Vice-Admiral Hargrave concluded, ‘—will be the eventual defeat of our enemies!’
They all applauded and the vice-admiral said softly to the girl, ‘Pretty good, eh, Ross?’ She nodded and clapped her hands with the others.
Ransome felt suddenly grateful as the admiral glanced at his watch. It was bad enough to have Bliss here with his face like thunder without the others sensing a rift between their superiors as Gregory had obviously done.
The vice-admiral seized a few hands. ‘Malta, then. We shall all meet again before too long.’ He smiled at Richard Wakely. ‘I have some more people waiting to hang on your every word!’
Wakely shook Ransome’s hand, his eyes distant. ‘I’m getting the feel of it already.’ He nodded firmly. ‘I’m never wrong.’
Ransome accompanied them to the brow and wondered why the vice-admiral had chosen to board Rob Roy via Ranger. Perhaps he never threw away the chance to see and be seen.
The Wren officer turned to face him.
‘It’s been a pleasure, Commander.’
Ransome felt her gaze like an inspection. Outwardly cool and composed. But the admiral’s use of her first name told a different story.
He returned to the wardroom and found Bliss in deep conversation with several of the commanding officers.
To Hargrave he said, ‘It went well enough, I thought.’
Hargrave plucked at his shirt. ‘All these people. Every mother’s son seems to know about the invasion.’
Ransome thought about the peacetime Budget, when it was always touted as a total secret until the actual announcement in the House of Commons. And yet as his father had pointed out many times, there were hundreds who must have known the ‘secret’. The secretaries, the financial advisers, and all the printers who produced the final budget papers. Like Second Officer Pearce and her staff, these officers and God alone knew how many others in Whitehall. There was no such thing as a true secret.
Bliss made his excuses and left. He seemed calm enough but his eyes were angry, like the moment he had been curtly put right about Wakely.
His boat was waiting on the outboard side and Bliss paused to say, if you have any problems, tell me, right?’
Ransome nodded. Before telling the vice-admiral, he might just as well have said.
Bliss added, ‘So your Number One is the admiral’s son?’
‘Yes, sir.’ It was a sounding remark. Bliss knew just about everything. Perhaps he and the vice-admiral were too much alike.
There was a commotion in the wardroom and Bliss said shortly, i’m off. Before the high jinks begin. Best to get it out of their systems now, eh?’ It sounded vaguely like a threat.
Ransome paused by the wardroom where Petty Officer Kellett was hovering outside the curtained entrance.
He said anxiously, ‘I’d like to offer you one of my special cocktails, sir.’
Ransome took the hint. ‘Trouble?’
Kellett shrugged. ‘Storm in a teacup, sir.’
Beyond the curtain, Lieutenant Philip Sherwood clung to the back of a chair and stared glassily at the mass of figures which filled the place. He had missed Bliss by seconds, having boarded Ranger’s deck from a passing launch.
He looked tousled and crumpled and there was a wine stain on his shirt, like dried blood.
‘Well, well, well! A celebration or a wake, which must it be?’
Hargrave made to step forward but Campbell touched his arm. ‘Leave it, Number One. He’s never been like this before.’
Sherwood beckoned to a messman and took a glass from the tray without even looking at it.
i am sorry 1 missed the party, I was elsewhere—’ He swallowed the drink and swayed against the chair for support.
Someone called, ‘For Christ’s sake take it easy, or you’ll spill a drop!’ Another said, ‘Don’t anyone light a cigarette near him or you’ll blow up the ship!’
Sherwood ignored the laughter and stared around with haunted desperation.
He said in a surprisingly clear voice, ‘If we are mark’d to die, we are enov’ to do our country loss: and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honour—’
He almost fell and then pivoted round as Ransome entered the wardroom.
Sherwood made a mock bow. ‘Oops. I – I am so sorry, dear Captain, but I am slightly pissed—’
Surgeon Lieutenant Cusack stepped forward and caught Sherwood as he fell.
To the others he said, i think his party’s over.’
Ransome looked around their faces, so different and yet suddenly bonded together, sobered by Sherwood’s rambling quotation, which he had delivered like a prophesy.
As captain he was just another guest here in Rob Roy’s wardroom. It was not the time or the place to make a stand on Sherwood’s behaviour. He had not seen him like it before, and tomorrow he would have to put it all behind him. Otherwise…
He nodded to the others and left the wardroom, but even when he reached the companion ladder there was still no sound to mark his departure.
He opened his cabin door and switched on the light. It seemed to shine directly on Tony’s face.
Sherwood was not the only one, he thought. Nor would he be the last once they were through the gateway.
Chief Petty Officer Joe Beckett tilted his cap further over his eyes and stared up at the Rock, the strange shimmering haze which swirled around the summit like smoke.
The Buffer stood beside him watching the last of the NAAFI stores boats alongside, another taking aboard the final sack of letters from Rob Roy and Ranger.
Beckett said, ‘Any more for the Skylark, Topsy?’ He glanced at some of the seamen in their clean shorts and white tops. ‘Soon be their old scruffy selves again, eh?’
The Buffer nodded. ‘Big White Cheese come aboard last night, I ’ear?’
Beckett grinned.’ Yeh, an’ you bloody missed it, scuttlin’ about the Rock like a randy dog, no doubt!’
The Buffer shrugged. ‘I’ve seen more admirals than young Boyes over there ’as ’ad ’ot dinners!’
Beckett savoured it. ‘But ’e ’ad ’is Wren officer with ’im.’ He blew a kiss. ‘I’d rather be on ’er than the middle watch, I can tell you!’ His grin faded as he took on his stern coxswain’s expression.
‘An’ wot are all we, then?’
All we was one small, slightly built sailor who was being unceremoniously manhandled over the brow from Ranger, his frail body almost buried by hammock and kitbag, attache case and gas mask respirator. His uniform was new and did not fit very well.
The Buffer gave a theatrical groan. ‘Must be twelve years old, eh, Swain?’
‘No more, and that’s the truth!’
He beckoned the small figure over. ‘Wot’s yer name, son?’
‘G – Gold, sir.’
’Gold, is it? Wot’re you, a four-by-two or summat?’
It was all quite lost on the newcomer, who looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment.
Beckett relented slightly. ‘You must be the replacement for whatsisname.’
The Buffer showed his monkey teeth. ‘The one wot got a dose of clap!’
‘Don’t shock the lad, Buffer!’ He looked severely at the sailor. ‘Last ship?’
‘This is my f-first, sir.’ He peered around the busy deck, clattering winches, order and purpose, none of which he could recognise. ‘I – I was supposed to be joining a c-cruiser, s-sir.’
The Buffer stared outboard. ‘A stutter too, that’s all I bleedin’ need!’
Beckett touched the youth’s shoulder and felt him jump.