Mangin’s voice came up the pipe. “Steady, sir. Course zero-four-five.”
Drummond looked away, hiding a smile. Mangin had ignored the orders and had taken over control as soon as he had recognised the midshipman’s voice.
The cruiser’s craggy bulk moved ponderously toward them, a marine bugler at the guardrails beside the officer of the day.
Drummond nodded, and a bosun’s mate pressed down the tannoy switch.
“Attention on the upper deck! Face to starboard and salute!”
Warlock pushed her way slowly towards the watery sunlight, her men fallen in on forecastle and quarterdeck in swaying blue lines, the officers with hands lifted in salute. High above the forebridge, on the little catwalk which ran around the glass radar lantern, known as the “jampot,” the saluting party raised their silver calls, and across the narrow strip between cruiser and destroyer echoed the shrill mark of respect. It in turn was returned by the blare of a lordly bugle.
Drummond said, “Very well, Mr. Keyes. Now that you have got us safely out of harbour,you may rejoin the others. You’ll get more practice later on.”
Wingate said softly, “You made his day, sir.”
The navigator was a dark-faced, gipsy-looking man. There was something theatrical about him. About his black leather coat he always wore at sea, his sheepskin-lined boots. Even his cap seemed different from everyone else’s. Perhaps he was enjoying his commission to its full. Either way, he was a very good navigator.
Strangely enough, Rankin, the ex-car salesman, was far more of the regular officer in appearance than any of them. He had a sleek, glossy head with an exact centre parting. Narrow, haughty features, and a drawl which could have come straight from Bertie Wooster. He must have sold very expensive cars to have learned so much, Drummond thought.
Rankin was saying airily, “Tour of the ship, inspection of forecastle and main galley, then you can carry on about your allotted duties.” His sharp nose came round with a jerk. “Got it?”
They shuffled to the rear of the bridge, suitably impressed.
Drummond sat down on his tall wooden chair which was bolted to the port side of the bridge.
“Fall out harbour stations, if you please. Port Watch to defence stations.”
Sheridan clambered into the bridge and saluted formally. “All secured forrard, sir.”
“Very good. ” He leaned back in his chair and groped for his pipe. “They did quite well, I thought.”
“I thought so too, sir.” Sheridan sounded pleased. Then he added, “That new destroyer, the Observer. Quite a ship. It would be something to command her.”
Drummond threw his match into the little tin which was tacked to his chair. Across the screen he could see small houses dotted about on the shoreline, the clouds of gulls diving and circling above some invisible fishing boat in the narrows. He watched the pipe smoke plucked away over the bridge and motionless lookouts.
He rarely thought about the thing which was obviously uppermost in Sheridan’s mind. Perhaps because he had been so long in different ships under such varying conditions. Twentynine next month, and yet how full his life had been. To the Naval College at the age of twelve and on into his own specialised world. A battleship, a cruiser, two destroyers, a sloop, and others he had almost forgotten. He would well appreciate how Keyes must feel, even though his new life was so spartan because of the war. To Drummond, those early days had been quite different. Ships at anchor, awnings spread, bands playing. The harbours and bays made bright by glittering scuttles and fairy lights. The show of Britain’s naval might only thinly hidden behind cocktail parties and regattas, visitors in beautiful gowns, bare shoulders and bold glances.
He said slowly, “I suppose so.”
Drummond touched the worn teak rail below the screen. Why this ship? What was so special about her? Sheridan’s remark made him vaguely uneasy. It was stupid, and he knew it. He was a regular officer. A professional. Provided he lived to see it, promotion must inevitably come. Other ships, greater responsibility.
Feet clattered over the gratings and Owles said, “Brought the remains of the coffee, sir.”
From port, to starboard, very low down, three Spitfires streaked through the sunlight with their familiar whistling drone.
Perhaps because Warlock was born in his own time, he thought vaguely. When he had entered the Naval College she had already been nine years old. Her record of service was quite amazing. All those miles, pounding away, year in, year out. She had been born too late to fight the Kaiser’s fleet, and had steamed on the sidelines merely to watch as it entered harbour to surrender. 1919 found her at Odessa, helping to evacuate the terrified aristocrats fleeing in the face of the Russian Revolution. The China Station, to guard British possessions, watching helplessly as the Japs bombed the Chinese settlements. To Spain for the Civil War, where she had worked in perfect unison with another destroyer to carry off trapped neutrals from that savage encounter. The other destroyer had been German. She had been sunk by the R.A.F. a few months back.
When this war had exploded across Europe, Warlock had been well past her prime, but with her sixty-odd consorts she did her best whenever the occasion offered itself. Lifting off exhausted soldiers from abandoned beaches. East coast convoys and E-boat Alley, the Atlantic, North Russia.
He ran his fingers along the smooth wood. And she could still give thirty-four knots. With a following wind, as Frank used to say, Sheridan asked suddenly, “The Captain (D) Beaumont. Have you ever met him?”
“I served with him once, as a matter of fact.” He turned and saw the astonishment on his dark features. “The Andrew’s a small world. Years ago, it was. I was a snotty in the battleship Agincourt. He was the gunnery officer, if I remember rightly. ” He leaned sideways to the voice-pipe. “Who’s on the wheel now?”
“Chief quartermaster, sir.”
He could picture Rumsey’s lazy grin.
“Good. Watch the next leg. There are some practice targets moored to starboard.”
He looked at Sheridan. “What was I saying?”
“Beaumont. ” He seemed unsure of how to continue. “I’ve heard plenty about him, of course. All those write-ups in the paper. A lot of people said he should have got the V. C. for what he did.”
Drummond examined his pipe. For what he did. He would not tell Sheridan it had been bothering him, too, although for other reasons.
He could only remember Beaumont as a sarcastic bully. The new hero image just did not seem to fit. Maybe he had changed? And what exactly had he done on that dreadful day? It was about eight months ago now. He could recall the horror at hearing of Conqueror’s destruction, the pity at the pictures of the three blanketed survivors being landed in a Scottish port. It must have been terrifying to have that great ship blasted away beneath you. To be left in angry seas, bitterly cold, without hope. Three out of thirteen hundred. But what, apart from survive, had Beaumont done?
The yeoman stepped forward. “Signal, sir. We are to berth alongside Lomond upon entering harbour. Captain (D) requires our E.T.A.”
“Very well.” He looked at Wingate. “Give the yeoman the time of arrival and make out a reply.”
Sheridan said ruefully, “Lomond’s the flotilla leader, I take it. It’d be a good beginning to ram her as we go alongside.”
“An end, more like.”
Sheridan moved away. “I’ll get on with my work, sir.” He climbed over the side of the bridge.
Wingate said, “I wonder if we’re going back to the old job, sir?” He frowned. “Bloody east coast convoys get on my wick.”
Drummond shrugged. “We’ll see.”
He settled down in the chair, his eyes distant as he watched the channel swimming slightly across the screen under the helmsman’s hands. Reflected in the glass he could see the steel gate through which Sheridan had just departed. It was clipped open to avoid the constant rattling. It was a new gate. But, like the other one, was a quarter of an inch thick.