Shadde brushed him away. "I don't imagine these things. They're facts."
Rhys Evans saw that there was nothing he could do. "I'll be getting along now. Have a good sleep, sir."
Retaliates postman returned on board soon after breakfast on the second day in Copenhagen. Shadde was in his cabin when Miller delivered the letter. When the captain saw the writing on the envelope he tore it open. He unfolded it, smoothing it flat on the desk in front of him. It read:
My dear John,
Your letter from Stockholm made me desperately undecided. That's why I've taken so long to write. Now I've made up my mind and I hope you're not going to be hurt too much. Yesterday I saw the lawyers about getting a divorce.
Your letter makes it clear that you haven't the faintest idea what life has been like for me during the last two years. Most of the time I've been alone. When we've been together you've usually been so absorbed in your work or so depressed that you haven't seemed to know I was there. I wonder if you realize what your moods are like and what they do to me.
I used to be very much in love with you, John, and perhaps I still am. But I don't think it's possible to go on loving someone you see very little of, particularly when you're afraid of that person.
I'm still young enough—and so are you—to be able to start again. I know I'm at fault too. I've failed to give you children— they might've made all the difference. At any rate, whoever is right or wrong, I just can't bear to go on like this.
At the end of this month I'm going out to Australia. Until then I'm going to Mother, and I won't be going back to Petersfield.
I hope you'll realize that what I'm doing is best for both of us. It's quite obvious that I've not succeeded in making you happy. I'm sorry. Anyway, I do hope you find real happiness in the future. There's not much point in life without it.
Elizabeth
Shadde stared at the bulkhead in front of him for perhaps five minutes. Then he got up; crumpled the letter into a tight ball and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
The doctor and Symington hadn't the faintest idea why they had been ordered to return on board from the cocktail party. When they asked what it was all about, Cavan said, "Haven't a clue. Says he'll see you in the morning."
"But what the hell about?" repeated O'Shea miserably.
"Don't ask me." Cavan shrugged. "But he's bloody angry. Expect you've fouled your yardarm somehow or other."
When the first lieutenant had gone, Symington clutched the doctor's arm. "I could vomit when that man says that."
"Me too," said the doctor. "Let's go. We're ordered off."
The summons to the captain's cabin didn't come until noon, just before they had to leave for the burgomaster's lunch. They found Shadde at his desk; he seemed unaware of their presence. Finally, he looked up and his dark eyes comprehended them slowly, as if he were having difficulty in focusing.
"Ah! You two . . . yes . . ." He stood up and glared down at them. But he spoke quietly. "Will you kindly tell me exactly what you were up to at that party last night?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, sir," Symington said.
"Please, Symington, don't put on that Christian-martyr act. It won't help in the least, you know."
The doctor said, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know, either."
"Don't you really," Shadde said sarcastically. "You bloody soon will." The remark sounded like a pistol shot. "You spent most of your time at the Embassy standing next to the bar table, swilling drinks as if you were a couple of bargees on a run ashore . . . and then, not content with that, you tripped a waiter and created the sort of scene one expects in a third-rate music hall."
Careful, thought the doctor, look at those fingers; the gorge is rising. But Symington either hadn't seen the signs or was beyond caring. "We had nothing to do with the waiter's fall, sir, and I submit with respect that ..."
The captain held up an imperious hand. "Stop that! I'm not here to listen to your respectful submissions. You listen to me." He swung around on the doctor. "And you, too! Please understand that when naval officers are invited to a party at a British Embassy they're invited as representatives of their ship, and as representatives of the Royal Navy. It's their duty to move around among the other guests and to do all that they can—repeat, all that they canto leave a good impression of the ship and the service. That's what they're there for, d'you understand?" He gave them another fierce glare. "Not to see how many free drinks they can swill and ..." He stopped abruptly. "That will do. You may go."
The doctor signaled furiously to Symington not to answer, and they left the cabin in silence. In the wardroom the young man slumped into a chair. "My God! I can't stand much more of that."
The doctor nodded sympathetically. "I know how you feel, but he's the one to be pitied. Life must be hell for him."
"But that junk about tripping the waiter..." He was interrupted by the quartermaster's voice on the broadcast announcing the arrival of the launch alongside.
The doctor and the engineer officer liked and respected each other. Rhys Evans liked the doctor's warm kindliness, and the doctor liked the Welshman's sincerity. But because the engineer officer couldn't understand why Shadde disliked the doctor, and the doctor couldn't understand why Rhys Evans liked Shadde, the one person they never discussed was the captain. For this reason, the doctor was surprised when the engineer officer came to his cabin and broached the subject of Shadde. "I'm worried about the captain, Doctor. Known him a long time. There's a man, now, that's hard but just."
"You like him, don't you?"
"Indeed. He's a fine man, but.. . you'll not tell a soul?"
"Of course I won't, Chiefy."
Rhys Evans lowered his voice. "He's a sick man these last months. Too much on his mind, and it's doing strange things to him."
The doctor lit a cigarette. "What's he worrying about?"
"Sabotage business, for one thing, but other things, too."
"Such as?" prompted the doctor.
The Welshman's eyes regarded him gloomily. "I'll have to be telling you the whole story. It's better that you should know."
"Poor chap," the doctor said gently after Rhys Evans had told him all he knew of Shadde's troubles and suspicions. "I'm certain Symington's never mentioned that Lombok Strait business."
"Can you not help him, Doctor?" the engineer officer asked.
"He's a difficult man to help, Chiefy. He's proud, you know. And he loathes me. Besides, from what you say—that his wife's clearing out—well, there's no medical answer to that."
"So we can do nothing for him?"
" 'Fraid not. He must sort out his own problems. We've all got them, you know. Perhaps he's got a bit of overload at present, but nature's a good healer. A staff job will at least mean a rest, and a change. And he won't be as lonely as he is here. That'll probably put him right."
The Welshman wasn't convinced. "I hope so, Doctor. I don't like to see a man suffer."
The doctor's smile was warm and sympathetic. "He's got a good friend in you, Chiefy."
The captain returned on board from the mayor's lunch at half past two. He went straight to his cabin and locked the door behind him. For ten minutes or so he worked on his report to FOS M about the Korsor incident. But he couldn't concentrate. He turned off the lights and lay on his bunk, his mind in a turmoil. He couldn't believe that Elizabeth was going to Australia. When he got back to Petersfield the house would be empty. That's how he would start life in the new job ashore.
He couldn't go on without Elizabeth. True, she'd changed. She'd become tense and frustrated. Couldn't leave him alone for a moment. Whenever he sat alone and tried to sort out things she'd come along and try to break into his thoughts. She couldn't seem to realize that there were some things that couldn't be shared. But she was closer to him than any human being had ever been, and what little security he could find in life was all centered in her.