Black August (26 page)

‘Cease fire,' ordered Gregory; he had no wish to waste his ammunition and knew that he had taken toll of the enemy.

For a moment there was silence and not a movement to be seen. Then a spasmodic fire was opened by the mutineers from their shelter behind the funnels and torpedo tubes.

‘Get down,' barked Gregory, and as the bullets came spattering against the superstructure of the bridge its defenders flung themselves upon the deck. Sallust alone remained upright, miraculously immune from the bullets as he continued the direction of operations.

Kenyon felt a slight perspiration break out upon his forehead at this, his first experience of being under fire, and with one hand pushed back his rebellious auburn hair; with the other he instinctively fumbled for his cigarettes.

‘For Gawd's sake put that out, sir,' came a hoarse whisper as he struck a match. It was Rudd crouching beside him in the darkness and in some strange way he felt comforted.

Gregory's voice came again: ‘All ranks! pick your marks. Three round rapid—Fire!'

The kneeling figures rose and suddenly there was a crashing blast of fire. The bullets snapped and rattled as they hit the steel deck and the after part of the ship was subjected to a rain of lead. Yet even as it ceased the return fire leapt out again.

There were numerous casualties now on both sides, and the groans of the wounded were mingled with the screams of pain as the bullets found a human mark.

At Gregory's orders the machine-guns opened once more, pouring another belt apiece into the darkness amidships. They gibbered and chattered like street drills gone mad, while their leaden stream clanged and whistled as it struck and ricocheted upon the metal fitments of the ship.

Then from the starboard quarter there came a blinding flash, a shrill screech a few feet overhead, and almost instantly the crack of an exploding shell.

Kenyon, crouching on the bridge, caught a glimpse of Sallust's face. The muscles about the mouth had tightened suddenly with the swift realisation that any moment might bring annihilation to them all. The mutineers had manned one of the two-pounder Pom-Pom anti-aircraft guns, and turned it on the bridge.

‘All ranks—concentrate on flash—rapid—fire!' came the General's last desperate order, but it was too late.

A scorching sheet of flame leapt up on Kenyon's left, accompanied
by a thunderous, ear-splitting detonation. The bridge rocked beneath him as he was flung sprawling to the port end. Even the ship seemed to shudder for a second as it ploughed its way through the sea. Another followed and another, at hardly a second's interval. The night was livid with a blinding series of explosions, the air foul with the acrid, choking fumes.

When they ceased the deck-house had almost completely disappeared, the binnacle and telegraphs were a twisted mass of brass and copper, while a hundred cries of pain and triumph seemed to rend the air at the same moment. Pandemonium had broken loose.

‘Abandon bridge,' yelled a voice above the din. ‘Come on, now—make it snappy. All hands on the fo'c'sle, they won't be able to shell you there.' It was Silas Gonderport Harker, who had taken charge on the silence of the General.

Kenyon struggled out from beneath Chief Petty Officer Wilkins who had been flung on top of him. The sailor's leg had been broken at the thigh by a flying fragment of shell and he was whimpering pitifully. As Kenyon raised his head the whimpering ceased, the body twitched and lay still.

‘I got ter get Mr. Sallust,' croaked a horse voice and Kenyon turned to find Rudd still beside him.

‘No good,' he gasped, ‘he'll be dead for certain, and they'll be putting more shells into that deck-house in a second. Get off this blasted bridge, while there's still time.'

‘Not me, sir, ‘e's my officer an' I ain't goin' without ‘im.'

‘All right—I'll help you,' muttered Kenyon thickly.

Cries, shouts and groans came from every side as they crawled along the bridge. The canvas screens had caught fire and lit the tumult in a lurid glare, the sickly smell of fresh-spilled blood came strongly to their nostrils. The survivors were tumbling over one another in their efforts to get down the ladders.

The chart-house, when they reached it, was a shambles. Half a dozen twisted bodies lay with mangled limbs and white distorted faces; Gregory was among them, his left leg doubled unnaturally back beneath his body, a trickle of blood running from one ear. They dragged his limp form from among the others without pausing to see if he was alive or dead, and lugged him between them to the port ladder.

‘'Arf a mo', sir; bung 'im on my back,' cried Rudd, pausing when he was half-way to the deck.

‘Right—you carry him—I'll protect your rear.' The precaution was not unnecessary for the mutineers were already running from cover to cover forward to the burning bridge, sniping at the retreating soldiers as they stumbled towards the fo'c'sle.

A bullet pinged past Kenyon's head and flattened itself upon a steel projection, another seared through his sleeve and, catching a stanchion, ricocheted with a loud whine into the sea.

Rudd staggered along under his burden. A rifle cracked in front. One of Harker's men had mistaken them for the attackers.

‘Don't fire,' yelled Kenyon, ‘it's Fane and Rudd.'

‘Attaboy,' sang out Harker. ‘Thank God you're safe; seen anything of the General? My, but you've got him here; great stuff!' In another moment willing hands were relieving Rudd of his load.

Harker was already preparing a new position in the bows. Kenyon had no chance to see how many men had survived the debacle of the bridge, but from the dark forms moving swiftly about him he gathered that there must be at least a dozen. With a sudden feeling of relief he found that he still had the old-fashioned service revolver that Gregory had procured for him that afternoon, stuck in the borrowed belt, then an appalling thought flashed into his mind.

They were cut off from the women—Ann and Veronica were marooned aft and must already have fallen into the hands of the mutineers.

The two girls had turned their whole attention to Lieutenant Broughton the moment Kenyon left them.

‘What an awful gash,' said Ann as she cut away the hair surrounding the wound with a pair of nail scissors.

‘Can you wonder!' Veronica was tearing a shirt into rough strips for a bandage. ‘It was that elephantine American who hit him, and he must weigh twenty stone if he weighs an ounce.'

‘Yet he doesn't look fat somehow.'

‘No, just sheer bigness. He's a nice creature, I think.'

‘Yes, I love that lazy good-natured smile of his. Hello! What's happening now?' Ann ceased dabbing at the sailor's wound and straightened up.

‘We've stopped, lovie.'

After a moment the propellers started to thud again and it was obvious that they had increased their speed.

‘There's that light flashing.' Ann nodded at the scuttle. ‘It was on the other side before, so we must be going north again.'

‘Perhaps Napoleon-Mussolini has had an inspiration. Thinks Iceland would be more shattering for us.'

‘No, Gregory loathes the cold and you can trust him to think of his own comfort.'

Veronica supported the Lieutenant while Ann applied the bandage. Then they settled him as comfortably as possible in his bunk.

‘I don't think there is the least chance of his coming out of this coma for hours,' Ann remarked.

‘Then we might as well get back to the wardroom. One of us can come and have a look at the poor boy every now and again.'

Veronica led the way down the passage but paused, frowning suddenly when she reached the wardroom door.

‘What is it?'asked Ann.

‘Goodness knows, my sweet. Someone has opened up a couple of trapdoors in the floor and another in the ceiling. Kenyon, I suppose, getting more things for King Sallust—but he might have shut them down again before he went on deck.'

They settled themselves on the settee and were silent for a little, then Ann said suddenly: ‘Do you think we'll ever get to the West Indies?'

‘Why not? The boy friend in the brass hat seems a determined enough person. I should triple lock the door and throw the key out of the window if he manifested any desire to become amorous, and I wouldn't feel quite safe even then.'

Ann chuckled. ‘No, if I know anything about Gregory he would be waiting underneath the window to catch the key.'

‘Yes, and to be truthful, my dear, I should probably wait until he turned up before I threw it out!'

‘Really! Do you mean that you have fallen for him then?'

‘No—not quite. But I always have been attracted by the type of blackguard who has brains and guts providing they have a sense of humour and the decencies.'

‘I like to listen to him, but I should hate him physically.'

‘Would you? Well, I'm afraid I'm a shameless hussy,' Veronica confessed. ‘That wolfish look plays the devil with the back end of my brain. One might get hurt but I bet that man knows how to make love.'

‘Yes, but not the kind of love that appeals to me. I'm a simple soul just liking to be cuddled and cuddle in return—for ages and ages and ages. It's laziness, perhaps, but it's the sort of thing I'm always wanting from the right kind of man.'

‘No, you're just deliciously normal, my sweet, and if I wore trousers I should be just as crazy about you as Kenyon is—but I'm just a nasty vicious slut—God! What's that?'

A rifle had cracked above their heads. Others followed.

‘The mutineers must be trying to get possession of the ship,' Ann gasped.

‘Oh, Hades! What idiotic fools men are!'

‘Gregory will stop them.'

‘Oh, darling, of course he will.' Veronica's words were almost drowned in the clatter as the machine-guns opened from the bridge, ‘but I was thinking of men in general. Why can't they all be sensible and go to bed instead of trying to kill each other.'

‘It would be ghastly if the sailors did get control of the ship.'

They wouldn't dare to touch you and me.'

‘Wouldn't they?' Ann disagreed quickly, and for a few moments they sat in strained silence while the shots rattled and thudded above.

‘Oh, my God! What is happening?' Veronica clutched wildly at the curtains across the scuttle above the settee to save herself from being thrown to the floor. The two-pounder Pom-pom had just been brought into action overhead.

Ann went white, and clapped her hands across her ears in an effort to shut out the series of terrific detonations from the shells which were being poured into the bridge. The ship seemed to shudder through its whole length. ‘Do you—do you think we're going to sink?' she whispered.

‘We'll be drowned if we do.'

‘Why, can't you swim? There will be boats I expect if we can get to them.'

‘Yes, but we might so easily be trapped down here.'

‘No.' Ann pointed at the after munition hand-up hatch which still remained open in the deck above. ‘We could climb out through there.'

The Pom-Pom ceased fire. The machine-guns were silent, and only the sound of intermittent rifle fire came to them as they stood together peering anxiously up at the hatch.

Suddenly they heard a voice bellowing harsh orders, the thudding of many feet as the mutineers streamed forward, and then the noise of the conflict drifted away to the other end of the ship.

They sat down again, this time at the table, staring at each other in strained, nervous silence, and wondering miserably what could have happened to their men.

Ann sniffed. ‘Can you smell burning?'

Veronica wrinkled up her arched nose. ‘Yes, I suppose they've set this filthy ship on fire, and now we'll all be burnt to death.'

‘Unless we blow up. It's run with oil, I expect.'

A loud hammering sounded on the lobby door.

‘Who's that?' cried Veronica.

‘Open this door,' boomed a voice.

‘Who are you?'

‘Never you mind. Open this door—d'you hear?'

‘It's the sailors,' whispered Ann. ‘Oh, if only Kenyon hadn't left us.'

‘We can't. It's locked on the outside,' lied Veronica sharply.

‘Stand aside then, roared the voice, ‘or you'll get hurt.'

They drew away to the far end of the wardroom. There was a loud report, the lock was shattered by a pistol bullet and the door swung open. Crowder, the gigantic stoker, naked to the waist, his great hairy chest glistening with sweat and blood, shouldered his way into the room.

Behind him came Private Brisket, a sly grin on his red flushed face, a steel helmet dangling from one hand, a rifle in the other. A mixed crowd of soldiers and sailors stood peering from the doorway.

‘Get up on deck, boys, an' keep that party busy for'ard; we'll be with you in a minute.' Crowder flung the order over his shoulder and the crowd dispersed. Then he advanced on the two girls, eyeing them with a cold speculative look.

‘Well,' asked Veronica evenly, ‘what do you want?'

‘Ter take a look at you an' see if there's any officers here.' Brisket leered at Ann, ‘Well, big eyes—wot's your name?'

‘Croome,' she replied in a low voice.

‘Croome, eh! Well, let's ‘ave the other arf.'

‘I don't think that concerns you.'

‘Don't it, my gal. I'll teach you to keep a civil tongue in yer head before I'm done. I've ‘ad me eye on you ever since we pulled you aht of that restaurant place in Jamaica Road.'

The colour had drained from Ann's face, but she kept her gaze fixed boldly upon the man's small hot eyes and stood silent, her back against the table.

‘Tasty bit of goods, ain't she?' Brisket's remark was addressed to the big stoker, but his eyes never left Ann's neat figure.

‘Hadn't you better get back on deck?' Veronica suggested, seeking to create a diversion; ‘we don't want any fighting in here, and there will be if the officers come down.'