Drummond left his chair to make a full sweep from horizon to horizon. The Bay was lined with endless, unbroken rollers which cruised down from the north-west, lifted each ship in turn, held her uncomfortably for a few moments before allowing her to sway upright again.
He walked to the rear of the bridge, seeing Lomond’s bows pale and sharp in the growing light, the lines of splinter holes which marked her forecastle from waterline to bridge.
The Bay was theirs. Somewhere, far beyond the destroyers, the M.L.s and M.T.B.s were pushing ahead on their own. If they failed to make contact with the Hunts and the big tug, they would be as helpless as Lomond.
He took a searching look down the length of Warlock’s iron deck. At the men, still anonymous in their heavy clothing, as they crouched behind their gun shields or waited patiently on the quarterdeck watching over the towing wires. Tired out. Their resistance would be very low now. Cold, and remembering the night’s work. The sights and the sounds. It was a pity they could not be given more than stale sandwiches and mugs of tea. They deserved a banquet.
He walked back to his chair, his legs taking the uneven rolls without conscious thought or effort. He nodded to Wingate, who lounged against the voice-pipes, and to Hillier, who was wiping the gyro compass with his sleeve. Around him the others took shape for another day. Ives, like a thin ramrod, his cap worn at the perfect angle. His signalmen and the lookouts, a bosun’s mate and a spare seaman who was cleaning away the bits of broken glass and the dark stain where a man had died.
Drummond leaned forward to look through the screen. The men on B gun were banging their hands together, while one poured tea or cocoa into their filthy mugs. Below on the forecastle he could just see the muzzle of A gun moving very slightly as its crew tested the mechanism. And far, far away he saw the dull blur of the Atlantic horizon. It never seemed to get any closer. Like a fool’s landfall.
Midshipman Keyes stood beside Sheridan on the quarterdeck with Petty Officer Vickery and some shivering stokers. He watched the tow dipping and tautening while the Lomond continued to follow in their wake. The strain of the night action, followed now by a sort of dull acceptance of survival, left him limp and excited. He thought of Georgina. How she would look at him. How she would feel as they embraced and clung together.
Vickery said wearily, “Lomond’s calling us up, sir.” He squinted at the small stabbing handlamp. Then he exclaimed, “She’s got steam up, sir!”
Almost immediately the quarterdeck telephone buzzed, and a seaman called, “First lieutenant, sir! The cap’n says to prepare to slip tow. Volunteer passage crew to be sent over by Carley float as soon as you’re ready.”
“Thank you. ” Sheridan gripped the midshipman’s shoulder. “Get those blokes aft on the double. With the sea and wind as they are, a float will drift across with very little sweat needed.” He found to his astonishment’ that he could joke about it. “I think we’re going to be all right.”
Able Seaman Jevers hurried aft with the other volunteers. He looked neither right nor left, but concentrated instead on what he was going to do. When he had heard that a helmsman was required for the Lomond he had started to make plans. This additional move might help him when the time came. His mind was blurred, his thoughts overlapping like loose pages. He kept telling himself that nothing had altered. The Yank was dead. Nobody on this bloody earth could touch him. And yet … it was just possible. He felt the sweat running over his neck again.
Sheridan shouted, “As soon as you are across to the Lomond, secure the raft. It might come in handy if you have to bale out.”
A seaman said dourly, “We could paddle all the way to Blighty, lads!”
Lieutenant Rankin had turned himself on his steel chair to watch as the Carley float was warped alongside, bobbing up and down in the wash like a toy boat. High in his director position above and abaft the bridge he could see just about everything. The Victor steaming calmly abeam, the men below on the iron deck, like busy moles as they ran with lines to guide the float further aft. It was nearly over. Help was on the way. They would get a well-deserved rest after it was finished, he thought.
It would mean seeing his wife again. He sighed, so that one of the spotting ratings below his chair turned to glance up at him curiously. She was definitely being unfaithful to him. Not the casual affairs like before. Someone more permanent had come into her life. It had to be true. She had barely tried to conceal the fact. Had even laughed at his confusion.
His mother had exclaimed angrily, “Why don’t you knock the little slut’s head off?”
He leaned further over to watch Beaumont’s familiar figure striding aft to the quarterdeck. He had picked up most of the gossip about him within seconds of the confrontation on the bridge. It must be a hell of a lot worse than he had imagined for Drummond to risk his career by clashing with a man like Beaumont. He sighed again. Perhaps that was what was wrong with his own life. He did not take risks. He was a “hoper.” He hoped that his wife would somehow change. That he would so impress her she might start all over again. It must have been all right once, surely?
He heard raindrops pattering against the wet steel like pellets. Christ, it was cold.
Rankin felt the chair biting into his spine as a great explosion rocked the ship drunkenly to one side, and felt the hull quiver from keel to bridge as a vast column of water shot above the starboard side before cascading down across the forecastle like a tidal wave.
Below on the bridge Drummond pulled himself across the gratings, his boots slipping in inches of seething water. He heard men shouting, the buzz of telephones, and above all the tell-tale swoosh of another great shell falling, it seemed from the sky itself.
He shouted, “Get me the first lieutenant on the telephone.”
He groped for his glasses, sweeping them over the screen where Victor was steaming as before. Only her four guns, swinging with sudden agitation towards the leaden horizon, showed that everything had changed.
A man gave him the handset, and he had to count seconds before he could trust himself to speak.
“Number One. This is the captain. Tell Captain Beaumont to transfer with the volunteer steaming party forthwith. Lomond has enough power now to fend for herself. Tell Beaumont to scuttle the ship and stand off in a Carley float. I’ll not risk men’s lives on the top of that floating bomb.”
He tensed, gritting his teeth, as yet another massive projectile burst abeam. The opposite side, and well away this time. The invisible enemy was shooting blind.
He heard murmurings on the line and then Beaumont’s voice. Very calm. Completely at ease.
“I shall, of course, take command of Lomond. There is only a sub-lieutenant aboard her at present.”
Drummond cut him short. “We might be able to slip past. If not, you will fire scuttling charges and abandon ship.”
He felt the pain pricking at the back of his eyes. Beaumont would survive this way. It was ironic. As a prisoner of war he would receive more kudos than at the hands of Admiral Brooks. It was strange that the Beaumonts of this world always prospered.
Beaumont said suddenly, “By the way. I did not know about Lomond’s original hull state. ” He sounded as if he was stifling a laugh. “I wanted Warlock to be used in the ramming job. ” The line went still.
Drummond swung round, his face uplifted as another shell ripped above the masthead like an express train. He wanted me dead. It had meant that much to him.