Opening an unusually thick envelope, Stephen rapidly scanned the single page of Zoe’s letter and was disappointed by its brevity. In a futile search for more, he flicked through the accompanying wad of photocopied army forms and headed letters, to be caught by a typewritten sheet with Liam’s name and serial number and 2nd M.G. Coy. A.I.F. listed at the top.
Almost in spite of himself, he let his eyes run down the page.
‘... on Sep 20th, 1917, Cpl. Elliott was... advancing with the infantry... made a halt and took cover in shell holes to the left of Northampton Farm... waiting for our barrage to lift... lot of German snipers... while Cpl Elliott had his head exposed... a bullet struck him in the right side of the head... He died instantly, he suffered no pain, before he had time to realise the first shock he was dead... bullet that killed him also wounded another...’
As though to staunch a sudden wound, Stephen pressed those pages back together and held them, tight, within his hands. It was several seconds before he drew a cautious breath, and when he did the pain flooded in, on a hot, unwelcome wave. The news might have been recent, intensely personal, the death of a close and much-loved friend; the sense of grief and compassion was overwhelming.
With bowed head he sat quite still, unaware of his surroundings, contemplating that death, its suddenness, the years snatched away by one stray bullet.
Footsteps, a tap at the door. Stephen averted his head, stood up, peering from the office window as though something vital had caught his attention. He addressed the man without looking at him, and only when he had himself under control did he turn and apologize.
The problem was soon solved. A moment later he was alone again, the papers still in his hand, rolled now like a baton. With great care he returned them to their envelope, all the time wondering at the power of those words. He had known, Stephen kept telling himself, all the time he had known that Liam was dead, and that date, 20th September 1917, was not news to him. Knowing should have lessened the impact, but it didn’t. Having come to know Liam Elliott more intimately than his closest friend, Stephen felt bereaved.
Mingled with sorrow was a sense of needless waste; anger, too, that the world seemed so unchanged. Suddenly vulnerable, he wished that Zoe might have kept hold of that information rather than sending it on. It made him all too aware of the transient nature of human life, and remembering the dreams, he began to wonder whether sudden death was his destiny, too.
He thrust the idea away. That was depression working, and tiredness, and the knowledge that he was sick to the heart of this endless stress.
Karachi was no improvement. After forty-eight hours, Stephen was more than usually glad to be leaving. The inevitable barrage of port officials had descended at unpredictable times to deliver their various assaults upon his patience and ingenuity, and had departed, weighed down with cigarettes and paperwork and duty-free whisky, leaving nothing but the memory of their gleeful smiles.
As he jammed on his hat and adjusted the chin-strap, the pilot wished him a pleasant voyage, but there was a glint in his eye as he turned to leave. The south-west monsoons were blowing, and he knew as well as Stephen that the next couple of days and nights would be far from pleasant.
Lurching in the swell in the lee of the Damaris, the pilot-boat hovered, its engines growling over the noise of the wind. Stephen leaned over the starboard bridge-wing, watched the pilot down the ship’s side and his nifty leap onto the boat; with a full-throated roar, it surged away, bouncing as it caught buffeting wind and waves beyond the ship. Envy clutched Stephen’s heart as it disappeared into the evening murk: he wished he was on it and going home, not facing his tenth trip through the jaws of Hormuz, with no specific date for relief. Both 2nd Mate and 2nd Engineer had been relieved last time round in Kuwait, and watching them go had been hellish. Until then, he had not realized just how much he wanted to be off. Ah, well, he was getting to know the new men, and they seemed decent.
He watched the Bosun and a seaman hoist the pilot-ladder inboard, and with a bitter sigh, turned and closed the bridge door behind him. It was cooler inside.
With the anchorage astern of them and a Force 8 gale on the port bow, Stephen ordered the speed kept down to 10 knots. With no cargo the ship was light and high in the water, yet tanks had to be cleaned and freed from flammable gases; in spite of the weather that meant men on deck, working throughout the night. The Mate, who had been up for most of their forty-eight hours in Karachi, supervising the discharge of cargo, had grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep and something to eat, and was about to go on deck to start washing the dregs of petrol from Numbers 1 and 2 tanks, up by the fo’c’sle. It was not an arduous task, but the pumping of inert gas into all the cargo tanks was long and tedious, with valves and pressures to be constantly monitored. Altogether, it would take approximately 24 hours, and with this weather to contend with, Stephen did not envy the job.
Still, he had done it often, himself, and without an understanding Master to split those hours on deck. The utter exhaustion of discharging a cargo, then getting to sea and having to tank-clean without chance to sleep at all, was a memory that could still make him wince. He had once worked a straight forty hours without sleep, a nightmare that he was determined never to impose upon anyone else.
His standard arrangements required no more than the briefest acknowledgement. With the arrival of the 3rd Mate, Stephen handed the watch over to him, and told him to speak to the Mate on deck – via the walkie-talkie radio – if he needed advice. Meeting Johnny in oilskins and hard-hat a few minutes later, Stephen said he would be relieved on deck at midnight.
He checked his watch: twenty-five minutes to seven and it was time to have his dinner and go to bed. At midnight he would take over the bridge-watch for six hours, while the Second Mate took over the tank-cleaning. They would each work six on, six off, until the job was finished. Nor could the engineers go to bed and rest: after working round the clock in port, they must continue to man the engine control room until the job was done. Not an easy time for anybody, and Mac’s men were as tired as his own.
Stephen ate with Mac in the saloon, mostly in silence. They were both too weary for small-talk, too used to the harassment of Karachi even to comment on it. As though by mutual consent they made short work of the meal and rose from the table together. The ship was rolling heavily, and the climb up several flights of stairs was an effort. By the time Stephen reached his cabin he had the beginnings of a headache.
He lifted the heavy typewriter from his office desk and set it on the floor, siding paperwork away, and locking drawers and cupboards for safety; in his dayroom, he retrieved a handful of music-tapes that had already found their way to the deck. Having made sure nothing else could wake him with bangs and crashes, he switched on some music, dimmed the lights, poured himself a large measure of whisky, and raised the blind on the forward window. It was too dark to see much, but he could just make out white-tipped spray, rising in sheets from the port bow, and a glimmer of torches on the starboard side. With a sigh he lowered the blind, dragged off his damp shirt and sat down to read his mail.
Joan’s letter was full of Zoe’s visit to York, and the fact that there had been a reply, at long last, from the Australian War Memorial. Months ago, Stephen had persuaded her to write to Canberra regarding Liam’s war record, and the reply, apparently, had been well worth the wait. Very sad, Joan’s letter said, and she had shed a few tears over it, but Zoe thought he would be pleased by the detail, and was sending on copies.
Pleased was the wrong word, he thought, but he turned again to Zoe’s letter, as disappointed now as he had been earlier. The account of her trip to York was much briefer than Joan’s, expanding only to mention the hunch which had led her to check the old visitors’ book at his flat.
‘But I didn’t stay long, the place felt very empty and strange without you...’
For some reason that disturbed him. It seemed to stress his current sense of unreality, and made him even more aware that his life was lived in separate boxes, that each journey between the two required him to assume another identity. Inevitably, there was an awkwardness about that, particularly going home, a feeling of dissociation until he found again the requisite colour and character to blend in with his surroundings. From here, in this situation, he could scarcely recall the man who lived in York, the man who, for a few short weeks, had been so absolutely happy in the company of a young woman called Zoe Clifford. And he had been happy; she had made him feel light-hearted and young, as though the world still had something to offer, something worth striving for. Looking back, it seemed so strange, he began to wonder whether he had imagined it; worse, that this other half of him had sunk without trace.
He read the letter through again and sighed over it, over the change in tone, the change in her. At first she had written in an easy, conversational style that evoked voice, humour, enthusiasm; and yes, her affection, too, which came through the lines to warm him in a silent embrace. Of late, however, her letters had become rather stilted, very much confined to the research she was doing. The rest of her life was barely mentioned. He wondered why. Perhaps she thought he was no longer interested; perhaps there was someone else. Zoe had closed a door somewhere, and the view was now restricted.
But perhaps, Stephen reasoned, the fault was not all hers. He suspected he was equally to blame, that in his dogged determination to stick to his own rules, he had managed to alienate her affection. And anyway, he asked himself, what did he write about these days? Not his own emotions, that was for sure; they were shackled to a wall in some remote dungeon of his soul, and would not be released until he was home and free. The lacerating stress of these weekly voyages between Kuwait and Karachi was another topic he avoided, which left his correspondence as unadorned as extracts from the log-book.
Even his response to the research was lacking in vitality, and yet he would read her letters, logging opinions and assumptions along with every new discovery, and feel a tingle of excitement. When it came to setting it down on paper, however, his enthusiasm seemed to wane. It was a new and unwelcome phenomenon to one who had always enjoyed writing as a form of communication, and the weary thought, ‘I’ll tell her when I see her...’ had become a habit.
He felt as dry and barren as the desert, and across the harsh landscape of his inner vision, Zoe appeared with no more substance than a mirage.
Glancing at the first page of those photocopied sheets, he saw the heading Australian War Memorial, and knew a deep reluctance to read further. His eyes were dry with fatigue, head aching with the increasingly violent motion of the ship. He should get to bed, get some sleep. And yet...
The letter stated that there were five eye-witness reports to Corporal Elliott’s death in the Red Cross files, which made Stephen think that someone must have queried the facts, either because his body was never found, or someone did not believe the manner of his death. Perhaps Robin, to whom that tale of a bullet through the head must have sounded exceedingly suspect; yet despite being a convenient fiction for the poor souls who were literally blown to bits, some men had to die like that, cleanly, with all their limbs intact. But his body was never found: ergo, the Red Cross enquiry.
What a hell of a job, Stephen thought, mind unable to grasp the extent of such a task, if all the thousands upon thousands of missing were investigated to that extent. Tracing five eye witnesses for one man’s death... and from the dates of those statements, taken up to eighteen months later, from Grantham in Lincolnshire to the State of Victoria, the size and scope of the investigation was almost incredible.
After that, he had to read the statements, just to see how well they tallied with that first account, given by a sergeant at Grantham in March 1918. Apart from one, who seemed to be out with regard to location, they tallied very well, too well to be making things up for the benefit of anybody’s sensibilities. But even though he had steeled himself to read those accounts, Stephen found himself unbearably moved by the personal detail.
‘He was a tall man, well-built, fair, about 25 years of age…’
‘He was known as Bill...’
‘I knew him – I saw him killed... I have already written to his people about it...’
‘I was 20 yards away at the time – I saw his body a few minutes later…’
‘He was buried on the battlefield…’
It was enough; he did not want to read more. The rest could wait for another time. Bracing himself against the motion of the ship, he poured himself another drink, knowing it must be the last, he really had to get some sleep. He sipped the measure of twelve-year-old malt slowly, savouring its smoothness, letting his mind drift on the question of Liam’s death and the enigma of his relationship with Georgina. What must she have felt? In the next moment he was thinking about Zoe, trying to imagine what her reaction would be, if...
But that made him shiver. There were too many similarities for comfort, too many coincidences that would never be explained, and he did not want to make one more. Please God, let there be no stray bullets for him!
He sank the rest of the whisky in one gulp, tucked the empty glass against a protecting cushion, and lurched across to his bedroom, not even slightly drunk. From a cupboard he rescued his bright orange lifejacket, and lifting the mattress of his double-bunk, stuffed it underneath, making a well between the raised edge and the wall.
His bunk ran fore and aft, a bad design fault, but wedged into that small valley, Stephen was prevented from rolling side-to-side; it did not prevent the other motion, that tipping from head-to-toe, like some fairground swing-boat. The ship pitched and lifted with every wave, an unpleasant corkscrew motion made worse by the lack of cargo. With weight in those massive tanks, the Damaris was not a bad old girl; but light, she could perform somersaults on a wet facecloth, of that Stephen was convinced. He tensed, listening as the bow plunged into those heavy seas and the stern lifted beneath him, right out of the water. The noise rose to a scream as the propeller raced; then came the unearthly groan and shudder as the stern slammed down and the prop bit deep. Everything quaked and trembled, steel decks and bulkheads, interior walls, cupboards, fittings, and in the darkness the noise and vibration seemed worse, as though the ship were being physically wrenched apart.
The ship surged across to port, forcing his back against the wall, pitched forward with a rising shriek, rolled again to starboard and slammed back with a particularly violent shuddering groan... a bad one, that.
Searching for the rhythm, trying to relax with it, Stephen found himself thinking of Ruth. Storms had always unnerved her, and the typhoon they had met off Japan that time had seen her in a state of terror, convinced with every pounding wave that death was no more than minutes away. When the corrugated awnings were torn off the aft accommodation, she had dissolved into helpless, hysterical tears, and the sight of the foredeck bending under the strain of wind and sea finished her completely. It availed nothing to explain that the ship was designed to bend, that if it did not, it would break in two... Ruth had been huddled in a lifejacket, deaf to all reason.
Stephen had been ashamed of her. He could admit that now. He had been Mate at the time, Ruth the only wife aboard. He would never forget the pitying glances of the other officers. They had tried to be kind, but he knew what they were thinking, and the Master had rapidly lost all patience, ordering her off his bridge where she was starting to unnerve him. It had been a humiliating experience, made worse by a genuinely worrying situation. With the unpredictability of typhoons, that one had turned and caught them in its new path, just as they were running away from it. And it had been particularly violent, Force 12 and more.
And then he thought of another such incident, a few years later when he was Master. The Mate’s daughter, on holiday from school, had been giggling with glee as enormous green seas broke over the foredeck, swamping the fully-loaded ship. Laughing with her, he had remarked on her bravery.
‘I used to be scared at night,’ she admitted airily to Stephen, ‘thinking we were sinking and we were all going to die any minute. But you know you can’t escape, so you just have to accept it. I’m not scared of dying any more...’
How old had she been? Thirteen, fourteen? No more than that. Out of the mouths of babes, he thought, recalling her guts and her wisdom, and knowing she was right. Living with the thought of dying made the idea lose all its terrors, inducing a certain fatalism, a readiness to accept the worst.
Had Liam felt like that?
Or had he felt, like Stephen, that it was not the idea of death that was frightening, but the endurance required to survive?
Called at midnight, he finished his watch at six in the morning. Over the sea, the pitch-black murk became grey, then pink and orange, and finally a sickly yellow, like thick industrial pollution. The dust was so fine it was almost like talcum, collected by winds blowing with the force of hurricanes across North Africa and the Arabian Desert. It found its way through every crack and crevice, leaving its evidence across charts and instruments, blearing the windows with muck and salt, so that it was necessary to peer through spinning, clear-view screens and consult the radar every few minutes.
The Damaris was still punching those seas, sending up great walls of water over the port bow; as she rose, they came tumbling back over the foredeck, to swirl against the accommodation. Standing on the central cat-walk, Johnny and the 2nd Mate were soaked by spray. Stephen watched them shouting against the wind, bright yellow oilskins glistening as they turned and parted. Clinging to the rails, the Mate made his way forward, while young Paul, after six hours on deck, staggered inside to breakfast and his bunk.
Stephen went down to his office, timing his descent of the steps with the roll of the ship. He spent an uncomfortable hour at his desk in an attempt to make some impression upon the paperwork, then went down for breakfast in the saloon. After that he retired to his bunk, sleeping solidly for four hours before returning to the bridge at twelve. The gas-freeing was completed by eight that evening, but the weather was still too bad to increase speed. By the time they reached the vicinity of Fujairah, an hour before dawn of the third day, it was too late to reach Hormuz with any degree of safety.
As though gunboats and helicopters were not enough to contend with, Stephen had received warning of mines in the approaches to the Kuwaiti terminals. Only a few days before, on the BBC World Service, had come reports of an American supertanker, the Texaco Caribbean, hitting a mine in the Gulf of Oman, eight miles off Fujairah. It was thought to be a stray, drifting down from the Straits, but no one could be sure.
It was a daunting prospect, but as Stephen had said to his senior officers at the time, a tanker is a very difficult vessel to sink. With buoyancy retained by all those sealed compartments, providing the vessel was hit in the bows – the most obvious place under way – then little damage would be sustained. A hefty claim on the insurance, into Dubai for repairs, and with any luck at all, the company would fly most of them home.
Brave words, cheerfully said. But in the teeth of that still-howling gale, with visibility down to a couple of hundred yards, Stephen’s nerves were twitching. Never yet had he damaged a ship, and he did not intend to start now. Damage was damage, however slight, and there was always the unnerving possibility of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He could do without that on his conscience.
In the pre-dawn darkness he was glad they were late, glad of some necessary hours at the deep-water anchorage off Fujairah. It meant a much-needed rest. As they came slowly within the shelter afforded by the land, the wind lessened appreciably. In the wheelhouse, studying the charts, it was suddenly possible to stand without clinging on, and to move about with some degree of ease.
The broad sweep of the radar revealed dozens of ships at anchor and the protecting ridge of land to the west. With their speed reduced to a half, he found a suitable area, checked it against the radar, and plotted a position where it was possible to swing with ease. Marking the place on the chart he gave directions to the 3rd Mate and the helmsman at the wheel. As he checked the depth of water – 45 fathoms – against the echo-sounder, the crackle of his walkie-talkie radio told him the Mate was out on deck with the anchor-party.
Responding, Stephen picked up the telephone to ask the duty engineer for Dead Slow Ahead. As the revs and the ship’s speed came right down, he spoke on the radio.
‘She’s down to 3 knots, walk the anchor back to 1 shackle...’
He could see the flash of torches on the fo’c’sle, hear the creaks and groans of the port anchor being slowly lowered by winch, the dull clunks of that massive chain going out over the side. In this depth of water, just to let go would be to burn out the windlass. Slowly, slowly, was the trick...
A couple of minutes, and the Mate’s voice came back: ‘One shackle and holding...’
‘Hold till we’re in position.’ He glanced at the helmsman on the wheel, and the 3rd Mate moving between chart and radar. On the Mate’s signal, Stephen took the telegraph, rang down to Stop, and then to Slow Astern. He dashed out to the bridge-wing to watch the action of the propeller-wash against the ship’s side. When it was just coming back and passing him, he knew the ship was stopped in the water.
‘OK she’s stopped,’ he said into radio. ‘Just walk the anchor out, and let me know how she’s leading.’
He listened to the Mate’s voice, counting each shackle off as it descended those 45 fathoms to the sea-bed below. After three shackles, Johnny said, ‘Cable starting to lead astern...’
‘OK.’ The anchor was down, the cable starting to lay along the sea-bed.
‘Four shackles, cable leading astern...’
Stephen turned and shouted to the 3rd Mate. ‘Stop Engines.’
‘Five shackles, cable up and down...’
He waited, hearing creaks and groans from the windlass. It might be time to give that cable a bit of assistance, rather than let it fall in a heap round the anchor.
‘Six shackles, cable beginning to lead ahead...’
‘OK, we’ll pull her back a bit.’ He shouted to the 3rd Mate, ‘Ring down for Slow Astern.’
‘Slow Astern it is, Captain.’
He leaned over the port side, watching those flickering torches on the fo’c’sle. The weather was clearing, ahead and to port he could see the misted lights of other ships. He glanced at his watch: almost half-past five, not long to daybreak.
With the familiar crackle that preceded the Mate’s regular report, there was suddenly an almighty flash from somewhere below and astern, and a simultaneous explosion that knocked Stephen sideways.
Stunned, deafened, his ears ringing from the blast, for a second or two he lay on the deck wondering why the night should be glowing like November 5th, and what the hell had gone wrong in the engine-room.
He tried to get up, pushing with his right hand against the step of the compass – and cried out as pain shot like red-hot steel through his shoulder to chest and spine and wrist. For a moment, he almost passed out. Fending off the 3rd Mate’s assistance, he took a painful breath and demanded to know what had happened.
‘I don’t know, sir!’ His voice was high, panicky. ‘I think something’s blown in the engine-room... the alarms went, then stopped…’
‘Well, then, press the manual alarms, for God’s sake – and pass me that bloody radio!’
‘Are you all right, Captain?’
‘No, but I can manage,’ Stephen insisted, hauling himself to his feet and shouting above the ringing in his head. ‘Alarms, Marcus – now!’
As the young man ran to obey, Stephen pressed the transmit button to answer the faint, crackling voice of the Mate. ‘No, Johnny, I don’t know for sure – might be the engine, more likely a fucking mine. Start the fire-pump for’ard, and get yourself back here, sharp as you can. Out.’
He leaned for a moment on the bridge-front, dragging air into his lungs, fighting to conquer the nausea coming in waves. His right arm hurt like hell, and he did not seem able to move it. With his arm hanging useless, he forced himself back to the wheelhouse, ordering the 3rd Mate to his emergency station.
As he clattered away down an outer ladder, the inner door opened to admit the Chief and the Radio Officer, and a blast of ringing from the alarms. Sparks was only half-dressed, his boots and boiler suit trailing. As he dragged on his gear, Mac fastened a lifejacket and listened to Stephen’s very brief report. His red beard bristled as he set his jaw.
‘So both of them were down there? Second and Third? I’d better get down and investigate.’
‘Keep me advised, Chief.’
Armed with torch and radio, Mac went back the way he had come. Watching him descend into darkness, for the first time Stephen realized that all the lights were out, even those that should have been powered by the emergency generator. Familiar with the unlit bridge, he had not noticed before. It must be bad down there, whatever the cause. He switched off the manual alarms, and in the ensuing silence could hear the rattling of feet on steps and steel ladders, and the excited, slightly panicky chatter of the crew rising from the stairwell. Everything was echoing round the accommodation, and it was a weird, unnatural sound, accentuating the deadness of the ship, its lack of a heartbeat.
For a second, it almost unnerved him. He thought about the anchor and thanked God the cable was out, enough to hold, at least. His radio crackled, and Mac’s voice reported that he had met the Electrician on the stairs – Lecky had tried to get to his emergency station in the engine-room, but all he could see were flames...
‘Second and Third Engineers? Have they turned up?’ The reply was negative and Stephen’s heart sank. ‘OK – get to Emergency HQ right away. I’ll be in touch.’
He turned to Sparks, hovering by the VHF. Thank God that thing worked off its own batteries, everything else was down, radar, computers, direction-finder. ‘Put out a Mayday, all frequencies, with present position – on fire, request immediate assistance.’
The 2nd and 3rd Mates reported in. With the exception of the anchor party, all crew were present and correct at boat stations. Stephen bit back a curse.
‘Well get them to their emergency stations – and tell them to stop panicking. We’re in no danger of sinking, but the engine-room’s on fire, and two engineers are missing. The Chief and Mate are on their way to you now...’
Where was the Mate? ‘Did you hear that, Johnny?’
‘I heard you, Captain – I’m on my way – coming round the accommodation now.’ He left his radio on, and Stephen could hear his breathing, slightly ragged, as though he were running. It was a long way from the fo’c’sle... ‘I tell you what, it’s bloody hot out here...’
Stephen glanced at his watch. Twenty-three minutes to six, just seven minutes since he had glanced at it, seconds before the blast. It seemed an eternity. He steeled himself for what he had to say next.
‘Chief, when the Mate gets to you, I want him and Lecky geared up – flame suits, breathing apparatus — to search the engine-room for the missing men.’
‘Captain, I’m all geared up already – let me go down.’
It was as he expected. ‘No, Chief. Absolutely not. I know how you feel, but you’re the only engineer I’ve got just now, and I need you.’
‘It’s my engine-room!’
‘And it’s my ship. Stay out, Mac – and that’s an order.’ Stephen took a deep breath, and winced at the ensuing pain. ‘You’d better go round and trip the fuel shut-downs.’
‘I’ve done that.’ He sounded furious.
‘Good. Stay where you are and keep me informed.’
He glanced again at the time, urging a response from Fujairah. He thought about the missing men, realizing medical aid would be essential, if only to treat victims of shock and smoke. Please God, nothing worse. As he turned to Sparks, a loud, heavily accented voice startled them both. A port control officer from Fujairah announced that fire-fighting tugs would be with them in thirty minutes; Sparks responded, requesting the assistance of a doctor. Moments later, there was another call, this time from a salvage-tug from Hormuz, offering to come and stand by; the offer was followed by several more.
‘The vultures are gathering,’ Stephen murmured bitterly, aware that an abandoned ship was a rich prize for the salvage companies. Well, they could gather; he had no intention of abandoning anything, least of all his ship.
‘How’s that arm, Captain?’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll do for the time being.’ He was more concerned for those men in the engine-room, envisaging the different levels from propeller-shaft up to control-room, and trying to relate that mental map to the blast. The control-room was on the port side, and the loss of power could be attributable to a wipe-out in that area. At least one of those men must have been there when the explosion occurred.
He felt for his cigarettes and realized they were missing. Sparks passed one of his own across, and left the packet within reach. Stephen inhaled on a shuddering breath and went out to peer over the port bridge-wing. A dull glow lit up the surrounding area and was reflected by the dancing waves. In the east, a pale band of lighter cloud streaked the horizon. The sun was coming up, and would soon add to the heat travelling up through steel decks and bulkheads.
Wondering what was happening down there, praying for a miracle, he found himself questioning, illogically, the safety of the cargo-tanks. How thoroughly had they been inerted? And to what point of destruction did theory apply? If those tugs didn’t get here soon, they might all be blown to kingdom come.
His walkie-talkie sparked into life. ‘Emergency HQ to bridge.’
‘Go ahead, Chief.’
‘Lecky and the Mate have found the Second. He’s got a gash on the head and he’s not too good – only half-conscious. But he’s out, he’s alive. No sign yet of the Third...’
Oh, thank God. One of them alive at least... But what of the other man? ‘Let me speak to the Mate.’
Johnny’s voice was hoarse, his report staccato. ‘Tried the port entrance – full of smoke and flame. We just shut the door on it. Starboard side – smoke, but no flame.’ He paused for breath, and Stephen could hear it rasping in his throat. ‘Went in, down ladder – couldn’t see a damn thing. Stuck together. Halfway down on starboard side – found the Second crawling along the plates towards us. Practically unconscious. Dragged him out. He’s got a bad gash on his head, but I think he’ll live...’
‘Well done, Johnny. Pass that on to Lecky, too.’ For a second Stephen paused, thinking about the missing man, recollecting his whiskery grin, and a cheery greeting as they passed on the stairs. When was that? Yesterday? He tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Do you feel able to go back? To search again?’
There was another pause, as though the men at the other end were consulting. Then the Mate’s voice again. ‘Affirmative, Captain. We’re going down now.’
‘Be careful, Johnny – no heroics. From either of you.’
Something like a laugh came back at him. ‘Heroics? Us? We’re more like Laurel and bloody Hardy.’
Stephen smiled at the image: the tall, lanky Mate and the Electrician who was short and round... He pulled himself up short and asked for Mac. ‘Detach the 2nd Mate, Chief, and get your man to the hospital.’
Back in the wheelhouse, Sparks lit him another cigarette; a few minutes later, Mac was calling with the news that they had managed to get some sense out of the injured man. He had answered a generator alarm, and as he left the control-room to check it out, the explosion occurred. The Third Engineer was still in there.
‘Not good.’
‘No. He’s almost sure that something hit the ship from outside, just by the control-room.’
‘A mine.’
‘Sounds like it.’
‘The bastards...’
It struck him again how fortunate they were to have got the anchor laid out before the blast; otherwise the ship would have been drifting, helpless and on fire, a danger to half the ships in the anchorage. And there were plenty. All tankers.
In the unnatural silence he could hear the wind buffeting the funnel, flapping the radio aerials and stays; the sea was making a shushing noise to windward, as it did when they were under way...
Stephen suddenly became aware that the deck beneath him had a tilt to it; water was rushing into the engine-room, pulling the ship down by the stern.
The Mate’s voice intruded upon that consideration. ‘It’s no go, Captain. Everything’s on fire down there. We managed to get pretty close, though — spotted a clear space round the hole, water flooding in just there —’ He broke off, sniffed audibly, and seemed to be having difficulty getting the next words out. ‘The body was in bits. I’ve told the Chief – no chance of getting near it.’
Hearing those words, Stephen knew that while he had not consciously framed the thought, he had expected it. Nevertheless, an image sprang to mind of Jim Stubbs, Third Engineer, short, thick-set, with wild grey hair and always a couple of days’ stubble on his chin. An unkempt, scruffy Liverpudlian, unmarried, uncertificated, and wedded to the job. His humour was abrasive, and he was a bit too fond of the booze, but he was reliable, and a bloody good engineer.
What a way to die.
And for what?
Sorrow and pity washed over him, together with the vaguely consolatory thought that it must have been instantaneous. That was the only decent thing about it.
With an effort he found his voice and forced it to remain calm. ‘I understand. You’ve done all you could. Thanks for that. Is Lecky OK?’
‘He’s wheezing like hell, but he’ll be all right.’
‘Good.’ Now, back to business. ‘Right, Johnny, in your considered opinion, is it now time to batten everything down and flood with CO2?’
‘It certainly is, Captain.’
‘Right, Johnny – put me on to the Chief.’
He ordered Mac to close all openings and ventilators and to release the carbon dioxide gas; then he called the 3rd Mate to see to the boundary cooling.
‘Get those firehoses through the accommodation, leave them running, and get out. Make sure the crew are away from the area. Get them up for’ard and onto the fo’c’sle – and give the Bosun a radio, we’ll need to keep in touch. Then come to the bridge.’
Over the starboard bow he could see the tugs approaching, bright orange hulls standing out in the soupy daylight; behind them, coming up fast, was a pilot-boat. Stephen spoke to the 2nd Mate, in the ship’s hospital with the injured man. ‘Get your party up for’ard, Paul, with the crew. The pilot-boat’s on its way with a doctor.’
From the bridge-wing he watched the crew, bobbing about in twos and threes as they hurried along the main deck, followed at a more sedate pace by the stretcher-party. The injured man’s face was dappled, white patches against the black where the Second Mate had cleaned his cuts and dressed them. Still, a couple of days in a proper hospital, and he should be all right. Be up and chasing the nurses in no time...
The Mate and Lecky, both haggard and dishevelled, joined him, Lecky collapsing onto the compass-step as though his chubby legs would not hold out another instant. He looked in poor shape, trembling visibly as Sparks lit him a cigarette. Johnny was grey with strain but bearing up.
‘Well, here we are, smoking on deck...’ He gave a weak little laugh, but suddenly his mouth was working. He turned away to watch the activity on deck, while Stephen studied his back and decided to be brisk.
‘I think you should go with them, see a doctor. Both of you,’ he added, turning back to the other man. He really did look bad. Aware of what he had put them through, Stephen felt guilty.
Lecky nodded his agreement; it was clear he wanted to be off the ship, and who could blame him? Johnny, however, shook his head. He was staying, he said, and would be fine once he had rested and had something to drink.
‘Any chance of liberating a few cans of coke? I’ve got a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage.’
Stephen’s cabin was nearest, with a recently stocked fridge of soft drinks and a cupboard full of spirits for entertaining. Sparks volunteered to go, while Stephen manned the VHF.
Calls were still coming in from other ships and tugs eager to offer assistance, and on the port quarter, the fire-fighters were busily hosing sea-water over the after-deck and into that gaping hole below.
Mac came up to join them, his steps dragging like an old man’s. His face was ashen. As he propped himself up against the pilot-chair, he seemed incapable of speech. He glanced at Stephen and away, and simply shook his head.
‘Mac, I’m sorry...’ For everything, he might have added – that shocking death, the ruin below decks, and most of all for having to forbid his friend the opportunity to search his own engine-room for his own men. It felt like a betrayal; and yet Stephen’s first duty was to the ship.
‘No, you did what you had to...’ He lit a cigarette and smoked in silence for a while. Then, noticing Stephen’s useless arm, asked what had happened.
‘The blast knocked me over – I fell against that bloody thing,’ he said, indicating the compass-repeater on the bridge-wing, ‘and must have hit the deck awkwardly. I think it’s dislocated.’
‘Could be broken – you’d better get the doctor up here, let him have a look at it.’
But Stephen for the first time was indecisive, torn between the pain he was suffering and the need to stay aboard. While he debated what to do, Mac took his radio and called up the 2nd Mate, asking him to escort the doctor up to the bridge once the injured man was safely off the ship.
Twenty minutes later he was with them, a small, dapper Arab in a smart linen suit, only slightly soiled by his climb up the pilot ladder to the fo’c’sle. His command of their language spoke of several years training in an English hospital.
Slender fingers examined the injured arm, and a pair of dark, unsmiling eyes studied Stephen’s face as he tried to answer questions and avoid too many grunts of pain. Behind and to one side of the doctor, the 2nd Mate, as ship’s medical officer, hovered uncomfortably. Grimy and sweat-stained, wearing a ragged boilersuit open to the navel, and with his hair plastered to his head, he was not the average nurse. Meeting his anxious gaze, Stephen managed a lop-sided grin.
The doctor said, ‘I think no break or fracture, but a dislocation of the shoulder. I can manipulate it back into position now, but it will be very painful. You should come to hospital. There we can give anaesthetic. And also X-Ray for possible small fractures in the wrist.’
‘I’m not leaving the ship.’
There was an eloquent shrug. ‘You wish me to perform the operation now?’
Stephen glanced at his medical officer. ‘Get Sparks. Tell him to bring the whisky.’
A slight curl of the lip expressed the doctor’s disapproval. ‘Alcohol is not good for shock.’
‘I know that. But it’s bloody good for pain.’
He reached for the bottle, removed the cap and took a hefty slug from the neck. Then he took another. It caught his breath for a moment and made his eyes water, but he still held the little doctor’s gaze. It felt like a battle of wills, one that Stephen was not at all sure he would win. Never mind, he would go down trying. And he would not leave the ship.
‘Lie down, please. On the floor, on your side.’
He felt the knee in his back, one hand against his shoulder, the other at his wrist. There was a sudden wrench and agonizing pain, and a grinding crack that seemed to explode in his skull...
The reek of ammonia brought him round. Wafting the sal volatile beneath Stephen’s nose, the 2nd Mate looked as though he were the one about to faint. The doctor was checking the contents of his bag.
‘You should rest,’ that cool voice advised. ‘Go to bed.’
‘Don’t be bloody silly...’
Standing over him, with surprising gentleness the doctor eased him forward; between them, he and the 2nd Mate got Stephen to his feet and through the open door of the sea cabin. Sparks had folded the sheets back and stood beside the bunk like a hotel manager.
As though instructing a child, the doctor said: ‘Here is a bed – rest in it.’ To the 2nd Mate, he added: ‘He will need the arm supported by a sling. There will be much bruising, much pain. You should give him something to relieve it.’
Stephen sat on the edge of the bunk, nursing his arm; he felt sick and shaky, and took several deep breaths to control it. As the doctor glided out towards the bridge-wing, he glanced at Sparks, who rolled his eyes and sagged with sudden relief. Sweat dripped off his unshaven chin.
‘What’s he doing now?’
‘Giving the Mate and Lecky a once-over. The Chief asked him to.’
‘Right. As soon as he’s gone we’ll have to try and raise the office.’ His watch said it was ten minutes to seven. In London, his ship-manager would be in bed and asleep. ‘Four in the morning – Jack Porteous’ll love that.’
‘Five,’ Sparks reminded him, ‘it’s Summer Time.’
Fatigue dragged at him, and pain throbbed through ribs and shoulder right down to the wrist. But the thought of all those office wallahs being dragged out of their beds was strangely satisfying.
With the 2nd Mate in tow, the doctor returned, giving Stephen to understand that in his opinion all the officers were suffering from some degree of shock and exhaustion, and should by rights be taken off the ship. Only one, however, had agreed to go.
‘Well,’ Stephen explained, ‘as we don’t have any electricity to speak of, we can manage without our electrician... which he is well aware of. Everybody else is essential.’
‘I see.’ He glanced round like a prince finding himself in the unfortunate surroundings of a labour camp. Then he smiled. ‘Well, Captain, I must go. I wish you good luck.’
‘Thank you.’
As soon as he was away, Stephen went outside, fighting dizziness and nausea on his way to the bridge-wing. The pilot boat was still alongside, the crew hanging hopefully over the fo’c’sle. One of the fire-fighting tugs had stopped its hoses and was coming in. The VHF crackled, the tug master asking permission to put a crew aboard. Stephen acknowledged and agreed, passed on instructions to the 3rd Mate, and watched the half-dozen men scramble up the ship’s side.
Within half an hour the fire was reported to be under control; with that news Stephen felt able to breathe easier, able to give a constructive report to his ship-manager in London. He raised Fujairah and requested a call to be put through; it took some time, but eventually he had Jack Porteous’s sleepy voice over the static on the line.
‘Jack, it’s Stephen Elliott – on the Damaris. Sorry to wake you, but we’re in an emergency situation...’ From sleepy, Jack Porteous was businesslike at once. Reassured, Stephen went on to report events in brief.
‘I’m getting good reports from the fire-fighting team, so once it’s out I’ll need a tow to a repair yard. I think Dubai – that’s nearest. Also I’ll need to appoint agents in Fujairah to deal with the injured and the crew...’
‘OK – go ahead. I’ll do the necessary at this end – I’ll get in touch with next-of-kin myself, and get your engineer superintendent on the first available flight. Do you need any reliefs at this stage?’
‘No, we’ll get her to the repair yard ourselves – we can talk about reliefs later.’
‘What about you, Steve? Are you all right?’
‘I’m OK now, but I’ve got things to attend to, Jack. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’
‘Or I’ll call you. The media are bound to get onto this... can you cope?’
‘As long as they don’t want to come aboard.’
‘If they get too pressing, just refer them to us.’
‘OK, will do.’
It was not until a representative of ITN news called him up that Stephen gave a thought to his own next-of-kin. While he demanded assurances that names and ranks of casualties would not be used without contacting the shipping company first, he suddenly remembered his sister Pamela, and prayed she would have the sense to phone Joan before the news hit television and radio broadcasts. And that Joan would be able to contact Zoe...