The Horizon (1993) (7 page)

Coleridge exclaimed, ‘What will they do, sir?’

‘They?’ The smallest shrug, nothing more. ‘The Admiralty and the General Staff will have to think again. And with each turn of our screws the Turks have more time to prepare. You all saw the troopships at Gibraltar and at Malta. They will have to storm the peninsula which still commands the Dardanelles. Down the years fighting sailors have achieved much. But until the British soldier, or—’ he shot the captain of
Reliant
’s marines a glance, ‘the Royal Marines can plant their flag alongside their boots on enemy territory, there can be no victory.’

‘Orders, sir?’ Coleridge looked dazed, shocked by the incredible losses in only half a day.

‘No change, Commander. Port Said as before.’ He looked suddenly at Lieutenant-Colonel Waring. ‘You can call off the shooting-gallery, Colonel.’ He saw the argument in the other man’s eyes. ‘It’s all right, you know – the admiral agrees with me.’ His voice had a sudden edge. ‘It seems likely we shall need all our ammunition before long!’

He gave a curt nod. Dismissal. But to Jonathan he said, ‘You stay here if you like.’ He climbed onto his chair and settled himself where he could reach his powerful binoculars. In a matter-of-fact tone he added, ‘You know, Blackwood, Nelson once confided that no wooden man-of-war could succeed against a properly sited shore
battery. I don’t suppose anyone listened to him either, until a costly lesson was learned.’

Jonathan watched him, fascinated. This terrible news, which had shocked them all and which would go through the ship like a ball of fire, had somehow left the captain removed. He was already assessing it. Seeking solutions.

He asked, ‘May I ask what
you
think will happen, sir?’

Soutter turned easily in his chair, but did not reply directly. ‘I was reading the second part of your report, when you returned from France.’ Jonathan started. That part had been top secret, to give private scope to his own observations, with suggestions if he had had any to offer. Soutter smiled. ‘I see it in your face, Blackwood. All secret stuff. But I do still have a few friends.’ He shaded his eyes as a solitary gull floated around the masthead, its cry lost in the roar of
Reliant
’s great fans. ‘Another poor Jack,’ he remarked absently. Then he changed again. ‘You said in the report that you thought the terrible losses at the front were because nobody could accept stalemate, yes? That the general staff knew of no solution, no fresh tactics that would prevent such casualties. That was brave of you. I’ll wager it raised a few temperatures in high places . . . Perhaps stalemate might be the solution after all. We are not fighting the Zulus or the Mahdi’s fuzzie-wuzzies, and this is
not
the thin red line, either. The Germans are brave, resourceful and, it has to be said, well led for the most part. We on the other hand . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, in answer to your question, I believe an all-out landing of troops will be considered, and very shortly too. A month or two ago, we could probably have taken and held the Dardanelles
with twenty thousand men.’ He sounded bitter and unusually angry. ‘But Lord Kitchener would not release more battalions from the Western Front when it might have made all the difference. Winston Churchill obviously believed in the strategy of it, or did, before these latest losses.’ Soutter leaned back in his chair, his cap tilted over his eyes. ‘You can cut along, Blackwood.’

Jonathan smiled. What he had said that night when they had rescued the drifting steamship.

It was a strange bond between them, he thought, as he made his way down to the deck where two squads of marines were using their pull-throughs to clean out their rifle barrels.

A corporal called them to attention but Jonathan said, ‘Carry on – stand easy.’

The corporal said, ‘Just heard, sir, about them ships. Terrible, innit? I got a mate in the old
Inflexible
. Hope he’s all right.’

A young marine called out, ‘When will us get a chance at them murderin’ Turks, sir?’ The corporal glared at him but said nothing.

They did not seem to mind talking with Jonathan, perhaps because he was R.M.A. and not R.M.L.I. like them. But they were all khaki marines now, as the old warrior had pointed out. In any case they all did the same basic training, and when required performed the same duties. It never occurred to Jonathan that they actually liked him. An officer with two V.C.’s in his family, but one who could still stop and speak to them, or offer advice.

‘You’ll get your chance soon enough. Barlow, isn’t
it?’ Something his brother had always impressed on him. Remember names; it’s all they own in the Corps!

The youthful marine flushed. It made him look about twelve.

Another asked, ‘Where’s Port Said, sir?’

The corporal had had enough. ‘Never you mind, Petit! It’s where we’re goin’ an’ that’s all you need to know!’

Jonathan smiled and walked on. So young and eager to fight, and yet most of them had no idea where they were going or why. After Malta and their first sight of the Rock their appetites for adventure and more foreign places were well and truly whetted. They probably thought it would be all camels and mysterious dancing girls in veils. If so, they were in for a shock.

He had glanced at Lieutenant Rice’s charts on the bridge. About another eleven hundred miles to go before they reached Port Said. At this economical cruising speed it would be another five days before
Reliant
’s big anchor splashed down. He thought of the other marine officers, most of whom were as junior as the men they commanded. It might be a good thing to become acquainted with them. He paused to watch a gull rise from the sea – another poor Jack, as the captain had remarked. Surely the spirits of dead sailors could find another form in which to reveal themselves, he thought.

Some seamen with paint pots and brushes passed him, so he turned away to conceal his face from them. Why should he get to know them? After Port Said he might never see them again. Like Soutter and this ship, it was an experience, nothing more.

High above his head, the captain was sitting in his
small sleeping cabin abaft and just below the bridge. Somewhere he could snatch some rest, or in this case find a temporary haven from curious stares and the gritty taste of oil fuel.

His steward had provided some cold beef sandwiches and a chilled half-bottle of hock. He always knew. Never too much mustard, and always a perfect cut-glass goblet.

Soutter smiled to himself. The Captain’s perks. He thought too of the news from the Dardanelles. He knew many of the people who must have died by drowning or explosion when they had tried to force that narrow, deadly channel. He opened a drawer in his small desk and took out his leather-bound personal log. As he did so he saw his wife’s photograph looking up at him from the silver frame he still carried. He lifted it out and placed it on the desk, searching her pretty English face for something – some hint, some warning. He had been expecting her that day when
Reliant
had commissioned, the proudest event for any captain, especially with a ship like this one. Nobody had said anything afterwards, not the Members of Parliament who had been there nor the port admiral. He had seen a small girl in white silk being hustled away, the bouquet of flowers she had been going to present to the captain’s lady still clutched in her hands.

Soutter had sent his steward Drury to the house they had been renting, but it was no accident or unexpected illness that he came back to report. There had been just a short letter.

Do not try to trace me. You have the ship you dreamed of. Now I must find another.

Another what? A separate life? A lover, whom she
had been concealing from him during the first grinding weeks of the war?

But for this ship, he thought he might have gone out of his mind.
Daphne
. He glanced around the gently vibrating sea-cabin, angry and guilty that he might have spoken her name aloud. She had always seemed so pleased when he had returned home from whatever ship he was serving, and their lives had been so full for the weeks, or the days, before he went away again.

A lot of his contemporaries had married into the service, the daughters of senior officers. It never did any harm to marry somebody who already knew the navy’s ways, the ache of long separations.

He had met Daphne at a reception in Hong Kong when he had been on the China station. A doctor’s daughter who was staying with her parents there at the time.

What might happen if by chance they met?

He thought of his brother, who had died when the
Aboukir
had been torpedoed. ‘Treat her gently,’ he had said. ‘She’s not like the others, you know. She’s a proper person, not out of the mould like some.’

Had that been what had made her leave him?

The handset buzzed and he picked it from its hook.

‘Captain.’

It was Quitman, who was in charge of the watch. ‘Signal for you, sir. Being decoded now. Top secret and Immediate.’

Soutter looked at his untouched sandwich.
Reliant
even had her own bakery, and fresh bread was always available.

He pictured Quitman, very earnest and intense, a true gunnery officer.

Quitman said less confidently, ‘Shall I inform the admiral, sir?’

‘Not yet. Have your assistant bring it to me first.’ He put down the handset and thought about Quitman, the words
Top secret and Immediate
standing out in his mind in huge red letters.

He glanced at her face and then thrust the picture into the drawer again.

The assistant O.O.W., Sub-Lieutenant Whittaker, entered the small cabin and stared owlishly at his captain. Soutter took the sealed folder and opened it with a silver paper-knife, his grey-blue eyes moving along the signal flimsy printed in their chief operator’s heavy hand.

Then he looked up and saw the young officer try to extinguish all curiosity. ‘My compliments to the commander, Mr Whittaker. Ask him to take over the bridge. I have to go aft to see the admiral.’

Outside in the bright sunshine again Captain Auriol George Soutter, who hated his first name, paused to stare aft along his ship, past the four-inch guns and the long barrels of Y turret to
Reliant
’s unending white wake in a flat calm sea.

There was to be no visit to Port Said after all.
Reliant
was to alter course and head direct for the small island of Mudros where she would join the other ships of the bombarding squadron which had been repulsed so bloodily; and that was only yesterday.

His jaw tightened and he made his way down a steep ladder to the deck below.

He hoped Rear-Admiral Purves would be satisfied. He
was not going to be too late after all. Instead he, the ship and all her company were to be thrown right into the middle of it.

He saw some of the new marines drilling under a reedy-looking subaltern and remembered what Blackwood had written in his report.

But by the time he had reached the admiral’s quarters right aft beneath the quarterdeck, his mind was clear of everything save what he must do. He was the captain, and nothing else could matter.

‘All present, sir.’ Captain Soutter glanced around the expectant faces,
Reliant
’s heads of department gathered here as they had that day at sea when he had told them of the losses in the Turkish minefields.

The main chartroom, large though it was, felt like an oven, and with the battle-cruiser lying at anchor even the modern fans and air ducts could do little to ease their discomfort.

Through the open scuttles Soutter could see the rocky outthrust of Mudros Bay. What a God-forsaken place, he thought. Now, crammed with troopships, large men-of-war and supply vessels, it looked more like a refuge than the launching point for an invasion. Ashore it was no better. Tents in neat lines covered every available piece of ground along with hastily-rigged field hospitals, red crosses on their sloping canvas roofs, machine-shops and cook-houses: an army preparing itself.

If only they could get back to sea, Soutter thought
wearily. But week had followed week in this dreadful place, with only rumour to feed their hungry minds.

Now at least that was over. He watched the papers in the rear-admiral’s strong hands and saw Galpin, his flag-lieutenant, also staring at them as if to seek out his own fate.

Rear-Admiral Purves stood quite still, his fingertips resting lightly on his papers, which he had now laid on the chart-table.

‘Gentlemen, the day we have all been waiting for is almost upon us.’ His resonant voice carried easily above the sounds of fans and other ship noises. ‘At dawn in a week’s time, on the twenty-fifth of April, the attack on the Gallipoli Peninsula will begin. The British Army will land at these points – V, W, X and Y beaches,’ he tapped the chart with a ruler, ‘at Cape Helles, led by the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Halfway along the peninsula the Australians will land at Gaba Tepe. That’s where we come in.’ The ruler moved back again. ‘On the British right flank, the French division will be put ashore at S beach, Morto Bay.’

Purves pulled out another sheet of paper. ‘The Royal Marines will of course be in full support.’ He waited as the marine officers grinned at one another, then said sharply, ‘We shall be taking part in the bombardment of Turkish batteries and forts, and anything else which might prove a real danger to our advance. The day after tomorrow the troopships will disembark their soldiers, who will be put aboard the escorting naval vessels without delay.
Reliant
will take on board another company or so of Royal Marines, contingents released
from ships of the squadron.’ His eyes settled on Lieutenant-Colonel Jack Waring’s sun-reddened face. ‘As senior R.M. officer you will naturally be in command.’

Waring brushed his moustache with one finger and gave a fierce grin. ‘Proud, sir. Very!’

Soutter saw Purves watching him. ‘Sir?’

‘Anything you’d like to add? I know the
ship
is in good hands!’ He laughed, but there was no warmth in it.

Soutter said, ‘We shall be towing extra boats when we leave here, as will other ships in this section. Picket boats will be used to tow the unpowered craft once they have left the safety of the ships.’ He saw an unspoken question on the navigating officer’s bearded face. ‘We shall remain a thousand yards offshore, although it is quite likely that the marines will not be ordered into the attack at that early stage.’