Ralston’s reaction was immediate. The foot-brake was only six inches away but that was too far. Savagely he spun the control wheel, full ahead to full reverse in a split second. Simultaneously with Ferry’s cry of pain as his forearm crushed against the lip of the drum came a muffled explosion and clouds of acrid smoke from the winch as £500 worth of electric motor burnt out in a searing flash.
Immediately the wire began to run out again, accelerating momentarily under the dead weight of the plunging paravane. Ferry went with it.
Twenty feet from the winch the wire passed through a snatch block on the deck: if Ferry was lucky, he might lose only his hand.
He was less than four feet away when Ralston’s foot stamped viciously on the brake. The racing drum screamed to a shuddering stop, the paravane crashed down into the sea and the wire, weightless now, swung idly to the rolling of the ship.
Carslake scrambled down off the Carley, his sallow face suffused with anger. He strode up to Ralston.
“You bloody fool!” he mouthed furiously. “You’ve lost us that paravane.
By God, L.T.O., you’d better explain yourself! Who the hell gave you orders to do anything?”
Ralston’s mouth tightened, but he spoke civilly enough.
“Sorry, sir. Couldn’t help it, it had to be done. Ferry’s arm——”
“To hell with Ferry’s arm!” Carslake was almost screaming with rage.
“I’m in charge here and I give the orders. Look! Look!” He pointed to the swinging wire. “Your work, Ralston, you, you blundering idiot! It’s gone, gone, do you understand, gone!”
Ralston looked over the side with an air of large surprise.
“Well, now, so it is.” The eyes were bleak, the tone provocative, as he looked back at Carslake and patted the winch. “And don’t forget this, it’s gone too, and it costs a ruddy sight more than any paravane.”
“I don’t want any of your damned impertinence!” Carslake shouted. His mouth was working, his voice shaking with passion. “What you need is to have some discipline knocked into you and, by God, I’m going to see you get it, you insolent young bastard!”
Ralston flushed darkly. He took one quick step forward, his fist balled, then relaxed heavily as the powerful hands of C.P.O. Hartley caught his swinging arm. But the damage was done now. There was nothing for it but the bridge.
Vallery listened calmly, patiently, as Carslake made his outraged report. He felt far from patient. God only knew, he thought wearily, he had more than enough to cope with already. But the unruffled professional mask of detachment gave no hint of his feelings.
“Is this true, Ralston?” he asked quietly, as Carslake finished his tirade. “You disobeyed orders, swore at the Lieutenant and insulted him?”
“No, sir.” Ralston sounded as weary as the Captain felt. “It’s not true.” He looked at Carslake, his face expressionless, then turned back to the Captain. “I didn’t disobey orders-there were none. Chief Petty Officer Hartley knows that.” He nodded at the burly impassive figure who had accompanied them to the bridge. “I didn’t swear at him. I hate to sound like a sea-lawyer, sir, but there are plenty of witnesses that Sub-Lieutenant Carslake swore at me-several times. And if I insulted him”, he smiled faintly, “it was pure self-defence.”
“This is no place for levity, Ralston.” Vallery’s voice was cold. He was puzzled-the boy baffled him. The bitterness, the brittle composure, he could understand these; but not the flickering humour. “As it happens, I saw the entire incident. Your promptness, your resource, saved that rating’s arm, possibly even his life, and against that a.
lost paravane and wrecked winch are nothing.” Carslake whitened at the implied rebuke. “I’m grateful for that, thank you. As for the rest, Commander’s Defaulters tomorrow morning. Carry on, Ralston.”
Ralston compressed his lips, looked at Vallery for a long moment, then saluted abruptly and left the bridge.
Carslake turned round appealingly.
“Captain, sir …” He stopped at the sight of Vallery’s upraised hand.
“Not now, Carslake. We’ll discuss it later.” He made no attempt to conceal the dislike in his voice. “You may carry on, Lieutenant.
Hartley, a word with you.”
Hartley stepped forward. Forty-four years old, C.P.O. Hartley was the Royal Navy at its best. Very tough, very kindly and very competent, he enjoyed the admiration of all, ranging from the vast awe of the youngest Ordinary Seaman to the warm respect of the Captain himself. They had been together from the beginning.
“Well, Chief, let’s have it. Between ourselves.”
“Nothing to it really, sir.” Hartley shrugged. “Ralston did a fine job. Sub-Lieutenant Carslake lost his head. Maybe Ralston was a bit sassy, but he was provoked. He’s only a kid, but he’s a professional, and he doesn’t like being pushed around by amateurs.” Hartley paused and looked up at the sky. “Especially bungling amateurs.”
Vallery smothered a smile.
“Could that be interpreted as – er, a criticism, Chief?”
“I suppose so, sir.” He nodded forward.
A few ruffled feathers down there, sir. Men are pretty sore about this. Shall I—–?”
“Thanks, Chief. Play it down as much as possible.”
When Hartley had gone, Vallery turned to Tyndall. “Well, you heard it, sir? Another straw in the wind.”
“A straw?” Tyndall was acid. “Hundreds of straws. More like a bloody great cornstack… Find out who was outside my door last night?”
During the middle watch, Tyndall had heard an unusual scraping noise outside the wardroom entry to his day cabin, had gone to investigate himself: in his hurry to reach the door, he’d knocked a chair over, and seconds later he had heard a clatter and the patter of running feet in the passage outside; but, when he had thrown the door open, the passage had been empty. Nothing there, nothing at all, except a file on the deck, below the case of Navy Colt .445s; the chain on the trigger guards was almost through. Vallery shook his head.
“No idea at all, sir.” His face was heavy with worry. “Bad, really bad.”
Tyndall shivered in an icy flurry. He grinned crookedly. “Real Captain Teach stuff, eh? Pistols and cutlasses and black eye-patches, storming the bridge …” Vallery shook his head impatiently. “No, not that.
You know it, sir. Defiance, maybe, but, well, no more. The point is, a marine is on guard at the keyboard, just round the corner of that passage. Night and day. Bound to have seen him. He denies—–”
“The rot has gone that far?” Tyndall whistled softly. “A black day, Captain. What does our fire-eating young Captain of Marines say to that?”
“Foster? Pooh-poohs the very idea, and just about twists the ends of his moustache off. Worried to hell. So’s Evans, his Colour-Sergeant.”
“So am I!” said Tyndall feelingly. He glared into space. The Officer of the Watch, who happened to be in his direct line of vision, shifted uncomfortably. “Wonder what old Socrates thinks of it all, now? Maybe only a pill-roller, but the wisest head we’ve got… Well, speak of the devil!”
The gate had just swung open, and a burly, unhappy-looking figure, duffel-coated, oilskinned and wearing a Russian beaverskin helmet, the total effect was of an elderly grizzly bear caught in a thunderstorm, shuffled across the duck boards of the bridge. He brought up facing the Kent screen, an inset, circular sheet of glass which revolved at high speed and offered a clear view in all weather conditions, rain, hail, snow. For half a minute he peered miserably through this and obviously didn’t like what he saw.
He sniffed loudly and turned away, beating his arms against the cold.
“Ha! A deck officer on the bridge of H.M. Cruisers. The romance, the glamour! Hal” He hunched his oilskinned shoulders, and looked more miserable than ever. “No place this for a civilised man like myself. But you know how it is, gentlemen, the clarion call of duty…”
Tyndall chuckled.
“Give him plenty of time, Captain. Slow starters, these medics, you know, but——”
Brooks cut in, voice and face suddenly serious.
“Some more trouble, Captain. Couldn’t tell it over the phone. Don’t know how much it’s worth.”
“Trouble?” Vallery broke off, coughed harshly into his handkerchief.
“Sorry,” he apologised. “Trouble? There’s nothing else, old chap. Just had some ourselves.”
“That bumptious young fool, Carslake? Oh, I know all right. My spies are everywhere. Bloke’s a bloody menace… However, my story. Young Nicholls was doing some path, work late last night in the dispensary, on T.B. specimens. Two, three hours in there. Lights out in the bay, and the patients either didn’t know or had forgotten he was there. Heard Stoker Riley, a real trouble-maker, that Riley, and the others planning a locked door, sit-down strike in the boiler-room when they return to duty. A sit-down strike in a boiler-room. Good lord, it’s fantastic! Anyway, Nicholls let it slide, pretended he hadn’t heard.”
“What!” Vallery’s voice was sharp, edged with anger. “And Nicholls ignored it, didn’t report it to me! Happened last night, you say. Why wasn’t I told, immediately? Get Nicholls up here, now. No, never mind.” He reached out to pick up the bridge phone. “I’ll get him myself.”