Death of a Supertanker (7 page)

To seaward, across the sweep of dark water, the rim of the sun showed pink above the cloudbank and along the seafront shore-lights winked in the haze of early morning. A dawn breeze ruffled the sea and the supertanker, caught in the rhythm of the swell, rolled ponderously as befitted her great size.

Out on the wing of the bridge Captain Crutchley looked astern to where the pilot cutter was making its way into Durban harbour. ‘Thank God,’ he said to himself, ‘that we’re at sea at last.’

Crutchley was a rational, well-balanced man, but years of confrontation with the elements had left him with that respect for superstition which is common among those who spend their lives at sea and it was woven deeply into the fabric of his world.

It had long worried him that the great ship he was so proud to command had been launched from the builder’s yards on a Friday the 13th – and on the outward voyage, in the South Atlantic, a dead albatross had been found on the maindeck at dawn one morning. These were ominous portents and indeed it had proved an unlucky voyage: the breakdown, Price’s accident, the loss of the charter, the decision to recall and lay-up the ship, the exacerbation of his personal problem. He wondered what the voyage homeward held in store.

In the meantime the vibrations of the hull, the creaking of the huge superstructure, the hum of machinery, the clicking of gyro-repeaters, were to him welcome reminders that
Ocean
Mammoth,
so long inanimate, was once again alive. These things, the sounds, the smells, the feelings, the fresh sea air he breathed, were the parameters of his environment. For the first time since the breakdown he began to feel secure, at peace notwithstanding what might lie ahead.

He left the bridge and went into the wheelhouse, to the front windows, without so much as a glance at the officers and
quartermasters
there. He had an enormous capacity for not noticing people. For some time he stood, large and silent, his head raised as if listening, his attention focused it seemed on something far beyond the forward sweep of the maindeck.

Aware of the Captain’s habits, his men waited patiently knowing he would speak when necessary, that he disapproved of small talk on the bridge while the ship was manoeuvring.

At last he broke the silence. ‘Ship’s head now, Mr Jarrett?’

‘One-three-five, sir.’

‘Starboard easy, then. Bring her round to one-five-zero.’ His deep voice had the assurance of long experience in command.

The chief officer repeated the order, the quartermaster turned the small horseshoe wheel – more appropriate to the cockpit of an airliner than the wheelhouse of a supertanker – and the gyro-repeater on the steering stand ticked off the degrees. Later the quartermaster checked the swing of the ship’s head, waited, then reported. ‘Steady on one-five-zero, sir.’

The chief officer acknowledged the report. Captain Crutchley continued to look straight ahead. ‘Time, Mr Foley?’

The second officer glanced at his wristwatch, checked with the clock on the console. ‘Six-thirty-two, sir.’

‘Bearing and distance of Coopers?’

Foley went over to the TM radar, switched to the six-mile range, checked the speed and gyro input, looked into the display. ‘Bearing two-five-eight, distance three point four miles, sir.’

‘Check that by gyro compass, Mr Foley.’

Foley went to the starboard wing, trained the bearing plate and prism of the gyro-repeater on Coopers, then on the South Breakwater. In the chartroom he plotted the bearings, drew a neat circle at their point of intersection, noted the time against it. With dividers he measured the distance. Allowing for the movement of the ship it more or less confirmed the radar position.

Next, with the assistance of the standby quartermaster, he got on with the departure routine: gyro-repeaters had to be checked against the master-gyro, gyro and magnetic compass readings compared, engine data on the wheelhouse console checked with the engineroom, state of ship and fire warning systems checked, bridge movements and deck logbooks written up and much else attended to.

The engines were still on manoeuvring speed, the steering on manual. Foley, who’d laid off the courses for the journey down the South African coast, knew those states would be maintained until Coopers was abeam, approximately five miles distant.

Not long after half past six Coopers came abeam, distant 5·4 miles, course was altered to 206 degrees and at 0640 Captain
Crutchley gave the long awaited order ‘Full-away’, adding, ‘Confirm with the engineroom that we want only three-quarters speed. Bring her up to sixty revs – see how that goes.’

Foley phoned the engine control-room, started the electric log and set the figures on the course-to-steer indicator. He went to the Decca Navigator, took the lane co-ordinates from the digital display and plotted the position on the chart. He phoned the radio office, gave Tim Feeny the ship’s position and a time check. He got back to the wheelhouse just as Captain Crutchley ordered, ‘Engage auto-steering.’

The quartermaster shifted the switch on the steering stand from manual to auto. ‘Auto-steering engaged, sir. Course two-zero-six.’

The chief officer ordered the lowering of the flags flown on departure, leaving only the Cypriot ensign aloft: the flag-of-convenience, the full extent of which convenience was known only to those in Zurich who controlled the destiny of
Ocean
Mammoth.

Jarrett handed over the bridge watch to the third officer at eight o’clock that morning, but one way and another he didn’t reach the saloon for breakfast until after eight-thirty. Although the table to which he went was the Master’s, used by senior staff, Captain Crutchley was not there. He seldom took his meals in the saloon, preferring the solace of his dayroom. On this occasion only McLintoch and Doris Benson were at the table. The radio officer, the catering officer and his wife, and a sprinkling of junior engineers were at one or other of the remaining tables.

‘Morning, Chief. Morning, Doris.’ Jarrett pulled out a chair, sat down, rubbing his hands. ‘Burrh! Cold in here,’ he complained. ‘Fine and warm outside.’

Without looking up McLintoch muttered a subdued ‘good morning’. The air-conditioning temperature, for which he was responsible, was the subject of a running battle between him and the chief officer.

Jarrett turned to Doris Benson. ‘Where’s Ben then?’

‘In the engineroom.’

‘Not his watch,’ said Jarrett. ‘Hope that’s not a bad omen.

McLintoch’s eyes continued to focus on his bacon and eggs, and Jarrett, correctly and with some pleasure, interpreted this
and the momentary frown as ‘why don’t you mind your own business’.

‘Talking of bad omens‚’ McLintoch munched away, glaring at his plate, ‘have we managed to miss the Aliwal Shoal?’

‘Yes‚’ said Jarrett. ‘I went to a lot of trouble about that.’

‘Like keeping to the course laid off by the second mate.’ There was a note of triumph in the chief engineer’s voice. He knew of the feud.

A steward arrived with a menu. ‘Good morning, sir.’ The voice was unfamiliar. Jarrett looked up. ‘Hullo. When did you join?’

‘Yesterday afternoon, sir.’

‘So you’ve taken Alvarez’s place.’ The chief officer studied the man’s face. ‘Seen you before, haven’t I?’

‘Yes, sir. At Beau Rivage.’

‘Of course. That’s it. You waited on us. What’s your name?’

‘Piet Pieterse, sir.’

Jarrett studied the menu. ‘Right, Piet. I’ll have some porridge, bacon and eggs. Two eggs. I like them turned. Toast and coffee.’

Pieterse repeated the order. Jarrett leaned back in his chair, looked at the man quizzically. ‘What makes you want to exchange a job like that for steward in a tanker on its way to be laid up?’

‘I want to get overseas. Better opportunities there.’

‘What! With a million and a half unemployed, and you …’ Jarrett hesitated.

The steward smiled. ‘And me mixed race you mean, sir?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t help, you know.’

‘I know that, sir.’ The steward went off to the pantry.

‘Must be daft,’ Jarrett observed to the table in general.

In the pantry adjoining his dayroom Captain Crutchley was steaming open the flap of a sealed envelope. When he’d finished he switched off the kettle, went into the dayroom, took a magnifying glass from the drawer of the writing table and sat himself down in an easy chair under a window. Slowly and with some difficulty he read the letter. Given to him a few days earlier by Grundewald, the ophthalmic surgeon in Durban, it was addressed to a consultant in Harley Street. Its terms were personal though professional. The consultants were evidently well known to each other.

For Crutchley its contents were profoundly disturbing: …
an
unhappy
instance
of
incorrect
diagnosis
by
a
country
GP
…
failure
to
refer
the
patient
to
a
consultant
…
the
condition
has
evidently
been
acute
for
some
time
…
evidence
of
permanent
visual
damage
and
secondary
glaucoma.

Crutchley put down the letter, closed his eyes, thought once again of the interview in Durban.

‘Yes, I see. The eyeballs are inflamed. The eyes water badly, do they? … Yes. Are they tender and painful? … Yes. Do you suffer from frequent blurring of vision? … Yes, worse sometimes than others. How do you sleep? Any difficulty? … Yes. The pain keeps me awake. I get severe headaches. Does the light hurt your eyes? … Yes. Very much so. Any difficulty in opening the lids? In the morning for example? … Yes. Difficult. Bathing them with hot water and boracic helps.’

Grundewald had stood back from the surgical chair, looked at him sympathetically. ‘Well I think that will do. Now come over here and let us have a chat.’ He’d gone back to his desk and Crutchley, fumbling with his spectacles, had sat down opposite him. Embarrassed, fearful, he’d felt like a prisoner awaiting sentence.

Grundewald had asked how long he’d be in Durban. Leaving for London by air in a few days, Crutchley had lied, just as he had about his name. This man must not know he was a master mariner, let alone Captain of
Ocean
Mammoth.
The name of the Captain of the biggest ship ever to visit Durban had been mentioned in the local media too often. So he was Mr Creightley, the London businessman passing through Durban.

‘How long before you get back to London?’ asked the consultant.

‘Have to stop off in Nairobi for a few days … then again in Rome. Shouldn’t be long before I’m back.’ Crutchley disliked the recollection. Lying didn’t come easily to him.

The ophthalmic surgeon had looked uncertain, tapped with a ballpoint on a prescription pad, his eyes averted from the rugged face opposite. ‘The trouble is not conjunctivitis, I’m afraid. It’s iritis in a somewhat acute form. Treatment under supervision is necessary. It is essential that you see a consultant as soon as you reach London. The sooner the better.’

‘Will it take long to restore my eyesight to normal?’ Crutchley
had stared at the man on the other side of the desk, wondering what the brain behind the blurred face knew and was possibly withholding.

‘With proper treatment your vision should improve considerably. It will not, I’m afraid, be as good as it was, but it should be adequate. After the treatment your eyes will be tested for new lenses. They will help.’

Grundewald had told him how to treat his eyes until he got back to London: ointment to be applied at two-hourly intervals, eye drops three times a day. Since heat relieved pain and reduced inflammation, he was to wrap a bandage round cotton wool on a wooden spoon, dip it in boiling water and hold it as close to the eyes as possible.

He’d given Crutchley a prescription for these things, including capsules to be taken at night on retiring.

‘They’ll relieve pain and help you sleep.’ Finally he’d given him the letter to the man in Harley Street.

Back in his ship that afternoon, Crutchley had put the letter in the drawer of the writing table. The envelope was sealed and that had worried him. In the days that followed he’d carried out faithfully the treatment prescribed. There had been some relief from pain, and he thought the eyes had shown improvement. The capsules induced deep sleep. The letter, however, had remained at the centre of his thoughts, and what it might contain had become an obsession. Those contents concerned him and his future, his wife and children and no one else. Why then should they be kept from him? He was a man of honour but on this, his first day at sea, the temptation to open the letter had proved overwhelming.

For some time he sat thinking, the words
evidence
of
permanent
visual
damage
and
secondary
glaucoma
constantly passing before his closed eyes. Looking into what seemed a stark future the only comfort he could find lay in his personal insurances. It was fortunate, he reflected, that he had always been prudent in that regard.

Throughout that day
Ocean
Mammoth
made steady progress down the South African coast and towards midnight East London, no more than a thin shimmer of distant light, was abeam. With the aid of the Agulhas Current speed had averaged fourteen knots. The weather remained fine and warm, the sea moderate as the great ship drove steadily through the southern night, rolling slowly to a beam swell. But for this, the distant hum of the turbines, and the unceasing vibrations, those on board might not have known they were at sea. As it was, with the ship in ballast, the vibrations were so pronounced that every fitting which could rattle did so, plates and glasses on smooth surfaces hummed as they slithered and cups clattered noisily in their saucers.

Down in the dayroom of her husband’s suite, Sandy lay on a settee propped up by cushions, her hands clasped behind her head, her handsome body more revealed than concealed by the wrap she wore. George Foley, changing, getting himself ready for the bridge where he would relieve the third officer at midnight, looked at her with a mixture of affection and admiration. ‘Well, the future may seem dismal but I’m glad we’ve got the next few weeks together at sea. That’s some consolation.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said casually, as if passing the topic in review.

In the bar-lounge after supper they’d seen a film, Dirk Bogarde and Charlotte Rampling in
The
Night
Porter
, and stayed on afterwards for a chat and drinks. It had not been a happy occasion. Conversation kept returning to what was uppermost in the minds of them all. What would happen at the end of the voyage? What did the future hold for them? The speculation was predictably gloomy. Back in their cabin, the Foleys had continued the discussion on a more personal level.

Disenchanted though she was with the role of tanker officer’s wife, Sandy knew what a blow the laying up of
Ocean
Mammoth
was to her husband, and she felt for him. He liked the sea, was
content with his life in tankers, and she had no doubt that, but for her, he would have soldiered happily on until he got command of his own ship. These feelings of sympathy were sharpened by her conscience. It had been worrying her a good deal lately. In the early hours of the morning she would lie awake thinking of her disloyalty, trying to excuse it to herself and failing and with feelings of guilt and unhappiness she would fall into a deep sleep. Then, with daylight and the beginning of the new day, her mood would change; she’d see Freeman Jarrett at breakfast and the fears and misgivings of the night would vanish.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Foley looked at her reproachfully.

‘Yes. I’m sorry, George. Really sorry because I know what it means to you.’

‘Can’t be helped. Nobody’s fault. Maybe it’s a good thing.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Now I’ll
have
to find a job ashore. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

She looked at him, nodded slowly. ‘Yes. From a selfish point of view I will. I know I’m a bitch about it, but I do honestly believe there’s not much future for us if you stay at sea. I want more than you can give me with things the way they are. And it’s no good leaving me on my own. I can’t help it, George. That’s the way I’m made. I know you’re not keen on a shore job. It’s not what you really want, and for you this couldn’t have come at a worse time.’ She leant forward and with both hands threw her hair back over her shoulders. ‘Terrific unemployment. Redundancies all over the place. It’s a grotty outlook. I really am terribly sorry.’

He seemed embarrassed, deprecatory. ‘Never know what’s round the corner, Sandy. Opportunity knocks at surprising times. Something fabulous may turn up. I might get into real money ashore. Who knows?’

‘How, George? Tell me how.’ She watched him uncertainly.

He shrugged his shoulders, looked at her in a strange way. ‘It’s just a thought.’

She smiled the sad but affectionate smile of a mother listening to a wayward child. ‘Poor George. I’m afraid that’s all it’s likely to be.’

‘Perhaps you’re in for a surprise.’

‘Wish I was, darling.’

The phone rang. Foley picked it up. ‘Two-Oh here. Yes. Thanks, Alan. No, I haven’t gone to bloody sleep. Won’t keep you
waiting. Don’t worry.’ He put the handset back on its cradle. ‘That was Alan with my five-minute call.’

‘D’you mean to say it’s nearly midnight?’

He pointed to the clock on the bulkhead. ‘Five minutes to. Time you were in bed, Sandy.’

‘I suppose so. I’m not really tired.’ She yawned. ‘Or am I?’

‘Only you know. I reckon bed’s a good place. I’ll join you there at four.’ He winked and kissed her. ‘I’m off. Mustn’t keep Alan waiting. I was a Three-Oh myself once. ’Bye now.’

He buttoned on a uniform jacket, slipped the strap of the R/T set over his head and left the dayroom.

Not long after he’d gone to the bridge she heard a discreet knock.

She put down the paperback, pulled her wrap more firmly about her and went to the door. An envelope had been pushed under it. On it her name had been scrawled in a large angular hand. She thought of looking into the passageway to see if there were any signs of the deliverer, but thought better of it, went back to the settee and opened the envelope. It was a hastily scribbled note from Jarrett :
Please
come
along
to
my
office.
Have
something
important
for
you.
L
of L
–
F.J.

She read it with mixed feelings. It was fifteen minutes past midnight. It would not do to be seen going into his cabin at such a late hour. On the other hand it was extremely unlikely that she
would
be seen. Jarrett was evidently not worried or he wouldn’t have made the suggestion. She wondered what it was all about. Was there really something so important that it couldn’t wait for morning, or was it simply a ruse to get her there? That, she decided, was more likely. She laughed nervously.

The more she thought about the invitation the more excited she became. The note was a challenge and she wasn’t the woman to refuse that sort of challenge. She could feel her heart beating faster, almost thumping, and her legs felt like jelly. ‘How stupid‚’ she muttered to herself. ‘I’m behaving like a sixteen-year-old.’

Of course she’d go. One only lived once. She wouldn’t stay long and she felt sure – well, almost sure – she could handle him. It was the element of doubt that made it all the more exciting. She tore the note into small pieces, went into the bathroom, flushed the pieces away, came out, put on her bra and pants, slipped a caftan over her head, did her face and hair, sprayed
herself generously with
Madame
Rochas
and went to the long mirror. She thought the result wasn’t bad. The white caftan with gold embroidered sleeves and collar went well with sun-tan, dark hair and brown eyes.

She slipped into the alleyway. The entrance to Jarrett’s
accommodation,
the door of his office, was on the opposite side, two up from theirs. She had reached it, was about to open it, when she thought she heard someone coming at the far end of the alleyway. She hesitated, nobody appeared, so she turned the handle and went in, closing the door gently behind her. The lights were on but he was not there, so she went through to the dayroom. A shaded lamp was burning and in its dim light she saw him slumped in an armchair. She went closer and saw him smile through half-closed eyes.

He got up slowly, yawning and stretching. ‘Marvellous, Sandy. Thought you’d never come.’

‘Sorry. I thought I’d done rather well. Ten minutes to dress, put on a face and do my hair.’ She spoke quickly, nervously, little more than a whisper.

He put his hands on her shoulders, bent down and kissed her. ‘You’re a clever girl.’

‘I’m a woman, not a girl.’

‘Yes. I had noticed that.’

She pushed him away with both hands. ‘What’s it that’s so important?’

‘Hold on a moment and I’ll tell you.’ He went through to the office and came back soon afterwards with a small, gift-wrapped package. ‘This,’ he said, and gave it to her.

She looked at him, then at the package, puzzled, amused. ‘It won’t blow up, will it?’

‘Probably. Try.’

She unwrapped it carefully and neatly as women do, until the brown and gold plastic box was revealed. She opened it and took out the small bottle of Rochas’s
Audace,
‘Oh, Freeman. It’s fabulous. You know I adore it. How marvellous. You are a nice man.’ Still holding the perfume she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. He tried to make more of it, but she pushed him away again. ‘No. For God’s sake not now, Freeman.’ She was suddenly serious, her dark eyes wide under the frown. ‘This is quite crazy. Anybody could come in.’

‘Anybody couldn’t‚’ he said. ‘I’ve locked the door. There’s
nobody about. If anybody wants me, which is highly unlikely at this hour, they’ll phone or use R/T.’

‘What happens if George phones from the bridge and I’m not in my cabin?’

‘You’d gone up on deck for a breath of fresh air. Gone to the pool. Anywhere. This is a bloody great ship. There’s no law that says you can’t leave your cabin.’ He went to the corner cupboard beside the refrigerator. ‘Calm down. Let’s have a drink. Then you can go back to bed.’

‘You must sleep, Freeman. You go on watch at four.’

‘No problem. I had a good kip this afternoon and I’ve been asleep in that chair for the last hour or so.’

She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Are you sure it’s all right?’

‘Of course. What’ll you have? G and T?’

‘After midnight?’ She made a face. ‘What else can you suggest?’

‘Chartreuse.’

‘Super.’ She smiled affectionately, sat on the settee. ‘I still think we’re crazy.’

He ignored the remark, went on pouring the drinks. When he’d finished he put the glasses on top of the coffee table and joined her. ‘Now I’ll tell you a bedtime story.’

‘You’d better do that, Freeman.’ Her eyes were mischievous. ‘There’s not going to be anything else.’

By thirty minutes past midnight Foley had settled down to the routine of the watch. The third officer on handing over had made the customary reports of course and speed, ship’s position, distance off shore, traffic approaching, ETA for the next
alteration
of course – 0250 off Great Fish Point – the engineroom state, manned on this occasion, and he’d handed over the traditional cup of coffee the quartermaster had prepared. He’d stayed chatting with Foley for a few minutes, then made his way below.

When Simpson had gone, Foley carried out a quick radar check, after which he established the ship’s position by Decca Navigator, took a radar bearing of the light at the mouth of the Buffalo River, and checked it with a gyro compass bearing. He compared the echo-sounder reading with the depth of water shown on the chart, compared the gyro and magnetic compass readings, checked gyro-repeaters, determined the error of the magnetic compass by means of a star azimuth and finished with a
brief chat by phone with Jonathan Malim, the engineer on watch in the engine control-room. It was a subdued humourless exchange. Since his wife’s death the third engineer had become more morose and withdrawn than ever, rarely leaving his cabin except to go on watch.

Despite its grim name, ‘The Graveyard Watch’, Foley enjoyed the middle-watch at night and was grateful that by long standing tradition it was his. In the small hours of morning, between midnight and four o’clock, life in a ship at sea was at its lowest ebb. But for the bridge and engineroom watchkeepers, the crew were asleep. Those quiet undisturbed hours suited him admirably. The middle-watch at night was perhaps that part of life in tankers which he relished most.

Now he had the bridge to himself but for Gomez the quartermaster who was on standby, the ship being on auto-steering. It was a fine warm night with no moon, the southern sky was brilliant with stars and out on the starboard wing of the bridge a light breeze fanned his face. Bracing himself against the roll of the ship he leant over the gyro, turned up the brilliance and took bearings of two ships bound up the coast. They were inshore and well clear of
Ocean
Mammoth.
There were three other ships in sight, all to port. Two were coming up astern and the third, having overtaken in the first watch, showed no more than a dim sternlight fine on the port bow. He judged her to be ten miles ahead. He went to the AC radar, selected the twelve-mile range, and read off the ranges and bearings of the ships in sight. Though there was no risk of collision, he placed relative motion markers on the echoes of the two ships coming up the coast. He did this because he enjoyed using the technique and it helped pass the time. He left the radar and went out to the port wing. Shortly afterwards Gomez came out to tell him the Captain was in the wheelhouse.

Coming back from the starlit sky to the dark of the wheel-house, he saw nothing at first but the subdued light of neon dials and displays along the console. Soon he made out the dim shape of the Captain standing at the radar sets. He joined him. ‘Good morning, sir.’

There was a longish pause before the Captain answered. ‘Much traffic about, Mr Foley?’

One of the Old Man’s ploys, thought Foley. He’s looked at the
displays and wants to see if I know what’s going on. ‘Three ships to port, sir. Bound down the coast. Two astern, overtaking but well clear. One fine on the bow which overtook in the first watch. There are two ships northbound, both out on the starboard bow and well inshore.’ Anxious to show that he had the situation under control he added, ‘I put relative motion markers on them. I’ll check again.’ He bent over the hood of the AC radar and checked the display. The echoes had as he’d expected moved away from the collision courses indicated by the markers. ‘They’re on parallel courses, sir. They’ll pass several miles inshore of us.’

Captain Crutchley said, ‘Good.’ He moved along the console until he reached the midships gyro-repeater. Foley checked the time – 0053. The Captain usually stayed for twenty minutes. It was his custom to do this before going to sleep. As a rule he came up between half past twelve and one o’clock. Foley’s thoughts were interrupted by the ring of a telephone on the console where a light glowed red. He lifted the handset. ‘Two-Oh here.’