Torpedo Run (20 page)

Now Peter was ready, "Adrian," he said.

Archer put his book down slowly and turned. "Yes?"

"You're senior to me, and you're my commanding officer; but I'd appreciate it if you'd forget that for a little while so we can talk. We're in trouble. More trouble than just being adrift, and if we don't do something about it—together—we're going to have a mutiny on our hands."

Archer turned back to the desk. "Mr. Brent, have you ever heard of a man named William Bligh?"

"Is he in the boats?"

"He was in a boat once. It was an open boat, only twenty-three feet long. In it with him were eighteen men and they lived for forty-two days and three thousand six hundred miles across the open sea."

"Oh, you're talking about the
Mutiny on the Bounty
man, Captain Bligh."

"Captain Bligh. And do you know how he managed to keep those eighteen men and himself alive across all those miles?
Discipline,
Mr. Brent." Archer picked up the book he had been reading. "Read the account of that voyage sometime. It will do you a lot of good."

"That happened two hundred years ago. I'm talking about now!"

"Bligh was a master seaman and a great commanding officer who rose to the rank of vice admiral because he would not break his rule of discipline, discipline for himself and for the men serving in his commands."

Peter stared at this man as, slowly, he began to realize at last what made Archer run. Bligh. William Bligh, vice admiral in the British Navy. A man whose name survives in history because men under him mutinied not once, but twice, against his harsh discipline. Archer, Peter thought, must be a man without a character of his own, or at least a man who could not bring his character with him into the Navy.

"Do you think, that you're going to be another Captain Bligh?" Peter asked quietly.

"I'm going to base the command of my ship on the principles of discipline—as Bligh did."

Now Archer was becoming clearer, and as Peter now saw him he realized that Archer was far more dangerous than he had first thought.

"You do it anyway you want," Peter said. "But right now I want to suggest that we try to get over to the Admiraltys. I think we can."

"The Admiraltys are in the hands of the enemy," Archer said.

"What isn't? What land, what island between here and China isn't in the hands of the enemy?"

"In the Philippines there is a strong guerrilla organization. We'll be safe in the Philippines."

"Then why didn't General MacArthur stay there? Look, Adrian, we've got a chance in the Admiraltys and no chance on the open ocean. Willie says that he might be able to fix the transmitter in a day or so. And in shallow water we can get the engines going again. In the Admiraltys we're only three hundred miles from home, man!"

"We are not taking this boat into the Admiralty Islands, Mr. Brent."

Peter sat down on the bunk. He knew now that the time he had been putting off for so long he could not be put off any longer. But what he knew he had to do gave him no pleasure, no sense of accomplishment. It only made him ashamed—and sad.

"Adrian, listen to me. Be Captain Bligh with somebody else. Don't try to take us across the Pacific just to prove a theory. We won't make it, Adrian."

"We
will
make it, Mr. Brent."

Well, here it is, Peter thought. The end of Ensign Brent, Peter, USNR. He could be shot for this. Court-martialed and shot.

"Have you got the ship's log down here, Adrian."

"Of course."

"Then make this entry in it. As of now I am not taking orders from you, and I am going to do everything I can to get this boat to the Admiralty Islands."

Archer looked up at him with, at last, a real expression on his face—surprise and disbelief.

"So—you are the mutiny."

"Call it that," Peter said.

"Before I make that entry I'm going to read you the Navy regulations regarding mutiny in time of war, Mr. Brent. For your own good."

"You don't have to. Just make the entry."

"Very well. I am also going to enter the fact that I have put you under arrest and have confined you to your quarters under armed guard."

"No," Peter said, "you're not going to do that. Some of the men are on the verge of mutiny now, Adrian. If you try to arrest me they will mutiny."

Archer took down the log, opened it, and wrote for quite a while. When he finished, he looked up at Peter and said with that same cold voice, "From the moment I took command of this ship I have considered you an incompetent officer, interested only in your own welfare. I have given you a great deal of leeway, Mr. Brent, and now you have proven your incompetence not only as an officer but as a seaman. I happen to
know
that without power it will be impossible to get this boat anywhere near the Admiralty Islands."

Archer pushed himself up out of the chair and faced Peter. "I'm going to give you one more chance, Mr. Brent. I'm willing to forget this entire conversation. At least, I will forget it officially. In return for this I want your cooperation. We have a long and dangerous journey ahead of us."

"Make the entry," Peter said, turning to his chart and books.

Archer laughed, and it was the first time Peter had ever heard him laugh. "There's nothing you can do that will change the course of this boat. You'll never see the Admiralty Islands, Mr. Brent."

Peter ignored him and went out. On the companionway going topside with the books and charts he began to shake, and there didn't seem to be enough air to breathe. He stopped halfway up the stairs and waited a moment for the shakes to settle. Well, he thought, I did it. End of me.

Goldberg was on the bridge leaning against the windshield. He didn't hear Peter come up and go into the chart house; and Peter, suddenly very aware of his new position but not yet sure how to handle it, did not speak as he passed behind Goldberg.

In the chart house he waited a moment before turning on the light. He was very confused now as he was faced with the consequences of what he had done. Only one thing was clear: the crew must not know that he had mutinied against Archer. If they found out, it would make their own plans for mutiny justifiable. He wondered, as he flipped on the light, if Archer could come out of his dream world far enough to realize that also.

Peter pinned the chart back to the table and advanced the star fix up the line the two hours since he had shot it. Then, with the rulers, he laid a course to the Admiraltys, laying it well eastward of the islands to compensate for the westerly force of wind and current.

Going out on the bridge he found Goldberg still leaning on the windshield. "Evening, Gerry," Peter said.

"Evening, Peter."

"Quiet night."

"Yeah. Real quiet."

In his mind, Peter was breaking the crew in half, and as he did it he was weighing the key men, balancing them against each other. Mitch was the heaviest and most dangerous of them all. To counterbalance Mitch was the first problem. The next, he guessed, was probably Sam. The weight of Murph would depend … if Murph was thrown in with Mitch he would weigh a lot. With Sam he would weigh less.

And then there was Sko and Goldberg.

Peter leaned over the rail and called down to Mitch on deck. "Mitch, will you come up he-re a minute, please."

There was animosity even in the way Mitch walked as he strolled aft. Or, Peter wondered, was he just imagining it?

"Yeah?" Mitch said as he came on the bridge.

"How many paddles have we got, Mitch?" Peter asked him.

"Paddles?" Mitch asked, his voice now undoubtedly surly and suspicious. "What do you want with paddles?"

Peter looked at him in the starlight and remembering the old Mitch. Always griping about something, always threatening to put in for a transfer, always saying he'd get out of the boats and never put foot on one again—but always a formidable man in a fight. And a man who had once had two hands for
Slewfoot
when she needed them. A man you could count on, always.

"To paddle," Peter said quietly.

"Paddle where?"

"How many, Mitch?"

"There're four in the balsa raft and two in the rubber boat."

"Fine. Break 'em out and break out that new line we liberated in Milne."

For a long time Mitch made no move to obey him and didn't answer. Finally he said, "What for?"

Goldberg, who had been listening, now walked across the bridge and stood, looming over Mitch.

Peter knew then that he could wait and Goldberg would handle this situation for him, but he didn't want that. He was saving Goldberg for greater emergencies than this.

Peter said quietly, "Because I say so, Mitch. Okay?"

"You say so," Mitch said and left the bridge.

"Peter … " Goldberg said.

"In a minute," Peter told him, going aft to the open engine room hatch. "Sko," he called down, "can you spare Skeeter for a while?"

Then he went over to the radar shack where Willie was sitting staring at a schematic with a baffled expression. "Willie, you need a little fresh air."

Peter turned back to Goldberg. "Go get the Preacher out of the sack and on deck."

"He's on the next section of the watch, Peter. Maybe he ought to sleep."

"The skipper and I've got a deal," Peter said.

He went with Goldberg down to the foredeck where Mitch had the paddles and coil of line. Peter waited in silence, with Mitch silent beside him, as the men came forward, one by one.

This is the way he would divide them, Peter decided. Against the strength of Mitch he would pit the strength of Goldberg, the weakness of Willie and Skeeter, and the goodness of the Preacher. Against the lesser strength of Sam and Jason, and the unknown quantity of Murph, he would throw the quiet power of Sko and the intelligence of the Professor.

And these two halves would not be allowed to get together. There would be no more of Mitch intimidating and persuading the others in the darkness of the dayroom or the remoteness of the depth charge racks. No more of Mitch and Sam and Jason and Murph pooling their strength and gaining more from each other.

"Okay," Peter said to the five men gathered on the foredeck. "Secure that line to the forward bitt and the other end to the sling on the raft. Skeeter, get the boarding ladder."

The raft was a clumsy oval thing of balsa, seven feet long, three wide and meant only for survival, but it was all he had and it would have to do.

When all was ready—the rope secured to the raft and the boat, the ladder dangling over the side—Peter looked at the five men. "Let's go," he said. "Drop the raft and get in."

He could feel them staring at him, feel their animosity. He waited, knowing that it would be Mitch.

"We get in," Mitch said, "and then you cut us adrift. Is that the idea … sir?" "If you want to live, get in that raft," Peter said.

It was brutal punishment. For the first hour they paddled without too much trouble, Goldberg, Mitch, and Willie on one side, Peter, the Preacher, and Skeeter on the other. By the second hour their hands were beginning to hurt and their bodies, jammed together in the raft, were one solid ache.

In the dark it seemed so totally useless, so like a dream of running away as hard as you could but not moving. The water against the paddles just seemed to slide away, the raft and
Slewfoot
remaining motionless under the stars.

At the end of the second hour they changed crews, Mitch and his gang climbing wearily back aboard while Sam, Jason, the Professor, Sko, and Murph climbed into the raft. Peter decided to paddle these two hours also just to get the thing settled down, for if he could keep them at it they were going to be paddling this way—two hours in the raft, two hours resting in
Slewfoot
—for a long, long time.

At the end of the second two hours the sun came up and they changed crews again. Peter, exhausted, could hardly pull himself up the rungs of the swaying boarding ladder. Archer was standing on the foredeck as Peter crawled over the side and lay for a moment, catching his breath.

Archer said, coldly amused, "I've heard of shoveling sand against the sea, but this is the first time I ever saw it done."

Peter got up on his hands and knees and then to his feet. Ignoring Archer he looked out at the raft. Mitch and Goldberg were arguing, but the raft was too far away for him to hear what they were saying. The other three men were just siting, paddles in their laps, listening. Peter felt utterly defeated as he stood, watching, and no paddle touched the water. But then they began, the paddles dipping in unison.

Peter turned then to Archer. "I want the food, Archer. All of it."

Archer looked at him for a moment and then said, "I've estimated that it will take us twenty-three days to reach the Philippines. I've divided the food into twenty-three portions, one portion to be again divided among all of us, once a day.

"Archer," Peter said, "I've mutinied against you, remember? From now on, I'm running this boat. Don't interfere with me."

"You can run the boat, but I am going to control the food."

"Don't you understand what I just said?" Peter asked him. Then he turned and went down the hatch.

In the dayroom the first crew were already sound asleep, flaked out in exhaustion on the bunks. Only Britches was awake and, to Peter's surprise, up on his feet, his arm in a sling Archer must have made for him.

"Are we getting there?" Britches asked.

Peter shrugged as he went on through the room. Britches followed him. "I'm feeling fine. I could paddle some."

"Maybe later," Peter said, trying the knob of Archer's cabin and finding it locked.

Peter slammed a shoulder against the door, breaking it open and realizing as he did it the mistake he had made with Britches standing there watching. "Lost the key," Peter said lamely as he went into the cabin and began bringing out the food. "What you can do, if you feel like it, is help me get up some chow for these guys. I think we've got about two days to go, but let's play it safe and make it three. Divide everything into three piles. We'll eat one a day."