He jammed on his cap and slung the glasses around his neck. As he stepped from the cabin he saw a bosun’s mate carrying a tin of milk towards the bridge ladder.
The man froze and said quickly, ” ‘Mornin,’ sir. Bit fresh up top still.” He held the tin behind his back.
Drummond smiled gravely. “Good morning, Toogood. Rustle up some cocoa, if you can.”
He groped for the ladder to the upper bridge. It was funny when you thought about it. The bosun’s mate was taking milk for the ship’s cat, Badger. Everyone knew about the cat, but its presence was carefully never mentioned. The previous Captain (D) had had a thing about pets in his flotilla. Likewise, Badger carefully ignored most of the ship’s company. Except for the members of the stokers’ mess where he slept, and those entrusted to bring his milk.
The air was still sharp, and he saw Sheridan waiting beside the gyro repeater.
“Keeping quiet, Number One?”
He eased his body into the chair. Its arms were damp and ice-cold.
“Nothing much, sir. Report of a freighter sinking off Wold 11 Rock. Not quite clear why. Mine, I expect. We’re due to pass an east-bound coastal convoy before 0400, and there are some sweepers heading our way from Portland. Otherwise, pretty slack.”
Feet scraped across the gratings and the bosun’s mate handed him a mug of steaming cocoa..
“Kye up, sir.”
Drummond watched him over the rim, cradling the hot mug between his hands.
“Get rid of the milk all right?”
The seaman grinned. “Yessir.”
Sheridan was at the compass. “Port fifteen. ” He glanced down at Hillier. “Check with the plot, Sub. Can’t afford to be off course again.” He bent to the glowing compass repeater. “Midships. Steady. Steer two-three-five.”
Far inland a fire glowed redly in the night, but there were no clouds to reflect or measure its distance and intensity.
Sheridan said, “Bomb with a time fuse probably. The poor devils will be able to get to bed now.”
“Radar-Bridge.”
Sheridan snatched up a handset. “Bridge.”
“Some faint echoes at Green oh-two-five, sir. Probably the sweepers coming round the Isle of Wight from Portland.”
“Good, thank you, Yates. Carry on with the sweep. ” To the bridge lookouts he added, “You heard that. Keep your eyes peeled.”
Drummond swallowed the thick, sickly cocoa, feeling it exploring his empty stomach. That was good. Sheridan had even got to know the leading radar operator by name. It helped confidence, broke down the uncertainty of strangers on a night watch. Doubt; fear of rebuke from a faceless voice-pipe or handset often took valuable seconds. It was sometimes fatal.
A light blinked briefly across the heaving water, and a reply was shuttered back just as quickly by the waiting signalman.
Drummond relaxed. It was going well. And the sooner they reached Falmouth, the better he would be pleased.
Sheridan paused to peer at the chart table beneath its canvas hood, and when he looked again he saw that Drummond’s head was lolling in time with the ship’s motion. He smiled grimly. At least he trusts me, he thought. The smile faded as he looked slowly around the darkened bridge. I could have had one like this. Could be the one using his brain and mind, making decisions instead of taking orders.
The bosun’s mate said, “The plot ‘as just called, sir. Sayse’s ‘avin’ a bit of bother with the new chart.” He fell silent, I uninvolved, his duty done.
Sheridan nodded. “Very well. Go down, Sub. Use some of that magic they taught you. Give the plot table a kick if all else fails.”
At five minutes to four Wingate appeared on the bridge to take over the morning watch.
Course, speed and weather. Any cocoa left in the wardroom?
The relieved watchkeepers scrambled down to their cabins and messdecks, groping for somewhere to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep before another day was upon them. On mess tables and narrow benches, in overcrowded compartments where they shared their blankets with tinned food or ammunition. Hammocks were not supposed to be slung at sea, but many were, and the luckier men swung together like creatures in warm pods, their lifebelts and sea boots handy should the alarm bells tear at their hearts again.
Hillier lay in a camp bed below a bunk where Lieutenant Rankin snored in regal splendour, and stared up at the darkness. Thinking of Dunedin and the girl who had promised to wait for him. He could hardly remember her face, which was very strange, as he had grown up with her.
In his white-painted cot near the sick bay the doctor was also awake, his stomach queasy from the sluggish motion, the sealed stenches of oil and cabbage water, the sharper tangs of his own department. Outside his own little cabin he could hear his leading sickbay attendant, Froud, groaning in his sleep. Dreaming of a conquest somewhere, or a defeat. Surgeon Lieutenant Adrian Vaughan switched on his reading lamp and groped for his glasses. He would read for a bit. Take his mind off things.
The S. B.A. turned over in his bunk as a shaft of light probed through the slit of the doctor’s door. Frond groaned and pulled his pyjamas more tightly about his body. He had been dreaming.
Violently. The ship had been going down, and he had been trapped. But he had been about to be rescued, by a tall, handsome sailor. It would be, of course. Froud hated all women to a point of torment.
But the dream had gone with the click of Vaughan’s reading lamp. Froud glared at the deckhead and swore savagely.
In the brightly lit tunnel of the engine room the chief stoker, “Soapy” Hudson, was singing at the top of his voice as he moved slowly amidst the glittering machinery and vibrating catwalks. Only his lips gave any hint of sound, the words being lost in the din, the unending roar of the destroyer’s engines and fans. A few boiler-suited figures crouched or ducked around the gleaming confusion, speaking to each other by sign and touch. A good bunch, Hudson decided. Most of them had given him a tot on his birthday. The chief had even slipped him half a bottle of gin from the wardroom.
He sighed and picked up his check board. Presents or not, old Galbraith would tear him off a strip if anything was wrong when he arrived for his pre-breakfast rounds.
From the captain, dozing in his bridge chair, to Badger, the cat, who was deeply sleeping, nose in tail, in his own special hammock on the stokers’ messdeck, Warlock carried them all. Indifferent to their personal hopes and disappointments, needing them only as servants to her own particular skills.
She had had her rest. Now it was time to pick up where she had left off.
4
Bait
Sheridan stepped into the day cabin and said quickly, “You wanted me, sir? Sorry I didn’t come earlier. I’ve been ashore. ” He noticed with sudden annoyance that Wingate was already in the cabin, leaning back in a chair, one leg crossed over the other.
Drummond smiled. “Not to worry, Number One. Take a seat. ” He gestured to the table. “Help yourself to a drink if you like.”
Sheridan shook his head. “Not just now.”
Wingate grinned. “Well, you will in a minute when you hear what we’ve been given!”
“Orders?” Sheridan could not keep the edge from the question.
They had been in Falmouth for two days, and had been joined by the other half of the flotilla. Although how seven more destroyers had managed to find moorings amidst the mass of escorts, trawlers, supply vessels and a collection of new landing craft was little less than a miracle. Nevertheless, while the commanding officers and base staff had been busy with comings and goings between ships and shore headquarters, the coinparties of the destroyers had taken time off to enjoy their surroundings. Not even the crowded moorings, the port’s heavy defences and the impressive troop movements ashore could spoil this almost detached existence. Green hills behind the harbour, the friendly little houses which lay comfortably on the slopes or beside the gentle Helford River, all were as remote from grey skies and barrage balloons, air-raid warnings and east coast convoys as Cornish cream differed from powdered eggs.