Fitzroy nodded, his eyes suddenly very bright. “Poor old bastard. Couldn’t believe it when I was taking down the signal.”
Sheridan left the bridge, his mind reeling. It was like part of a nightmare. The swiftsure touch of death. The way everyone tried to face up to it. Above all was the unnerving pattern of events which had ended with Warden’s sudden destruction. The distorted voice on the R/T, Drummond’s impassive acceptance, the way they had held back and let a ship die. It was like the Conquerorall over again. The destroyers holding off. By order.
He found Mr. Noakes and the chief boatswain’s mate, and the weary-looking duty watch waiting with wires and fenders again.
He said, “Ready when you are.”
Noakes said, “Look at ‘em. All gapin’ at the bloody shore. Can’t wait to put their fancy gear on and go chasm’ the tarts. They’ll be lucky, I don’t think!”
Vickery, the chief boatswain’s mate, turned as Abbott hurried past along the iron deck.
“See you in the mess, Ted. When we get the old girl snugged down.”
Abbott strode on without a word.
Vickery looked at Sheridan and exclaimed, “What the hell’s got into him?” Then he said slowly, “Jesus, not his family?” He swung away, his voice harsh. “Come on then, jump about! Take up them bloody wires and try an’ look like seamen!”
In his sleeping cabin Drummond stripped off his sweater and threw it on a chair. For a while he looked at the rusty plates of the oiler alongside, waiting until they began to move slowly and steadily past the scuttle, and then he turned to his mirror. Perhaps a good shave would help. Owles had laid out a crisp new shirt and best uniform. He was doing his best. He heard wires scraping along the deck above and Noakes bellowing at some unfortunate rating or other. He had never allowed anyone else to move the ship like this, even though it was perfectly simple with the dockside engine in control. But he knew he could not have stood a moment longer on that bridge. He would either have smashed Sheridan in the face, or burst into tears. Neither would have changed anything.
Perhaps his last conversation with Sheridan had been on Duvall’s mind even at the moment of death. That Beaumont was in some way responsible for all that had happened. The Conqueror, the men who had died in the burning decoy, and the Warden herself as she split asunder and painted the sea and sky with bright orange fire.
It got just that bit worse each time. Everyone who was in combat said the same. If he was honest. At Harwich, Drummond had known a lot of the fighter pilots at the nearby base. Not unlike destroyer men, in their way. Young, reckless, yet so full of life. Some of them had told him of their own fears. The first kill in the sky, the terror giving way to exultation. Not at killing an enemy pilot, but winning a single-handed battle. The next times were easier, and then they seemed to reach a peak, after which things got more tense, minds became edgier, less tolerant of minor faults in planes and other pilots. After that, they usually died.
In ships, especially small ones, it took longer. For the sense of permanence and indestructibility was always with you. You carried your home wherever you went. Little else mattered beyond the steel shell. But the strain mounted, nevertheless. And he was seeing it now in his own face. As he had watched it on Wingate’s and Galbraith’s. As he had seen it when Duvall had been asking about Beaumont. I can’t get his measure. Nor would he, now.
He thought, too, of Petty Officer Abbott, as he had looked when he had told him about the signal. A very tough man was Abbott. He had been wounded twice, and had been in the Navy since he was a boy. He had stood by the desk, not looking at Drummond but at the signal in his hands.
He had said, “Not them, sir! Not them!”
Drummond had poured out a glass of brandy. “Drink this.”
He had wanted so much to know the words. The right way to say them. At the same time he knew there were none.
Abbott had exclaimed brokenly, “What’ll I do, sir?”
“I’ll have you flown home immediately. Someone else can take over until …”
Abbott had said emptily, “But they was my home, sir.” The glass of brandy stood untouched on the desk in the other cabin.
Drummond laid down the razor and touched his face. The bulkhead telephone buzzed and he took it as he was about to slip on the clean shirt.
“First lieutenant here, sir. There was a signal from Lomond.”
“For me to go across?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.” He leaned against the cool metal bulkhead, the picture of the neat bunk behind him looming like a spoiled dream. “He doesn’t waste much time.”
“Ship is securing now, sir. Whirlpool will be coming along the port side when she finishes oiling.”
“Good. Send the duty watch to breakfast while they’re waiting.”
Sheridan seemed to be hesitating. Then he said, “Sorry I got worked up about Warden, sir.”
“Forget it. ” He saw the brandy on the desk. “It happens. ”
Sheridan said, “I’ll carry on then, sir.”
“Yes.” He thought of the girl and Sheridan at the hotel.
“You know where I am if you need me.” He replaced the telephone and walked to the desk.
Then he gave a great sigh and pushed the glass away.
“No. I’ll drink his bloody brandy for a change!”
Through the door Owles listened and gave a satisfied nod. The skipper was getting over it. Just one more time. He busied himself brushing Drummond’s cap. It was the only way to manage things, he thought.
Beaumont sat in a new leather armchair and regarded Drummond thoughtfully. His quarters smelled of fresh paint and had an air of unusual comfort.
He said at length, “I read your report. My number one is adding a few touches for my benefit, otherwise it seems fine.”
Drummond felt the drowsiness coming back and concentrated his gaze on a swaying harbour crane which he could see through one of the polished scuttles.
Beaumont continued, “Pity about Hector Duvall, of course. But you can’t play God without some risk. In his case he went too far, that’s all.”
“Would it have made that much difference if the rest’of us had followed, d’you think, sir?”
Beaumont wagged one finger. “Now, you must not ask me, Keith. I was not there, was I? You’ve made it all clear in the report. You weighed up the situation and decided. I don’t think anyone can blame you for what happened.”
Drummond stared at him. “Blame me? I was obeying your orders, sir.”
Beaumont picked something from his sleeve and smiled gently. “Of course.”
“Look, sir, if you think I should have acted as my instinct dictated, then I’d like to hear it.”
“Easy, Keith!” He was still smiling. “It’s over and done with. I’m not condoning Duvall’s actions for a single second. By charging in like a bull in a china shop he might have brought all hell down on our heads. That convoy arrived almost intact. But even if it had been wiped out, Duvall’s four destroyers did not exist as far as the convoy’s escort commander was concerned. When the convoy weighed anchor it had four corvettes and a trawler to protect it. If their lordships thought them insufficient they should have acted accordingly. Nobody relies on miracles all the time. Especially me.”
He stood up and walked to the nearest scuttle, his face smooth and pink in the reflected light.
“I was only saying that I did not know how I might have reacted in your position once Duvall had gone off at half-cock. ” He turned, smiling broadly. “No traps, Keith. No false motives.”
His P.O. steward peered round a curtain.
“Shall I lay out the glasses yet, sir?”
“In a moment.” Beaumont flicked up one white cuff and examined his watch. “They’ll be aboard in about fifteen minutes. Better not have a drink until then, eh?”