His friend had grinned and punched his arm. ‘By God, Trevor, they must be a close bunch in your family to smother such a juicy secret!’
When Hargrave had pressed him further he had explained, ‘Your old man was once Bliss’s commanding officer in a fleet destroyer. The word went round that he was chasing Bliss’s young wife – and with some success to all accounts. No love lost since, it seems.’
Hargrave bit his lip. He found it easy to believe now, when once he would have defended his father’s name from any quarter.
He felt the pain and the humiliation returning. The beautiful Ross Pierce had offered him her private telephone number.
‘Next time we meet, Trevor, we may start a few fires together!’
And he had believed it.
He had phoned her at that number, a flat she owned with a Mayfair exchange, two nights before Rob Roy had received her final orders for Operation ‘Neptune’, the navy’s equivalent of ‘Overlord’. Obviously she liked him quite a lot, but had held him at arm’s length, which only made him want her all the more.
His father had answered the call, and Hargrave put down the receiver without speaking. It still hurt him more than he would have thought possible.
Sub-Lieutenant John Dent, whose sister drove staff cars in the WRNS, exclaimed, ‘From the W/T office, sir. The first troops are ashore!’
Hargrave looked at the bleak sky, the choppy sea with its mounting litter of upended or burned-out landing vessels.
They had done it.
He thought of his father and the Wren officer together and tried to accept what he must do. He would use them both, just as they were using one another.
He heard muffled cheers from the wheelhouse and leaned over the voicepipe.
‘Stow the noise down there.’ He glanced at the gyro repeater. ‘The course is one-six-zero, not two degrees off!’
He knew he was being unfair, that he was taking out his resentment on those who could not retaliate.
He looked round again. New faces. Probably clinging to Gregory’s memory, his methods and personality.
Spray dashed over the glass screen and soaked Hargrave’s shirt. He saw the sub-lieutenant trying to suppress a smile and said ruefully, ‘I was wrong. D-Day or not, collars and ties are not suitable.’
There was a livid flash, followed by an explosion that hit Ranger’s flanks like something solid. For an instant longer Hargrave thought they had struck a submerged wreck or an unmarked sandbar. Then he stared appalled at the tall column of water which appeared to be rising from the deck of Rob Roy, towering higher and higher as if it would never disperse. Ranger’s first lieutenant, a young New Zealander, clattered on to the bridge.
‘Dead alongside, sir! She’s hit a mine, God damn it!’ It sounded personal, beyond belief.
Hargrave watched as the white column cascaded down, the way she seemed to rock right over, and stay there.
The leading signalman shouted, ‘From Bedivorth, sir. Take command of flotilla. Rescue M.Ls will close on Rob Roy.’
Hargrave stared at their sister ship until his eyes smarted. Pictures stood out like those in an album. Fallows, too drunk to answer his questions. Ransome in his little cabin, like the one he now occupied when Ranger was in harbour. Campbell, old Bone and the hostile Sherwood. Beckett and the Buffer, and the midshipman who had been killed.
He said harshly, ‘Disregard! Make to Firebrand. Assume control. We are assisting.’
He pounded the screen with his fist as he had seen Ransome do.
‘Full ahead together!’ He was disobeying Bliss’s direct order, but suddenly it no longer mattered. All the petty manoeuvring and the plans for his future counted for nothing.
Rob Roy was still his ship. She mattered. Men were dying unnoticed against the background of greater events.
He shouted aloud, ‘Well, they bloody matter to me!’
The first lieutenant and the subbie exchanged glances. There was more to their new captain after all.
Ransome leaned on the chart-table with Morgan crowded against him under the canvas screen.
Ransome said, ‘We shall remain on the present course until we reach this point.’ He tapped the pencilled cross with his dividers. ‘Six miles offshore.’
Morgan rubbed his chin. It made a rasping sound, as he often had to shave twice a day.
He said, ‘After that—’
The explosion seemed to be right beneath their feet. The noise was shattering, and the hull rebounded from it with terrible violence,,
Ransome found himself on his knees, Morgan sprawled and coughing beside him. There was smoke everywhere, and when Ransome struggled to his feet he almost fell again, and knew that the deck’s angle was increasing.
He reached out to help Morgan from the litter of broken glass and buckled voicepipes but a pain like hot iron lanced through his side.
Morgan clambered up beside him. ‘What is it?’
Ransome clawed his way to the chair and held on to it, gritting his teeth against the agony. He gasped, ‘Couple of ribs, I think!’
He stared round the tilting bridge, his mind shocked and dazed by the explosion.
Rob Roy, his ship, had hit a mine. It was probably fatal. He must think. Accept it. Carry out the drill he had always dreaded.
He shouted, ‘Stop engines!’
The reply came back from the wheelhouse. ‘No communications, sir!’ He heard Beckett coughing. Then he said, ‘Bit of a potmess down ’ere, sir. Steering gone – compass – the lot—’
Ransome beckoned to Morgan. ‘Take over. Clear the wheelhouse. I must speak with the Chief.’ He stared, sickened, at one of the look-outs. He had been flung back from that side by the blast; his head was smashed against the grey steel like an eggshell. There was a smear of blood down to the gratings, and much more of it running in the scuppers. Mackay knelt on an upended flag-locker, mopping his cheek where a piece of glass from the broken screen had slashed his face to the bone. The boatswain’s mate sat with hands folded in his lap as if resting. Only the broken handset and his bulging eyes showed that he had been killed instantly by the blast; he was otherwise unmarked.
If he had not been crouching over the chart-table… Ransome controlled his thoughts with a terrible effort and pulled himself toward the ladder. In his sea-cabin there was another telephone which was connected directly to the engine-room.
Even as he reached it, he realised that the engines’ beat had ceased. The cabin looked as if it had been ransacked by madmen.
He pulled the handset from its bracket, and Campbell answered before he could speak.
He said tersely, ‘Taking water fast, starboard side forrard. Losing fuel from the tanks there too.’
Ransome pressed his forehead against the cold steel and nodded, his eyes closed. He had already smelled the stench of fuel. I le had been present often enough when other ships had died. Like their blood draining away.
‘Get your men out of there, Chief.’
Campbell replied, ‘The pumps are holding, sir. I’ll stay with them.’
Ransome saw Sherwood watching from the door, noticed how his figure was set at a crooked angle; he knew it was the ship going over. Men were shouting, and he heard metal scraping across the deck, feet running, disorder when moments before —
Sherwood watched his anguish and said, ‘All depth-charges are set to safe, sir. The Buffer’s standing by with floats and rafts. The whaler’s ready for lowering, but the motor boat’s had it.’