The cabin was dark, for the deadlights were still tightly shut, as they probably would be for most of the time. He glanced at his leather sea-boots and at the duffel coat and binoculars waiting on another chair. How often had he waited like this? he wondered. It would be strange to take Benbecula out of the Flow for the first time. Not that Lindsay was unused to handling big ships. He had served as navigation officer in a cumbersome submarine depot ship in Malta for two years, even though at heart he was still a destroyer-man. No, it was not that. It was going back. To, the Atlantic and all it had come to mean to him.
The deck gave a nervous tremble, and he pictured’ Fraser far below in his inhuman world of noise and, greased movement. Mouthing to his men in that strange engine room lip language, his eyes on the great dials above his footplate. It was lucky Benbecula was twin-screwed. Many ships built between the wars had only one propeller. Sufficient in peacetime perhaps, with tugs always on hand when entering and leaving harbour. He smiled grimly in spite of his tense nerves. It would put a swift end to everything if he lost control in the Flow’s perverse tide-races before he had even got her clear.
More sounds now. Wires scraping along the forecastle, the distant bark of orders. That would be Maxwell preparing.to slip the final wire from the ring of their buoy. The last boat had been hoisted inboard, the shivering seamen picked up from the buoy where they had fumbled to unshackle the massive cable while the spray had tried to pluck them into the Flow.
Bells clanged overhead, and he guessed Goss was testing the telegraphs, watching every move to make sure the captain would find no fault with his precious ship.
He replaced the cup and stood up,patting his pockets automatically to make sure he hadall he required. Pipe and pouch. And a small silver compass. He turned it over in his hands under the deckhead light. Inscribed on the back was, ‘Commander Michael Lindsay. H.M.S. Minden 1914. ‘It was just about all he had to remind him of his father now. He thrust it into his pocket, feeling the newness of the jacket. Like everything else, his old clothes were on the sea-bed in Vengeur.
There was a tap at the door and Goss looked in at him. ‘Ready to proceed, sir.’
‘I’ll cone up.’
He slipped into the duffel coat and slung his glasses around his neck. As he’ picked up his cap he took a last glance round the quiet cabin. It was time.
Goss followed him up the bridge ladder, between the W/T office with its constant stammer of morse and crackling static and the austere chart room, the deckhead lights trained unwinkingly on the table and instruments.
He strode out to the bridge and crossed to the clearview screens on the windows. Figures moved busily, on the forecastle, and a solitary signalman stood shivering right in the bows, ready to lower the Jack when the slipwire came free.
He turned and looked at the bridge party. Chief Petty Officer Jolliffe, the coxswain, whom he had already met briefly on his inspection, was standing loosely at the wheel, his eyes gleaming in the compass light as he idly watched the gyro repeater. He was a barrel of a man, but on the short side, so that his legs appeared too frail for his massive body and paunch. No trouble there. Jolliffe had been coxswain of a battle-cruiser and was used to the whims of big ships. At each brass telegraph the quartermasters lounged with their hands ready on the levers. On either bridge wing the signalmen stood by their shuttered lights and flags, the yeoman, Ritchie, with his long telescope trained towards the shore.
Lieutenant Stannard saluted formally and said, ‘Wind’s nor’westerly, sir. A bit fresh for my liking.’ In the dull grey light he looked even more leathery, his eyes very bright below his cap.
Hovering in the background, two of the sublieutenants, Escott and Smythe, were trying not to be seen, their single gold stripes shining with newness.
Goss paced from side to side, his head thrust forward as if to discover some last fault. He glared at the two sublieutenants and barked, ‘Get out on either wing, for God’s sake! You might learn something!’
Seizing oilskins they fled away, and Lindsay saw one of the quartermasters wink at his mate.
Goss did no good at all by bellowing at them in front of the ratings, he thought. But there was not time for another confrontation now.
Ritchie yelled, ‘Signal, sir!’ A light winked impatiently through the rain. Like a bright blue eye.
‘Proceed when ready!’
Lindsay tried not to lick his lips. ‘Ring down standby.’
The bells were very loud, and he walked to the port door of the wheelhouse and peered over the screen towards the forecastle party. Maxwell was squinting at the bridge, his sodden cap tugged over his eyes as he awaited the order.
Lindsay relaxed slightly, tasting the blown salt on his lips, feeling his cheeks tingling in the crisp air.
‘Very well, Yeoman. Make the affirmative.’
Seconds later a red flare burst against the leaden clouds and drifted seaward on the wind.
Stannard called, ‘That was the signal from the boom vessel, sir. Hoxa gate is open for us.’
He sounded cheerful enough. Lindsay had heard him bawling some Australian song at the wardroom party when he had turned into his bunk. Every other word had been obscene. But he appeared to have avoided any sort of hangover. Which was more than could be said for Dancy, the sub-lieutenant with experience. His face was the colour of pea soup as he staggered aft along the boat deck where the marines and some of the hands had fallen in for leaving harbour.
Feet thumped above the wheelhouse where Chief Petty Officer Archer and his boatswain’s mates were assembled to’pipe as and when they passed any other ship. The Navy never changed. No matter what.
Lindsay lifted his hand and watched Maxwell point with his arm to indicate that the buoy was close up under the starboard side of the stem.
Once free, the wind would carry the ship abeam like a drifting pier, Lindsay thought. But there was plenty of room. Had wind and tide been against them, he would have had to contend with the nearby battleship and three anchored cruisers. He could see several tiny figures watching him from the battleship’s quarterdeck and her name gleaming dully in the morning light. Prince of Wales. The ship which had been in company with Hood when she had been blown to oblivion. She had been too new, too untried to be much help, and Lindsay wondered, briefly how he would have felt, had he been in her at the time.
‘Slow ahead together.’
He saw the telegraphsmen swinging their brass handles and turned away to make a chopping motion with his hand towards Maxwell in the eyes of the ship. He saw a petty officer swing his hammer, heard the clang of steel as the slip was knocked away, and the instant rush of activity as the oilskinned seamen tumbled aft, dragging the mooring wire with them. The buoy appeared immediately, as if it and not the ship had taken wings.
Jolliffe intoned, ‘Both engines slow ahead, sir. Wheels amidships.’
‘Port ten.’
He raised his glasses and watched the low humps of land beginning to drift across the bows. It was strange to have the great foremast right in front of the bridge with all its tangle of rigging and derricks. Standing at one side of the bridge it made the ship feel lopsided, Lindsay thought. The list to starboard did not help either.
He heard Goss say in a fierce whisper, ‘She’s making too slow a turn.’
He glanced at him. Goss seemed to be thinking aloud. All the same, he was right.
‘Increase to fifteen. Starboard engine half ahead.’
That was better. A noticeable crust of white’spray was frothing back from the stem now, and he could feel the bridge vibrating steadily to the additional thrust of screws and rudder.
Two incoming trawlers pounded past the port side, their spindly funnels belching smoke, their ensigns little more than scraps of white rag, after another antisubmarine patrol.