Send a Gunboat (1960) (35 page)

Rolfe sat silent, watching the Signalman crouched at his station. Poor Fallow, he thought suddenly. I wonder how bad it is?

The ship rocked wildly as another shell sliced along the upper deck and exploded harmlessly in the sea beyond. It looked as if a giant branding-iron had been scored right across the decks and had left one wide, blackened trail of damage in its wake.

One engine only, he thought desperately, watching the helmsman struggle with the wheel, as the gunboat staggered in a twisting, crablike motion, its rudders fighting for mastery over the uneven thrust of the remaining engine.

“Damage Control Party just gone forrard!” reported the signalman, and he saw Herridge and a handful of seamen ducking and slipping over the shattered deck, their faces turned away as each salvo screamed over their heads.

Rolfe watched them helplessly, as Herridge and his men began to lower themselves into the gaping crater. He could now hear the deep, pulsating thud of the main pumps, as they fought against the inrushing water. There ought to be an officer with them, he thought. Herridge would have his work cut out just keeping the men at their posts.

“Vincent! Get forrard! See what you can do, and report damage!”

Vincent did not reply, and Rolfe waited for some fresh outburst, but instead, the door clanged shut, and a few seconds later he saw Vincent walking slowly along the rim of the shell crater, his hands behind him, as if he was inspecting his division on a Sunday morning.

Another shell whined across the bridge, and with amazed eyes, Rolfe saw the forward mast plunge over the side, dragging a mass of rigging and halyards after it. The useless wireless aerials clattered and squeaked against the bridge, before they, too, were sucked into the sea.

Herridge ran to the foot of the bridge, his grimy hands cupped. “Bulkhead’s holding, sir! But quite a large fracture abreast the keel! The pumps are just about holding their own!”

“Lower the boat, Chief!” Rolfe saw the man’s jaw drop. “Lower it to the waterline, and put all the ship’s awnings in it!” Herridge still hesitated. “Jump, man! I want that boat ready to drop as we come up to the next island!”

Herridge ran aft to the davits, calling out a string of names. The
Wagtail
’s canvas awnings were dragged from their racks and laid in the boat by the small, frightened seamen.

“Engine-room!” Rolfe had to yell above the head-splitting roar of gunfire. “Three drums of oil on deck, at the double! And get it to the boat!”

A freak shell exploded in the water, and Rolfe gritted his teeth as one of the Chinese seamen running to the boat faltered in his stride and slid to the deck. For some moments he thrashed about wildly, as his white jumper burst open to reveal what looked like a mass of scarlet rubber hose. Before their eyes, the man had been disembowelled by one savage splinter.

Herridge, tight-lipped, punched a staring seaman in the shoulder. “Don’t stand there like a tart in a trance! Man the falls!”

The terrified seaman wrenched his eyes from the glistening thing on the deck and ran to the boat.

The islands opened up their green banks to welcome the
Wagtail
, as with smoke streaming from her wounds, loose planking and twisted plates dangling from her sides, she wallowed forward to safety.

Rolfe watched the oil being poured into the boat and soaking into the piled awnings. The boat was lowered until its keel almost skimmed the moving water.

Come on, old girl! Just hold on! He gripped the rail, as if sharing her pain, as another shell burst under the sagging bow with a blinding flash. When the spray had fallen, he saw with
amazement that Vincent still paced stiffly across the unprotected deck.

The destroyer was gone, hidden again by the little lumps of land. She would be getting ready to finish the job at the next gap.

“Right? Light the awnings and slip the boat adrift!”

Herridge moved briskly to the buckled rail. “Stand by! Lower away!”

The boat yawed sluggishly against the side, and while the axes were still hacking away at the falls, Herridge hurled a lighted rag into the oily mound across the thwarts.

The next minute the boat had bobbed astern, and when Rolfe craned over the rail to watch, he saw it rocking forlornly in their wash, almost hidden by the great black pall of dense smoke which floated straight up into the bright sky.

They’ll see that and think it’s us, he mused. It’ll give us a bit of a respite, anyway, if it works!

The wheelhouse door clanged back as three seamen staggered in and laid their burden across the flag locker.

Fallow lay back on the coloured bunting, his brown eyes tightly screwed into little islands of pain.

His face seemed shrunken, and when he tried to speak, Rolfe realized that he must have lost his dentures.

“Too—bad—sir!” His breath was fast and wheezing. From the rough dressing on his shoulder, Rolfe saw the widening scarlet stain seeping across the outflung arm. “Sorry to leave you like this!” Fallow was still apologizing, and Rolfe dropped to his knee, gripping the man’s hand. It was ice cold.

“Hold on, Number One! Don’t forget you’re due for a discharge!” He tried to grin, but the expression of misery in Fallow’s eyes made him turn away. “Just lie quiet, Number One.”

Vincent walked shakily into the wheelhouse, wiping his mouth with a filthy handkerchief.

“Take over, Vincent!” Rolfe eyed him sharply. “Watch your course! I’m going up top to look at the damage!”

The upper bridge seemed even more unsheltered now that the mast had gone, and he found Chase leaning tiredly against the breech of the gun, his red face heavy with strain.

One gunner lay at his feet, the inside of his head splashed across Chase’s trousers.

“Good shooting, Chief!” Rolfe felt his stomach heaving “What happened to Lieutenant Fallow?”

Chase was staring vacantly at the human wreckage on the deck. “When we was ‘it, sir, a splinter got Mr. Fallow in the shoulder. ’E was up with the range-finder. This is ’im down ’ere!” He cleared the phlegm from his throat. “Gun’s still all right though!” He patted the breech with a beefy hand. “Bloody Chinks!” he added flatly.

Rolfe noticed that one of the gun-loaders was crying openly, the tears pouring unchecked down his yellow cheeks. Chase looked across at the man. “Stow it! Or I’ll croak you an’ all!” He scowled and the seaman moved miserably away. “Bloody Chinks!” Chase said once more.

Rolfe slid down the ladder, his eyes checking the pathetic wreckage and damage, which seemed to be confined to the forward part of the ship.

He waited, as the stewards carried Fallow into his cabin and laid him on the bunk. He didn’t see Judith come from the other cabin, but he found her in his arms, her slim body pressed against him.

“Is it over? Are we safe?” She stared searchingly at his worn face.

“Not quite! But we’ve left a decoy in the water for them! I am hoping that the destroyer will try to see what’s back there making all the smoke, and that will give us time to pass the next bit of open sea!”

“They can’t get at us while we’re amongst these islands, can they?” Her mouth quivered slightly.

“We shall have to move out eventually, Judith,” he answered slowly. “I’m just fighting for time.”

She watched Fallow’s heavy breathing, the morphia beginning to take effect. “Is he, is he going to be all right?”

Rolfe smiled gently. “I am hoping so.” He held her tightly, trying to find words to reassure her.

“I’ll stay with him, Justin. He looks so ill!” she said simply.

“Yes.” He turned wearily, as Herridge poked his head round the door.

He looked at Fallow and then stared at Rolfe. “All the passengers are fit an’ well, sir. Bit shaken up, of course!”

“I can imagine,” Rolfe answered grimly. “Still, it’s lucky they weren’t at the other end of the ship!”

“Is the Lieutenant badly hurt, sir?”

“I can’t tell yet, Chief. But he’s lost a lot of blood!”

Herridge eased his stiff shoulders. “Lieutenant Vincent told me to tell you we’re passing between the main group of islands now, sir.”

“Good.”

There was no more firing. The gunboat was momentarily safe amidst the maze of green humps. The destroyer must soon discover the ruse Rolfe had left behind, and would be thrashing after them. But at the moment they were secure.

He gripped her shoulders. “Lie down on the deck if it starts to get noisy again!”

As he returned to the bridge, he saw her kneeling by Fallow’s side, wiping his damp face with her hand.

Lieutenant Vincent found he could not stay still, and every bone in his body felt loose and unsteady. He continually shook his head and licked his dry lips, and tried to remember what had happened on the forward deck.

He had left the bridge at Rolfe’s orders, and as he had gone to look for Herridge, he had felt as if he was giving up his life and throwing away his last chance of survival.

With crazy deliberation he had paced the rocking deck, shutting his ears to the screaming shells and the turmoil of water. He had held his body erect, waiting for the sudden impact.

A seaman had been cut to ribbons by the lowered boat, but he had felt nothing, not even shock.

He stared around the wheelhouse, unable to realize he was still alive. I must be going mad, he thought. Nothing seems real any more. I can’t feel anything!

When he thought of Fallow, he was strangely affected, but he saw Fallow as himself, and felt pity rather than sadness.

He looked up, startled, as the Captain strode to the open shutters. Rolfe looked gaunt and completely exhausted. His dirty tunic hung open, and his bare chest was pockmarked by the tiny wooden splinters which had whistled up from the torn decks.

Vincent found himself grinning again. “They built this ship pretty well, didn’t they, sir?”

Rolfe regarded him calmly. “Just as well!”

In the dim cabin Fallow stared up at the deckhead, his eyes dark with inner misery. He could feel no pain any more, merely a pricking sensation in his shoulder, like pins-and-needles. He felt as if his body was suspended in space, lighter than air.

He saw the girl’s brown face close to his and noticed that her huge eyes were brimming with tears.

That worried Fallow, and he tried to tell her not to cry. But he found that no words came, and that he could not even raise his hand to her hair, which hung close to his cheek.

He felt himself sinking again into another bank of cloud, the cabin swayed and receded before his eyes. Mary, he thought desperately, what will she do without me? What about the garden, and the rockery I was going to make? Judith’s face had faded to an oval blob, but her presence gave him comfort.

Poor little
Wagtail
. I’ve looked after you all this time and now they are trying to destroy you, as they’ve destroyed me! All the light had gone now, but it didn’t matter any more. It was easier to see Mary and the distant liners making for Southampton.

* * * * *

The
Wagtail
’s engine-room was an inferno of noise and steam. Above the straining beat of the remaining engine, Louch listened gloomily to the screech of a hacksaw and the thud of hammers, and tried to read some sound of success.

He stared at the silent mass of steel and brass, which a short time ago had been a living symbol of his power. Now, deprived of its precious fuel and drive, it lay inert and useless. A Chinese stoker was rubbing the shining shaft with a piece of oiled rag, as if in some mysterious way he was going to set it in motion again.

Louch thrust his bird-like body away from the warm bulkhead, the very movement sending a fresh stream of sweat down his angry face. He had to do something, anything, to take his mind away from what was happening overhead and around him. He listened to the water sloshing against the hull, and wondered why the firing had stopped. When the five-inch shell had ploughed into the fo’c’sle, and exploded below the waterline, he had thought that the moment dreaded by all ships’ engineers
everywhere had arrived. His heart seemed to stick in his throat, as he waited, crouched like a trapped animal, for the bulkhead to burst open and a wall of water to surge in on him. Once that happened, and the savage water reached the boilers, there was no escape. It was said to be a quick death. He shuddered again and spat. Who knew what it was like to be fried alive?

Herridge was thinking along a similar line of reasoning as he watched the pumps squirting a steady stream of sea-water over the side. It was amazing to think such a small ship could stand so heavy a blow and survive.

He smiled sardonically. Survive for what? he wondered. Far behind he could still see the oily spindle of smoke rising from the abandoned sampan. Trust the skipper to think of something like that, but perhaps it was only prolonging their agony just a little longer.

He scratched his chin, watching the small islands skimming past, and feeling the gunboat roll and sway, as she twisted between the threatening sand bars. Sixty miles of islands the skipper had said. But even if they survived that, the open sea still lay between them and safety.

Rolfe’s head appeared over the top of the scarred bridge. “Check the passengers, Chief!” he called. “Make sure they’re comfortable, and get Mr. Lane out of the Sick Bay and put him with the others. I want ’em all together.”

Herridge made his way quickly to the storeroom, glad to have something to do. He grimaced as he stepped around the cruelly rejected pile of rags and flesh on the main deck, and lifted the heavy hatch over the twin storerooms.

In the dim light of a swinging inspection lamp he saw their eyes gleaming whitely, as they turned towards him. They think I’ve come to tell them we are sinking, he thought, and grinned cheerfully.

“S’all right, everybody, everything’s under control!” He glanced about the wide compartment and had to stoop to avoid crashing his head on the low supports. He saw the white jackets of the stewards as they moved between the stooped forms, adjusting lifejackets and passing around cups of fresh water.

Laker’s face shone distortedly in the swinging light. “How far have we got? Has the other ship gone away?”