The Rise of Henry Morcar (45 page)

Morcar was not much of a drinking man nowadays but he felt the deprivation more than he expected, for his nights in the saloon were singularly uncomfortable. The floor was hard, the bedding scanty, the changes of watches woke him in the small hours, the feeding of the augmented ship's company in shifts occupied the saloon at hours both late and early. (“Eat all day,” as one of the Chinese stewards remarked to him mournfully.) To preserve the necessary blackout on deck, doors were closed at night, portholes were screwed up rigorously; the resulting heat and stuffiness were most unpleasant. To smoke on deck after dusk was absolutely forbidden; to smoke in the dining-saloon was frowned on. Day clothes had to be worn all the time, with the addition of life-jackets while the ship crossed the danger zone. Morcar longed for a fresh supply of shirts but could not
get at his suitcase, and finally took to washing the couple he had by him and ironing them under the instruction (and with the iron) of the Chinese steward aforesaid. “I'm getting too old for this sort of work,” growled Morcar to himself, as he lay in a life-jacket on the floor of the saloon in a mid-Atlantic gale, holding to a screwed-down chair to prevent himself from rolling. The Captain, however, and the Admiral, neither of whom had more than two hours' consecutive sleep throughout the voyage, he knew to be older men than himself, and Morcar did not really mean to grumble. The voyage was one of the great experiences of his life, and he would not have missed it for anything.

For at last the
Floating Castle
had left Halifax, one of a number of other such small grey ships, plodding steadily in neat parallel rows across the stormy Atlantic. There were long low tankers carrying precious oil, there were squat ships carrying precious food; there were slightly larger ships like the
Floating Castle
, laden probably with armaments and certainly with aircraft. At night the lines of these little ships on their way, silhouetted blackly against the rosy west, had a picturesque, romantic air; Morcar counted them and silently wished them well and said goodnight. When light came again in the morning they looked grey and stolid but somehow perky and undaunted, still plodding along in their neat rows. Morcar counted them again, and sometimes had a disagreeable surprise, for one or other of the little ships was missing. Consulting the mate off duty anxiously on this point, he discovered that owing to what the mate called a speeded-up turnaround, cargo ships had little rest nowadays, and their engines little time for overhaul in port; consequently there was apt to be trouble in their engine-room. Could they make repairs quickly enough to catch up the convoy and maintain the necessary speed, or must they fall behind and take another course? The Atlantic in the early summer of 1941 was uncomfortable for unescorted freighters, so the little ships made superhuman efforts to keep up with the rest; the engine-room being exhorted to these efforts by the bridge with some profanity. There was a lame duck of this kind in Morcar's convoy; several times he mourned to find it fallen behind, rejoicing later when the Captain, coming down sleepless and unshaven to snatch a hurried meal, related with several fond expletives that the determined old bitch had caught up the convoy once again. Sometimes, too, Morcar had frights of this kind which he afterwards found to be unjustified, because when he looked for them at dawn and thought them missing, the little ships were merely “out of station.” They had slipped a little from their place at night, and were now straggling or bunched, their lines uneven,
jagged. As soon as the light revealed this they scurried back, hoping to regain their station in the huge parallelogram before receiving a rebuking signal from the
Castle's
bridge—for the Admiral's comments on these occasions were apt to be caustic.

In spite of the discomfort which the fact caused him, Morcar rejoiced daily that the ship he travelled on was the commodore ship, the flagship, of the convoy. From the
Castle's
mast flew the instructing flags; it was the
Castle
which did the hooting and the yellow-eyed heliograph-blinking and the talking; the
Castle's
bridge gave the orders, prepared the navigation, plotted and changed the course. The passenger who shared the saloon as bedroom with Morcar had been a yachtsman in his youth and could read signal flags and Morse; he regaled the company with the convoy's messages except when they were made in code. Morcar found the process of guiding a hundred and fifty little ships in zigzags across three thousand miles of submarine-haunted ocean sufficiently enthralling, especially as it was with the
Castle
that the escorting destroyers communicated. At first the convoy was shepherded by a single sloop, which came alongside every morning to talk to the Admiral. The sloop (if that was the right name for it) had anti-aircraft guns which were always manned, and depth-charges which were always at the ready. The commander—or captain or whatever he was, thought Morcar vaguely—was a young man, with a fresh unlined face and an eager expression, quite a boy really, not much older probably than Edwin Harington. Owing to the zigzag course taken by the convoy to keep its various rendezvous, the weather was sometimes very hot and sometimes very cold. Sometimes the bearded seamen on the destroyer were clad in white shorts and little else, their brown skins glowing; sometimes they were muffled up in navy blue, seaboots and oilskins. The young commander was always spruce, however, clean and shaven and brushed, whether in white or blue or streaming oilskin, duffel hood or gold-laced cap. Sometimes this young man spoke to the Admiral through the megaphone; he had just the same kind of voice, the same expressions and intonations, as young Edwin.

One morning the sloop came near as usual but was silent, speaking only in code flags, which Morcar's bedfellow could not follow; but later in the day the passengers guessed what it was the commander had to tell, for the
Castle's
lookout sounded the bell which meant ships in sight. A mere landlubber like Morcar could not at first perceive them, but after a while two tiny grey dots were discernible far away on the horizon and presently there appeared some more—they were additional Navy escorts coming to the rendezvous. From that time onward the convoy
often met additional escorts; each time they appeared Morcar knew he was one stage nearer to the special danger zone.

Part of the nightmare quality of the voyage at this stage was due to the oddness of the time-table. For convenience in making rendezvous, the convoy had adopted a time-scheme which its geographical position did not justify. Accordingly for some days it was mid-morning by the official time before the sun rose, and one could read on deck easily at ten o'clock at night. One afternoon during this distorted period the sloop came up to the
Castle
and enquired whether the Admiral would care to listen to the B.B.C. news. As all the convoy ships' radios had been sealed before leaving port, lest they should give warning to enemy submarines of their presence, the suggestion was accepted with delight. It was mid-Atlantic; the sea was dark-blue and rough, the wind strong and cold; the sun, fitful in the morning, was now withdrawing behind stormy clouds; the existence of land was almost forgotten, almost incredible. The sloop had rigged up a loud-speaker on the bridge. There were the usual atmospheric cracklings. Suddenly, clear and strong across the water, Big Ben struck nine. England! Oh, England! thought Morcar. Though he strained his ears he could make little of the news bulletin across the rising sea, but the sound of the English voice was music. It was a south-country voice of the la-di-da kind which Morcar had often derided, but when it ceased he felt lonely. The sun had vanished; the scene was emphatically the middle of a submarine-haunted and stormy ocean; England was very far away. Without speaking to any of his fellow-passengers Morcar turned and went below.

And now the danger zone was reached. The sloop had long abdicated and retired to the parallelogram's flank; grim swift destroyers now surrounded the convoy, and one led the way, zigzagging in front with an effect of dancing. But one afternoon suddenly the sloop leaped across the
Castle's
bows, and Morcar saw something dropping from her stern. “Are those depth charges?” he wondered privately. The other passengers, leaning silently against the deck railing, looked as if they were wondering the same. They soon had their reply; for Morcar felt a grinding jolt below, as if a mighty hand had shaken the
Castle's
engines from their bed. “Is it a submarine?” wondered Morcar. Now the sloop began to signal the leading destroyer with the heliograph, blinking very rapidly. The passenger who could read Morse earnestly watched the flashing light, and his fellow passengers watched him no less earnestly. Suddenly he began to laugh.

“What's up?” said Morcar. “What's the message, eh?”

“The message signalled,” gurgled the passenger gleefully: “The message signalled is: ‘Sorry you've been troubled. Think it was only fish.'”

Next morning Morcar was woken by the sound of loud and varied gunfire. He sprang up hastily. He was already dressed and in his life-jacket; now he slung his small bag of necessaries over his shoulder. The mate had explained firmly the rule that if the ship were sunk and one had to “go over the side”, nothing must be taken which had to be carried in the hand. Any ship which paused to pick up drowning men was risking her own crew's life; she could not wait while cases or bags were passed from hand to hand, or while people with impeded grasp slowly climbed the swaying rope ladder. Morcar hurried out of the saloon towards the companion-way, but was turned back by the mate, who ran down to present the Captain's compliments to the passengers, and inform them that an air raid was probably imminent. The convoy had just driven off a hostile scouting plane which would probably summon others; the passengers would please stay below, wearing life-jackets and ready to take lifeboat stations instantly. The passengers smiled and nodded obedience, buttoned their coats, fingered their scarves, hitched up their money-belts. Morcar's heart was beating fast, but not with fear, with anger. From where he stood he could see the wired planes in their camouflaged wrappings. Are we to lose them, he thought; are they going to the bottom of the Atlantic? We need them so much at home. He looked at them with a grim wrath, and wondered.

Planes sounded in the distance and the sound grew loud. Morcar's lips tightened. “Here they come,” he thought.

The mate ran half down the companion-way and leaned over towards the passengers. He was grinning. He jerked his head back towards the sound of aircraft. “Ours,” he said.

The passengers, talking and laughing at the top of their voices, streamed up on deck, and looked gratefully at the planes which circled round the convoy, swift black pencils in the sunshine.

That night a gale blew up. Huge waves, dark green, pointed, white-capped, raging, threw the little ships about; the convoy's speed was slowed, the low-decked tankers shipped seas so continually that foaming water poured from them like a long white satin ribbon. Morcar eyed the respective size of waves and
Castle
lifeboats speculatively. The third mate, who had been torpedoed before, remarked as he went towards the bridge that if he had to “go over the side” that night he should make for one of the rafts which were suspended forward.

“Rafts'd be safer than boats tonight, I reckon?” suggested Morcar.

The mate made an expressive grimace. “Boats wouldn't live long in this,” he remarked cheerfully.

Next day Morcar would have been glad of the big green waves and the driving wind, for fog fell, and the little ships all vanished from sight behind a chill grey curtain. It felt lonely.

“I shouldn't like to be torpedoed in a fog,” thought Morcar.

But now at last the convoy was nearing home. Some of the escorting destroyers, having shot off a black drifting mine or two by way of farewell, bade the Admiral respectful goodbyes and leaped away towards the land, blue and hilly, which had risen on the
Castle's
starboard. The convoy presently divided, right and left; some of the little ships glided away, became mere masts and funnels, disappeared. The lame duck whose fate had caused Morcar so much anxiety limped successfully into an Irish port. Now the remaining ships stretched out into a long single line, the
Floating Castle
, flying a fine new red ensign, proudly leading. Presently the
Castle
passed lightships and buoys and reached the harbour bar. Silvery barrage balloons dotted the skyscape; a bell-buoy gave out its continual clanking warning. Morcar perceived that this was the entrance to the Mersey estuary.

A pilot came aboard. The mate went below to his cabin and emerged in his best uniform and muffler, wearing a pair of clean white gloves. The convoy passed slowly down the narrow mine-free channel. Other ships were anchored close beside; their men came up on deck to see the convoy from America reach England. England, thought Morcar, smiling all over his face, which was a good deal sunburned and weather-beaten by this time: England.

And now they were quite close to the Liverpool docks; Morcar could clearly see the Liver building, with the great golden Liver bird still perched on top. All round were battered buildings and charred docks, and the Liver building itself had a chip out of it, but as long as the bird poised there with outspread wings, Morcar felt that Liverpool was in existence. The mate in his white gloves was now standing right up in the bows of the
Castle;
he looked round towards the Captain on the bridge who, addressing him formally by his name with the prefix “Mr,” adjured him to let go. The anchor chains rattled, the ship's motion ceased. The convoy had crossed the Atlantic safely. The Captain, his eyes red-rimmed from fatigue and lack of sleep, ran down the bridge to greet his owner's clerks who now boarded the vessel; he poured a heavy glass of whisky and drank it neat, while the
Admiral stood by, mildly beaming. The precious oil, the precious food, the precious planes—they were all safe home. It was twenty-seven days since Morcar had left New York.