Overhead the tannoy again. “Hands to stations for leaving harbour! Stand by wires and fenders!”
The deck gave another, more insistent quiver, and Drummond pictured the engineer with his men sealed in their world of gleaming steel, dials and gauges, steam and sweat.
He looked at the clock. Four minutes to go. Sheridan was cutting it fine. He appeared at that moment, cap under his arm, his hawkish features set in an expressionless mask.
“Ready to proceed, sir.”
Drummond jammed his cap on his head and nodded.
“Fair enough.”
It was a fine day at last, the air clean and crisp. No clouds, but the sun was watery and gave little warmth as Drummond strode along the port side towards the break in the forecastle and the straight, uncovered ladders which led to the signal bridge, where the slender-barrelled Oerlikons had been mounted on either wing, cutting down the space even more. Then up further to the place where he would probably remain until they moored again.
The bridge was crowded. Lookouts and bosun’s mates, Lieutenant Wingate, the navigating officer, standing deadcentre on the compass platform speaking quietly to his yeoman. Giles Rankin, the gunnery officer, was compressed into the centre of a small group consisting of the two sub-lieutenants, Midshipman Keyes and, surprisingly, Surgeon Lieutenant Adrian Vaughan, the new doctor. He was a strange, unsmiling young man, with hair and features so pale he could almost be an albino.
They all turned as Rankin drawled, “Thought it might be a good idea for them to stand up here on the forebridge as we get under way, sir. Just this once.”
Drummond nodded to them. “Good morning, gentlemen. Watch everything and ask if you want to.”
He turned as a voice said, “All closed up, sir. Coxswain on the wheel.”
Wingate called, “Number One’s singled up, sir.”
Drummond walked to the forepart of the bridge and laid his binoculars behind the glass screen. The newly painted forecastle, the long barrels of the two forward guns, reached towards the stem where Sheridan was standing in the eyes of the ship. Beside him was a signalman waiting to haul down the Jack once contact with the land had been cut.
“Stand by.”
He ignored the watching officers and concentrated on the dipping and tautening mooring lines. The forecastle was a litter of wires, amongst which the seamen moved like creatures being stalked by an endless serpent. It was an illusion. He saw Leading Seaman Eaden, captain of the forecastle, striding through the apparent confusion, his gloved hands pushing a wire into a man’s fist here, or whipping off a lashing prior to letting go. Even from the high bridge it was easy to spot the new men, Drummond thought. They held wires without recognition, waiting to see what the others would do.
“Standing by, sir.”
Petty Officer Tucker, the yeoman of signals, said gruffly, “From Observer, sir. How long will you be?”
Tucker was an old hand. Short and stout, with a beard so thick it was hard to see what he was thinking.
Drummond glanced at the waiting destroyer. Brand-new, single funnel, twin mountings for her powerful armament, she was idling impatiently towards the jetty. She even had her fenders down. Drummond could see her captain, the scrambled egg on his cap as he peered at the moored Warlock.
“Tell him, about three hundred and twelve feet.”
He forgot the other ship and snapped, “Let go aft!”
He saw Sheridan acknowledge as the order was passed, the men with heavy fenders moving them nearer to the flared bows.
A bosun’s mate called, “All clear aft, sir.”
He could almost feel the other destroyer breathing on him.
He turned on the grating and looked down at the new officers. One of them had “New Zealand” on his shoulder.
“Space here, or lack of it, means we will have to go ahead on the back spring and get the stern to swing out into the stream. ” He saw them nod in unison. “Remember it. Take your time. You’ve plenty of chances, but only one ship. ” They laughed, as he knew they would.
“Slow ahead starboard.”
The bridge vibrated evenly, and a pencil rolled across the uncovered chart table. and fell to the deck.
Drummond stood up on the side of the bridge watching the spring tightening and slackening as Sheridan’s forecastle party eased it carefully around the bollards. Too much strain and you could snap a wire like a thread. Then it would flail inboard like a lethal whip.
He turned aft, watching as the outboard screw churned the sluggish water into froth. Noakes, the gunner (T), had his wires already neatly made up into coils, his men fallen into two lines for leaving harbour. He breathed out slowly as the sunlight lanced down on to a narrow sliver of water between quarterdeck and jetty which had not been there before. The stern was starting to swing out, angling away, while the solitary spring took the ship’s slow thrust ahead like a halter.
Across the water a loud-hailer squeaked and then the other destroyer’s captain exclaimed loudly, “Thank God! You were there so long, I thought your ship was holding up the jetty!”
Drummond waved without turning his head.
The Warlock was now standing out from the jetty at about forty-five degrees, the nearest stonework hidden below the great flared forecastle.
“Stop starboard. ” He waved to Sheridan. “Let go forrard!”
The Jack had vanished, and Drummond saw that same Wren sitting on her bicycle watching them leave. A few dockyard workers were waiting to receive the other destroyer. Otherwise it was pretty quiet. Here, it was all too commonplace to comment upon, let alone show emotion for one more elderly destroyer going back to war.
“Slow astern together.”
He heard the coxswain’s reply up the brass pipe where Wingate was watchfully contemplating other shipping nearby.
Sternfirst, the Warlock thrashed past the new destroyer, between two moored storeships and a dredger, her small wash stirring up waste and shavings, leaking oil and flotsam which were part of any dockyard.
“Stop together.”
Below his feet he heard the jangle of telegraphs, then, “Both engines stopped, sir.”
Drummond took a quick look around. Two small harbour launches. A cruiser moored further downstream. The latter would need a salute, but he had already seen Vickery, the chief bosun’s mate, and his acolytes standing in line ready to pipe their respects.
It was all like a pattern. His mind recorded everything, discarding normality, noting only possible flaws.
He saw Keyes staring up at him, eyes filling his face. It must be a big moment for him. The greatest thing in his life. Eighteen years old. Not in a barracks or a classroom with some greyhaired instructor. At sea. On the bridge of a destroyer.
Impulsively he said, “Up here, Mr. Keyes.” He saw the indecision and added, “Chop, chop! We’ll be astride the sandbars in a moment!”
The boy stood beside him, his hands in tight fists, as if expecting a blow or a reprimand.
“Right Mr Keyes ” Drummond pointed over the screen, seeing Wingate grinning from beside the voice-pipes. “Take her out. Slow ahead. Starboard ten. Steady her, and then leave it to the coxswain. He can follow the buoys without constant wheel orders.”
There was a stunned silence. Then Keyes whispered, “Slow ahead together.”
Nothing happened.
Wingate tapped the voice-pipe with some brass dividers. “In here, Mid!”
Keyes tried again. He was shaking, his face was like chalk. He said, “Slow ahead together.”
Drummond felt the immediate response, remembering his first time. The ship charging away under him. Running wild.
He said quietly, “That can-shaped buoy, Mr. Keyes, do you see it?” He saw him nod jerkily. “Keep it to starboard as we leave the dockyard boundary.”
Keyes seemed to recover. “Starboard ten!” He groped across to the gyro repeater. “Midships! Er-steady!”