He had a future, other than suicide. It might still not be entirely attractive.
Course set for the next three hours, he was at liberty to leave the bridge, nodded to the watchkeeper and stepped down to the wheelhouse, checking who was on watch there, before going down to his cabin. An unknown leading seaman had the wheel, was showing quietly relaxed and confident, easing the ship’s head as she crossed the Atlantic swell, not permitting the rollers to push her off course. Satisfied, he paced off to the wardroom, seeking a quiet cup of tea and perhaps a sandwich, having breakfasted early to be on the bridge for the passage through the Straits.
The Navigator had been taken off the ship by small boat as they passed Gibraltar, promoted to Commander in a predreadnought in harbour there. The promotion to full commander was welcome, the ship was not, and he had left Black Prince in some dismay, going from a cruiser renowned as a crack ship to an ancient battleship staggering off to take part in the bombardments off the Dardanelles and to spend the bulk of her days at anchor in Mudros as a defence against sorties by the Austro-Hungarian or Turkish navies. Christopher had felt sympathy for him, delight that he had taken over as Navigator, must be promoted soon. He did not think he would be superseded, replaced by another man; he had returned to the mainstream of the service.
He smiled to himself as he sat with his teacup to hand. A year previously and he had been one of the coming men, certain to be an admiral in his thirties; now he was happy that he would make lieutenant commander with a certainty that there would be nothing more forthcoming.
‘How have the mighty fallen’, he mused, entertained by his own philosophical acceptance of failure.
“You seem happy this morning, Adams!”
“Contemplating my blessings, Crewe. Back in the real Navy after playing about in the Med. Much to be said for a big ship, you know.”
The Gunnery Commander nodded ponderous agreement. Black Prince was an armoured cruiser and was definitely not a small ship.
“Hear we are due for a few months of dockyard time, Adams. Admiralty has digested the loss of Good Hope at Coronel and noticed some of the reasons why. Finally worked out that placing guns within six feet of the waterline don’t make sense!”
“That’s quick going, Crewe! Barely six months since the details became known to them!”
“Shook them, a bit. Losing Good Hope and Monmouth after the three cruisers on the Broad Fourteens – made them think. The death of five thousand men on our side for no losses to the Germans should have made anybody think, Adams!”
“Yes, we have not done well so far in this war, Crewe.”
“The Falkland Islands, which was badly handled. Sunk one battle cruiser at the Dogger Bank – and let four more go! All we hear down the grapevine says Beatty made a cock of that. The newspapers, of course, are howling victory! Apart from that, all of our successes have come from the destroyers. Torpedo work, not the guns. Makes you think, don’t it! Mind you, some of those youngsters have shown really well – at least one of them has made lieutenant commander with his own half-flotilla before the age of twenty-one and carrying a chestful of decorations. My brother is a sub on one of his boats, man by the name of Sturton, heir to Viscount Perceval as well. Big future ahead of that gentleman!”
“Is that so? I was same year as him at Dartmouth and did two years as a mid on St Vincent in his company. Got on well with him, a likeable man and a good seaman in the making, no doubt of that. Four of us, there were. Hector McDuff went down with Good Hope – pleasant chap and well capable. The fourth was Richard Baker, and he was bloody useless! Never had a hope of making the grade and his father was asked to send his papers in, still a mid. Then he joined the Army and suddenly he was a hero – colonel now, I read recently. Same age as me. Engaged to Elkthorn’s daughter as well; saw it in The Times. Don’t know her but she sounds like a good catch.”
“That’s Baker the VC, is it? I knew he was one of us originally. Not uncommon for young mids to transfer across to the Army, of course, because they can’t get on at sea. Couple of very senior generals started off as sailors, I know. Sounds as if you were rubbing shoulders with the great, Adams.”
Christopher was shocked by that comment – until his misfortunes, he had been recognised as the greatest of the four. Now, he was the also-ran. That hurt.
He was surprised to discover just how much it pained him, to be disclosed as no more than ordinary, to be forced to accept that whatever his future might be, however far he might rise in a post-war occupation, he was no longer a golden boy. He might be successful; he could not be brilliant in other’s estimation.
It was a burden to carry, to cope with – no longer to be the cynosure of all eyes, to be the man all others must be compared against.
He managed to laugh in his turn, to tell the appropriate lie.
“Always knew that Sturton would be an admiral, and young. You know how one can tell that some of the youngsters have got that extra spark in them?”
Crewe did, regretted that it was not to be observed in any of the midshipmen or subs aboard Black Prince. Christopher agreed they were an ordinary bunch – little to distinguish any of them.
“You were saying something about the six inchers, Crewe?”
“Oh, yes. All to be shifted. The broadside sponsons to be removed and just six to be placed in turrets or casemates, uncertain which yet, on deck amidships. Only half the number of them, but all of them usable! At the moment we have twelve, and none of them can be fired in anything other than a flat calm! Reduces the guns, increases our firepower! Hopefully, they will give us new guns, not simply shift the existing barrels; the new marks of six inch have greater range and quicker loading, not that the range matters.”
“What about the three pounders, Crewe?”
“Bloody things! Twelve of them, using up gunlayers and crew and valueless in any practical sense. Sixty men and the ammunition passers and too small to do any good at all. Supposed to be used against torpedo boats, being small quickfirers, easy to lay on a fast-moving target – which is true enough, but a three pound shell is valueless in practical terms. Do much better with four or six twelve pounders.”
“Are they to be changed?”
“Not a chance, Adams! The Admiralty loves its three pounders and will not do away with them. They are a pretty gun, one must admit, with that long, slender barrel, and they can be tucked away into every odd corner on deck. ‘Bristling with guns’, like the old wooden walls they really wish we were still sailing. The Admiralty still hopes, in its heart of hearts, that the Grand Fleet will steam into battle at two cables distance and smash the High Seas Fleet before taking them by boarding. They will never be truly content with less. They still issue cutlasses, you know. Got four hundred of them tucked away somewhere. Supposed to hand them out whenever we go to action stations, believe it or not!”
Christopher shook his head in sympathy.
“When I was with the trawlers at Alex, before we moved into the Red Sea, we put in for revolvers for our boarding parties. Slave patrol – we stopped and searched a hundred bloody dhows! As I say, we asked for handguns and some old fool from the Gun Wharf turned up with cutlasses and a grindstone and a fellah to keep them sharp for us. Threatened us with court martials when we refused them and insisted on revolvers. Unbelievable. Luckily for us, we had rifles aboard from the submarine patrol days.”