Bastard or not, when the crunch came it would be Tyson and all the rest of Warlock’s company who would have to face up to it, he thought bitterly.
Drummond sat well back in his tall chair and wedged his sea boots between the voice-pipes. Warlock was pushing along at an economical cruising speed of twelve knots, and her narrow hull was finding the going uncomfortable in a beam sea. It was evening, with barely a breath of wind to ease the oppressive heat which seemed to cling to the steel plates and bridge fittings, and to Drummond it felt as if they had been steaming in this same, slow way for an eternity. In fact, it was three days since they had left Falmouth in company with their consorts, three long days of working clear of coastal patrols and convoy routes, heading west and then south towards the fringe of Biscay. The first two days had been like a circus, with Captain Beaumont up on the bridge for most of the time, making signals to the group, getting each captain to change position, abeam, astern, and on one nightmare occasion having all four ships criss-crossing through each other’s wakes like gun-carriages of the King’s Horse Artillery.
Now, the other three ships were somewhere out of sight off the starboard bow. He hoped that the radar would not choose this moment to break down and sever their only contact.
He heard voices below the bridge on the port wing, and recognised one to be that of Miles Salter, Beaumont’s companion for the operation. It was still not quite clear what Salter was here for. To report if the job went well, or merely to collect material for the Ministry of Information? Or perhaps he was merely interested in Beaumont’s role? The latter would certainly explain Beaumont’s eagerness to put his ships through their paces. Drummond had been unable to control his own excitement, his pleasure at seeing the four destroyers charging through the Atlantic swell, much as they had been designed to do for the old Grand Fleet.
But all that was over, and Warlock moved like one discarded by the rest of the living world. And how different was the sea’s face now. Not even a cat’s-paw to break the unending procession of long, even swells. Warlock would lean irritably on to one beam, hang there for what seemed like minutes, before sliding her pitted flanks up and over to await the next challenge, her lower hull shaking violently as first one and then the second screw came close to the surface. It was even worse than the North Sea “corkscrew.” Drummond had seen more than one luckless seaman dash from below decks to vomit over the guardrail s.
“All right to come up, Captain?”
Drummond nodded without turning his head. “Help yourself.”
Miles Salter was short and overweight, his shape made stubbier by a windcheater, beneath which he always wore a lifejacket. He could be any age from thirty to forty, and had a way of screwing up his eyes when he was talking, so that you could never really see what he was thinking.
Salter climbed up on to the gratings and gripped some voice-pipes as the hull leaned over once more.
“God, I don’t fancy eating much tonight!”
Drummond heard Sheridan, who had the watch, speaking to Hillier, but kept his eyes towards where the horizon should be. The sky was hidden in pale cloud and low-lying mist, so that the array of rollers seemed to be marching straight out of the filtered sunlight.
Salter said, “I just wondered how things were coming along?”
Drummond turned slightly in the chair. He had deliberately kept silent. Leaving it to Salter. If this was just one of his usual aimless visits to the bridge he would have been pestering Sheridan or Hillier by now.
Salter added quickly, “Captain Beaumont has put me in the picture, of course.”
Of course.
Drummond replied, “We are now steering almost due south.” He raised one hand above the salt-dappled screen. “Over there, about one hundred and seventy miles off the port bow, is Cape Finisterre, the tip of Spain. All the rest is the Bay of Biscay.”
Salter said vaguely, “I thought it was always rough in the Bay?”
“Like the song, you mean?”
He tried to relax, to pass the time with Salter until dusk, or whenever he chose to leave. But this expanse of sea, this silence, seemed to make a mockery of plans and secret arrangements hatched in high places.
Hour by hour they had kept a more than usually careful listening watch. Distress calls, sighting reports, coded signals from friend and enemy alike had kept the W/T staff going without respite. A west-bound convoy had been attacked three days out from Liverpool. Elsewhere, a freighter had collided with an escort while trying to pass wounded men across for medical aid. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Beaumont had called the bridge from his quarters aft with ever-growing impatience, as if even he was beginning to think somebody had slipped up.
He relented and said, “We are still waiting for a confirming signal from the Admiralty. If it comes before dawn, then it will be time to get moving. If not, well, we’ll just have to try again, or forget the whole idea.”
Salter said nothing, so he continued, “A decoy ship has been detached from a Gibraltar convoy, acting as if she is in trouble. She should be somewhere ahead of us right now.”
Or lying on the bottom, he thought grimly.
“A deep-sea tug has been despatched from Gib to give her assistance, take her in tow.”
“I see.” Salter’s eyes had vanished into a mass of crow’sfeet. “So it’s up to the enemy.”
“Something like that.” He turned in his chair. “Sub, check with radar again.”
Hillier said, “I just did, sir.”
“Do it again. ” He was irritated at the sharpness in his voice, at the way his mood was being noted by Salter. “The tug will have been careful to make a bit of a show. There’s no shortage of spies around the Rock. I’ll bet the enemy have guessed what’s happening by now.”
“But won’t they be a bit suspicious, Captain? I mean, the decoy having no escort.”
Drummond watched him gravely. Where have you been all these months and years?
“It was a fast convoy. We just don’t have enough escorts to allow them to hang around. You either abandon a straggler, or you take off her people and put her down yourself. It’s a sort of two-way trust we share between Navy and merchantman. It’s all we’ve got, most of the time.”
Salter’s lips curled slightly. “You sound bitter.”
“I’ve a right to that. ” He looked abeam. “I’ve seen too many good ships go under because we simply couldn’t protect them. In peacetime, people aren’t interested. In war, they expect a bloody miracle. ” He saw Hillier’s shadow against the steel and asked, “Anything?”
“No, sir.”
Sheridan called, “Bosun’s mate! Pipe the port watch to defence stations!”
Drummond said, “Strange to think that out there in Spain and Portugal there are lights in the streets. No worries if you’re going to wake up in the morning.”
Salter said in a solemn tone, “Ah, Spain. I was there, you know. In the Civil War. Terrible tragedy.” “Yes. I was there, too.”
Several people shuffled to attention as Beaumont strode into the bridge, his oak-leaned cap tilted rakishly over his eyes. He had a pure silk scarf around his neck, and against the weary watchkeepers looked as if he was about to take over a major role in an action film.
He nodded to Drummond. “Don’t get up, Keith. We’ll need all your energy later, eh?” He smiled at Salter. “What it is to be young!”
Drummond watched them both curiously. The use of his first name. Was it really Beaumont’s intention to dispense with the usual formality, or merely to impress Salter, and anyone else who might be listening?