Send a Gunboat (1960) (5 page)

With a moan he grabbed the bottle, and staggered through to his sleeping cabin. Once on the bed, he tilted the bottle to his mouth, some of the spirit running over his chin and neck, the rest choking him, and making him fight for breath.

He slumped back heavily, his arm, as it hung over the side of the bunk, still gripping the empty glass.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Fallow stood moodily in the corner of the wardroom, his heavy face dark with his new problems and worries.

The wardroom, which was large for such a small ship, was in a state of semi-darkness due to the overhanging walls of the dry dock, and the brass oil lamps, which were temporarily replacing
the disconnected lighting, added to the stuffiness, which neither the fans, nor the first cool of evening could dispel.

Fallow’s newest pile of catalogues, their bright covers ablaze with improbable chrysanthemums and dahlias, lay unheeded on one of the worn, red leather settees. He was no longer in the mood for reading them, nor could he now foresee an untroubled ending to his career.

The Captain, he glanced at the deckhead as if to locate his quarters, he was something quite new in his experience, and more than just frightening or unsettling. He was a madman. No, that wasn’t the description he wanted, and his frown deepened, his overhanging lip curled in baffled perplexity.

Suppose the ratings had seen him? The very idea made him sick, and he went over the happenings carefully, to ensure he had got his facts in the right order.

He placed his hands flat on the table, studying them vaguely, as they lay like two bundles of fat sausages. The first warning had been that damned picture hurtling past him into the dock, and the Captain shouting at the top of his voice. When he had run to his cabin, he had been flaked out on his bunk, groaning and swearing like a lunatic, and the whole place stinking of booze. God, he mopped his head automatically, that’s all we need now. A drunkard for a Captain, who’ll probably want to leave everything to me! The very thought made him grind his teeth with frustration. He stared blankly at the framed picture of the Queen above the polished table, the light dawning slowly in his mind. So
that
was the cause of the court-martial. A woman, and then the bottle. He frowned, his eyes disappearing between the rolls of flesh. Or was it the other way about?

He belched angrily, what did it matter anyway? The Captain was off his head, there was little doubt about that.

Fallow had met plenty of drunken officers during his long career, and he had seen lots of the other kind, too. The calm and quietly efficient type, who had been respected and looked up to as the navy’s best. This one was neither, or rather, he was both. Fallow permitted himself to sit down for the first time since Rolfe had come aboard. It was all too much for him to understand. He reached for his writing-pad. He’d tell Mary about it. She’d understand. Mary would know what to do.

The sound of footsteps and feminine laughter on the dockside made him sigh, and his spirits took an even lower plunge. Now Vincent had come back, and with one of his bloody, fancy lady-friends. He pushed the writing-pad away and sat back, facing the door, his hands twitching in his lap.

Lieutenant David Vincent had long ago decided that there could be little in life to enjoy without the company of a beautiful girl, or girls if possible. At twenty-four he retained the sleek, well-groomed aloofness of a head prefect in an exclusive school, and his finely chiselled features, mocking blue eyes, and fair wavy hair gave him all the physical weapons to achieve his aims. He was also ambitious, and the very reason he had elected to serve as an interpreter in this out-of-date gunboat was proof of that other hidden driving force. He had been told that it would be the first step to Flag Lieutenant to the Admiral, and once he had the Admiral’s ear he had the way clear for promotion and comfort. After all, as he told himself repeatedly, in these days, when the navy was no longer run on the old lines, and when ignorant rankers found themselves in the wardroom, a really well-bred officer, with generations of captains and admirals in the family behind him, could hardly go wrong.

He raised his tennis racket negligently to return the Quartermaster’s salute, and then turned to assist the dark-haired girl down on to the deck. In his open-necked shirt and impeccable shorts, his well-tanned limbs gave him the appearance of a Greek god.

“Careful, Janet,” he drawled. “We don’t want those little feet skidding off into the dock, eh?” He laughed shortly, watching her from beneath pale lashes. She was quite a good type, he mused, and being Gore-Lister’s daughter, she was a good foothold at Government House.

“Isn’t it
tiny
?” The girl clasped her hands, and stared round at the deserted deck. “How can you
live
here, darling?”

“I can manage for a bit,” he squeezed her arm. “Now come and have a drink. I’m fearfully sorry that old Fallow is aboard, but you can ignore him!” He never referred to Fallow as the First Lieutenant unless he could not help it.

His eye fell on the gangway board. Opposite the tag labelled Captain was the word Aboard.

“Well, well, so the Old Man’s arrived, eh?” He smiled with real amusement. “Another Has-Been for the old
Wagtail
!”

“Shh! He might hear you!” But the girl was laughing, too, and allowed herself to be piloted to the wardroom.

Fallow rose awkwardly and smiled.

“Miss Janet Gore-Lister, er, the First Lieutenant.” Vincent’s lip curled contemptuously. It was obvious that her name meant nothing to the fat fool.

The girl strolled casually round the wardroom examining the pictures and trophies with bored indifference, but pleasantly conscious of Fallow’s pop-eyed glances on her long legs and tight tennis shorts.

Vincent rang savagely for the steward, and immediately Peng, the senior wardroom assistant, a tall, stooped individual with a bland and innocent expression, glided round the pantry door.

“Brandy and ginger, Janet?” Vincent looked at the girl detachedly. He was getting angry. It always spoiled his evenings out when he had to come back here. The girl nodded.

“Two Horses’ Necks, Peng!” He ignored the fact that Fallow had no glass in front of him. “And answer the bell more quickly next time!” he snapped.

They sat sipping their drinks, Vincent leaning carelessly against the bulkhead, the girl in a deep arm-chair, and Fallow perched uncomfortably on the edge of the settee.

“New Captain’s aboard,” said Fallow at length.

“Really? What’s he like? Not that I care, of course!” Vincent shot a secret smile to the girl, who blew a little kiss with her moist lips.

“Er, ’e’s a bit different,” began Fallow cautiously. “Not quite what I’d expected,” he ended lamely. He hated the way Vincent discussed service matters in front of his painted little birds. If I was a proper Number One, I’d tell him to go to hell, he thought savagely. Both been out drinking, an’ that, and then come on here to drink our stuff. He watched the girl cautiously. Mary’s worth a dozen of her, he concluded, with something like triumph.

“What d’you mean, different? Has he got two heads, or something?”

The girl giggled: “Oh, David, you are funny sometimes!”

You’re a bloody little twit, thought Fallow darkly. Aloud he answered, “You’ll see when he comes down. He’s been resting most of the day,” he added inconsequently.

“Hiding, is he?” Vincent’s laugh was a short, barking sound, the sign of a man lacking a sense of humour.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just—” he stopped and looked up, startled, as a loud thud echoed from overhead.

“Christ! What was that?” Vincent forgot the presence of the girl.

Fallow swallowed hard, and moistened his lips. “I suppose it was the Captain, er, moving something,” he finished unhappily.

Vincent’s eyes sharpened. “Look here,” he began, watching the other man’s obvious discomfort, “what’s been going on? What are you trying to keep from me?” His sharp tone revealed his eagerness, as well as his lack of respect for his superior.

Fallow noticed neither, his mind was now a torment, and although he wanted to dash from the wardroom, and wash his hands of the whole affair, his heavy body felt glued to his chair. He lifted his eyes again to the deckhead, wondering desperately what he should do.

“What’s come over you two men? Why are you both behaving as if you’d heard a ghost walking?” Her voice was petulant.

“Oh, shut up, Janet!” Vincent jerked his head irritably. “The First Lieutenant’s got some secret or other, and I think I should be allowed to—”

“Beg pardon, sir!”

They all started again, at the interruption from the doorway. The lean brown face of the Quartermaster poked round the curtain.

“Well, what is it?” Fallow’s voice was unsteady, he felt that the seaman’s arrival could only bring bad news, in some way connected with the Captain.

The seaman jerked his eyes away from the girl’s legs. “Telephone call from Operations, sir. Commander Pearce, the Ops Officer is on ‘is way over.” The man’s cockney accent struck an unreal note in the little tableau.

“Coming over?” Fallow repeated dazedly. “Now? Bit late, isn’t it?”

“All right, you can carry on!” snapped Vincent, who despised
Fallow all the more for showing his uncertainty in front of a rating. When the seaman had gone, he whistled absently. “You know what this means?” No one answered. “Some special orders for the poor old
Wagtail.
I thought they were in a bit of a hurry to get us out of dry dock!”

“Er, yes, I suppose so,” muttered Fallow, reaching for his cap, “I must tell the Captain.”

As he blundered out on to the darkening deck he heard the girl laughing.

“Blast them!” he groaned. “Blast them all!” And blinded with worry, he scrambled up the ladder to the battery deck. He staggered violently, and almost fell across the small squatting form of Chao, the steward.

“What the hell are you doin’ ’ere?” He paused in his stride, his breath rasping in his lungs.

He saw the black eyes flash momentarily in the upturned face. As the boy didn’t answer, Fallow steadied himself and, reaching down, pulled him to his feet. He pushed his great face forward and shook the thin shoulder demandingly. “Answer, boy! ’Ave you bin told to wait out ’ere?”

“No, Mr. Fallow, sir.” The voice was a mere quaver. “Captain-sir is very ill, is very sick. But he does not call for me.”

“’E’s sick alright,” breathed Fallow, half to himself, then gripping the boy’s shoulder even tighter, as if to add force to his words, he spoke slowly and carefully. “Look, Chao, you’re a good lad, and it’s up to you an’ me to get the Captain well again, see?” He paused, studying Chao’s darkened features, and half-wondering if he had committed himself too much. “There’s a big man comin’ to see ’im. Now! Right now!” he added, frightening himself again by the implication his words held.

“I see, sir.” The darkhead nodded eagerly. “Him sick. We fix!”

“We fix all bloody right!” And Fallow advanced along the deck, the steward’s white jacket flitting behind him like a shadow.

Rolfe lay on the carpet beside his bunk, his dark hair ruffled like a wig, arms and legs flung in every direction, and his breath panting against the deck.

Fallow had handled his drunken messmates a hundred times in the past, but even in this state, his Commanding Officer seemed to hold him back, undecided and nervous.

As he moved clumsily round Rolfe’s body, Chao suddenly flitted past him and, bending down, started tugging Rolfe’s shoulder, until with a moan, he rolled over on to his back. The white uniform was now filthy, and Chao’s hands darted swiftly across it, undoing the buttons and pulling at the sleeves.

Over his shoulder he flung a quick glance to where Fallow stood uncertainly. “Please, Mr. Fallow, sir, we must get him in the shower and I cannot do it alone!”

“Yes, all right, lad,” muttered Fallow humbly, and almost gratefully he reached forward to help with Rolfe’s corpse-like figure.

The next few minutes were a series of anxious ones for both of them, and but for an occasional grunt from the sweating Fallow, or the hissing whispered request by the boy, the job was carried out in silence.

Rolfe was only vaguely aware of the hands which flitted across his aching limbs, and the cool air upon his naked body, but at the first icy blast from the shower, he shuddered and struggled weakly, choking under the needle-like persistance of the jets. Supporting himself by the taps, he stared down vaguely at the anxious eyes which watched him like a bird, while the busy hands pommelled his body with a wet towel. He tried to speak, but only after clearing his throat several times could he even manage a croak. His head sang unbearably, and his legs felt like two dead things.

“Thanks, Chao,” he muttered at length. “This is treatment if you like.”

He laughed shakily, and in the next cabin, Fallow paused to listen, trying to gauge from the sound the seriousness of the situation. Shaking his head wearily, he continued fitting the buttons and shoulder straps to a clean uniform, his thick fingers and his shattered nerves making the task doubly difficult.

Eventually Rolfe was sitting in a chair, clad in a damp towel, and grimacing horribly while Chao poured glass after glass of milk down his throat. “No time for coffee, Captain-sir!” he explained breathlessly.

Rolfe stood up carefully, and permitted himself to be dressed. As he ran a comb through his unruly hair, he used every faculty he possessed to control himself and his reeling thoughts. He concentrated instead on Fallow’s news of the expected visitor.

“Very well, Number One. Go below, and receive the Commander, and I’ll be down as soon as I’m ready.”

Fallow ran his finger round his collar. “I ‘ope you’ll excuse the liberty of pullin’ you about like this, sir? We, that is, I felt that it was only fair-like, when you wasn’t well, an’ that.” His voice trailed away, and he stood awkwardly shifting his feet, his brown eyes fixed on Rolfe’s face.

Rolfe grinned, and then winced as the effort made a shaft of hot iron roll over in his brain. “Thank you, Number One, I am very grateful to you.” He ruffled the boy’s hair, and Chao’s face split into a smile, “To both of you!”