Blackest of Lies (25 page)

Farmer suppressed a guilty start and glanced at Fitzgerald, who was occupied in conversation with another officer.  “Well, the pressure of this office, let me tell you, has been almost intolerable over these last two years.  I suppose it’s inevitable that it would leave a mark.  I haven’t noticed myself, of course.”

Jellicoe nodded sympathetically, “You
do
look somewhat worn down and exhausted, sir.”

“It’s the pressure of trying to work with a civilian government.  You and I, Jellicoe, are used to making decisions and then simply having others carry our orders out.  I cannot tell you how difficult it is first to have to convince a
committee
that your decisions are right and proper before those orders can be executed.  I don’t mean to imply that they’re unintelligent people – they’re not – but they are not military men.  That’s a lifelong study in itself.”

“It sounds incredibly frustrating.”

Farmer rolled his eyes upwards.  “I have no words to express that frustration, truly.  That’s why I am so looking forward to this voyage.”  He smiled tiredly.  ”It’ll be almost like a holiday to get away from the War Office for three weeks.”

Jellicoe grinned at Farmer’s comments as the two men approached the capstan at the prow of the ship.  From there, the whole fleet at anchor could be seen, the furthest fading into the rain and low cloud.  The Admiral pointed over to one ship, rather the worse for wear.  “I have to confess that I’ve brought you out here in this rather damp weather for a purpose, sir.”

Farmer grimaced.  “Oh, yes?” he replied, simply.

“Do you see that cruiser?  Not the nearest one – the one just beyond.  That’s the
Chester
.  I intend to recommend one of its sailors for a VC – posthumously, sadly – and I would like to ask for your support back at the War Office to see that it goes through.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You might just be able to see the for’ard gun?”

“The damaged one?”

“That’s it.  Last Wednesday – in the early afternoon of the battle – the
Chester
went to investigate the sound of gunfire.  She was attacked simultaneously by four enemy cruisers, each her own size, and came under a dreadful pounding.  She fought as I would expect any ship under my command to fight – gallantly – but one of her crew, above all, stood out head and shoulders.  Boy Seaman John Cornwell was a gun layer in that gun.”

“You say a ‘Boy Seaman’.  Just how old was he?”

“Sixteen.”

Farmer was appalled at the thought of a child being exposed to battle, never mind having to behave conspicuously.  “Dear God!”

Jellicoe continued. “At least four hits were registered near the gun but you may be able to see that the armour in that particular type does not reach fully to the deck – nor is there shielding at the back.  As a result, all of the gun crew were killed – not by direct hits – but from enemy shrapnel deflecting from the ship’s own armour.”  He turned to face Farmer and looked straight into his eyes.  “All except Cornwell, that is.  When the
Chester
retired from the action with all her guns, bar one, disabled by enemy fire, the medics found young Cornwell still at his post, dreadfully injured about the legs, awaiting orders.”

Farmer held on to a stanchion, unable to say anything.

“The ship was unfit for action and she was dispatched to Immingham for emergency repairs and checks before she could sail on to Scapa.  Cornwell was transferred to Grimsby General Hospital but, sadly, he died on Friday morning.”

“Tell me what you wish me to do, Jellicoe.”

“I tell you all this because the nay-sayers at the Admiralty are already declaring that since our recent engagement was not fought to the complete destruction of the German High Seas Fleet, it must be considered a defeat of some sort.  As night follows day, that line of thought encourages the decision-makers in Government to believe that
no
conduct in the battle could therefore be worthy.”  Jellicoe thrust his hands into the pockets of his tunic and hardened his voice.  “I beg you not to forget Jack Cornwell.  There will be those, safe at home in the Admiralty while a child like Cornwell was facing injury and death, who will now courageously tie themselves in knots trying to prove that he was not a gallant sailor of the King, however well he behaved.  Do not let them win.  Let them stand in line and take their best shot at me, but men like Cornwell should not be forgotten in the cross-fire.”

Farmer placed his hand unsteadily on Jellicoe’s shoulder as the rain began to hammer down mercilessly.  “Whatever I can do, I will.  You have my word, Admiral.”

**********

Boissier watched O’Beirne, Duquesne and the rest of the party disembark from the train and crooked his finger at Pickup when the platform at Thurso was empty.  Both men had only light valises to carry and they were soon out on Lovers’ Lane which ran past the station entrance.  “Quaint,” he chuckled to a very pale Pickup.  “Look, there’s a pony and trap for hire.”

Within half an hour, both men were standing at the quayside where they were able to commandeer a fishing boat to take them over to Stromness while O’Beirne and his lot were making their way to Scrabster.  The wind was rising, making the journey tedious to say the least.  Pickup spent most of the time leaning over the side – twice needing swift action by the deck hands to avoid being lost overboard.  It wasn’t that Boissier was the better sailor – it was just that he’d see himself damned first before showing any weakness in front of Pickup.  He leaned back against the wheel housing, straddling his feet to gain balance.  The first thing after docking was to get in touch with this man Vance.  It was essential that no-one was rescued and that meant scaring the local yokels with threats of imprisonment.  Vance would bring an air of officialdom to everything but they’d still have to keep him at arm’s length.

He looked down at Pickup noisily bringing up everything he had ever eaten.  ‘Tough guy’.

**********

At lunch in the Wardroom, Jellicoe tried hard to persuade Farmer to delay his departure enough to allow the storm to pass over.  “A day or two, that’s all, Sir.”

Farmer, thinking of Gallagher on his tail would have none of it.  “And what is the quickest time we can expect to Archangel?”

“Two to three days.”

He shook his head, decisively.  “No. I’m sorry, Jellicoe, I have a very tight schedule and cannot brook the delay of a single day.”

The Admiral smiled, ruefully. “Yes, I was going to say just how appalled I am at the amount of work you intend to cover in
three weeks
.  That being the case, I can completely understand your desire to be off but, nevertheless, let me caution you against it – the weather is looking rather bad.  So much so, in fact, that I have been advised to send you by a different route.”

Fitzgerald leaned forward, “Which route would that be, Sir?”

“Well, normally, we’d send the
Hampshire
up the
eastern
cost of Orkney but, since the storm is actually
from
the north east, the seas are running very high, indeed, in those waters.  Not only will it be most uncomfortable for you all but it means our ability to detect submarines along your line of travel becomes substantially compromised by the weather.  However, I have just been advised that we could use the western route, close inshore, to give you a lee effect.  This should allow your escorting destroyers to maintain speed. On top of that, the route is known to be used mostly by our Auxiliaries.”

“I’m sorry – the Auxiliaries – what difference does that make?”

“It is less likely to have been mined than one used by ships of the line.”

Farmer shook his head again.  “I thank you for your concern, Jellicoe, but – no – I’m afraid I cannot wait.  The western route sounds ideal.”

“I understand, Sir, but may I try another tack?  I would like to have that course swept as far north as Birsay, just to be sure.”

“And how long will that take?”

“About twenty-four hours.”

“Since the weather is getting worse, rather than better, we’d still end up delaying by two or three days and I cannot countenance that.  I’m sorry but I must impose upon you my original departure schedule.”

**********

O’Beirne threw his briefcase petulantly on to his bunk on the
Hampshire
.  “What a God-awful crossing,” he groaned at Duquesne.  “I can’t see my enjoying this voyage if the weather’s going to be like this all the way.”

“It’s been pretty bad, certainly, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Oh?”  O’Beirne looked vaguely deflated.  “You have?  Where?”

“The Cape of Good Hope can be fairly unappetising, too.”

“Yes … well … Oh, the cypher!  Have one of the matelots bring my brass-banded trunk into my cabin – Rix would have put it in that one – then you can sort yourself out until Kitchener comes on board which should be in …”  He pulled out a gold hunter. “… about thirty minutes if he keeps to schedule.  By that time, I need to be on the ball just in case he needs anything sent ahead.”

“I take it His Lordship will be travelling in the Captain’s cabin?”

“Oh Lord, yes, you need to know about all that sort of thing, don’t you?  Well, as I said, I don’t take to all this cloak-and-dagger stuff.  I’ve done my bit by letting you pretend to be my servant.  I really don’t want to know any more about it, thank you,” he sniffed.

While this suited Duquesne perfectly, he couldn’t help but feel he was regarded as something even lower in the food chain than a manservant.  Once again, he almost salivated at the thought of choking off this arrogant bastard. 

“You could not do better, Mr O’Beirne.  Leave it all to me.”

**********

Lt Cdr Macauly Leckie, Captain of the destroyer
HMS Unity,
was completing his final checks for sea, when his signals officer reported that he had received instructions from the
Iron Duke
to depart immediately with
HMS Victor
, to sweep the area around Hoy and then take station off Torness to escort the
Hampshire
to Archangel.  “Very well, Signals, repeat to the
Victor
and let’s get moving.” 

He moved across the bridge to stand beside his Executive Officer.  “Filthy weather, Number One, but ‘Ours not to reason why’ sort of thing.  I really was hoping for a couple of days’ delay – they must be really keen to meet the Czar.  Anyway, make ready for sea and get under way as soon as you can.  Once we get to the rendezvous point I want as many eyes on deck as we can muster.  Periscopes, mines – I don’t care if they see a bloody mermaid – I want to know about it.  We can
not
fluff this one up – not on my watch, anyway.”

“Aye, Sir.”

Within fifteen minutes both destroyers, chosen from many to escort their precious charge across dangerous wartime seas to Russia, were battling their way out of the western exit of Scapa Flow.

**********

Hubert was moving in and out of consciousness.  Anne had punched some air holes in the bottom of the trunk before she left but his damaged lungs meant that, after what seemed like days, suffocation was probably only minutes away - his chest felt as though it was filled with acid.  He hacked feebly with Anne’s knife at the inside of the trunk, not knowing whether he was on the train, on the journey over to Scapa or on board the
Hampshire
.  The time was fast approaching when geography wouldn’t matter a damn – survival was the priority now.  Gradually, the stabbing motions became weak, powerless scratching until light and – thank God –
air
flooded back into his world.  He looked up blearily at the man peering over the edge of the trunk, squeaking at him.

“Who the hell are you?  Look what you have done to my trunk! 
Look at it! 
Have you any idea what it cost me? – it’s a
Goyard
.” 

The voice paused, speechless, surveying the ruin Hubert had made of his prized possession until another thought struck.  “And what the hell have you done with my clothes?”

**********

Detective Inspector Vance moved out of the shadows of a public bar in Stromness and moved over to the two men.  “Mister Boissier and Mr Pickup, Ah suppose?” he grunted in a thick Glaswegian accent, noting the purpling bruise now covering most of the right side of the younger man’s face.

“Guilty, as charged, officer”, Boissier oiled.  Looking the policeman over, he got the overpowering impression of his simply being your average bobby, but Kell had given him a glowing reference before they left Whitehall.  Vance, it seemed, was the Admiralty’s right hand man in these parts and he had done all sorts of dodgy work for MI5 in the past.  Boissier sat back in his seat and grimaced slightly at the uncomfortable springs pushing into his buttocks.  So this was what passed for luxury in Orkney?  Vance was in his early fifties, perhaps, with thinning prematurely-grey hair.  He was wearing a rather soiled, ankle-length raincoat buttoned right up to his neck and kept his bowler hat on – even indoors.  Boissier wondered if he wore it to bed.  He looked carefully at the policeman – the face had all the qualities one might expect of a diabetic bloodhound but it told you, quite clearly, that if this man ever got on your trail, he’d never stop.