd filled the bottle cap with a small dose. Feathers deftly poured it down the animal's throat, then followed with a second.
"My, you know how to handle it," said Shepherd admiringly.
"My mum kept moggies and vetted them herself. Always had a soft spot for the creatures. All right," Feathers said to the cat. "Sit up and let's have a look at you."
By now the cat had released its grip on the life ring. Feathers gently lifted the ring off over the cat's head. The castaway shook itself, grimaced, and raised its flattened ears. It was a compact little animal with the short thick fur and the rounded head characteristic of the sturdy British shorthair. A few more rubs with the towel and the fur was soft and fluffy, if still a little damp. The cat opened its gold eyes and stared Feathers full in the face.
Now that the beast was halfway clean and dry, Feathers could see its markings. All along the back, sides, chest, and down the front legs on both outside and inside, the animal's fur was a rich leathery brown. The brown ended in a border just behind the animal's middle and its flanks, hind legs and tail were gray. Two white wristlets encircled the forelegs just above the paws. The paws themselves were black.
"Well, aren't we the natty little gentleman," said Feathers, leaning over with his hands on his knees. "Look, Jack. He looks like he's got on a bomber jacket."
The cat arched its back and rubbed against Feathers' hand, then butted his palm with its nose. Its head and neck were tan, with a slightly darker color on the ears. And the ears themselves were a bit odd. They stood up like normal cat's ears, but the outside edge of each one curled outward and the tips pointed together like little horns.