The sarcasm was lost on the gangway sentry. ‘You’re Rob Roy’s new first lieutenant.’ He hesitated and added as slowly as he dared, ‘Sir.’
By the time Hargrave had crossed the deck to the other side his arrival had been noted. Both the quartermaster and gangway sentry were ready and waiting for him.
Again the salutes, then the quartermaster said, ‘I’ll ’ave yer case put into yer cabin, sir.’
Hargrave looked around. She seemed crammed with equipment and loose gear. But the two boats, one a whaler, looked smart enough, and the ship’s bell was freshly polished.
The quartermaster’s words made him turn. ‘I’d better hold on until the first lieutenant has cleared out his own stuff,’ he replied.
The man eyed him curiously. ‘All done, sir.’
‘Well, thank you.’
The seaman gestured towards a steel door. ‘Wardroom’s through there, sir. Time fer tea.’
I could use something stronger, Hargrave thought bitterly.
As soon as he had stepped over the lobby coaming the quartermaster said to his companion, ‘Bit stuck-up, eh?’
The seaman grinned. ‘The skipper’ll ’ave ’im fer breakfast.’
The quartermaster rubbed his chin worriedly. ‘I ’ope so.’ He added, ‘Never thought I’d ever miss an officer, but the old Jimmy was a good bloke.’
They lapsed into silence and waited for the watch to change.
Hargrave climbed down a steep ladder and found a white-coated petty officer checking a list against some tins of biscuits.
He gave a lop-sided grin. ‘Arternoon, sir. I’m Kellett, P.O. steward. I looks after the captain an’ the wardroom.’ Again the grin. ‘In that order, so to speak. Care for some char, sir?’
Hargrave nodded and pushed the heavy green curtain aside before stepping into the wardroom.
Like most small ships it was divided in half, if necessary by another long curtain. To starboard was the dining space with a bulkhead sideboard and pantry hatch beyond. A faded photograph of the King was hung above it. Hargrave noticed that the glass was cracked. On the opposite side the place looked snug, but again it was a cupboard after a cruiser’s wardroom. Bench seats and some padded chairs, their red leather worn but well polished, enjoying being without the canvas covers normally used at sea.
A letter rack, a glass-fronted case of revolvers and a tiny fireplace with a club fender completed the fittings.
Hargrave looked at the officer who was sitting propped against the side, his jacket unbuttoned to reveal a none-too-clean sweater. He was an RNVR lieutenant but his appearance made Hargrave stare longer than he normally would. He was very fair, and his lashes looked almost white against his deepset brown eyes. A lean, high-cheekboned face, like one in an old portrait.
The lieutenant put down a dog-eared copy of Men Only and returned his gaze. It was almost physical. Even insolent.
‘I’m Philip Sherwood, Render Mines Safe Officer, a new addition to the senior ship.’ It seemed to amuse him. ‘They feel safer with me aboard.’ He nodded casually to another figure slumped in an armchair whom Hargrave had noticed. The officer was relaxed in a deep sleep, his mouth wide open like a hole, and Hargrave saw with disgust that his false teeth were in a glass-beside one which still held some gin. The man was old and unhealthy-looking, with a heavy belly poking over his belt. He was quite bald, and appeared to have no neck at all.
The lieutenant explained in the same soft voice, ‘Yonder is Mr Alfred Bone, our Gunner (T).’ He smiled gently. ‘Aptly named, don’t you think?’ When Hargrave remained silent, he said, ‘He and the Chief are the ancient mariners – the rest of us just feel that way.’ He smiled as the sleeping warrant officer groaned noisily. ‘Means well, but as ignorant as shit.’
‘Do you always discuss your fellow officers in this vein?’
Sherwood replied abruptly, ‘Usually.’
The petty officer entered with a tray of tea cups and the Gunner (T) jerked into life as if responding to some silent signal. In two deft movements he downed the flat gin and replaced his dentures.
He saw Hargrave and muttered thickly, ‘Welcome aboard.’ He looked even older awake.
The curtain moved aside and a figure in a white overall peered in at them. ‘I’m John Campbell, the Chief.’ He made to offer his hand but saw it was smudged with grease so withdrew it. ‘You’ll be the new first lieutenant?’
Hargrave moved to the club fender and studied the ship’s crest above the empty grate. It was very suitable for a ship of her name. A lion’s head wearing an antique crown with the MacGregor’s motto, ‘Royal is my race’, beneath.
Hargrave knew he had made a bad start without understanding why. He recalled something he had read as a boy, how the Campbells had seized the lands of the MacGregors and driven them out.
He faced the others and said, ‘You must feel out of place here, Chief?’
Campbell sipped his tea. ‘I manage.’
The petty officer fussed around as if he sensed the coolness amongst his charges.
‘I’ll take your coat, sir.’
Hargrave slipped off the raincoat and reached out for a cup. The others stared at the straight stripes on his sleeve.
Sherwood gave a soft whistle. ‘God, a bloody regular!’
Hargrave swung round and noticed for the first time that Sherwood wore a medal ribbon he did not recognise. He recalled how he had described himself, the R.M.S.O. They were the ones who defused mines when they fell ashore or in harbours.
He decided to ignore Sherwood’s comment. ‘Weren’t you ever scared doing that job?’
Sherwood picked up his book. ‘You only feel fear when there’s an alternative.’ The pale lashes closed off his eyes.
The Chief, a commissioned engineer with a lifetime’s experience and skill symbolised by a solitary gold stripe, said awkwardly, ‘There are two subbies in the mess, er, Number One.’ He seemed to falter over the title, and Hargrave felt that Sherwood was watching him again.
The Chief continued, ‘Bob, or should I say Bunny Fallows is the gunnery officer, and Tudor Morgan assists with navigation.
There is of course our Mid, Allan Davenport.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘Green as grass.’
Sherwood spoke from behind his book. ‘And all bloody hostilities-only, except for the two ancient mariners here. I don’t know what the Andrew’s coming to.’
Seven officers who would eat, write their letters, laugh or weep in this small confined space. There could not be many secrets here.
The petty officer named Kellett said, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but the Captain would like to see you right away.’
Hargrave picked up his cap and smoothed his hair, still bleached by the sun.
As he left the wardroom he heard Campbell exclaim, ‘One of these days, Philip, you’ll say something you’ll be made to regret.’
‘Until that day—’ Hargrave did not hear the rest.
The petty officer steward said, ‘This way, sir. Don’t worry about your cabin. I’ll get anything extra you need.’
He pointed to a door labelled Captain, a few yards from the wardroom. Further along past a watertight door Hargrave heard the clatter of crockery. Petty Officers’ Mess most likely. Little steel boxes welded together into one hull.
Kellett brushed a crumb off his white jacket and said quietly, ‘This ship’s been through a lot just lately, sir. Some of ’em ’ave got a bit on edge.’ He dropped his eyes as Hargrave looked at him. He repeated, ‘Been through a lot, all of us.’
The tannoy squeaked and then a boatswain’s call shattered the stillness.
‘D’you hear there? Duty part of the watch to muster! Men under punishment fall in! Fire parties to exercise action in fifteen minutes!’