Send a Gunboat (1960) (4 page)

“Er, excuse me askin’, sir, but you don’t ’appen to know what duty we’ll be doin’?” He cocked his huge head like an old dog.

“Not yet. I shall get my orders today some time.”

He staggered as he hurried along the cruel deck to his quarters. As he stepped over the coaming, he looked back. Fallow was still standing out in the blazing sunlight, an expression of complete despair on his face.

For some minutes Rolfe wandered vaguely around his quarters, more relieved to be alone and in somewhere comparatively cool, than interested in his surroundings.

Both cabins were comfortably furnished and spacious, in both respects better than the frigate had been, he reflected grimly. How things had changed in the navy. In the frigate, which had been a comparatively modern vessel, the officers’ and crew’s accommodation had been fairly evenly distributed. In this ship, his own living space was equal to that of all the Chinese crew, and they were only at half the strength for which the ship had been designed. He marvelled at the crass short-sightedness of the early Empire-builders. We might have been a little more popular with these “Chinks” today, had they thought a little more about the even distribution of comfort.

He knew little about the Chinese, except what he had read, and the brief, hazy glimpses he had obtained passing through the town. But what he saw, he liked.

It had seemed amazing to him, that in Hong Kong, the most overcrowded place in the world, these strange, impassive people had moved heaven and earth to help their friends and relatives to escape from Communist China, even though it meant more overcrowding, and more poverty, with its aftermath of malnutrition, diphtheria, and death.

An official at the airport had told him that at the Kwong Wah Hospital in Kowloon, the maternity wards were so jammed, that one hundred and twenty-nine mothers and their babies lay in forty-three beds! His informant had been Chinese, but there had been no anger or bitterness in his voice, only a resigned but hopeful calm.

Rolfe sank down heavily in one of the big chairs, noting the steel shutters hanging alongside each of the wide windows. A weapon-slit was cut in each one. He had heard about the pirates
in their apparently harmless junks, waiting for an unsuspecting prize. These simple precautions were apparently part of the answer.

He stared wearily in front of him, unable to concentrate any more, and allowing the ache to come flooding back, like an evil serpent. Face it, man! A voice nagged in his brain. This is the end. Have a drink and forget it!

He massaged his forehead with his fingers, shutting his eyes with concentration. Why did drink have to be so important? How long would this agony of mind continue?

He cautiously allowed his thoughts to go back to that last, nightmare climax of ceaseless drinking.

He had lain on his bunk, while his frigate ploughed purposefully towards Malta, the shipboard noises and routine actions only occasionally breaking through the haze of his reeling and tortured brain. He could still only vaguely remember clambering up to the bridge, as the ship made her way into the harbour approaches, and as the ragged sequence of events flashed before him, he saw again the anxious face of his First Lieutenant squinting up at him from the fo’c’sle.

Too fast, too fast, he had mumbled, as the ship bore down rapidly on the rough stone jetty, and in a last-minute effort he had tried to convey the correct orders down the misty voice-pipe. With a scream of tearing metal, the knife-like bows had torn and bumped along the wall, while the Maltese dockers had fled in confusion and panic. Somehow he had stopped the ship, and as officers bellowed orders, and a shaky crew had passed the lines ashore, he reeled faintly into his sea-cabin behind the bridge, the sour flood of vomit bringing no relief, only the final taste of failure and despair.

The next picture showed the quiet, dignified court-room. Again it was the face of his young First Lieutenant which came first to his mind. Pale and determined, he had desperately tried to defend his Captain. The grim faces of the Captains who comprised the court showed no compassion, as the Prosecuting Officer had completed his questioning.

“And did you not think that the ship was moving too fast for a safe approach, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir. The Captain always has been a marvel at ship-handling!”

One of the court permitted himself a wintry smile, and leaned forward.

“In the past? But not on this occasion?”

The witness squirmed and looked away. “It was an accident, sir!” he stammered hotly.

“We must not mistake the excellent quality of loyalty for blindness to duty, Lieutenant!” The Prosecutor’s voice had been like a saw.

Rolfe shook his head wonderingly. It was really amazing that his own drunken state at the time of the collision had been kept out of the evidence by the strange loyalty of his officers.

Perhaps they had suspected it? He frowned as he tried to think of one clue, or threat, in the summing-up of the court.

No, he decided, they had certainly been curious, but had confined themselves to the facts before them, and satisfied the interests of discipline with their findings.

I’ll be all right when I get to sea, he told himself, but, it seemed, without conviction. The nagging pain was still there, and he felt defenceless before its persistent onslaught.

He jumped, a loud knock on the cabin door jerking him from his painful self-examination.

Fallow poked his red face round the curtain, his loose chin sagging over the high collar of his tunic.

“S’cuse me buttin’ in, sir.”

He always seemed to start or end his sentences with an apology, Rolfe thought.

“But I’ve brought your steward, in case you’d like to give ’im some special instructions about ’ow you’d like your gear laid out?”

Rolfe nodded wearily, not really caring one way or the other, but realizing that the man was trying to make things start off well.

Fallow heaved his bulk through the door, tucking his cap beneath his arm. Rolfe was surprised to see that he had only one tongue of dark hair, slicked carefully across his otherwise bald head, as if it had fallen there by mistake, and was held down by a daily dose of water and hair oil.

Rolfe’s eyes widened in surprise at the diminutive figure which stepped from behind the First Lieutenant’s bulk. The
white jacket and trousers, which hung loosely on his small, thin body, helped to accentuate the boy’s appearance of frailty and lightness, and the round, serious face, with its almond-shaped, black eyes and wide mouth, completed a picture which was somehow appealing and rather pathetic.

“’E’s not much to look at, sir, but ’e’s a very good boy. Speaks English real well, too.” Fallow frowned down at the small figure beside him, as if defying him to claim otherwise.

To Rolfe, accustomed to the bored and untidy indifference of past stewards, this Chinese boy was something more than just different, he seemed to hold all the elusive qualities and secrets of his race in his watchful, old-young face.

“What’s your name, boy?” Rolfe asked quietly.

“Chao, sir.” The voice was shrill and unformed.

“Chao? Is that all?”

Fallow hastened to explain. “The rest of it is too difficult, sir, the last Captain decided on the first bit!”

Rolfe grinned, and as if to mirror the reaction of his new master, Chao beamed widely, exposing a wide array of white teeth.

“Well, Chao, you can get my gear unpacked and stowed away. I shall probably be on to you quite a bit, until I know where everything is hidden.”

“Very good, Captain-sir,” he nodded vigorously, his clipped black hair jerking like an enraged hedgehog. “I sleep in pantry. You ring, I come any time.” He nodded again, his button-eyes dancing.

“A very admirable arrangement,” Rolfe smiled. And to Fallow, “How old is he, for Pete’s sake? Under age for service, I’ll bet!”

“’Ardly, sir. They takes the fit ones for this job. Age don’t matter much. But Chao ’ere’s about fifteen, I believe.”

They watched as Chao moved the suitcases into the cabin, his bare brown feet padding noiselessly on the carpet, Rolfe with friendly interest and Fallow with his usual look of listless uneasiness.

“If you don’t find ’im satisfactory—” Fallow began, and Rolfe saw the boy’s thin shoulders stiffen.

“He’ll be fine,” finished Rolfe hastily. “Now, is everything going on all right with the ship?”

“Er, yes, sir.” Fallow backed for the door. “I’ll go an’ get on with it, sir!” He disappeared hastily, and Rolfe heard him stumbling down the ladder to the main deck.

He shrugged helplessly. Why did the man misinterpret everything he said? Even an innocent question was taken as a hidden reprimand. He turned back to the boy, a question framed on his lips. He froze in his chair, gripping the wooden arms with fingers of steel.

Chao had the largest suitcase open on the deck, and already Rolfe’s clothing was hanging in neat piles from the furniture. But his eyes were riveted on the large, silver-framed picture, which Chao had unwrapped from its thick cardboard covering, and which he now held at arm’s length in a careful examination.

Rolfe’s mouth was dry. Her picture. Rising up to mock him already, in his last retreat from her world.

“Put that down, blast you!” His voice cracked like a pistol shot in the confined space.

The steward spun round, his face dark with fear and misery. “Sorry, Captain-sir! I thought you’d want the lovely lady put out where you—”

“I said put it down!” His voice rose to a scream, and he jumped across the cabin, snatching the picture from the boy’s frightened grasp. He stood staring at her, his breath rasping in his throat. The same white, insincere smile, the bright, mocking eyes. How could he have been so blind?

“Captain-sir?” The voice was so low that it hardly penetrated his racing thoughts. “Can I do anything?”

Rolfe lifted his eyes momentarily, and stared unseeing at the boy’s stricken face.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Get me a bottle of whisky.”

He stood the picture carefully on the table and sat down opposite it, not moving, or even looking up, as Chao placed the bottle and glass beside his elbow.

The door closed, and for some minutes the slowly moving fan was the only sound in the cabin.

He slopped some whisky into the glass, his eyes still on her face. Then he raised it to her, and said aloud, “To you, Mrs. Rolfe. You bloody bitch!”

The spirit burned his throat like fire, and as it flowed fiercely
through him, he realized just how much he had needed it. He downed three full glasses in quick succession, and then leaned back in the chair, breathing deeply. With unsteady fingers he unbuttoned his jacket, allowing the slight movement of air from the fan to caress his heaving chest.

Perhaps it might have turned out differently if he had done as she wanted. Left the navy, and settled down in one of her father’s paint factories. He laughed mirthlessly. How simple and naïve he must have seemed to her, just someone ‘interesting’ to show off at those endless parties in London.

He had never given up hope and never lost the nagging feeling of desire when he was near her, and he had wanted to surprise her by flying home from the Mediterranean, to tell her that when the frigate was paid off, he
would
leave the navy and try to live up to her wishes. He had surprised her well enough. He trembled, and the throbbing grew louder in his skull. If he lived for ever, he would never forget, or clean from his mind, the picture of her sitting up naked in bed, her lips parted with terror and hate. The man had been whimpering about ‘not making a scene’ and about all their reputations. He had still been whimpering when Rolfe had beaten him senseless on the bedroom floor. He had run blindly from the flat. He was still running.

He drank deeply, feeling the cloak of dizziness closing round him.

The man had been rather a pathetic creature really, and his short, pale legs had kicked helplessly when Rolfe had dragged him from the bed. He stared dully at the photograph, hearing her screaming after him, using words of such undreamed of baseness, that he had never been able to think of her without remembering her cruel and frightened insults.

He closed his eyes, raising the glass to his lips. He had never suspected, never even imagined such a thing possible of her. He swore loudly, but with slow, clear intonation, as if repeating a religious script. What a fool I am, he thought weakly.

He stood up suddenly, swaying against the table.

“Dear Sylvia,” he mumbled. “Dear, sweet, lovely Sylvia!” He retched, and felt the sweat cold on his chest. Then, taking the picture in his free hand, he studied her face, as if for the first time. That damned smile, and those little, exciting gestures. She
was always conscious of every swing and movement of her tantalizing body. And yet, and yet, he groped vainly for a sign, she must have loved him once. As he wrinkled his eyes in concentrated study, he knew he was only fooling himself, as he always had, where she was concerned. He smiled crookedly. “A thoroughly delectable tart! That’s what you are, Mrs. Rolfe!” He chuckled stupidly, and as he raised his glass, he saw her face framed in the amber liquid which helped him to fight her memory.

A sudden drunken realization flooded over him, “You’ve caused all this!” His powerful voice rose to a frenzied shout. “You bloody bitch! You’ve got your divorce now. I hope you’re happy,” he fumbled for words, “with your newest ‘interesting’ person!” He reeled across the cabin, cannoning into the piled clothes and cases, which he sent flying with a wave of his arm, heedless of the whisky which slopped from the glass.

“You bloody bitch!” His head swam, and he felt he wanted to have her there in the cabin with him, so that he could tell her to her face, and then beat her to death. He knew, even in the throes of drunken fury, that he would have thrown himself at her feet, and pleaded for forgiveness.

“Forgive
me
?” He answered himself wildly. “What the hell did
I
do!”

With a savage thrust, he hurled the picture through an open scuttle, heedless of the tinkle of glass, as it dropped to the bottom of the dock.