Drummond had never — thought of their nickname as a slur. It had a sort of affection, an admiration which anyone has for a ship which keeps on going. No matter what.
Beaumont shot out one starched cuff and looked at his watch.
“Can’t stop now. Dinner with Nick Brooks tonight. Always has a good table.”
Drummond stood up. “Then I’ll see you at the conference, sir.”
Nick Brooks. So casually mentioned, or was it? To everyone else, that particular being was known as Admiral Brooks. A very important person indeed.
“Good. Just wanted to meet you. Straight off the dock, so to speak.” Beaumont rose and flicked his jacket into place. “You’ve changed a bit since the old Agincourt.” He smiled, showing a set of small white teeth. “Still, command sits well on your shoulders.”
“Seems a long while ago, sir.”
“I’ve an excellent memory. ” Beaumont regarded him bleakly. “I hear that your new Number One was in Venture?” Drummond tensed. Nothing casual about this one.
He replied, “Yes, Sir. He’s settling in with me very well.” “Hmm. Early days.”
Beaumont walked to a scuttle and bent as if to seek out the sky between the two hulls. He did not speak again, and the sudden tension was almost physical. Beaumont seemed to have switched off, like a machine. He was still by the scuttle, the fading sunlight playing across his hair and shoulder, one pale hand resting against the cabin side. Motionless.
When he did speak, his voice came from a long way off.
“I’ll not forget that day. It leaves a scar, you know.” He straightened and turned to face Drummond again. “But at least they died knowing they were meeting impossible odds.” His eyes seemed to shine more brightly. “God, I was so proud, so damned proud!”
A chief steward peeped around the door.
“Admiral’s car on the jetty, sir. ” He glanced at Drummond and added, “I’ve had the wine sent over to it, sir.” Beaumont nodded, his mind partly elsewhere.
“Tell the O.O.D. I will be upright away.” He thrust out his hand again. The skin was dry and very smooth. “Tomorrow then. All commanding officers. Immediately after breakfast.” Drummond forced a smile, out of depth with this impenetrable man.
“I’d like to tell my officers if we’re going to-” Beaumont snapped, “Tell them we’re going to fight a war!”
He tapped Drummond’s breast. “Our way! My way!” Drummond returned to the upper deck, his mind dragging on
Beaumont’s strange mood. What in hell’s name did he imagine they had been doing all these years?
He saw Sheridan and Wingate waiting to greet him at the brow and was glad of one thing. That, temporarily at least, Warlock would get the chance to avoid the drudgery of east coast convoys. Whatever Beaumont had to tell them, convoywork was not going to be included, that was obvious.
The call shrilled again and Sheridan saluted, his eyes anxious.
Drummond turned, and through the canopied guns on Lomond’s deck he saw Beaumont climbing into a resplendent staff car, a marine driver snapping to attention by its open door. Whatever Beaumont’s sort of war was going to be, it would certainly be different, he thought.
3
Wondering
Sheridan stood with his back to the unlit wardroom fire and allowed the din of conversation and laughter to wash around him like spray. Beyond the half-drawn curtain he could hear the stewards preparing for lunch, so that the rest of the wardroom seemed extra crowded and confined. Including the captain, Warlock carried ten officers, nine of whom shared the wardroom, and nine of whom were now either standing or lounging below an unmoving ceiling of tobacco smoke.
— How are you settling in, Number One?”
Sheridan looked down to one of the battered leather chairs. Galbraith, the engineer, was watching him, his long legs thrust out and resting on the fender which protected the fire. He was a gaunt, untidy man, with an exact, circular bald patch, so that from behind he looked much like a monk.
Sheridan smiled. “Pretty well, thanks. How’s your glass, Chief?”
He did not really want to talk, not just yet, although he liked what he had seen of Galbraith. The chief was not much of a talker, and used words economically, like fuel or engine-room grease. Sheridan had been thinking about the captain. He was still aboard the leader alongside, where with the other destroyer captains he had been since breakfast. What the hell could they be discussing? Policy, changes of strategy, the cost of gin?
Galbraith held out his glass to a passing messman.
“Usual, — Napier.”
His usual was apparently rum and sherry. It sounded terrible, and nobody seemed eager to test his strange fancy.
Sheridan said, “You’ve been aboard quite some time. The longest of anyone.”
“Aye. ” Galbraith took his refilled glass. “Down the hatch. ” He licked his lips. “Since she first commissioned in this war.” His eyes were distant. “Seen some hard days. And seen good ‘uns.”
“The Old Man’s been in command for eighteen months.”
Sheridan thought how ridiculous it sounded. Old Man. Drummond was only a couple of years older than himself.
“That’s true.” Galbraith gave a slow smile. “If you’re asking me what he’s like, really like, I canna tell you. To me he’s one thing. To you, maybe something else again. I like him fine. Not just because we’re both Scots, but because he’s fair. I’ve served with a few right bastards in my time. Nice as pie one minute. Wild men, screaming for blood, the next. ” He sighed. “This skipper’s all right. But … ” He hesitated, studying Sheridan as if to make up his mind. Then he added bluntly, “But he’s stretched like a bloody wire. I hope you can help share his load. He deserves it, believe me.”
“I expect he’s used to better things.” Sheridan saw the gunner (T) downing what must be his tenth gin. “My predecessor, Cowley, must have been on top line.”
Galbraith stood up.
“I’m just going to share a tot with my chief stoker. It’s his birthday. Not supposed to go boozing in their mess, but I was a petty officer myself not too long back. I’d not want to forget that.” He touched Sheridan’s sleeve, his face suddenly grim. “You and me will get on well. So listen, I’ll not repeat myself. I’ll deny I said it, if you bring it up again.”
Sheridan waited, watching the bitterness in his eyes.
Galbraith said quietly, “Lieutenant Frank Cowley was the skipper’s best friend. But he was a bloody fool, and but for the skipper’s action that night we’d have lost more than two killed and the first lieutenant wounded. We’d have lost the whole ruddy ship!” He tapped the side of his nose. “So think on, and act accordingly.”
He left the wardroom.
Sheridan moved to where Lieutenant Wingate and the new doctor were in conversation by an open scuttle. If Galbraith was right in his assessment, it could not have been easy for Drummond. Carrying the ship and his first lieutenant. Because of friendship. Or something from the past perhaps.
He nodded to Wingate. “Like me, Pilot, are you waiting to hear what’s been going on at the C.O.‘s conference?”
Wingate grinned. “It helps. I might need a new chart.”
The navigating officer was always friendly enough on the surface. But Sheridan could not help wondering if he resented being placed junior to him, a regular beneath a reserve officer. He might even harbour a greater grudge because of his humble beginnings. An orphan, pushed into the Navy as a boy seaman, he had done it all on his own. It was not hard to picture him in an old oil painting. A reckless privateer, one of Drake’s men at Cadiz.
The doctor said carefully, “I must say I feel very raw amongst all you professionals.”