Send a Gunboat (1960) (7 page)

Louch was a quiet, taciturn man, who had all but lost the art of speech after a lifetime spent in similar engine-rooms, a lifetime of grunting and gesticulating to native firemen and stokers amidst the constant noise and sweat of obstinate machinery.

By now he had become immune to both, and he watched the brass dials and gauges about him with professional disinterest and allowed his thoughts to encompass the other matters and happenings which were making the ship move seawards once more.

It was certainly a rum do, he considered, what with the skipper hardly appearing anywhere on deck, other than the bridge, and the First Lieutenant scared of his own shadow. His thin mouth softened slightly at the thought of Fallow. Poor old bugger. He’d be better off in our mess than cooped up with young Vincent, he decided.

His small, bird-like eyes watched a Chinese stoker apply an oil-can to one of the many gleaming vents. The man was naked but for a ragged pair of shorts, and a fragment of cloth around his cropped head to keep the sweat from his eyes. Realizing that his chief’s eyes were watching him, he bowed solemnly, and bared his teeth in a huge smile, before continuing on his tour with the oil-can. Louch grinned dourly, “Bloody savage!” he said, but the words were lost in the noise, and the short, stocky figure of the stoker, his skin gleaming under the inspection lamps, was soon lost from view. The grin faded, as the voice pipe at his elbow shrilled suddenly.

“Engine-room. Chief speaking!”

From the land of sunlight and clean decks, the world which Louch avoided and despised so much, Vincent’s clear, crisp voice echoed down the pipe.

“Report to the bridge in two hours, Chief!”

Louch glared at the pipe belligerently. “Little bastard!” he muttered. No please or thank you about Mr. Vincent, just snap, snap, snap!

“Aye, aye, sir.”

There was a short silence, and Louch felt a tremor of alarm that Vincent might have heard his comment.

“Captain’s calling all heads of departments to a conference,” the voice added, and Louch breathed again.

On the sun-slashed bridge, Rolfe leaned his weight on the warm teak rail at the side of the wheelhouse. He had just told Vincent to explain the reason for the summons to the Chief Engineer, as the terse, arrogant manner in which the Lieutenant gave all his orders, was beginning to get on his nerves.

I’ve been out on the flying-bridge too long, he thought, feeling the streams of sweat exploring his back, and clogging the shirt around his armpits. The harsh glare from the shimmering water made him squint painfully, but anything was better than sharing the wheelhouse with Vincent.

“Signal from Flag, sir!”

Rolfe turned at the sound of a cheerful, twanging voice at his side. Telegraphist Little, a short, snub-nosed Cockney, held out the signal patiently.

Rolfe peered at the pencilled jumble of figures, and thought of the Admiral arranging his paper flags like pawns on a chessboard.

“Alter course, oh-nine-oh, at nineteen hundred,” he barked to Vincent, who had appeared briefly in the sunlight.

So we’re going westwards are we, he mused, Formosa perhaps. Damn all this stupid secrecy anyway. Nobody would send a gunboat like this on anything important, so why all the fuss? And if it’s pirates we’re after, they’ll probably know about it before we do. He glared down at the Telegraphist, who was watching him with absorbed attention.

“How long have you been aboard here?” he asked suddenly.

“A month, sir. I finishes next month, sir,” he added quickly. “National Serviceman, y’see, sir.”

Rolfe nodded wearily. Everyone aboard seemed to be finishing with the ship, or the navy altogether. Even the ship was finished,
he thought. Dismissing the man with a nod, he walked into the comparative cool of the chart room, behind the bridge.

The charts lay in neat packs under the glass-topped table, and in half an hour, when he had read his orders, he would know which one to select. At the moment, the local chart, well-worn and criss-crossed with pencilled lines, lay on the table, the brass dividers where Vincent had last thrown them.

Another roller passed under the ship, and in the chart room loose objects clattered and banged, and a pencil rolled on to the deck. Being flat-bottomed, and with practically her whole hull above the surface,
Wagtail
was like an iceberg in reverse, and the least movement made her roll sickeningly. As the water mounted her side she would yield wearily, hanging over at an ungainly angle, and when the mass of moving water had passed under her, she would still hang for another moment, her triple rudders struggling for a grip, and then, with her ancient plates protesting, she recovered her dignity, sliding upright again to meet the next assault.

In a dead calm, too, Rolfe muttered to himself. Thank God this isn’t the typhoon season. Still, typhoons were not unknown, even now. He pressed his damp face in his hands. Stop it, he told himself angrily, just concentrate, just keep—

A warning squark of the siren jerked him out of his deepening gloom, and he stepped quietly into the wheelhouse.

Half a dozen junks, their ribbed sails black against the sun, floated eerily towards the ship, their brightly painted hulls and high, carved poops adding to the air of timelessness which seemed always to be associated with China.

The gunboat’s steady ten knots sent a small but impressive bow wave creaming towards them, and Vincent watched the junks carefully through his glasses, which he rested negligently against the bridge window.

“Get out of the way, damn you!” he snapped to the towering sails. “I’d like to run a few of you down!”

“Slow ahead, together!” said Rolfe calmly, and as the engines’ rumble died away to a quiet throb, he, too, raised his glasses to study the junks, and their grave-faced occupants, as they glided past.

Once clear, Rolfe ordered an increase of speed again.

“They’re people, not savages, Vincent!” he said coldly, his eyes still on the ships. He felt Vincent’s furious gaze on his neck, and he was conscious of the Quartermaster’s rigid back as he delightedly gathered a tit-bit for telling later on the messdecks.

“But sir!” The words were a protest in themselves. “We had the right of way! They completely disobeyed the rule of the road!”

“Well, we don’t want a collision, do we?” Rolfe tried to keep his voice even, but as he turned to face his subordinate, he saw he had said the wrong thing.

Vincent’s face was a picture of torn emotions, and he half smiled as he answered softly, “
I’ve
never been in a collision yet, sir!” There was a sort of triumph in his tone, like a child answering back his father for the first time and watching for results.

A nerve jumped in Rolfe’s throat, and he felt as if the sides of the wheelhouse were pressing in on him.

“Meaning what?” He was amazed at the flatness in his voice.

Vincent’s handsome face coloured beneath the tan, he had expected Rolfe to fly into a rage, or back down completely, but the icy coldness in the Captain’s voice, and the unpitying stare from those grey eyes had unnerved him. “I just thought, sir,” he stammered, “that it’s part of our job to show firmness with these people.”

“At the expense of the ship’s safety?” Rolfe tossed the challenge to Vincent without any change of expression.

“I, I just didn’t know—” began Vincent weakly.

“There are quite a few things
you
don’t know, Mister! And I’ll trouble you to keep your private opinions to yourself in future!”

The door of the chart room slammed behind him, but it was some time before anyone in the wheelhouse could relax.

Vincent’s eyes were watering with rage, and as he stamped out on to the flying bridge, the Quartermaster began to whistle softly between his teeth. “That told ’im, Ops!” he said to his mate. And they winked at each other knowingly.

Lieutenant Fallow was quite unaware of the worsening
atmosphere on the bridge, and was more concerned with his painstaking inspection of the decks to ensure that all was secured for sea. His heart thumped painfully from his exertions, and his limbs felt heavy and sodden.

“Well, sir, looks like being a nice calm trip.” Fallow’s companion was Chief Petty Officer Wilfred Herridge, the Chief Bosun’s Mate, and general foreman, watchdog and advisor to the ship’s company and responsible to Fallow for the running and cleanliness of the ship’s routine. He was a striking man of compact and sturdy build, with a long, leathery face and twinkling blue eyes, and a full mouth which was given to hardness, but for the small crinkles of humour at each corner. Born and bred of good Cornish stock, he looked every inch the professional seaman, and Fallow was, as usual, grateful for the feeling of confidence and determination which this man seemed to radiate.

Herridge was feeling even more cheerful than usual—although, like most of his countrymen he was able to conceal the more obvious appearances—as he was well on the way to achieving yet another well-deserved lift in the service, which, to him, meant everything. Just before sailing, he had been told that he was next on the list for consideration for promotion to commissioned rank, to the position of Bosun, if all went well. And he was quite sure that it would. As he thought of the prospect once more, his heart seemed to swell, and he was again overcome by the eagerness to get this trip over and collect a nice air passage home. He was not interested in leave, his one desire was to get back to Portsmouth and start the new course, with new faces about him, and a new life ahead. He watched his First Lieutenant with a small smile on his lips. He had Fallow to thank for his recommendation in the first place, and it had been almost pathetic to hear his warnings and advice about the pitfalls of wardroom life. He chuckled to himself. No fear of that for me, he thought. Nobody’s going to tell me I’m not as good as he is. He flexed his powerful muscles at the thought. To Fallow, promotion had meant mental defeat; to him, it was another challenge, another interesting game, in which he was going to come out on top.

Fallow sighed deeply, watching the junks disappearing astern.
“I hope you’re right, Chief,” he muttered, “I shan’t be sorry when we’re safely back in harbour.”

“That’s right, sir. You’ll be off home then, eh?”

Fallow smiled half to himself. “Yes. Did I show you the pictures my wife sent me of the new bungalow? I didn’t, did I?”

“Er, why no, sir!” Herridge leaned forward attentively, while Fallow fumbled eagerly for his wallet. He had already seen them twice, but he wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for the world.

Chase, the Chief Gunner’s Mate, passed them without glance or greeting. He was still brooding over the Captain’s behaviour on the upper bridge. Chase, like so many of his type, was a big man, with a small mind. Apart from that, he also disliked the ship and its outmoded atmosphere. He felt somehow that he had been drafted to her because of some old score being worked off on him by an enemy. This was partly true, for Chase was a bully, and for all his bluster, was more at home on the parade ground than he was on board ship. At Whale Island, in far-off Portsmouth, he had been in his element. In immaculate belt and gaiters, he had shouted and bellowed himself hoarse, until his red face had turned redder, earning him the nickname of ‘Crabface’, among others. He had also drilled potential gunnery officers, one of whom had failed, mainly because he carried his brain in his head and not in his feet. Unfortunately for Chase, that same officer had found himself appointed to drafting duties. Chase could only guess the rest.

Now, to add to his anger, the new Captain didn’t seem to appreciate his smartness and steadying influence in this damned ship. Well, he’d show him all right. He kicked out at a stocky Chinese seaman who was tightening an awning.

“Pull ’arder, you yellow bastard!” he roared, “I’ll ’ave you up on the bridge if I catch you slackin’ again!” That’s the way to treat ’em, he breathed. Thank God, Lieutenant Vincent was aboard. He at least was a proper officer, and if half he’d heard about his influence in high places was true, no doubt he’d put a word in somebody’s ear for him. He arrived at his tiny cubbyhole, imposingly labelled ‘Gunner’s Store’, and after glaring at the seaman who was carefully whitening a pile of webbing
gaiters, he proceeded to read his favourite book, the
Royal Naval Handbook of Parade and Rifle Drill
.

The sky changed from pale blue to golden velvet and from somewhere astern, the beam of a beacon stabbed weakly at the gathering dusk. The gunboat ploughed on, meeting the water with her blunt bow, making it break into a frothing white moustache and letting it ripple and gurgle along her low sides until it met the fierce white flurry shot back by the racing screws. Behind her streamed a long white path, drawn as if by a ruler. A few gulls still screamed and swooped over the stern, and a group of chattering Chinese seamen lounged on the deck, throwing pieces of old food to the competing birds.

In the chart room the air was still hot and oppressive, although both the fans whirred busily above the heads of the occupants, who were jammed sweatily in the small space, watching the Captain. Rolfe pulled a chair out of the wireless room and sat down, conscious of their eyes on the wad of papers which he tossed on to the table. Fallow, his pendulous lip hanging wetly forward, perched uncomfortably on a bench, with Vincent at his side. The latter looked cool by comparison, but his eyes were dark and tense.

The three Chief Petty Officers stood bunched awkwardly together in the other corner, an ill-assorted trio. Louch, blotchy with heat from the engine-room, stood dwarfed by the others, his narrow head cocked on one side as if listening to some strange noise in the steady beat below his feet. Chase, as usual, was at attention, his square jaw clamped tight, his mean eyes devoid of understanding and compassion. Herridge on the other hand, looked calm and confident, and was watching the Captain through narrowed lids. He had heard of Rolfe’s past, but, unlike the others, had known him before the court-martial. It had been while Herridge was a Leading Seaman in a destroyer of which Rolfe had been the Navigating Officer. A good and efficient officer, he mused, as he studied Rolfe’s taut face. Better looking now, too. No wonder he had got engaged to that model, or whatever she was, who had visited the ship once. What an eyeful she was. What had gone wrong? he wondered. Then, as Rolfe sank into the chair, he dismissed the matter from his mind, conjecture could wait, let’s get on with this job first.