There was a tap at the door and Sheridan stepped over the coaming.
“I was in Waxwing, sir. ” He watched him curiously, his features in shadow. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you at the gangway.”
Drummond said, “Ordinary Seaman Davis.” Even as he spoke he saw something else on Sheridan’s face. Surprise, and perhaps relief. He continued, “What the hell has been going on?”
“Oh, Davis. They caught him in civilian clothes apparently. Obviously trying to desert. Tyson sent a party ashore to collect him from the provost boys. He’s in his mess under close arrest if you want-“
“Is that all?”
“Yes.” Sheridan stepped nearer. “All I can think of.”
“Did it never occur to you that once off this ship and out of his usual surroundings, Davis might very well start shooting his mouth off? About what we’ve been doing, and might be training for in the very near future?”
“Tyson said-“
Drummond could feel his hands shaking and he thrust one into a pocket and gripped the empty glass with the other.
“I’m not talking about Tyson! I want to know what the hell you were thinking of to treat this matter so lightly? Don’t you realise even now that men’s lives depend on security? Not keeping mum and all that rubbish, but trusting their officers’ judgement even if they hate their guts!”
Sheridan said quickly, “Look, sir, I’m not sure what I’ve done, but if you would explain, then I’ll try and put it right.”
“Yes.” He placed the glass on the table. “You will put it right, Number One. I want Ordinary Seaman Davis charged with overstaying his leave, being drunk, being beaten senseless by enemy paratroopers if you like, but I want him kept in this ship, do you understand?” He could sense Sheridan’s shocked surprise at his anger, just as he could imagine Owles listening behind the door.
Sheridan said stubbornly, “He had every intention of deserting.”
“Perhaps. Although I always thought he was a good man. Either way, I want his yardarm cleared as of today. This ship is not on the bread-run, nor is she in Falmouth for all time. She is detailed for special duty, work which might well kill the whole damn lot of us, right?”
“Right, sir.” Sheridan’s features were like stone. “Is that all?”
“Carry on. ” He waited until he had reached the door. “Why were you ashore when all this happened?”
Sheridan opened his mouth to reply and then saw the open visitors’ book on the desk. He said shortly, “I think you know that, too, sir.”
As the door closed the other opened and Owles hurried to the decanter.
“All done, sir. Now you can settle down again.”
Drummond looked away. “If one word gets beyond this cabin …”
Owles regarded him sadly. “What a thought, sir.” He sounded hurt. “As if it would.”
He left the cabin, and for a long while Drummond sat by the desk, seeing nothing, remembering only his anger against Sheridan. He should have leaned on him, but there had been no need to make him eat dirt like that. Had it been because of her, or because he was really beginning to crack wide open? He would have to watch himself with no less care than his subordinates, for his was the greater responsibility.
Two hours later Lieutenant Rankin came to the cabin, his blank features guarded as he stood in the dead centre of the shabby carpet.
“Ordinary Seaman Davis, sir. ” His sleek head shone in the reflected light. “Had a word with him. In my division, after all, quite a foolish thing to do, but …”
Drummond nodded. He had hoped Sheridan would return. Together they might have sealed the sudden rift.
Rankin added crisply, “Had some mad idea he was going to overstay his leave with a woman he’d met.
“Didn’t intend to desert?”
Just for a moment Rankin came out of his trance. “No, sir. I explained things to him.” His mouth lifted slightly. “Forcefully. I’ve put him in the first lieutenant’s report.”
“Thank you, Guns. I’ll have a word with the young idiot later. But thanks.”
The gunnery officer touched his centre parting with one finger as if to test its straightness.
“I’ll give Davis so much to do he won’t have time to worry about anything.”
There was another tap on the door, but it was Wingate, the O.O.D.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir. But there’s a signal from Captain (D). All commanding officers to report aboard the Warden in two hours’ time.” His gipsy face split into a grin. “Action at last, sir?”
Drummond felt the tension easing away. “A choking off more likely. ” In his heart he knew Wingate’s guess was close to the mark.
Beaumont would be telling the others aboard the half-leader what he had already heard in London and by that quiet roadside. He was that eager to get things moving.
He waited until they had both left the cabin and then poured another drink. Wingate was like a rock when things got difficult, and Rankin, whose imagination was limited almost to the length of a gun barrel, had not hesitated to make the unfortunate Davis believe he had intended to return to the ship. Eventually. Rankin was a book man through and through, and it must have cost him dearly to expand a lie for Drummond’s benefit. He thought of Sheridan, and how Frank might have handled it, and then forced them both from his mind.
On the opposite bulkhead was a miniature of the ship’s crest. Who touches me dies.
Whoever had thought that one up must have had Beaumont in mind.
Two days after Drummond’s return to Falmouth the first stage of Beaumont’s plan had gone into motion. Drummond had watched Sheridan’s and Wingate’s expressions as he had told them the news.
Wingate had spoken first. “Iceland, sir? And I was just getting used to this place.” But behind his eyes his mind had already been busy with his charts. Courses and currents, speed and distance to be made good. It never ended for the navigating officer.
Sheridan had asked, “And then? Or is too early yet to know the whole plan?”
They had barely spoken beyond the requirements of duty. Defaulters and requestmen, inspections and the like.
Drummond had opened his great wad of orders. “Stage by stage. This is all I can tell you. It may come to nothing anyway.”
But it had all begun on time, just as Beaumont had predicted. Without fuss he had left Falmouth aboard Waxwing and in company with two other destroyers, Victor and Ventnor. They would return to Harwich, join forces with the now repaired Lomond, Beaumont’s own ship, and make their way north to Iceland.
A day later, with Warden, the half-leader, in command, the other four had slipped quietly out of harbour. It had all gone remarkably well. No more deserters, no last-minute news from the intelligence officers at the Admiralty to say that the enemy had got wind of this new, if elderly, force of destroyers. Nothing. Going like a clock.
They had had one brief commanding officers’ conference before slipping from their buoys. Just the bare facts relating to recognition signals, R/T procedure, met reports. Nothing startling.
Commander Hector Duvall, the flotilla’s second-incommand, and Warden’s captain, did not beat about the bush. When he had got rid of the other two captains he had said to Drummond, “One for the road.” As he had slopped gin into their glasses he had said in his thick, fruity voice, “Don’t like this cloak-and-dagger stuff. Never have. What with the commando, combined ops, the S.O.E. and the Special Boat Squadron all fighting their own private wars, and the Americans doing the same, I only hope we all arrive at the same bloody victory in the end!”
He was in his early thirties, but with his thick beard, already tinted with flecks of grey, and his heavy frame, he looked years older.