The captains table, p.12
The Captain's Table, page 12
One woman in particular, the one he himself had been talking to a few hours ago—Catherine Duncan. It was strange how Fate had ordained that she should travel as a passenger on board this ship—stranger still that he had been appointed so unexpectedly to the Claymore’s command.
It was almost as if there were a purpose behind it all. But what? Was he cast for the role of avenger? In all honesty, he could not lay the blame for Hugh’s death solely at Catherine Duncan’s door. And yet... Catherine, like so many of her sex, in his experience, had lied to him and gone on lying. She had run away from the chalet, had paid that little rat of a Frenchman to keep his mouth shut—she hadn’t even had the decency to wait for them to bring Hugh’s body down from the mountain. Womanlike, Catherine Duncan had been intent only on escaping from the consequences of her action.
And yet, was that quite fair? There were women with courage, plenty of them. One he remembered who, after ten days adrift in an open boat, had still found the courage to smile.
And Catherine Duncan did not strike him as lacking courage. She was the holder of an Olympic gold medal for ski-ing—a remarkably courageous achievement for a girl of her age. She had soft brown eyes and a gentle, sensitive mouth... and he had not been kind to her. In fact, he had been deliberately cruel. Time and again he had brought the tears to her eyes, reducing her to speechlessness, the desire to force her to admit the truth paramount in him. From what did it spring, this urge to wring the truth from her? By what right did he indulge it? Had he the right to judge her? Of course he hadn’t! He didn’t know the circumstances which had led up to her going to the chalet, what persuasion Hugh had exerted to get her to go with him.
Perhaps he was old-fashioned and narrow-minded, for this day and age! He was undoubtedly prejudiced in favour of his brother and reluctant to believe him a cowardly young philanderer.
When all was said and done, he didn’t even know for certain what had caused the boy’s quarrel with Catherine. Hugh’s heart-broken letter—part of a letter, scrawled out as a rough draft of the one he had presumably left behind in the chalet for Catherine—that was all he had to go on. That and the snapshot and—the word of an oily little Frenchman who had as good as admitted to perjury! It wasn’t really enough, was it? Yet...
Robert Blair stirred restlessly. He had told Catherine last evening that her tears left him unmoved. That wasn’t true— they moved him strangely. If only she would admit the truth, if only she would tell him about it, tell him what had really happened, so that he would understand about Hugh. He had loved his brother and the senseless tragedy haunted him. He wanted to understand and only Catherine Duncan could give him the answers he sought.
She had been the last person to see him alive and she had loved him—or so she said. But there was Morley and that fellow Urquhart. Urquhart was always hanging around her.
Did women forget so easily? Blair’s lips tightened. His restless pacing had taken him to the wing of the bridge and there, two decks below, standing very close together, were Catherine Duncan and the First Officer. He was much too far away to hear what they were saying but he saw Morley hold out his hand and, a moment later, Catherine’s hand went out to meet it. Something white fluttered between them as Robert Blair, an expression of disgust on his austerely handsome face, turned abruptly on his heel.
And, far below him, Catherine said uneasily: “Mr. Morley, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about and I’m quite certain that Sylvia wouldn’t want me to read her private correspondence. I mean, we’re friends and—”
“This isn’t from Sylvia, it’s from her husband. Robin Barstow. You know him, too, don’t you?” The First Officer spoke grimly. He was very white and his hand shook as he held out the flimsy sheets of airmail paper to her. Catherine took them reluctantly.
“I know of him,” said Catherine, “but I’ve never met him, and I couldn’t possibly read his letters. I’d much rather not, Mr. Morley, honestly.”
Morley leaned towards her and Catherine caught the faint reek of whisky on his breath. He had been talking so wildly and incoherently, ever since he had accosted her on deck, five minutes ago, that she began to wonder, with a shiver of distaste, if he were sober. Any doubts she might have had as to his feelings for Sylvia Barstow were dispelled now but she found it hard to believe that Sylvia returned them. She’d always spoken with so much affection of Robin and besides... she held out the letter.
“Mr. Morley, please—you’re putting me in a very awkward position.”
“Very well.” Morley’s tension relaxed and his tone was suddenly exultant. He took the letter and carefully replaced it in his wallet which he returned to his pocket. “I’ve given you the chance. I always knew Robin was lying, that he’d made it up in order to shake my faith in Sylvia. She told me the truth and your attitude only confirms that. Good night, Miss Duncan.”
Puzzled but relieved, Catherine stared after his retreating back, still uncertain why he had wanted her to read Robin’s letter. But she forgot the First Officer and his problems under the more pressing demands for her own and, ten minutes later, as she lay sleepless in her bunk, she found herself wondering why it was that Robert Blair’s face seemed, so constantly, to haunt her.
CHAPTER XVIII
It was three days later that the Claymore ran into bad weather. According to the reports he had received, Captain Blair judged that the storm was a localised one and he expected to run out of it within the next eight or ten hours.
Nevertheless, it was severe enough by dinner-time to cause many vacant places in the dining saloon.
The Captain, having decided to dine below, in order that his presence might reassure any nervous passengers, noticed with sardonic amusement that the entire Hope-Scott family had evidently decided to remain in their cabins. He was not ill pleased, for he was becoming a little tired of Lady Hope-Scott.
Captain Blair took his seat, smiling at the Muirs and Catherine, as Tony Urquhart followed him to the table.
Lady Muir, her bony face a trifle pale, asked him anxiously about the storm.
The Captain’s smile was confident. “We’ll be out of it some time to-night, Lady Muir.”
She looked relieved, though she still eyed the menu with some disfavour and prudently ordered clear soup.
Blair glanced at Catherine. She had been very silent and shy of him during the last few days but he, true to his resolve, gave no hint, in public, of having noticed her constraint.
“You seem to have found your sea legs,” he suggested.
“Yes.” She avoided his eyes. “Though I wasn’t too sure of risking dinner.”
He noticed her pallor and the pinched tightness about her mouth, the darkly-circled eyes. She looked as if she hadn’t been sleeping well For that matter, so did his First Officer.
Blair’s expression hardened. “You’ll be all right,” he told her, with brusque heartiness. “It’s better if you can eat. And the moral effect of not having missed a meal is good, too. Sea-sickness is a thing you mustn’t give into or it beats you every time.”
“Have you ever suffered from it, Captain Blair?” Lady Muir asked, with martyred curiosity.
He laughed. “Certainly I have. My first year at sea was utter misery. The cadets’ quarters were over the screw. My fellows had no sympathy for men and we had a sadist of a First Officer who used to delight in trying to cure me. His cures were so much worse than the complaint itself that, in sheer desperation, I managed to overcome it.” He gave his order to the steward.
Sir George Muir, between courses, embarked on a long story of a voyage he had made, as a young man, in a wool ship.
“One of the last of ’em,” he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “The Andora. Perhaps you knew her, Captain Blair?”
“Yes, I did. She—Excuse me, please.” The steward was at his elbow, a signal pad in his hand.
“If you please, sir. The Officer of the Watch said as you was to ’ave this right away, sir.”
The Captain read the brief message with furrowed brows. An SOS from a ship in distress is always painful reading for a seaman, but this, from the oil tanker Mormon of
Sydney, stating laconically that she was on fire, brought his heart to his mouth.
The next instant his brain had registered the fact that, from the position she had given, the Clay more was probably the nearest ship of any size to her and that the answer to her call for help must come from him. He knew the Mormon, knew her Master, for, by an odd coincidence, they had served together for a short time during the war.
Robert Blair pushed his plate away untouched and rose.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me if I leave you,” he said.
Lady Muir clutched her husband’s arm, her face white. “It’s not— not bad news, Captain?” Her voice shook.
Catherine was watching the Captain’s face and was surprised to see it soften. He spoke gently and reassuringly to the frightened woman.
“Just a radio message I must deal with immediately, Lady Muir. Nothing for you to worry about. And, as I say, this storm should blow itself out in a few hours.”
He hoped fervently that it would. Smiling at them all, he went as unobtrusively as he could from the saloon, but many curious and anxious glances followed him.
Blair noticed and dismissed them, his mind already grappling with the Mormon’s problem. And his plan of action was all but formulated by the time he reached the bridge.
The First Officer joined him in the chart-house.
“Ah, Mr. Morley—” Blair looked up, for a moment, from the chart he was studying.
“You’re going to her, sir?”
“I think we’ll have to, Mr. Morley.” He motioned to the second radio officer, who was standing by. “What other ships are there in the area, Mr. Mackay?”
Mackay told him, not wasting words.
“Right. Send this to Mormon—” The Captain dictated rapidly and, when that was done, added brusquely: “Keep me informed, please, Mr. Mackay.”
“Ay, ay, sir.” The young officer shut his signal pad and left the chart-house at a run. Morley looked after him, his lips twisted into a scornful line, but when the Captain spoke to him again, he was at his side, alert and helpful.
There was a great deal to be done....
Captain Blair’s first sight of the blazing tanker came one hour and ten minutes after the Claymore had received her first message.
During that hour, with his ship racing at full speed, her powerful diesels throbbing beneath his feet, Blair had planned his rescue down to the smallest detail.
From the first, he had known that a rescue would be necessary. The Mormon’s SOS had left no doubt that her crew would have to be taken off. The only doubt had been whether the Claymore could reach her before her Captain had to order his men into the boats, for fire in an oil tanker at sea is more hazardous than any risk attending the launching of lifeboats in bad weather.
And the weather was bad. A strong headwind whipped heavy seas to snarling opposition, so that the Claymore shook as the force of the storm drove tons of water crashing against her, making her pitch and shudder like a living thing.
Blair was driving her as fast as he dared, faster than Morley would have driven her, with the comfort and safety of her passengers to be considered. He had once ventured a protest, but it had been coldly received and completely ignored.
“You’ll be giving the passengers a pretty bad shaking up, sir,” the First Officer persisted, his mouth grimly set.
“I imagine that the crew of the Mormon are enduring more than that,” the Captain returned dryly. “I’ll explain to the passengers—they’ll understand. In any case, I see no reason to keep them in ignorance of the situation. They may start imagining it’s a lot worse than it is.”
“But, Captain Blair—”
Blair regarded him coldly. “I’d be obliged if you’d make arrangements for me to address the passengers, Mr. Morley. At once.”
Five minutes later, his voice was heard on the ship’s amplifying system, calm but with a note of urgency in it. He neither minimised the danger to the Mormon nor dramatised it, stating quite plainly what had happened and what he proposed to do.
As he spoke, Dr. Alfree and his young assistants were preparing for the casualties they might have to receive, turning the sick bay into a dressing station, whilst Ogilvie, the Chief Steward, supervised the provision of emergency accommodation in the forward lounge and the cooks set to work, making tea and heating soup.
The Captain’s message ended with a. request for anyone with medical or nursing experience to hand their names into the Purser’s office if they were willing to assist the ship’s medical officers, should the need arise....
The doctor smiled a welcome as Leonie and Catherine appeared at the door of the sick bay within a few minutes of the loudspeakers crackling into silence.
Leonie looked green but she manfully returned his greeting.
“We’re here to help, Dr. Alfree. Catherine’s been a V.A.D. or a Girl Guide or something. Anyway, she feels better than I do, so I brought her along to keep me upright. Oh, dear!” The ship gave a sickening lurch and she clutched at the door to steady herself.
“Come in and lie down,” the doctor suggested. “I’ll get you up when you’re needed.” He took her arm and led her to one of the narrow hospital beds.
“Shan’t I be in the way?” Leonie managed.
“Of course you won’t”, he assured her. “Have you taken anything?”
She told him, stiff-lipped. He patted her arm. “I’ll give you something better than that,” he promised.
Catherine asked diffidently: “What about me, Dr. Alfree? Is there anything I can do?”
“There’s plenty, my dear,” Alfree replied. He poured out a dose and held the medicine glass to Leonie’s lips, an arm about her shoulders. “For a start, perhaps you’d help Jim Naylor with the drugs he’s sorting. And we want instruments sterilised—he’ll show you.”
“What about me?” Leonie struggled into a sitting position. “After all, I am a doctor—”
“You stay where you are,” the ship’s Suregon returned, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Give that stuff a chance to act. You’ll be no use if you’re seasick.”
“I—I suppose not,” Leonie said and shuddered as she lay back on her pillows. Dr. Alfree’s eyes were oddly tender as he looked down at her. But he had work to do. “I’m going up to report to the Captain, Jim,” he called to his assistant who, busy showing Catherine what he wanted done, nodded abstractedly.
Dr. Alfree made his way to the bridge. He, too, caught a glimpse of the blazing tanker as he fought his way along the exposed part of the deck. The fire, a dull glow in the scudding, rainy darkness, appeared to be confined to the forward part of the ship, and her Master had manoeuvred her so as to keep her stern on to the wind.
She was still too far away to make out any more than that, but the Claymore was closing with her rapidly.
As Dr. Alfree reached the bridge, he heard the Captain’s cool, calm voice, speaking to the Chief Engineer on the bridge telephone. He waited until he had finished and then said quietly: “We’re ready, sir.”
Blair flashed him a quick smile. “Good. I’m afraid you’re going to have plenty to do in a little while, Doctor.”
Alfree looked a question. For answer, the Captain passed him a signal pad. On it were set out messages which had been received from the Mormon and the Claymore’s replies. The doctor’s expression was grave as he read them. The tanker’s crew were making a gallant effort to keep the fire under control but it was not being successful. With so inflammable a cargo, the danger of an explosion was very great and was increasing with every moment. There were already a number of severely injured men amongst the engine-room complement.
The last message Blair had sent informed the Mormon’s Captain that he would bring his ship in as close as he dared and asked for information as to the number of lifeboats available for her crew.
The reply was terse but satisfactory. “Enough. Am abandoning ship.”
Blair had his hand on the engine-room telegraph. He rang for Stop Both. The sudden quiet as the Claymore’s engines slowed down was broken by the dull boom of an explosion. Blair drew in his breath with a sharp hiss but apparently the exposion had taken place below the water line and the only noticeable effect on the tanker was a gradually increasing list to port. He saw two boats lowered as he rang for Full Astern but, at the list became steeper, it was evident that the chances of getting the others away were becoming slighter with every minute that passed. Blair issued brisk orders and the Claymore, now almost motionless, save for her pitching, nosed her way closer.
“Mr. Morley!”
“Sir!”
“Stand by to lower numbers three and six lifeboats.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
The boats’ crews waited, their eyes, like those of the men on the bridge, straining across the intervening space of wind-lashed water to the little knots of men grouped round the Mormon“s boats.
“May I go with them, sir?” It was Alfree speaking.
The Captain glanced at him sharply, then at the message pad in his hand. He nodded. “In number three, Doctor. But you won’t get a chance to board her.”
“I know, sir. But I can see the injured are properly handled and given morphia where it’s—necessary.”
“Right.”
Dr. Alfree left the bridge. Blair ordered the Claymore’s boats away a matter of seconds afterwards. Experience told him that the Mormon’s crew would never get theirs into the water without grave risk of capsizing them and, even as he watched, the first boat on the tanker’s port side hit the sea bow first, spilling half the men clinging to it into the leaping waves.
