“That can’t be the ship!” exclaimed Morcar, looking down from the high 14th Street pier at a small deck, red with rust, which seemed chiefly occupied at the moment by heaps of scrap iron and lengths of chain.
He knew at once, from a slight movement on the part of his companion the shipping clerk, that he had said the wrong thing; this certainly was the freighter in which he was to cross the Atlantic homeward. For a moment he felt quite daunted at the thought of spending weeks in that tiny space amid Atlantic waves; then he rallied, for after all there was nothing in the world he desired more at the moment than to get back to England. “Ah—I see it is,” he said blandly, reading out the freighter’s name, which was painted on the bows. “Quite a neat little craft.” Little was the word, he thought; there was scarcely room to walk. He saw himself pacing up and down a few yards each way, like a caged lion.
“Better not to mention her name, either here or at home. She’s about seven thousand tons,” murmured the clerk. “With eleven thousand tons cargo.”
“Ah,” said Morcar non-committally. He had no idea whether this tonnage was large or small, so (in the language he had recently learned) he played his cards close to his chest and offered no comment. The clerk strolled on and Morcar strolled with him; behind them trailed the six other passengers, silent and doubtless rather daunted, like Morcar, but like him resolute to get home. “Ah!” he exclaimed in a different tone. The after-deck offered an animated scene. A group of men were busily engaged, under the supervision of a ship’s officer, in securing a couple of aircraft to the deck by means of strong wires and bolts. The aircraft, which travelled minus their wings, were painted brown and green in dingy camouflage. It was clear to Morcar from the excited bearing of the men and the many shouted orders of the mate that aircraft formed an unaccustomed cargo for the little freighter, and he felt proud to be sailing in a craft which was taking planes to beleaguered England. The whole party seemed to experience a similar rise of spirits; they hung over the pier railing and watched intently.
“I hope we get them home to England safely,” remarked one of the passengers, a New Zealander.
“God knows they’re wanted!” exclaimed Morcar with ardour.
A third aircraft was rapidly attached to the fore deck. The heaps of scrap resolved themselves into rivets and wedges, the chains into neat coils; the loose rust was swept overboard, the iron decks took on the appearance of an old-fashioned firegrate after the application of blacklead. When all was clean and neat—shipshape, I suppose, thought Morcar—the passengers were allowed to board the Floating Castle, as Morcar decided to call the ship. (It was not her name but somewhat resembled it, and he was sure no ship called Floating Castle had ever been entered at Lloyds, so to name her thus was not careless talk, gave no secrets away to the enemy.) Presently the immemorial signal blasts of a ship about to sail blared out bravely, the little ship backed out from the pier, turned and headed for the ocean. The voyage had begun.
Now they were passing the Statue of Liberty, now she was only a distant silhouette with a pointed halo, now the waves began to be larger and to slap sharply against the side of the Castle, ruffled by the afternoon breeze. Morcar stood watching the lofty pinnacles of New York recede as the ship went down the bay. A phrase came into his mind, a tag from some forgotten lesson of his schooldays, Shakespeare he supposed: cloud-capp’d towers and gorgeous palaces. They were all of that, he thought admiringly, and he felt a real sadness of farewell as the island of Manhattan swam away till the skyscrapers looked like a cluster of tall pink and white flowers rising from a blue-grey sea of foliage. He should like to come and see them again after the war if he had any money left after the war to do so, which at the moment seemed highly improbable for any Englishman. Yes, he felt quite sad. He was saying goodbye to a people he had grown to like, goodbye to ease, goodbye to luxury, goodbye perhaps to life itself—but all the same he would give an arm, thought Morcar strongly, to be back in England at that moment. England was beleaguered and beset; Christina—well best not think of that, thought Morcar, turning from the bulwarks to pace restlessly up and down. The passenger deck, a tiny square which he could cover in a few strides, was far too small to relieve his sense of impatient longing; he descended to the iron deck below, walked the ship from end to end, entered into conversation with any officer, apprentice or seaman who would talk with him.
He should never forget that voyage, thought Morcar, a series of pictures of its progress were stamped indelibly on his brain. The Floating Castle, a freighter of the British merchant marine, usually plied between New York and the Far East, but had come as a reinforcement to the Atlantic battle. All aboard were of British nationality; the captain, English, had been a Royal Navy man, axed in the days when naval disarmament was made a reality by Britain if by few other countries; the crew were Malays, the stewards Singapore Chinese, the officers English, Welsh, Scots and Belfast Irish. Morcar at first had a tiny but cosy cabin to himself; the bedlinen could not be described as spotless, for it was stained with great daubs of rust, but it was brilliantly clean; the sunlight on the waves outside reflected quivering flashes on the ceiling through the open porthole; the white paint shone, the neatly dovetailed equipment tickled Morcar’s sense of humour.
The Floating Castle went peacefully up the coast and after some delay by fog turned into Halifax harbour. No doubt Halifax was to its inhabitants a pleasant place, homely and kind and not without beauty, but to Morcar it represented a hell of frustration and suspense. The huge harbour was already crowded with craft when the Castle arrived, so that it was clear a convoy was in process of preparation, and Morcar hoped to be off homewards at break of day. But after hours of eager expectation this hope was disappointed, and a couple of days later the hope of joining the next convoy was disappointed again. The weather was hot; the passengers, who had already read all the worthwhile books in the little ship’s library and were falling back on sermons and manuals, grew languid, the officers a trifle snappy; the Captain and first mate often went ashore carrying brief cases and returned hours later looking portentous with knowledge which they did not reveal.
Morcar occupied himself by assisting the carpenter to paint the name Floating Castle in large white letters on an enormous loose plank. This was to be displayed horizontally on the deck, explained the third mate, for the purpose of recognition by friendly aircraft. It was as he was painting a nicely curled S, on the hot June Sunday morning, that the third mate rushed up to him with round eyes and a gaping mouth, and told him that Germany had invaded Russia. Morcar was so dumbfounded that he stood at gaze until an angry shout from the bridge recalled him to himself, and he saw that he had dropped a large white splash of paint on the ship’s woodwork. In the afternoon he heard over the captain’s radio a relay of Mr. Churchill’s speech swinging Britain unreservedly to Russia’s side. The captain asked him what he thought of these developments.
“Well—we aren’t alone any more,” said Morcar thoughtfully.
Next day when the Captain returned from shore he summoned his passengers to the upper cabin which they used as a lounge, and told them that the Admiral of the next convoy was to make the Floating Castle his flagship. There would be gunners aboard, there would be signalmen—and there would probably be little room for passengers. Some of the passengers might be transferred to other ships, and some just left behind in Canada. An awful silence descended on the cabin as he said this. Left behind! After the Captain had gone each passenger seized upon the first mate in turn and explained to him why it was imperative that he, if no other, should travel on the Floating Castle.
“We could double up, three or four in a cabin,” suggested a quiet little man who had left an American wife and child to rejoin his former British regiment.
“We could all accommodate ourselves in this cabin—it is sufficiently spacious,” suggested a Frenchman who was proceeding to England because, as he explained to Morcar, he was French.
“The lounge will be occupied by gunners and signalmen,” said the mate in his dourest tone.
“We could sleep on the floor in the dining-saloon,” suggested Morcar.
The mate snorted.
Several days passed full of anguished suspense. Morcar paced the deck in silence and thought of England and Christina; the other passengers paced up and down likewise, with frowning brows, their minds doubtless full of troubles which however they kept to themselves. Then suddenly two passengers were taken off to another ship—an oil-tanker; three were squashed into one tiny cabin, and a couple of whom Morcar was one were allowed to sleep, as he had suggested, on the floor of the saloon. All their luggage except the most absolute necessities was thrust into the hold. Four gunners and a machine-gun came aboard, half a dozen A.B.s from the Royal Navy came aboard, a yeoman of signals came aboard, lastly with all proper ceremony the Admiral himself came aboard. A small spare elderly man with seaman’s eyes and a fine head, summoned from retirement to this honourable and dangerous task, dapper, courteous and a martinet, he installed his bed in the wheelhouse and remarked casually that he never drank at sea. This dictum prevented all the ship’s officers from taking a drink at sea, and from sheer decency the passengers were compelled to a similar abstention.
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.
The Liverpool station was not in full working order owing to bombings, but a little train took Morcar to a junction where he caught an express. It was Saturday night. The train held many simple English families returning from a country jaunt, the children clutching drooping flowers. They all looked hot and tired and definitely shabby; but they were patient, quietly cheerful and kind, as always. Morcar thought of their scanty food rations, their scanty clothes rations, their almost nightly aerial visitations, and gazed at them with loving admiration; he felt there was nothing too good for these people, nothing.
He went up the steps of Stanney Royd about eleven o’clock. He had contrived to telephone from Manchester, and the door stood wide to welcome him. As his footsteps sounded on the threshold Heather, barking furiously, scurried out from the drawing-room. Mrs. Morcar followed. She fell on her son’s neck, weeping, while Heather, almost hysterical with joy, whined feverishly and clasped his paws round Morcar’s ankles.
Morcar looked through his correspondence and found that in his absence his undefended divorce suit had gone through; Winnie had obtained a decree nisi, in a few months he would be altogether free. A recent note from David reassured him about the Haringtons’ safety. Morcar spent the weekend in a dream of happiness, strolling about the green Stanney Royd garden, looking at the loved West Riding hills. He was at home, in England; he could claim Christina for his own. He planned to go to London next weekend, to be married to Christina by next year’s summer.
On Monday morning, before he even visited Syke Mills, Morcar went into the best Annotsfield bookshop and gave a large order for books to be despatched at once to the Floating Castle.
On Wednesday he received a very courteous and pleasant note from the shipping company to which the Castle belonged, thanking him for the fine parcel of books, which they were sure would be greatly appreciated by the merchant seamen in their employ. Unfortunately the Floating Castle had already left Liverpool on an outward voyage. Should they reserve the books for her, or give them to the crew of some other of their vessels?
Morcar’s face lengthened as he read. So the captain and crew of the Floating Castle were already back on the Atlantie! So the voyage which to him had been such an extraordinary event, such a dangerous ordeal, they were already repeating! This was the “speeded-up turnaround” of which the mate had spoken. Evidently at this stage of the submarine campaign no ships could be spared, no men had time to rest on leave. The lifeline between Britain and America was strung out very thin; stretch it even a little further and it might break.
“And if it’s like that for the Merchant Navy,” reflected Morcar: “I expect it will be just as bad for those destroyer men.”
He thought of the commander of the sloop: that lad so fresh and fair and young, so like Edwin Harington. He sighed, and put down the shipping company’s letter very soberly, with a look of disappointment on his face. Christina’s right, thought Morcar sadly; you can’t break up the home of a lad who’s fighting the battle of the Atlantic. We must wait.