Pride and the Anguish (32 page)

I
T TOOK THE BEST PART
of an hour to move the gunboat into what was considered to be the best position. Using one anchor and the power on the capstan, she was jockeyed this way and that while Trewin hovered nearby in the motor boat, one eye on the work and the other on the tide, as on either side of the ship the long sandbar lifted above the water like some surfacing sea monster.

At last the
Porcupine
was settled firmly astride the bar, and even before the last of the falling tide had swirled clear of her plates Nimmo and his assistants were floundering in the thick yellow mud, their naked bodies soon caked from head to foot.

Trewin climbed back on board and walked aft to watch the frantic preparations. Everybody but the anti-aircraft gunners was employed doing something, and even the cook and his mate were slithering in the mud and ooze beneath the stern, helping to carry away the thick sand from the rough trench which was being dug around the rudders.

So intent were they on their desperate preparations that each man appeared oblivious to the distant shell bursts beyond the
town and the curtain of smoke overhead.

Nimmo stood knee deep in the mud and shaded his eyes to look up at Trewin. “The port outer is okay, sir. The starboard outer has gone completely, sheared off at the rods.” He wiped a smear of slime from his forehead. “The centre one is badly buckled.”

Everyone had stopped work to listen, like patients around a doctor at some mass diagnosis.

Trewin rubbed his chin. “What d'you think, Chief?”

Nimmo shrugged. “I can remove the centre one. If I could use it to replace the starboard outer rudder you would have a fair purchase on your steering. Of course, it wouldn't be as good as having three, but it would see you all right.” He knelt down again. “Trouble is, the rods are badly sheared. Even if I could straighten the rudder, I'd need a welding kit. And that we don't have, sir.”

There was something like a sigh from the watching men. Then Nimmo added, “Still, we'll get on with the job. No point in looking at it.”

Trewin replied tightly, “High water is at 1400, Chief. If we can't do it by then we won't do it at all.” He looked at the distant pier. “There may be Jap soldiers standing there this time tomorrow!”

He turned away and saw Mallory staring at him. Mallory asked calmly, “Anything I can do?”

“If we can get clear of here we shall need all the charts for sailing south via the Berhala Strait and on to Banka Island.” He kept his tone formal. “Just check your stores and see if you've got them.”

Mallory stepped closer and dropped his voice. “Look, Number One, I'm damn sorry about the kid, but how was I to know?”

Trewin eyed him coolly, “If the captain's wife had done as she was told that boy would be alive today.”

“Hell, you're laying it on a bit thick! You know what she's
like. If it hadn't been me it would have been some other joker!” He shrugged vaguely. “She was a tart. She was fine in bed, but I don't see her as the faithful wife.”

Trewin made sure no one was close by. “Listen to me, and listen good! You've never got on with the captain because you've never even tried. Ever since I came aboard I've heard nothing but moans and complaints from you about him and the whole Navy in general.”

Mallory said angrily, “I didn't exactly see you hitting it off eye to eye with him.”

Trewin ignored him. “I still don't. But just answer me this. Would you have made a point of going for his wife if she had
not
been married to Corbett?” He saw the uncertainty on Mallory's dark features and added remorselessly, “Don't bother to answer now. It's written all over you.”

“So what do you want me to do? Go and apologise to him?”

Trewin looked away. “If he ever found out about you, Mallory, because of something you say or do, I won't have to kill you.
He
will!”

Mallory bit his lip. “For Christ's sake!”

“We're not playing by the rules any more, Pilot, and one life more or less doesn't count for much around here.”

At that moment the quartermaster called, “There's a dinghy comin', sir!”

Trewin walked to the rail and stared at the small boat with its five bronzed occupants. From their forage caps and khaki shorts he saw that they were soldiers. They were floating aimlessly with the sluggish current and watching the sailors working on the rudders, like casual holidaymakers on the Thames.

Trewin cupped his hands. “Boat ahoy! What do you want?”

The boat nudged into the sandbar, and one of the men climbed out to stare up at the gunboat's deck. He was tall and tough-looking, and his thick arms were covered with tattooes. Surprisingly he pulled his heels together and threw a smart salute.

“Sarnt Pitt, sir!” He nodded towards the other soldiers.
“Them's four of my sappers.” He lifted his chin with a touch of defiance. “Royal Engineers, sir!”

Trewin had a sudden picture of the tall, gaunt sergeant marching back into the smoke with his small rearguard to lay the charges in the face of the Japanese advance. Of the officer dying on the beach beside his ridiculous shooting stick. Of a hundred other nameless faces.

He asked, “What are you doing out here, Sergeant?”

The man moved a bit nearer. “Nothing else to do at present. My last remaining officer is busy preparing to surrender himself, so I thought I'd bring my lads out here.” He could not hide the bitterness in his tone. “They are all I've got left now.”

Nimmo appeared from under the stern, his eyes peering through a mask of mud. “Engineers, did you say?” He spat on the sand. “Have you got any welding gear, you know, a portable unit of some sort?”

The sergeant smiled calmly. “I have. Matter of fact, I saw what you were doing through my glasses. I wondered if you might want a bit of professional help.”

There was a dull clang and Donovan, the stoker petty officer, shouted, “We've got the bloody thing off!”

Nimmo looked hard at Trewin. “This is the answer, sir. If the sergeant could bring the gear out here we might still get the job done in time.”

Trewin felt the nerves jumping in his body like live things. “Could you, Sergeant?”

The soldier squatted comfortably beside the watching sailors. “We've been building pontoon bridges for the most part.” He nodded. “Sure, it would be a piece of cake!”

Nimmo slapped his shoulder. “Thanks a lot, mate!”

The sergeant stood up and added, “I said that I
could.
” Nimmo exploded, “Now, just a minute!”

But Trewin held up his hand. “Spit it out, Sergeant. What do you want?”

The soldier looked him squarely in the eyes. “I want passage
for me and my sappers, sir.” He glanced at the smoking town. “I'm not staying here to die. Not now. Not for those bastards!” He lifted his head again. “They're my terms, sir.”

One of the other soldiers called, “We can bring some Brens, too. We'll work our passage, don't you fear.”

Nimmo chuckled. “You're a cool 'un, chum.” To Trewin he added, “I've lost all my Chink stokers, sir. Any help will be more than welcome.”

Trewin smiled. “Take the motor boat and fetch the gear.” He returned the sergeant's salute and continued, “I'd have taken you anyway, with or without your permission.”

The sergeant watched the motor boat muttering into life. “This is a press gang I'll not argue with, sir!”

Hammond joined Trewin by the rail. “What d'you think? Can we complete the change-over in time?”

Trewin rubbed his chin. “Touch and go, Sub.”

“Er, how is the captain?” Hammond was still watching the hurrying motor boat. “Will he be all right?”

Trewin thought of the slumped, beaten figure alone in the cabin. The letter propped on the desk, the cocked revolver. He answered, “I think so.”

“Now then, what are we all waiting for?” They turned as one, momentarily caught off guard by Corbett's sharp voice.

The captain was standing on the battery deck beside the aft gun staring down at the lolling, mud-daubed figures by the stern. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, and his face seemed to glow, as if from a recent shave and cold shower.

Trewin stared at him with amazement. Then he answered, “I've sent some men for welding gear, sir.”

Corbett nodded. “I heard that part, Number One. But what the blazes are you doing at this particular moment?”

“Well, sir.” Trewin could not take his eyes from Corbett's neat figure. “As a matter of fact…”

Corbett nodded. “As I thought. Nothing.” He rubbed his hands. “I suggest you send away the other boat and see if there
are some stokers still in the harbour. You know, the ones who worked the harbour launches.” His brow was creased in thought. “And get a few extra life-rafts, they'll help to protect us from flying splinters if we are attacked, eh? And when you've attended to that, I think you ought to get that horrible object, whom I now recognise as the cook, to prepare a good solid meal for all hands.” He gave Trewin a flat stare. “Right?”

Trewin saluted. “
Right,
sir.” For a split second he saw a slight softening of Corbett's stare. As if he was trying to say something, to thank him. Trewin added, “I think we'll make it, sir.”

Corbett looked around at the filthy, breathless seamen. “Make it? I should damn well hope so!”

He walked away, and Trewin stared at the empty guardrail, half expecting to awake from a dream. Then he looked at Nimmo. “Well, you heard him, Chief.”

Nimmo bared his teeth in a grin. “Loud and clear, sir!”

T
REWIN SWITCHED OFF
his torch and stepped quickly into the shuttered wheelhouse. After the darkness and drifting smoke the light seemed too bright, and he had to wait a few seconds to restore his bearings. It still did not seem possible that they had succeeded in getting the ship ready for sea. Right up to the final minutes, as the rising water had lapped eagerly around the listing hull and slopped into Nimmo's sand trench, the men had worked with a kind of fanatical desperation, each one conscious only of the passing seconds which measured his last chance of survival.

Then, as Nimmo had dragged himself aboard, the gunboat had tilted upright with satisfied dignity and had allowed herself to be moved back to her buoy. For the remainder of the day the work of preparation had continued, although to all outward appearances the ship was as before, her A.A. guns manned, her awnings spread and the boats tied alongside.

Trewin was surprised to find that he was not totally exhausted. Perhaps deep down he had felt like the others. He had
never really expected any real success from their efforts, and now that the ship was afloat again his whole being throbbed with nervous excitement in time with the pulsating engines.

Once darkness had fallen the ship had slipped her buoy and drifted with the current until well clear of the nearest pier. Then she had dropped anchor to await the final moment of departure.

Trewin looked around the wheelhouse and tried to make sure he had forgotten nothing. He had been right round the ship. There was little time left for second chances.

Unwin was standing loosely behind the wheel, idly watching his telegraphsmen. Feet moved restlessly on the upper bridge where signalmen and look-outs waited for the ship to move, and from right forward Trewin heard the sharp click of metal as someone made an adjustment to the capstan.

He sighed and walked along the passageway to the tiny chartroom. Mallory was leaning across the table, his face screwed with concentration as he ran his parallel rulers across a chart, while Corbett stood against the opposite bulkhead, toying with the strap of his binoculars.

Trewin said, “Ship is ready to proceed, sir. All awnings stowed and boats hoisted inboard.” In the sealed stillness of the chartroom he thought he could hear his heart beating.

Corbett's eyes flashed palely in the chart light. “Very good.” He sounded very calm. “I want you to go forrard and make sure the cable comes aboard as quietly as possible. Put as much grease as you can find on it. We don't want some spy to report our sailing. There'll be trouble enough later on without advertising our departure.”

Trewin looked at the clock. “Five minutes, sir.”

“Yes.” Corbett dropped his gaze on Mallory's shoulders. “I shall go up top in a minute.”

Trewin remembered
Prawn
's passage through the littered channel and wondered if Corbett was gauging their own chances. Moving to this anchorage had cut some of the dangers, but it would be far from easy.

As if reading his thoughts Corbett said, “Put two good lookouts right forrard. They'll be able to see anything before we can on the bridge.” He looked hard at Trewin. “But I shall take no chances.”

Trewin nodded. Was Corbett trying to reassure him? In this sort of darkness it hardly mattered how good a man's sight was. He said awkwardly, “I'll go then.”

He walked out into the night air again, past the waiting seamen, his feet guiding him across hidden objects and fittings with a practice which had become part of his life. It was hard to remember any other purpose to living. More difficult still to see beyond these requirements of duty and routine.

He found Hammond in the eyes of the ship, his arms outspread on the guardrail as he stared towards the embattled city. Out here at the furthest extent of the anchorage they had a wider view of the port. The waterfront buildings looked black and stark against the unbroken crimson glow which covered the whole town. Carried on the warm breeze they could hear the actual sounds of fire and of shots, and every so often small cries, like voices in hell.

It was impersonal and remote, part of an insane holocaust, yet Trewin knew that just there across the glittering sheet of water men were fighting and dying, seeking shelter and cursing those who had betrayed them.