The motion was steadier, and overnight the sea. had lost much of its anger, as if smoothed and eased by the growing power of the snow. Yet there was some wind, and every so often the snow would twist into strange patterns, swirling around the bridge superstructure, or driving like a desert storm, parallel with the deck.
Lindsay rested one hand on the clip. Apart from a few short snatches in his chair, he had not slept, and as he stood by the door he could feel the chill in his bones, the inability to think clearly.
Goss’s eyes, red-rimmed with salt and fatigue, followed him as he tugged open the door and stepped on to the open wing. Watching him. Searching for something perhaps.
The snow squeaked under his leather sea boots, but there was no ice as yet. He felt it touching his face, pattering across his oilskin as he moved slowly to the extremity of the wing. There was hardly any visibility, and when he peered down he saw the sluggish bow wave sliding past as the only sign that the ship was still thrusting ahead.
He raised his head and, stared fixedly abeam, the snow melting on his lashes, running down his cheeks like the tears on Ritchie’s face that day at Scapa. The yeoman was here now, his features like stone.
In spite of the snow and dirty slush there were many others from the watch below. Dark clusters of men against the glittering, descending backcloth.
He heard himself say, ‘I’ll be about ten minutes, Number One.’
Is that all it took? He did not wait for Goss’s reply but turned and clattered down the ladder, his boots slipping on the slush, his hands cold on the rungs, for he,had forgotten his gloves. Down more ladders to the promenade deck. As he strode aft, his legs straddled against the steady motion, he saw flecks of rust showing already through the new grey paint. He paused and looked abeam. Out there, some one hundred and fifty miles away, was the western extreme,of Iceland. The nearest land. Up here, the only land.
He quickened his pace, and when he reached the after well deck he had to steel himself again before he could climb down the last ladder where Maxwell and Stannard were waiting to assist with the burials.
There were only eight’ of them. Five of those who had been picked up alive. The others had been-hauled aboard the whalers by accident. Only eight, yet the line seemed endless, so that in his mind’s eye Lindsay could picture all the others which Benbecula had left in her wake. There had been three hundred in Loch Glendhu’s company, Ritchie had said.
He strode to the side and returned Maxwell’s salute. Beyond the gunnery officer he saw more watching figures and Lieutenant de Chair with some of his marines.
God, how could he do it? Just ten minutes, he had told Goss, but he was already cracking. He could feel his reserve stripping itself away like a protective skin. Leaving him naked to their serious faces.
He cleared his.throat. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
As he pulled the little book from his pocket he looked up, caught off guard as de Chair said quietly, ‘Very well, Sarn’t. Off coats.’
He stared, almost dazed, as the marines obediently stripped off their shining oilskins and formed into a tight, swaying line behind the canvas-covered bodies. He realised they were all in their best blue uniforms, that somehow they were shaved. In spite of everything. Oh God, what are they doing to me?
Blindly he thumbed open the book, the print dancing before him, the snow falling softly on his hands. ‘Now.’
He removed his cap and squinted up directly into the snow. It was so thick that he could not see if the ensign was at half-mast or not. What the hell did it matter to these dead men?
Maxwell shouted towards the bridge, and Lindsay heard the distant clang of telegraphs as the engines fell silent once more.
He stared hard at the open page and then, with sudden resolution, thrust the book back into his pocket. He did not need it any more. He had spoken the words too often. Heard them. more than enough to forget even if he wanted to.
‘We commend unto Thy hands of mercy, most merciful Father, the souls of these our brothers departed, and we commit their bodies to the deep….’
He licked his lips as the marines edged forward, their faces like Ritchie’s had been as they raised the neat bundles beneath the two large ensigns.
It was always a bad moment. When you did not know any of these quiet bundles. Strangers … not even that. Only the uniforms had been the same.
One of them was Loch Glendhu’s captain, who had died within thirty minutes of being carried aboard. By rights he should have died back there on his bridge. He had been hit by several shell splinters and had been savagely burned before an explosion had blasted him into the sea. Even then he had refused to die. Maybe he had seen Ritchie’s signal lamp, or the whalers coming for his men.
Or perhaps he needed to stay alive just long enough to tell what he knew. To pass on his dying anger and hatred..
Lindsay had left the bridge for a moment to visit him in the sickbay; had watched the other captain’s mouth through the bandages as he had gasped out his short, bitter story.
There had been no Swedish ship. No neutral under attack. Just the big German raider, lying there waiting for them like a tiger shark. True, she had looked Swedish, with- her painted flag and neutral colouring, but as Loch Glendhu had turned to offer help, the enemy’s guns had opened fire from a dozen concealed positions, smashing through the hull, blasting men to pulp who seconds before had been preparing to lower boats, to give aid.
As Loch Glendhu had become a raging inferno and had begun to settle down, the raider had gathered way, pausing only to fire a few more shells and rake the shattered vessel with automatic fire.
The dying captain had said, ‘It was my fault. Should have been ready. Expecting it. But it was something different. New.’ Then he had died:
Lindsay had been speaking the familiar words even though his mind had been reliving those last moments. When he looked again the flags. were being folded, the bodies gone.
He nodded to Maxwell, and within seconds the big screws had started to churn the sea into a busy froth. He replaced his cap, the rim cold around his forehead, like ice-rime.
The marines were struggling into their wet coats, Stannard was staring over the rail, his eyebrows white with snow.
It was done. Finished.
Again he returned Maxwell’s salute and said, ‘Thank you, Guns.’ He looked at the others. ‘All of you.’
Stannard fell into step beside him as they walked forward along the promenade deck.
Lindsay heard himself say, ‘I will make that signal now, Pilot. Can’t tell them much.’
He shrugged, knowing Stannard was looking at him. Thinks I don’t care, or that I am past caring. Or searching for some explanation when there’s none to offer.
As they started up the last ladder Lindsay heard voices. Low voices made harsh with anger. He climbed on to the open wing and saw Goss hunched in one corner, his massive figure towering above Fraser, who was glaring up at him, his white overalls coarse against the swirling snow.
Lindsay snapped, ‘What the hell is going on?’ Beyond the others he saw that the wheelhouse door was closed so that the anger would remain unheard.
Goss whirled round. ‘Nothing, sir!’
Fraser exploded, ‘Nothing, my bloody arse!’ He hurried towards Lindsay. ‘I came on deck. Just to watch quietly when….‘He glanced briefly aft. ‘But there were too many of the lads there, and I wanted to be on my own.’ He held up a greasy hand as Goss made to interrupt. ‘I was forrard, by Number Two gun when the engines stopped.’
For an instant longer; Lindsay imagined that Fraser’s keen ear had detected some flaw in the engines’ familiar beat.
The little engineer added slowly, ‘I heard something sir.’