H. M. S. Ulysses (41 page)

The shaft! Dear God, the shaft! It was running almost red-hot on dry bearings! Frantically, he pawed around, picked up his emergency lamp and twisted its base. There was no light. He twisted it again with all his strength, reached up, felt the jagged edges of broken screen and bulb, and flung the useless lamp to the deck. He dragged out his pocket torch: that, too, was smashed. Desperate now, he searched blindly around for his oil can: it was lying on its side, the patent spring top beside it. The can was empty.

No oil, none. Heaven only knew how near the over-stressed metal was to the critical limit. He didn't. He admitted that: even to the best engineers, metal fatigue was an incalculable unknown. But, like all men who had spent a lifetime with machines, he had developed a sixth sense for these things—and, right now, that sixth sense was jabbing at him, mercilessly, insistently. Oil—he would have to get oil. But he knew he was in bad shape, dizzy, weak from shock and loss of blood, and the tunnel was long and slippery and dangerous— and unlighted. One slip, one stumble against or over that merciless shaft . . . Gingerly, the Engineer-Commander stretched out his hand again, rested his hand for an instant on the shaft, drew back sharply in sudden pain. He lifted his hand to his cheek, knew that it was not friction that had flayed and burnt the skin off the tips of his fingers. There was no choice. Resolutely, he gathered his legs under him, swayed dizzily to his feet, his back bent against the arching convexity of the tunnel.

It was then that he noticed it for the first time—a light, a swinging tiny pinpoint of light, imponderably distant in the converging sides of that dark tunnel, although he knew it could be only yards away. He blinked, closed his eyes and looked again. The light was still there, advancing steadily, and he could hear the shuffling of feet now. All at once he felt weak, light-headed: gratefully he sank down again, his feet safely braced once more against the bearing block.

The man with the light stopped a couple of feet away, hooked the lamp on to an inspection bracket, lowered himself carefully and sat beside Dodson. The rays of the lamp fell full on the dark heavy face, the jagged brows and prognathous jaw: Dodson stiffened in sudden surprise.

‘Riley! Stoker Riley!' His eyes narrowed in suspicion and conjecture. ‘What the devil are you doing here?'

‘I've brought a two-gallon drum of lubricating oil,' Riley growled. He thrust a Thermos flask into the Engineer-Commander's hands. ‘And here's some coffee. I'll 'tend to this—you drink that . . . Suffering Christ! This bloody bearing's red-hot!'

Dodson set down the Thermos with a thump.

‘Are you deaf?' he asked harshly. ‘Why are you here? Who sent you? Your station's in “B” boiler-room!'

‘Grierson sent me,' Riley said roughly. His dark face was impassive. ‘Said he couldn't spare his engine-room men—too bloody valuable . . . Too much?' The oil, thick, viscous, was pouring slowly on to the overheated bearing.

‘
Lieutenant
Grierson!' Dodson was almost vicious, his voice a whip-lash of icy correction. ‘And that's a damned lie, Riley! Lieutenant Grierson never sent you: I suppose you told
him
that somebody else had sent you?'

‘Drink your coffee,' Riley advised sourly. ‘You're wanted in the engine-room.'

The Engineer-Commander clenched his fist, restrained himself with difficulty.

‘You damned insolent bastard!' he burst out. Abruptly, control came back and he said evenly: ‘Commander's Defaulters in the morning. You'll pay for this, Riley!'

‘No, I won't.' Confound him, Dodson thought furiously, he's actually grinning, the insolent . . .

He checked his thought.

‘Why not?' he demanded dangerously.

‘Because you won't report me.' Riley seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.

‘Oh, so that's it!' Dodson glanced swiftly round the darkened tunnel, and his lips tightened as he realized for the first time how completely alone they were: in sudden certainty he looked back at Riley, big and hunched and menacing. Smiling yet, but no smile, Dodson thought, could ever transform that ugly brutal face. The smile on the face of the tiger . . . Fear, exhaustion, never-ending strain—they did terrible things to a man and you couldn't blame him for what he had become, or for what he was born . . . But his, Dodson's, first responsibility was to himself. Grimly, he remembered how Turner had berated him, called him all sorts of a fool for refusing to have Riley sent to prison.

‘So that's it, eh?' he repeated softly. He turned himself, feet thrusting solidly against the block. ‘Don't be so sure, Riley. I can give you twenty-five years, but—'

‘Oh, for Christ's sake!' Riley burst out impatiently. ‘What are you talking about, sir? Drink your coffee—please. You're wanted in the engineroom, I tell you!' he repeated impatiently.

Uncertainly, Dodson relaxed, unscrewed the cap of the Thermos. He had a sudden, peculiar feeling of unreality, as if he were a spectator, some bystander in no way involved in this scene, this fantastic scene. His head, he realized, still hurt like hell.

‘Tell me, Riley,' he asked softly, ‘what makes you so sure I won't report you?'

‘Oh, you can report me all right.' Riley was suddenly cheerful again. ‘But I won't be at the Commander's table tomorrow morning.'

‘No?' It was half-challenge, half-question.

‘No,' Riley grinned. ‘‘Cos there'll
be
no Commander
and
no table tomorrow morning.' He clasped his hands luxuriously behind his head. ‘In fact, there'll be no nothin'.'

Something in the voice, rather than in the words, caught and held Dodson's attention. He knew, with instant conviction, that though Riley might be smiling, he wasn't joking. Dodson looked at him curiously, but said nothing.

‘Commander's just finished broadcastin',' Riley continued. ‘The
Tirpitz
is out—we have four hours left.'

The bald, flat statement, the complete lack of histrionics, of playing for effect, left no possible room for doubt. The
Tirpitz
—out. The
Tirpitz
—out. Dodson repeated the phrase to himself, over and over again. Four hours, just four hours to go . . . He was surprised at his own reaction, his apparent lack of concern.

‘Well?' Riley was anxious now, restive. ‘Are you goin' or aren't you? I'm not kiddin', sir—you're wanted—urgent!'

‘You're a liar,' Dodson said pleasantly. ‘Why did you bring the coffee?'

‘For myself.' The smile was gone, the face set and sullen. ‘But I thought you needed it—you don't look so good to me . . . They'll fix you up back in the engine-room.'

‘And that's just where you're going, right now!' Dodson said evenly.

Riley gave no sign that he had heard.

‘On your way, Riley,' Dodson said curtly. ‘That's an order!'

‘—off!' Riley growled. ‘I'm stayin'. You don't require to have three—great gold stripes on your sleeve to handle a bloody oil can,' he finished derisively.

‘Possibly not.' Dodson braced against a sudden, violent pitch, but too late to prevent himself lurching into Riley. ‘Sorry, Riley. Weather's worsening, I'm afraid. Well, we—ah—appear to have reached an impasse.'

‘What's that?' Riley asked suspiciously.

‘A dead-end. A no-decision fight . . . Tell me, Riley,' he asked quietly. ‘What brought you here?'

‘I told you!' Riley was aggrieved. ‘Grierson—
Lieutenant
Grierson sent me.'

‘What brought you here?' Dodson persisted. It was as if Riley had not spoken.

‘That's my—business!' Riley answered savagely.

‘What brought you here?'

‘Oh, for Christ's sake leave me alone!' Riley shouted. His voice echoed loudly along the dark tunnel. Suddenly he turned round full-face, his mouth twisted bitterly. ‘You know bloody well why I came.'

‘To do me in, perhaps?'

Riley looked at him a long second, then turned away. His shoulders were hunched, his head held low.

‘You're the only bastard in this ship that ever gave me a break,' he muttered. ‘The only bastard I've ever
known
who ever gave me a chance,' he amended slowly. ‘Bastard' Dodson supposed, was Riley's accolade of friendship, and he felt suddenly shamed of his last remark. ‘If it wasn't for you,' Riley went on softly, ‘I'd 'a' been in cells the first time, in a civvy jail the second. Remember, sir?'

Dodson nodded. ‘You were rather foolish, Riley,' he admitted.

‘Why did you do it?' The big stoker was intense, worried. ‘God, everyone knows what I'm like—'

‘Do they? I wonder . . . I thought you had the makings of a better man than you—'

‘Don't give me that bull!' Riley scoffed. ‘I know what I'm like. I know what I am. I'm no—good! Everybody says I'm no—good! And they're right . . . ' He leaned forward. ‘Do you know somethin'? I'm a Catholic. Four hours from now . . . ' He broke off. ‘I should be on my knees, shouldn't I?' he sneered. ‘Repentance, lookin' for—what do they call it?'

‘Absolution?'

‘Aye. That's it. Absolution. And do you know what?' He spoke slowly, emphatically. ‘I don't give a single, solitary damn!'

‘Maybe you don't have to,' Dodson murmured. ‘For the last time, get back to that engine-room!'

‘No!'

The Engineer-Commander sighed, picked up the Thermos.

‘In that case, perhaps you would care to join me in a cup of coffee?'

Riley looked up, grinned, and when he spoke it was in a very creditable imitation of Colonel Chinstrap of the famous ITMA radio programme.

‘Ectually, I don't mind if I do!'

Vallery rolled over on his side, his legs doubled up, his hand automatically reaching for the towel. His emaciated body shook violently, and the sound of the harsh, retching cough beat back at him from the iron walls of his shelter. God, he thought, oh, God, it's never been as bad as this before. Funny, he thought, it doesn't hurt any more, not even a little bit. The attack eased. He looked at the crimson, sodden towel, flung it in sudden disgust and with what little feeble strength was left him into the darkest corner of the shelter.

‘You carry this damned ship on your back!' Unbidden, old Socrates's phrase came into his mind and he smiled faintly. Well, if ever they needed him, it was now. And if he waited any longer, he knew he could never be able to go.

He sat up, sweating with the effort, swung his legs carefully over the side. As his feet touched the deck, the
Ulysses
pitched suddenly, steeply, and he fell forward against a chair, sliding helplessly to the floor. It took an eternity of time, an infinite effort to drag himself to his feet again: another effort like that, he knew, would surely kill him.

And then there was the door—that heavy, steel door. Somehow he had to open it, and he knew he couldn't. But he laid hold of the handle and the door opened, and suddenly, miraculously, he was outside, gasping as the cruel, sub-zero wind seared down through his throat and wasted lungs.

He looked fore and aft. The fires were dying, he saw, the fires on the
Stirling
and on his own poop-deck. Thank God for that at least. Beside him, two men had just finished levering the door off the Asdic cabinet, were flashing a torch inside. But he couldn't bear to look: he averted his head, staggered with outstretched hands for the gate of the compass platform.

Turner saw him coming, hurried to meet him, helped him slowly to his chair.

‘You've no right to be here,' he said quietly. He looked at Vallery for a long moment. ‘How are you feeling, sir?'

‘I'm a good deal better, now, thanks,' Vallery replied. He smiled and went on: ‘We Rear-Admirals have our responsibilities, you know, Commander: it's time I began to earn my princely salary.'

‘Stand back, there!' Carrington ordered curtly. ‘Into the wheelhouse or up on the ladder—all of you. Let's have a look at this.'

He looked down at the great, steel hatch-cover. Looking at it, he realized he'd never before appreciated just how solid, how massive that cover was. The hatch-cover, open no more than an inch, was resting on a tommy-bar. He noticed the broken, stranded pulley, the heavy counter-weight lying against the sill of the wheelhouse. So that's off, he thought: thank the Lord for that, anyway.

‘Have you tried a block and tackle?' he asked abruptly.

‘Yes, sir,' the man nearest him replied. He pointed to a tangled heap in a corner. ‘No use, sir. The ladder takes the strain all right, but we can't get the hook under the hatch, except sideways—and then it slips off all the time.' He gestured to the hatch. ‘And every clip's either bent—they were opened by sledges—or at the wrong angle . . . I think I know how to use a block and tackle, sir.'

‘I'm sure you do,' Carrington said absently. ‘Here, give me a hand, will you?'

He hooked his fingers under the hatch, took a deep breath. The seaman at one side of the cover—the other side was hard against the after bulkhead—did the same. Together they strained, thighs and backs quivering under the strain. Carrington felt his face turning crimson with effort, heard the blood pounding in his ears, and relaxed. They were only killing themselves and that damned cover hadn't shifted a fraction—someone had done remarkably well to open it even that far. But even though they were tired and anything but fit, Carrington thought, two men should have been able to raise an edge of that hatch. He suspected that the hinges were jammed—or the deck buckled. If that were so, he mused, even if they could hook on a tackle, it would be of little help. A tackle was of no use when a sudden, immediate application of force was required; it always yielded that fraction before tightening up.