H.M.S. Ulysses Part 15

Vallery was at dinner with Tyndall, in the Admiral's day cabin, when the message arrived. Sunk in private thought, he gazed down at his untouched food as Tyndall smoothed out the signal.

The Admiral cleared his throat.

"On course. On time. Sea moderate, wind freshening. Expect rendezvous as planned. Commodore 77."

He laid the signal down. "Good G.o.d! Seas moderate, fresh winds, Do you reckon he's in the same d.a.m.ned ocean as us?"

Vallery smiled faintly.

"This is it, sir."

"This is it," Tyndall echoed. He turned to the messenger.

"Make a signal. 'You are running into severe storm. Rendezvous unchanged. You may be delayed. Will remain at rendezvous until your arrival.' That clear enough, Captain?"

"Should be, sir. Radio silence?"

"Oh, yes. Add 'Radio silence. Admiral, 14th A.C.S.' Get it off at once, will you? Then tell W.T. to shut down themselves."

The door shut softly. Tyndall poured himself some coffee, looked across at Vallery.

"That boy still on your mind, d.i.c.k?"

Vallery smiled non-committally, lit a cigarette. At once he began to cough harshly.

"Sorry, sir," he apologised. There was silence for some time, then he looked up quizzically.

"What mad ambition drove me to become a cruiser captain?" he asked sadly.

Tyndall grinned. "I don't envy you... I seem to have heard this conversation before. What are you going to do about Ralston, d.i.c.k?"

"What would you do, sir?" Vallery countered.

"Keep him locked up till we return from Russia. On a bread-and-water diet, in irons if you like."

Vallery smiled.

"You never were a very good liar, John."

Tyndall laughed. "Touche!" He was warmed, secretly pleased. Rarely did Richard Vallery break through his self-imposed code of formality.

"A heinous offence, we all know, to clout one of H.M. commissioned officers, but if Ether-ton's story is true, my only regret is that Ralston didn't give Brooks a really large-scale job of replanning that young swine's face."

"It's true, all right, I'm afraid," said Vallery soberly. "What it amounts to is that naval discipline, oh, how old Starr would love this, compels me to punish a would, be murderer's victim I" He broke off in a fresh paroxysm of coughing, and Tyndall looked away: he hoped the distress wasn't showing in his face, the pity and anger he felt that Vallery, that very perfect, gentle knight, the finest gentleman and friend he had ever known, should be coughing his heart out, visibly dying on his feet, because of the blind inhumanity of an S.N.O. in London, two thousand miles away. "A victim," Vallery went on at last, "who has already lost his mother, brother and three sisters... I believe he has a father at sea somewhere."

"And Carslake?"

"I shall see him tomorrow. I should like you to be there, sir. I will tell him that he will remain an officer of this s.h.i.+p till we return to Scapa, then resign his commission... I don't think he'd care to appear at a court martial, even as a witness," he finished dryly.

"Not if he's sane, which I doubt," Tyndall agreed. A sudden thought struck him. "Do you think he is sane?" he frowned.

"Carslake," Vallery hesitated. "Yes, I think so, sir. At least, he was. Brooks isn't so sure. Says he didn't like the look of him tonight, something queer about him, he thinks, and in these abnormal conditions small provocations are magnified out of all proportion."

Vallery smiled briefly. "Not that Carslake is liable to regard the twin a.s.saults on pride and person as a small provocation."

Tyndall nodded agreement. "He'll bear watching... Oh, d.a.m.n! I wish the s.h.i.+p would stay still. Half my coffee on the tablecloth. Young Spicer", he looked towards the pantry," will be as mad as h.e.l.l. Nineteen years old and a regular tyrant... I thought these would be sheltered waters, d.i.c.k?"

"So they are, compared to what's waiting for us. Listen!" He c.o.c.ked his head to the howling of the wind outside. "Let's see what the weather man has to say about it."

He reached for the desk phone, asked for the transmitting station. After a brief conversation he replaced the receiver.

"T.S. says the anemometer is going crazy. Ousting up to eighty knots. Still north-west. Temperature steady at ten below." He s.h.i.+vered. "Ten below!" Then looked consideringly at Tyndall. "Barometer almost steady at 27.8."

"What!"

"27.8. That's what they say. It's impossible, but that's what they say."

He glanced at his wrist-watch. "Forty-five minutes, sir... This is a very complicated way of committing suicide."

They were silent for a minute, then Tyndall spoke for both of them, answering the question in both their minds.

"We must go, d.i.c.k. We must. And by the way, our fire-eating young Captain CD, the doughty Orr, wants to accompany us in the Sirrus... We'll let him tag along a while. He has things to learn, that young man."

At 2020 all s.h.i.+ps had completed oiling. Hove to, they had had the utmost difficulty in keeping position in that great wind; but they were infinitely safer than in the open sea. They were given orders to proceed when the weather moderated, the Defender and escorts to Scapa, the squadron to a position 100 miles ENE. of rendezvous. Radio silence was to be strictly observed.

At 2030 the Ulysses and Sirrus got under way to the East. Lights winked after them, messages of good luck. Fluently, Tyndall cursed the squadron for the breach of darken-s.h.i.+p regulations, realised that, barring themselves there was no one on G.o.d's earth to see the signals anyway, and ordered a courteous acknowledgment.

At 2045, still two miles short of Langanes point, the Sirrus was plunging desperately in mountainous seas, s.h.i.+pping great ma.s.ses of water over her entire fo'c'sle and main deck, and, in the darkness, looking far less like a destroyer than a porpoising submarine.

At 2050, at reduced speed, she was observed to be moving in close to such slight shelter as the land afforded there. At the same time, her six-inch Aldis flashed her signal: "Screen doors stove in: 'A' turret not tracking: flooding port boiler-room intake fans." And on the Sirrus's bridge Commander Orr swore in chagrin as he received the Ulysses's final message: "Lesson without words, No. 1. Rejoin squadron at once. You can't come out to play with the big boys." But he swallowed his disappointment, signalled: "Wilco. Just you wait till I grow up," pulled the Sirrus round in a madly swinging half-circle and headed thankfully back for shelter. Aboard the flags.h.i.+p, it was lost to sight almost immediately.

At 2100, the Ulysses moved out into the Denmark Strait.

CHAPTER SIX.

TUESDAY NIGHT.

IT WAS the worst storm of the war. Beyond all doubt, had the records been preserved for Admiralty inspection, that would have proved to be incomparably the greatest storm, the most tremendous convulsion of nature since these recordings began. Living memory aboard the Ulysses that night, a vast acc.u.mulation of experience in every corner of the globe, could certainly recall nothing even remotely like it, nothing that would even begin to bear comparison as a parallel or precedent.

At ten o'clock, with all doors and hatches battened shut, with all traffic prohibited on the upper deck, with all crews withdrawn from gun-turrets and magazines and all normal deck watchkeeping stopped for the first time since her commissioning, even the taciturn Carrington admitted that the Caribbean hurricanes of the autumns of '34 and '37-when he'd run out of sea-room, been forced to heave-to in the dangerous right-hand quadrant of both these murderous cyclones-had been no worse than this. But the two s.h.i.+ps he had taken through these-a 3,000-ton tramp and a superannuated tanker on the New York asphalt run-had not been in the same cla.s.s for seaworthiness as the Ulysses.

He had little doubt as to her ability to survive. But what the First Lieutenant did not know, what n.o.body had any means of guessing, was that this howling gale was still only the deadly overture. Like some mindless and dreadful beast from an ancient and other world, the Polar monster crouched on its own doorstep, waiting. At 2230, the Ulysses crossed the Arctic Circle. The monster struck.

It struck with a feral ferocity, with an appalling savagery that smashed minds and bodies into a stunned unknowingness. Its claws were hurtling rapiers of ice that slashed across a man's face and left it welling red: its teeth were that subzero wind, gusting over 120 knots, that ripped and tore through the tissue paper of Arctic clothing and sunk home to the bone: its voice was the devil's orchestra, the roar of a great wind mingled with the banshee shrieking of tortured rigging, a requiem for fiends: its weight was the crus.h.i.+ng power of the hurricane wind that pinned a man helplessly to a bulkhead, fighting for breath, or flung him off his feet to crash in some distant corner, broken-limbed and senseless. Baulked of prey in its 500-mile sweep across the frozen wastes of the Greenland ice-cap, it goaded the cruel sea into homicidal alliance and flung itself, t.i.tanic in its energy, ravenous in its howling, upon the c.o.c.klesh.e.l.l that was the Ulysses.

The Ulysses should have died then. Nothing built by man could ever have hoped to survive. She should just have been pressed under to destruction, or turned turtle, or had her back broken, or disintegrated under these mighty hammer-blows of wind and sea. But she did none of these things.