Send a Gunboat (1960) (6 page)

Fallow fled, charging to his next encounter like an elephant with a sore tooth.

Rolfe stared across the top of the dock wall, towards the strings of twinkling lights of Kowloon, and at the blazing arc lamps of the P. & O. liner. You fool, he thought slowly. You did it that time. Can’t you ever learn? He laughed aloud, a bitter sound, now he hadn’t even a picture to remember her by. As that struck another cord in his memory, he turned back to Chao, who, in his shower-soaked uniform, looked like a half-drowned monkey.

“You’re a good influence around me,” he smiled. “Forget about the bottling I gave you, in fact forget about everything! Understand?”

Chao nodded, and grinned happily. Everything was fine now, he decided, the Captain was sane again.

When he entered the wardroom, he gritted his teeth together in a new determination to stifle the sweeping waves of nausea which threatened to reveal his true feelings, and if Fallow’s shining face was anything to go by, his jaw hanging open in astonishment, he was succeeding pretty well. He shook hands with the ruddy-faced Commander, who glanced meaningly at his watch, and then at his empty glass, and then murmured a brief greeting to Vincent. The latter’s obvious scrutiny and general freshness jarred his nerves slightly, and when Vincent offered him a drink his sharp refusal brought a flush to the young man’s face and a gleam into Commander Pearce’s watchful eyes.

Rolfe nodded to the girl, only dimly aware of her sleek
prettiness, and the very touch of her hand brought back an edge to his troubled mind.

She smiled quickly at him, uncertain of herself for once and resentful of Rolfe’s cold stare.

“I must be off now,” she announced. “It’s been charming meeting you all.” She shook her head at Vincent. “It’s all right, David, I have my car, I really must go.”

“Yes.” Rolfe’s comment, flat and uncompromising, only added to the new air of discomfort, and as he wondered vaguely how long this nightmare would last, he saw Vincent escorting the girl out of the door while the Commander was pushing a thick sealed envelope towards him.

“Your orders, old boy,” nodded Pearce softly. “You leave the dock tomorrow morning, and take on stores as arranged. I’ve been working like hell to get it all fixed up for you.”

“Yes,” said Rolfe again, and Pearce’s eyebrows shot up in brief annoyance. So that’s it, he thought, relieved that he had solved the problem which had been troubling him since the Admiral had started all this, it’s, drink which has finished him. Women, too, most likely. Then, almost cheerfully, he said, “You’ll sail tomorrow at eighteen hundred.” He tapped the red top secret label on the envelope, “This’ll give you the whole gen. Open it when you clear the harbour limit.” He stood up, thankful to be leaving this strange ship.

Rolfe saw him over the side, and then returned to confront his two officers.

“You heard that? Good. We’ll sail at eighteen hundred tomorrow then.” He tucked the envelope carelessly under his arm, conscious of their eyes upon it. “I’ll tell you more about the operation later, when I know myself.”

Fallow watched him unhappily, wondering if he should pluck up courage and ask to be relieved of his appointment beforehand, so that his relief could put up with whatever lay in store for him. Instead, he said, “Thank you, sir.”

“I don’t suppose I could just slip ashore tomorrow afternoon for an hour, sir?” Vincent flashed his charming smile.

“You’re right. You couldn’t!” answered Rolfe calmly, and with a nod, stepped out on to the deck.

The lights were still bright, and he felt somehow cleaner inside.

ROLFE PROPPED HIS
elbow on the desk, while he concentrated on reading through the typed lists of stores and fuel to be taken aboard once the ship was clear of the dock. A cold cup of coffee stood untouched at his side, and his ears were deaf to the rattle of crockery as Chao cleared away the remains of a hasty breakfast as he methodically filled his mind to the brim with details and figures. His head still ached from the previous night’s drinking, and that, too, gave him a sense of urgency to get the ship moving, to get clear of the harbour and the contact with the shore.

Apart from the fact that he knew he would be away for some time, he knew nothing of the operation ahead and could conjure up little enthusiasm about the venture. Anywhere would do now, and one job was much like another, or so he told himself.

He glanced at his watch and stood up stiffly, he could hold back his impatience no longer.

It was strange to find the bridge full of people. It was as if the ship itself was coming to life and enjoying it.

A tall Leading Seaman stood loosely at the wheel, his lips pursed in a silent whistle, his eyes disinterestedly watching the dockyard workers scurrying along the catwalks at the sides of the dock, casting off the lashings on the beams supporting the cradled gunboat. A steady swish of water filled the stone area with noise, as the sea poured into the opened vents and the sluggish water began to rise under the flat keel.

Vincent stood in the front of the bridge, his long hands resting on his hips, and another Quartermaster was standing by the engine-room telegraphs.

“Morning, sir.” Vincent’s face was expressionless. “She should be well afloat in a couple of minutes.”

The seamen straightened up, suddenly conscious of their new Captain, but Rolfe only grunted and walked out of the wheelhouse to the wing of the bridge.

From his lofty position he watched the busy white figures
moving about the decks in orderly confusion. Fallow’s hoarse voice threatened and pleaded from a dozen directions at once and he could see his ungainly figure, even worse when viewed from above, covering the distance from the fo’c’sle to the quarterdeck in great, shambling strides, his arms swinging and pointing as he ploughed his way through a group of chattering Chinese seamen.

Rolfe looked at the latter with interest. It would be one of his first jobs to have a word with his unknown crew, as soon as he had read his orders, he decided.

The deck lurched slightly, and a little tremor ran through the ship. Still the water frothed into the dock, and when it eventually began to slacken, Rolfe watched the black, slimy doors of the basin with something like apprehension.

Out there, countless eyes would be watching him again and he knew what their owners would be thinking. He gripped the rail and stared down at the deck below him. This wasn’t the navy, this was a victim partly reprieved from execution. And so am I, he thought slowly.

How would he react? What does it feel like to fall into a command like that? They would be the questions asked in the waiting ships and in the cool offices of Government House. He clenched his jaw, his eyes steely.

The gunboat rose, almost majestically on the water, as if arising from her tomb, and Rolfe caught a glimpse of the calm water in the harbour and heard the noisy clamour of the early morning traffic at the back of the port.

A wafer of sunlight split the lock gates in two, and to the chant of the labouring dockyard men the winches pulled the massive steel slabs slowly apart, and a widening path of tiny glittering wavelets opened up before the ship’s bows.

A hush seemed to fall and, although from past experience he knew it to be imagination, Rolfe was again reminded of a bull waiting in its pen to enter the arena. The doors open, the bloodthirsty crowd is stilled with expectancy, and then—, he trembled slightly and shook his head angrily.

“Sir?” Vincent was framed in the wheelhouse door. “Signal from Flag to proceed when ready.” The sulky eyes watched Rolfe for some sign or reaction.

“Very good!” Rolfe turned on his heel, and began to climb the ladder to the upper bridge. Although it was early the steel rungs were already warm in his hands.

A plump, square-faced Chief Petty Officer saluted from beside the gun, and Rolfe had the impression the man had been waiting in that position for some time. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly, and at once the man began to speak in short, tense sentences.

“I’m Chase, sir, Chief Gunner’s Mate.” He thrust out his chin belligerently. “Responsible for armaments and general weapons training, sir!”

Rolfe took in the well creased and pressed uniform, the small cap at exactly the right angle, and the gleaming whistle chain around his thick neck. Another one, he thought wearily. There seemed to be so many of them cut from the same rigid pattern. Even the short, ginger hair which bristled from beneath the cap, was cut exactly to regulation style. “A bit of Whale Island in China, eh?” Rolfe smiled, trying to imagine what the man beneath the wooden expression was like.

“Sir?” The slit mouth snapped open and shut like a rifle bolt.

“Alright, carry on, Chief.” Rolfe had seen the voice pipes by the binnacle, and they seemed a suitable retreat.

“Bridge, wheelhouse!” He spoke sharply into the brass bellmouth.

“Wheelhouse, bridge!” The voice of the Quartermaster below him rattled tinnily back to him.

“Stand by!” He heard the jangle of bells from the bowels of the ship and a steady, pulsating rumble made the deck at his feet jump and vibrate. He leaned over the thin rail of the bridge, watching until Fallow’s glistening face turned upwards.

“Single up to head and stern ropes!” he yelled. It seemed strange not to enjoy the luxury of telephones and voice pipes for passing orders to the deck, but in a way it suited both his attitude to the ship and to his new role.

“I can repeat all your orders, sir.” Chase stood watching him in puzzled perplexity.

Rolfe grinned, “I think I’ll get used to the ship first, thank you!”

As Rolfe turned his attention back to the movements below, the face of the Chief Gunner’s Mate darkened with annoyance.

The greasy wires splashed into the water and were hastily plucked on deck by the sweating seamen, and when only two wires remained, Fallow’s bellow announced that he had “singled up.”

Rolfe swallowed hard, tasting the whisky in his throat. The dock entrance looked appallingly narrow. How pleased everyone would be if he repeated his last manœuvre.

“Let go forrard! Let go aft!”

The mangy-looking coolies at the stone bollards heaved the wires free and hurled them down to the waiting seamen.
Wagtail
shuddered. She was free.

“Slow ahead, together!” His voice was surprisingly calm, and he watched almost detachedly as the harsh shadows of the dock gates slid over the bows and past the bridge. He was so close to the winch platform that a small, smiling man in blue reefer and white silk trousers bowed and saluted as he moved by.

There was a twitter of pipes, and the thud of bare feet across the decks as the seamen dashed to their new stations for going alongside the loading jetty. Gingerly, but firmly, Rolfe guided the ship along the jagged stone wharf under the leaning arms of the giant cranes and gantrys. With something like a sigh he watched the lines snake ashore to the waiting hands, and the wires once more safely secured. His first trip of about fifty yards, was completed.

Now that he had handled her, he was impatient to be moving again, and after several hours of torment and irritation, while the ship took on stores, it was with real relief that he saw the jetty slide away as he moved his ship out into the harbour.

With the immovable Chase behind him, he stood silently watching the grey ships at their moorings, and listened to the shrill twitter of pipes, as marks of respect were exchanged.

The powerful bulk of the flagship loomed into view, and as Rolfe conned the gunboat between two junks which appeared to be quite motionless on the blue water, he imagined the Admiral’s sharp eyes watching from somewhere on that towering superstructure.

In actual fact, the Admiral was in his stateroom, but he was certainly watching the steady approach of the
Wagtail
. . .

“Right on time,” he remarked crisply. “And very nice, too!”
He saw himself as the young, innocent midshipman again, setting out in a gunboat such as this one.

Commander Pearce frowned over the Admiral’s shoulder. “Doesn’t look much like a warship, does she?” he commented bitterly. “Pity we couldn’t send a couple of ‘Darings’ instead.” He nodded towards the two powerful destroyers astern of the flagship.

“Hands all fallen in, too,” observed the Admiral, ignoring Pearce’s sourness. He watched the little ship steam abreast of the cruiser, and heard the shrill wail of the pipes, while the cruiser replied with a lordly bugle, and he raised his glasses to study the lonely figure saluting from the gunboat’s bridge.

He had listened carefully to Pearce’s report on his visit to the gunboat the previous night, and he had been satisfied. Somehow he knew that the job to be done in Santu was not for the ordinary, unimaginative officer, like Pearce, for instance. Rolfe’s record, but for the one lapse, showed he was eminently suited for the task, and if a woman had been at the back of it, he chuckled, the sea trip would do him good anyway.

Wagtail
had passed, and the Admiral craned his head round the scuttle to see her blunt bows meet the first heavy swell beyond the protecting sandbanks and walls of the harbour.

“River boat on an ocean cruise,” he chuckled again. Reaching for a new pink flag from his desk, he wrote
Wagtail
on it in his firm, round hand, and with a small frown, he stuck it carefully on the wall chart.

“Well, Pearce, they’re off!” he exclaimed. “Ring for my steward, and we’ll drink to her success.”

* * * * *

The sheltered waters of the harbour dropped slowly astern, and as the sea bottom grew farther and farther from the gunboat’s keel, the colour of the sea itself changed rapidly from a deep blue to a shining, emerald green, every tiny ripple and wavelet glittering with a million sparkling gems. But the flat, comfortable calm was also gone, and in its place was the great, sullen power of the China Sea, hidden at the moment, but for the full, regular swell which trundled shorewards in a steady, ponderous rhythm.

Chief Engineroom Artificer William Louch steadied his spindly legs automatically on the gratings as the blunt bows lifted to the challenge of the ocean, and mopped his small beaky face with a piece of cotton waste. He grunted with grudging satisfaction as the two heavy engines beat out their monotonous rumble, and the fans whirred in the air-shafts, sucking great gulps of salty air down to the noisy clangour of the engine-room.