To Risks Unknown (40 page)

Crespin said nothing. Scarlett was destroying himself. It was terrible to watch.

‘Like that idiot, Trotter!
He
was like that. Wanted to be a bloody hero, until that night …' His legs buckled under him and he collapsed into the chair. ‘I
tried
to reason with him. Make him understand.'

Crespin looked over the screen and saw the M.L.s following the three schooners out of the bay. Smoke was drifting above the water, shutting out the burning buildings and reducing the visibility to less than a cable. His mind recorded all these facts, just as it noted that the German ship had ceased fire. The
Nashorn
must be in the main channel now. One door was closed, the remaining channel—barely three miles wide—was a long way away.

Scarlett was going over it all again, the words flooding out, confused and disjointed. Crespin thought of the girl and what she had meant to him. Perhaps because of her influence alone he was still able to accept what he now understood. All those months of suffering and anguish, the nightmares, the regular pattern of terrible pictures which mocked him as he slept. That face, that one face which came back over and over again. It was difficult to understand why he had not realized it had been Trotter's face. The dream and the reality had become stark and clear in Scarlett's words.

He heard himself ask, ‘Why did you kill Trotter, sir? Just tell me that!'

Scarlett stared at him, his eyes suddenly eager. ‘You see? You
do
understand!' He reached out and seized Griffin's arm as if to emphasize his words. ‘It was just an accident. We captured the launch behind enemy lines. It was our first really successful raid. Then, coming back, we came on these people in the water.'

Crespin said quietly, ‘You didn't have to fire on us. You could have left us.'

Scarlett nodded sharply. ‘That's what Trotter said. When he joined your ship and realized who you were, he wanted to come right out and tell you.' He laughed, without making a sound. ‘Imagine that! After all my hard work, and all that I've done, he'd have spoiled everything because of
one bloody mistake!
' He lifted his chin and yelled, ‘I did not know the men in the water were our own people!'

Crespin said, ‘What difference does that make?' He turned away as Wemyss said, ‘Senior M.L. is signalling, sir!'

Scarlett followed, dragging Griffin with him. ‘I
had
to shoot him! The fool, he was making a written confession about it!'

Crespin raised his glasses. The channel beyond the nearest islands looked clear and blue. It would be a fine day after all.

He said, ‘Tell the M.L. to escort the others to Korcula as fast as he can manage.'

To Scarlett he added flatly, ‘I am relieving you, sir. You will go below to my quarters,
now!
' He wondered why he did not care more. Scarlett was the man who had mercilessly butchered his own men without reason. Had then shot Trotter and made it appear like the confession he had been looking for. It was strange how the obvious had eluded him.

Now Scarlett was speaking to Griffin, grasping his arm, his head lowered in some confidential explanation, while the leading signalman stood quite still, his face like stone.

Crespin realized that Scarlett was more victim than culprit. He had seen and done too much in a short time, and the veneer had worn away. Now he was a whimpering, useless thing, as much a casualty as all the others he had helped to make.

The M.L. was gliding nearer, her skipper staring up at the
Thistle
's bridge and shouting, ‘We'll stop and give you a hand!'

Crespin said to Wemyss, ‘Tell him to obey my orders.'

He watched Griffin guiding Scarlett to the bridge ladder, the expressions of shock and contempt recorded on the watching faces.

Wemyss spoke to a signalman but kept his eyes on Crespin's face. Then he asked, ‘Did you
know
all this, sir?'

‘Perhaps I didn't want to know.' Crespin levelled his glasses on the breakwater. A German steel helmet lay quite alone near the beacon at the end. Its owner probably dead with all the rest.

Wemyss said half to himself, ‘I'd have sent him across to one of the M.L.s!' Then he said harshly, ‘Still, I suppose he might as well stay with us and see what he's got us into.'

Porteous reappeared on the bridge. ‘I've moved the depth-charges to the boats, sir.' He glanced at Wemyss who gave a brief shrug. Then he said awkwardly, ‘I've heard what Captain Scarlett did, sir. I think …' He faltered under Crespin's gaze then said quickly, ‘I think you should send him with the other boats, under arrest!'

Crespin looked over the screen. The senior M.L. was already curving away, her wash rising as she hurried back towards the other slow-moving craft.

He replied, ‘He'll have enough to answer for later on, Sub. Just forget the legal side of it for five minutes and try to imagine how you would feel in his position. It's bad enough to be ordered off the bridge, for God's sake let us spare him the indignity of being hauled across to another ship like some bloody piece of cargo!'

Wemyss muttered, ‘He wanted to do it to
you
, sir.'

Crespin grimaced. ‘Forget it. Let me know the exact distance to the secondary channel.'

To Porteous he added quietly, ‘But thanks all the same. I know you meant well.' He smiled sadly. ‘If it makes you feel easier, I suggest you put the steward on guard outside Scarlett's door.'

Wemyss said, ‘Ten miles, sir.'

Ten miles. Two hours steaming for the schooners and their escorts. Two hours to hold the
Nashorn
from pounding them to scrap before his eyes.

He looked at the sky, the growing tinge of blue around each cloud. It was grotesque. All the more so because the
Thistle
would probably sink within a mile of where they had destroyed the troopship.

It was useless to think about it. Perhaps that was the real reason for keeping Scarlett aboard, just as Wemyss had suggested. To hold him here, if only to witness what he had caused.

He snapped, ‘Full ahead! Course two-five-five!'

To Griffin he said, ‘Signal the M.L.s to drop smoke-floats. It will help give them some cover.'

He wondered briefly what Scarlett was thinking down in the sealed cabin. Perhaps something inside him was even thankful it was all over, that the pretence and deceit was no longer necessary. As he had left the bridge he had looked as if he only half understood what was happening, as if the enormity of events had finally unhinged him so that he felt nothing any more.

Crespin walked to the front of the bridge again, feeling the breeze across his neck. Smooth and clean. Like her touch. Like the big flags which made a twisting shadow above the bridge.

Porteous spoke again. ‘Any orders for me, sir?'

Crespin lifted the glasses and scanned the channel carefully. It was made misty blue by the nearest island and seemed so peaceful that it was almost impossible to believe this was all happening.

‘Tell the Buffer to check the boats, Sub. We will drop them when we make our turn. A few shots should sink them and let the depth-charges blow up on their own.' He sounded tired. ‘It might give the
Nashorn
something to think about.' Then he said, ‘You can come back here after that.' He waited until Porteous had gone. ‘You take his place aft, Number One. If I'm bumped off I want you in one piece to get the ship out of this.' He smiled. ‘If you can.'

Wemyss licked his lips. ‘You can rely on me.'

Crespin turned again to study the channel as the ship's speed continued to mount. It saved him from seeing the other boats and their slow progress towards safety. Perhaps they were all watching the
Thistle
, he thought. Soskic and Coutts, Ross and Preston, and all the others he could not put names to.

It would be a sight to remember. David and Goliath. The little corvette and the armoured giant.

They had at last caught up with the future, and it felt as if all the other things had just been part of a build-up for this one particular episode.

He was about to climb on to the chair and changed his mind. He wanted to remain standing, to keep the feel of the gallant little ship beneath him.

Apart from the racing engine and the sluice of water against the hull there was a great silence, and he found time to think of all the men around and beneath him who had been brought to this moment of time to share it as best they could. His officers. The mate of a merchant ship, a shop assistant, a barrister, and whatever Defries had once been. And the rest. Magot, who should have been living out his years with his grandchildren. Joicey, who had waited to see his enemy suffer but had found only understanding. Griffin, standing calmly and without fear, watched by his signalmen who were little more than boys.

Expendable they probably were, but
Thistle
could have wished for no better company, he thought.

The next shell came without warning, screaming overhead like something unleashed from hell. It exploded far astern, lost in the drifting smoke.

Crespin wiped some spray from his glasses and lifted them once more. The waiting was over.

LIEUTENANT MARK SHANNON
walked round the gunshield and then stood with his back against its rough steel staring straight across the bows. It was a strange, exhilarating sensation, as if he was being carried quite alone by the ship which lifted and ploughed so eagerly beneath him. His crew were hidden by the shield, and there was not a living soul between him and the invisible enemy.

He heard the shell scream overhead, and after a moment's hesitation walked slowly back around the shield. As he glanced up he saw Crespin's face to one side of the bridge, set and impassive, and other heads, motionless like statuary, parts of the ship's structure.

He turned his back and looked searchingly at his small crew. ‘Don't forget, this is to be a close action. The enemy has two big guns, but if we can keep her end on she can only use one at a time, right?'

Leading Seaman Kidd, the gun captain, rubbed a gloved fist over the breach lever and grimaced. ‘Won't do much with
this
pop-gun, sir.'

Shannon glared at him. ‘It's all we've got!' He grew impatient. ‘When that gong goes we open fire and keep on firing!' He raised his voice so that the other gunners turned to watch him. ‘Nothing else bloody well matters, see?'

He saw the layer and trainer exchange quick glances across the breech but decided to ignore them. They were good enough hands, but as unimaginative as the rest.

He thought suddenly of his shells slamming home. One target after another. The first tension which he had suspected might be some sort of fear had been nothing of the kind. It had been only the fear of failure, and the success of his gunnery had wiped that away as if it had never been.

Like a mist clearing from his mind, he thought. All the other hopes and doubts had been quite pointless. You could only depend on yourself. He thought, too, of Scarlett. A case in point. To think he had lowered himself to the extent of expecting a man like Scarlett to help him. He was no better than those patronizing bastards he had been forced to serve over a shop counter so long ago.

He looked around the shield and watched the blue mist floating above the channel. Everything was blue. It was like being in space.

As he thrust his hands into his reefer pocket he felt the hard outline of the jewelled crucifix. He had almost forgotten about it and the touch brought a sudden smile to his lips. He was not religious in any way, but the cross was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was also worth a great deal of money.

But its value went even deeper than that. During the ship's first week at Brindisi he had met Carla. Her husband was a major in an Italian artillery regiment, but she did not know if she was a widow or not, for he was one of the unlucky ones, caught beyond the Allied line and forced to hold his allegiance with the Germans.

She had a small house on the outskirts of the town, and after their first meeting in a restaurant Shannon had become a regular visitor. It was not just a case of going to bed with her. Her need of him, her desperate desire to do anything and everything to please him had made him realize his new power. She was ten years older than he and hardly spoke any English at all, yet she seemed to understand him better than he did himself.

Only when he had made her wear the crucifix around her neck while he had made love to her had she shown any sort of protest. For that reason he had made her suffer, to teach her a lesson. He had placed the cross between her heavy breasts and knelt astride her, watching it, seeing the shame in her eyes, yet knowing her passion was returning in spite of it.

Now she was back there in Brindisi, probably still waiting for his return. He would never see her again, no matter what happened. She had served her purpose, and for the first time in his life he felt complete. The crucifix would always be there to remind him of the past. But now, the future was the only thing which counted.

A thunderous explosion rocked the hull, and as he clung to the ammunition hoist he saw a great column of water shooting skyward barely a hundred feet from the port bow. The deck and fittings shook in protest, and as water began to fall hissing alongside he realized that Bullen, the gunlayer, was sprawled at his feet, his eyes wide with astonishment and a gaping hole dead in the centre of his chest.

The others were all staring, stunned by the suddenness of death in their own crew, and he felt the same gripping excitement sweeping through him like ice water.

He dragged the man's body clear and jumped forward into the seat. ‘Stand by!' He looked at Kidd. ‘It'll be any second now!'

Leading Seaman Kidd glanced at the staring corpse by the rail. He had been his friend, and in a matter of a split second he had become something without personality or meaning. Then he looked across at the lieutenant, seeing his insane grin, the quick, deft movements of his fingers on the sights. Between them they seemed to symbolize his own fate, and as he stood clear of the breech Kidd knew that he, too, was going to die.