“Stop port. Half astern starboard.”
He controlled the edge in his tone as the flared forecastle swung too sharply towards Lomond’s hull, and then, caught by the sudden thrust astern, hesitated and came under control again.
The headrope was already being hauled across on the heaving line, and when he peered aft he saw the men scrambling to follow suit with sternrope and spring.
He heard the harsh tone of some invisible leading seaman. “Grab that fender! Move yer bloody selves, or Number One’ll lave yer guts for garters! An’ I’ll weep meself if you scratches our lovely new paint!”
“Stop starboard.”
The deck shuddered as the backwash from the starboard screw surged noisily along the ship’s side.
Fenders screeched, and as more lines were passed across and turned quickly on to bollards, Warlock came to rest.
He heard the New Zealand sub-lieutenant, Hillier, say quiet ly, “Hardly felt it. We could have cracked an egg that time. ” Drummond returned the wave from an officer on Lomand s bridge and said, “It isn’t always that easy.”
There was bustle everywhere while wires were slacked off or tautened until the trim was to Sheridan’s satisfaction. A small brow was being hauled across from the other ship’s deck, and he saw a postman from the base standing by the guardrail waiting to come aboard. Back mail perhaps which had at last caught up with them. Parcels from home. A birthday cake for someone, lovingly made from carefully hoarded rations by a wife or mother.
He smiled gravely as he watched the foreshortened shapes of seamen hurrying back and forth below the bridge. Mostly mothers. The average age of Warlock’s company was about twenty-three, at a guess.
“All secure fore and aft, sir!”
“Very well. Ring off main engines.”
He watched the hurrying figure of Lieutenant-Commander Dorian de Pass, Lomond’s Number One, and therefore Captain (D)‘s right-hand man, striding towards the brow which had only just been made fast. Thin as a stick, he had a huge nose which he moved from side to side as he walked. As if searching for some unidentified smell or gas leak. Fastidious and fussy, he was known as the Informer by most of the flotilla.
Within minutes he had reached the bridge, the nose seeking out the group of new officers, examining and then discarding them as he saw and saluted Drummond.
“Welcome back, sir.” He was always formal. Even when drunk. “Everything in order, I trust?”
Drummond smiled. “But of course. How are things here?”
De Pass threw up his hands. “A madhouse. But I-that is, we, Captain (D) and myself, have got some semblance of order.” He shook his head worriedly. “Big changes afoot.” His eyes moved over Drummond’s faded reefer and scuffed sea boots. “He’d like to see you as soon as convenient.”
Drummond handed his binoculars to a bosun’s mate.
“You mean now, I take it.”
“Well, yes.”
Sheridan appeared on the bridge and saluted.
“Any instructions, sir?”
Drummond looked at de Pass.
“Well?”
The other man glanced at Sheridan, the nose hovering for a few extra seconds.
“No shore leave. Not tonight anyway. Otherwise … ” He shrugged.
“Carry on, Number One. I’m going across to the leader right away.”
De Pass followed him down to the iron deck where, mercifully, Vickery, the chief boatswain’s mate, had mustered a side party.
De Pass said irritably, “Your new Number One. Another temporary. Dear me.”
Drummond grinned. “Better watch out. One of them might get your job.”
The calls shrilled and salutes were exchanged as Drummond walked briskly across the small brow to the other ship. He nodded to the Lomond’s O.O.D.
“How’s the wife?”
The lieutenant grinned. “Another kid, I’m afraid, sir. ” He could feel de Pass’s disapproval but did not care. It was like a homecoming.
Before entering a screen door he paused and glanced back at his own ship. They were still busily stowing wires, clearing up the tangle. Thin tendrils of smoke drifted from both funnels, and he saw Lieutenant Rankin climbing up to X gun, followed at a discreet distance by an ordnance artificer. How he loved his guns. Even expensive cars might seem dull after the war, he thought.
Between decks it was noticeably more roomy than Warlock, for the leader carried extra accommodation for a variety of officers who managed the flotilla’s affairs. He heard the buzz of voices and laughter from the wardroom and the clatter of glasses. Sunday in harbour always carried some heavy mess bills. Visitors from other ships, old friends. Anyway, the Sunday supper was usually the same, and needed something to ease it along. Cold Spam, pickles and dehydrated potatoes.
De Pass said, “Go right in. ” He hung his cap carefully on a hook outside the wardroom. “I expect he’ll have a lot to tell you.”
Drummond tapped on the door, pushed it open and stepped into the broad day cabin. All the lights were on, for with the jetty on one side and Warlock’s hull nestling against the other, the space would be like a crypt without them.
Captain Dudley Beaumont was standing at the after end of the cabin, one hand behind his back, the other hooked around the buttons of his reefer. Medium height, thick build which might show overweight but for the superb cut of his uniform, Beaumont made an imposing figure. Early forties, but had a face which would now remain much the same for a long while, Drummond thought. A pink face, very smooth and clean. Fair hair, cut short and brushed straight back. He looked as if he had just emerged from a shower or hot bath.
Beaumont said warmly, “Good to see you, Drummond.” He thrust out his hand. “The last of my brood, eh?” He chuckled.
Drummond watched as the other man pushed a chair across the carpet. Everything about Beaumont was perfect. The shirt cuffs which shone below his sleeves with the four gleaming stripes were exactly equal, and each had a heavy link which looked like a gold nugget. He had a way of moving, holding himself, as if he was very conscious of each action, like a dancer, or actor. It was difficult to picture him relaxed.
He sat down opposite Drummond and laced his fingers across his stomach. Powerful, large hands, but with pale, almost delicate skin. Manicured.
He said, “De Pass will have told you we’ve had a few changes since you were last here.” It was a statement. “The commodore will be holding a commanding officers’ conference tomorrow, but I like to tell my chaps myself. First. ” He unlaced his fingers and examined one of them carefully. “I’ve been given this appointment to make something of the flotilla. ” The hand shot up like a traffic policeman’s, as if Drummond had just started to interrupt. “I know what you’re going to say, Drummond, and I don’t blame you. You’ll tell me that the record of our ships is first-rate, that they’ve done all, no more than could have been expected of such, er, senior vessels. It is true, of course. But the flotilla has in the past acted as a lot of cantankerous old veterans, as individuals, or part of a larger pattern. ” He leaned back in the chair and regarded Drummond calmly. He had very clear blue eyes. Like a child’s. “I am to alter all that. These destroyers are being given a new role. More like that for which they were conceived.”
Drummond cleared his throat. Before the other man he felt like a tramp. Perhaps that was Beaumont’s policy.
He asked, “No more east coast convoys, sir?”
Beaumont patted his pockets absently. “Correct. I’ve made a study of these ships. Ever since I was told what their lordships had in mind. They call them the Scrapyard Flotilla round here, don’t they?” He frowned. “I intend to change all that, too.”