‘Accident?’
Barker had shrugged carelessly. ‘Gunnery, I believe. Probably shot some poor sod by mistake.’
‘Probably.’
Barker had been astounded at Goss’s indifference. He had merely sat there staring into space, one foot tapping slowly on the company carpet, a sure sign he wished to be left alone. It had been altogether quite unnerving.
‘Just thought you’d like to hear about it.’
Goss had said slowly, ‘You know, Henry, I was thinking just now.’ He nodded heavily towards the photograph. The one with the smile. ‘Old Mr Cairns was a good owner. Hard, some said, and I daresay he remembered the value of every rivet down to the last halfpenny. But he had an eye for business, and knew every officer on his payroll. Every one, even the bloody apprentices. Now he’s dead and gone. And it looks as if the company’ll never survive either.’
Barker had gone cold. ‘But after the war there’ll be full compensation; surely? I. I mean, the government can’t just take the ships, work the life out of them, and then give nothing back afterwards!’
Goss had heaved himself upright, so that his massive head had almost touched the steam pipes. ‘Even if we win the war, and with some of the people I’ve seen aboard this ship I am more than doubtful on that score, things will never be the same. Mr Cairns’ young nephew is in the chair now. Snooty little upstart with an office in London instead of down where the ships are. Had him aboard for our last peacetime trip.’ His features had hardened. ‘All gin and bloody shrimp cocktails, you know the type.’
Barker had swallowed hard. He knew. He liked to think of himself like that.
Goss had rambled on, as if to an empty cabin. ‘I was promised the next command, but I ‘spect you knew that. Promised. I’d have had the old Becky by now, but for the bloody war.’
There had been something like anguish in his voice which had made Barker stammer, ‘Well, I’ll be off.then. Just thought I’d fix up about tomorrow-‘ He had left the cabin with Goss still staring fixedly at the framed photograph.
As the door had closed Goss had taken a small key from his pocket, and after a further hesitation had opened a cupboard above his desk. Inside, gleaming from within a protective oilskin bag, was the cap. The company’s badge and the captain’s oak leaves around the peak were of the best pre-war gold wire, hand woven by a little Jewish tailor in Liverpool.
After locking the cupboard again he had slumped into the chair and lowered his face into his hands.
‘I’d have had this ship by now. It was a promise.’
The words had hung in the sealed cabin like an epitaph.
A week later, as the Benbecula headed south-east away from the patrol area, those who were on deck in the bitter air saw the other armed merchant cruiser steaming past less than a, mile distant. Even without binoculars it was possible to see the fresh paint around her, stem, evidence of her collision with the pier, her guilt which had allowed an extra week in harbour while Benbecula endured the gales and the angry seas.
Lindsay sat in his tall chair and watched the other ship until she had passed out of his line of vision. The obvious excitement he had felt all around him as he had given orders to leave the patrol had momentarily given way to a kind of resentment as the relief ship had forged past. Not so much perhaps because she was late, but because she was heading into what appeared to many was calmer weather. The wind was fresh but no longer violent, so that the watch below was called less often to hack and blast away the clawing ice from decks and guns. To the men who imagined they had now seen and endured everything the Atlantic could offer, it seemed unfair their relief should get it so easy.
Lindsay sat back and looked at the hard, dark horizon line. With the ship so steady it made the list allthe more apparent. The horizon seemed to be tilting across the bridge windows like an endless grey hill.
Behind him he could hear a signalman talking quietly with Ritchie, the occasional creak of the wheel and, Maxwell’s clipped voice from the chart room door. The afternoon watch was almost finished, and the sky above the horizon was already duller with a hint of more snow. It was natural for the new hands to complain about the other A.M.C.‘s luck, he thought. The more seasoned men would know the real reason for the change. Ice. Before winter closed in completely there would be plenty about to the west and north, some perhaps as far down as this. He had already discussed it with Goss, but as usual it was hard to fathom the extent of his words.
Lindsay had been a first lieutenant himself to several commanding officers, and he could not get used to Goss’s total lack of feeling for hiss new role. A first lieutenant in any naval vessel was the link between officers and captain, the one man who could and should weld the ship into one tight community. Goss was not a link. He was like a massive watertight door which kept his captain even more aloof and remote than usual.
There was no doubting his efficiency in seamanship and internal organisation. But there it ended, and unless he could bring himself to change his days were numbered afloat, Lindsay decided.
Maxwell crossed to his side and stood fidgeting with the chain around his neck. ‘D’you think there’s any chance of leave, sir?’
Lindsay watched the lieutenant’s reflection in the saltsmeared windows.
‘Unlikely, Guns. A lick of paint, a few bits of quick welding and we’ll be off again, in my opinion.’.
Strange about Maxwell, he thought. He had been very quiet lately. Too quiet.
Maxwell said, ‘Oh, in that case.’ He did not go on.
‘You worried about something?’
‘Me, sir?’ Maxwell’s fingers tugged more insistently, at the chain. ‘No, I was just thinking. I might put in for an advanced gunnery course. Not much scope in this ship.’
He spoke jerkily, but Lindsay thought the words sounded rehearsed. As if he had been planning the right moment.
‘And you want me to recommend you?’
Maxwell shifted his feet. ‘Well, in a manner of speaking, yes, sir.’
Lindsay took out his pipe. It couldn’t be much fun for Maxwell. A gunnery officer of the old school, who because of time lost on the beach was watching men far more junior being appointed to brand-new warships just as fast as they were built. But there was more to it than that. Maybe it was his assistant, Lieutenant Hunter. Only a temporary officer perhaps and in peacetime the owner of a small garage many miles from the sea, but Hunter had got to grips with the ancient armament as if born to it. Probably because he had not had many dealings with any other kind, or maybe, like Fraser, his natural mechanical bent made him accept the old guns like some sort of personal challenge rather than an obstacle.
‘I’ll think about it, Guns. But I need either you or a damn good replacement before I recommend anything, right?’
Maxwell nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
The duty bosun’s mate said, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but Number Six. gun ‘as just called up. They say one of the liferafts is workin’ adrift again on th’ poop.’ He sounded disinterested. Ten more minutes and he would be in his mess. Hot sweet tea and then his head down until suppertime.
Maxwell glared. ‘Right, tell Lieutenant Aikman to deal with it.’
The man continued to stare at him, the telephone in his first. ‘But you sent ‘im to the chart room, sir.’
Maxwell nodded jerkily. ‘Oh, yes.’ To Lindsay he added, ‘He’s fixing the plot.’
Lindsay turned slightly to study him. Maxwell was not usually rattled..
He asked, ‘What about young Kemp?’ He had appointed the midshipman to Maxwell’s watch for the experience, as well as to keep him from being bored to death by the ship’s correspondence duties.