Pride and the Anguish (33 page)

A seaman called in a hushed voice, “Right, sir!”

There was a quick hiss of steam from the capstan, and then with a determined grunt the cable began to move slowly through the hawsepipe. Clank, clank, clank, each link jarring a fresh memory alive in Trewin's thoughts as he stood in silence watching the shore.

He knew he was seeing the falling of a fortress, perhaps the end of a whole era, but his mind refused to stay aloof from the separate, more personal pictures which flitted across it in time with the dripping links of anchor cable.

In the late afternoon he had been ashore for the last time.
With Dancy and some armed ratings he had gone to collect a few more men to replace the Chinese sailors. That part had been easier than he had expected. He had found some stokers from the port launches all together in a deserted canteen amidst a litter of beer bottles. They had been preparing to await the final collapse in their own way, and had stared at Trewin and the others like men watching a small miracle.

Above the crackle of flames he had suddenly heard the plaintive wail of bagpipes, and with his men had stood aside as a platoon of Scottish soldiers had marched through the smoke behind their piper, their arms swinging, their step as firm as if they had been on parade. Now, looking back, it seemed as if every soldier had had the same face.

He had found four marine bandsmen wandering aimlessly through a street carrying their instruments even in the face of disaster, and when he had ordered them to the motor boat one of them had burst into tears.

As they had made their way to the pier Trewin had glanced into an open-fronted restaurant. The place had been deserted but for a middle-aged couple. They had been sitting at a table holding hands and staring at each other across a last meal. They did not even look at Trewin as he passed. There had been candles burning on the table and wine in an ice bucket.

Hammond leaned right over the rail and called softly, “Up and down, Number One!”

Trewin flashed his torch twice towards the bridge and heard the clang of telegraphs.

There had been other sights, too. Of men driven beyond reason, robbing shops and stores with pointless fury and desperation. He had seen women amongst them, wild-eyed and screaming as they were caught in the hysteria of terror and defeat.

As they had climbed on to the pier they had seen some native policemen wearing small Japanese flags on their tunics, and Dancy had pulled his revolver angrily from his holster,
muttering, “The bastards! They won't live to welcome the Japs!”

But Trewin had pushed his arm down. “Leave them, Buffer! Let them find their escape their own way. It'll be hard to stay alive anyway, let alone for those who served the British.”

“Anchor's aweigh!”

Trewin watched the cable go bar taut and swing like a pendulum, then flashed his torch once more. The deck gave a nervous quiver, and he saw the water begin to froth away from the stem in a small but increasing wave. They were moving.

He said, “Secure for sea, Sub.” Then he turned and made his way back to the bridge.

He passed Dancy by the four-inch gun and heard him say quietly, “It's like watching the end of everything.”

Trewin sighed. “Better to have your dreams shattered now than have nightmares for the rest of your life, Buffer.” He touched his arm and began to climb up the ladder. Looking down he saw Dancy still watching the fierce glow above Singapore, his body swaying stiffly with the ship's gentle movement. Like the day the
Prince of Wales
and
Repulse
had been sunk, Trewin thought grimly.

On the upper bridge it was very quiet, with the silent figures standing out in various hues from the reflected fires. Corbett was by the screen, head jutting forward towards the bows.

“Slow ahead port, half astern starboard.” His voice was clipped but quite calm.

Trewin watched the great panorama swinging slowly across the ship's bows, remembering Adair's words with sudden clarity. “… so that I shall remember. Always!”

“Stop starboard.” Corbett half turned, his face pale in the glow. “Half ahead both engines. One one zero revolutions.”

The
Porcupine
shivered and then began to push steadily down channel, her wash rolling away and breaking against the forlorn and deserted buoys.

Corbett added sharply, “Tell the coxswain to watch his steering! We can't be too sure of the rudder yet.”

A man said quietly, “Listen to 'im! 'Is son's dead, all 'ell is burnin' over there, and 'e just sits there givin' orders like nothin' 'as 'appened!”

Trewin turned swiftly, his rebuke caught in mid-air as he heard Masters, the yeoman, growl, “An' just you pray 'e keeps on sittin' there, you stupid bugger!”

Trewin climbed on to the gratings and said, “Ship secured for sea, sir.”

“Very good.” Corbett rapped, “Port ten! Midships!” He leaned out across the screen to watch a sodden black shape slide abeam. It might have been a capsized boat or part of a bomb-blasted building. He said, “We must get well clear of the island by dawn. It will be alive with enemy aircraft soon.”

“Yes, sir.” Trewin watched the drifting clouds of sparks from a tall, gutted warehouse. It was impossible, but he imagined he could feel the savage heat on his face even across the long stretch of water.

He heard Corbett say distantly, “There's no defence against one's imagination. I suppose that's where our real weakness lies.” He turned and stared at his profile, but Corbett was again looking at the bows.

Trewin said, “Shall I take the con, sir?”

Corbett shook his head. “Not yet, Trewin.” He ran his hands along the screen. “She'll be all right.”

Trewin stepped down and waited beside the voice-pipe. To Corbett their stealthy departure must mean so much more. Over there, amidst the flames and the despair, he was leaving part of himself. His hopes, his beliefs and what happiness he had ever known.

Trewin shook his head. No, this was not a moment Corbett would want to share with anyone.

O
NCE CLEAR
of the port waters the
Porcupine
made a wide turn and headed west for the Durian Strait. The slow journey was an agony of strain and concentration as the little ship picked her way between the sprawling mass of islands and reefs, narrow channels and tiny islets which guarded the southern approaches to Singapore and through which lay the only safe path to the Strait.

Hardly a full five minutes would pass without alterations of course and speed, and twice on the first leg of the journey the ship ran aground. With white breakers leaping from nearby rocks the engines were coaxed astern until finally the gunboat backed clear and picked up her course once more into the darkness.

Still under cover of night they turned south into the Durian Strait and increased speed, caution giving way to urgency as the first pale gleam of dawn showed itself above the nearby islands.

With every man holding his breath the
Porcupine
swung inshore towards the southernmost island in the group and dropped her anchor within yards of a smooth, deserted beach. The sunlight was already touching the topmasts as seamen swarmed ashore to gather palm fronds while others rigged nets and shredded awnings across the bridge and superstructure. When at last a look-out reported an approaching aircraft the ship was competely camouflaged in a mass of freshly cut palms and bushes, so that from the air she would appear as just one more extension to the land.

Food was served on deck as the ship's company seemed unwilling to go below except for matters of duty. As the day wore on they squatted or lay about the decks, staring up through their flimsy protection at the regular comings and goings of enemy aircraft. Mostly they flew low overhead, confident and
indifferent, each pilot aware that there was no longer fear of attack or of a sudden barrage. But no aircraft altered course to inspect the little bay, nor did anyone apparently notice the thin wisp of funnel smoke which drifted skyward as evidence of the ship's readiness for instant departure.

Nimmo and the resourceful Sergeant Pitt took turns in diving in the clear water to inspect the rudders, but as far as they could judge the repairs had withstood the rough passage well.

Trewin made himself go to his cabin to shave and change his shirt. It was more as something to keep him occupied than for any hope of wiping away the strain of the first part of the journey. Looking at the chart did not help either. It had taken the whole night to cover a total distance of forty miles, and there were still over five hundred to go before any sort of help could be expected. The ship was very quiet. Just the whirr of fans and the gentle murmur of a generator, nothing else moved. It was strange that he had not considered this part of the plan. He was not even sure that he had thought of anything but the actual moment of escape.

During the nerve-dragging hours of darkness, while every man on the bridge had strained his eyes into the black curtain beyond the bows, Corbett had said suddenly, “We'll stand no chance at all if we just try and run for it. That was why
Beaver
was caught.”

Nobody had turned to look at him, yet Trewin knew that every man within earshot was hanging on Corbett's words. Even now, in the privacy of his cabin, he could hear the steady swish of water against the hull, the monotonous bleep of the echo sounder, the rasp of his own breath as he had waited with the others.

Corbett had continued, “We shall steam by night and take cover during the daylight hours. We will keep well clear of Sumatra and instead hug the islands as far south as we can.” He had turned to look at Mallory. “We should pass through the Berhala Strait tomorrow night and make for the Seven Islands
Group.” He had paused to allow his words to sink in. “That'll mean crossing open water, sixty miles or so. After that we just have to wait our chance to cross the next big stretch of open sea to pass round Banka Island.” He had become suddenly grave. “Once through the Banka Strait we will be on the last lap.”

Corbett was there now on the upper bridge, sitting in his chair, absorbed in his thoughts and sharing them with no one. It was impossible to reach Corbett. What little understanding there may have been seemed to have been severed and left behind in Singapore. It was just as if Corbett needed every ounce of power and strength concentrated in his mind and that his body and personal thoughts had become merely incidental.

There was a tap at the door, and Trewin turned to stare at Ching's gaunt, bearded face, as if he was looking at a ghost. “I thought you had left the ship with the others, Ching.” Even as he spoke Trewin's tired mind registered the fact that his bunk was neatly made and his shirt had been freshly laundered.

Ching's hooded eyes glittered. “This ship my home also, sir. I not leave now. Not when I am needed.”

Trewin felt strangely moved. “Did you want something?”

“Captain send for you, sir. On bridge.”

Trewin reached for his cap. “Trouble?”

The old Chinese shrugged. “All kinds of trouble, sir. Some worse than others, but all bad.”

Trewin smiled. “Well, it's good to see your face again. I thought I'd made a complete check before we sailed.”

Ching showed his yellow teeth. “I hide in paint store, sir.”

Trewin shook his head. “When did you get out?”

“This morning, sir. Mr. Tweedie found me an' say he going to kick my bloody arse for me!” The old man's grin widened. “But I think it worth it all same.”

Trewin climbed up to the bridge and found Hammond standing grim faced beside Corbett's chair. The captain had a steel mirror propped against the screen and was shaving with an open razor. He gestured with the blade. “Tell the first lieutenant.”
Then he carried on shaving.

Hammond looked hollow eyed, and Trewin saw that his shoes and legs were caked with slime and wet sand. He said, “I have been ashore on a reccee, Number One. This island is supposed to be uninhabited, but I went to make sure.”

Trewin nodded. That again was typical of Corbett to remember the small but essential matters of detail. Like paragraphs in a long-discarded training manual, he seemed to produce each item with neither effort nor conscious thought.

“I took Petty Officer Kane.” Hammond looked at his shoes. “On the far side of the place there's another little bay, just like this one.” He was speaking more quickly now, describing each moment just as he had seen it. “Kane said that there was driftwood in the water, and I thought it might be some wreckage from the
Beaver
.” He looked directly at Trewin. “They were dead bodies. A whole line of them, just rolling about in the surf, forgotten, left like slaughtered pigs!”

Trewin asked flatly, “Some of our men?”

Hammond gripped the chart table. “They were all women. Nurses!”

Corbett was wiping the razor on his towel. He said, “They had apparently been marched into the sea and machine-gunned from the beach.”

Hammond said in a choked voice, “They didn't
have
to do that, did they? For Christ's sake,
nurses
!”

Corbett turned and looked at him impassively. “The point is that the enemy has been here recently. We will have to be more careful than ever.”

Hammond looked at Trewin, his eyes pleading. “Couldn't we go back and bury them? It wouldn't take long, and I know that our people would want it that way.”

Corbett said, “I'm afraid that is impossible. It would simply be asking for trouble if the graves were seen by a patrol.”

Trewin took Hammond's arm and guided him to the rear of the bridge. “He's right, Sub. I'd have said the same.”

Hammond bit his lip. “I kept thinking of Jacqui. I walked through the surf looking at their faces. Some of them were just girls!”

Trewin said, “I know. Thank God Adair commands the
Prawn.
He knows these waters well. His passengers will stand a better chance.” He thought of Clare's dark, pleading eyes. “The best chance in the world.”