We Saw The Sea (13 page)

“What did I tell you, Pilot!“ cried the Captain jubilantly. “It’s land after all! The damn thing must have been forced up from the sea bed. If we came back here tomorrow there probably wouldn’t be a sign of it. Pass the word to that press representative. This is right up his street.”

The ship began to swing wildly off course.

“Thirty of port wheel on, sir!” shouted the helmsman. “Can’t hold course, sir!”

“
Hard
a port!”

“Hard a port, sir. . . . Wheel’s hard a port, sir! Ship’s not answering, sir! “

“Very good. Midships.”

“Midships. . . . Wheel’s amidships, sir.”

Carousel
spun like a toy boat in a bath. On either side swelling eddies surged up and shoals of fish swirled to the surface and were dragged down again. Solitary waves, lead-coloured and as much as twenty feet high, reared and fell onto the upper deck.
Carousel
had been caught in an oceanic convulsion like the birth pang of the planet itself.

Fine dust drifted and settled on the upper decks and superstructure and the Captain found time to think of the Commander’s face when the watches fell in to scrub decks.

“Senior Engineer on the telephone, sir. He’ll have to shut down the main engines soon, sir, the sea temperature’s over a hundred, sir. . . .”

“Main switchboard report two turbo-generators off the board, sir. . . .”

Stephen Ropehead appeared on the bridge and the Navigation Officer rolled a frenzied eye at him.

“Here you are! Put this in your damned scandal sheet! “ Stephen looked at the thundering column of boulders, the huge livid waves leaping and plunging at random in every direction, and the yellow banks of dust. He shrugged his shoulders.

“No human interest,” he said.

The ship swung her stern to the island and the Captain seized his chance.

“Hard a starboard!”

“Sea temperature’s still rising, sir. . . .”

“
Full
ahead together!
Bugger
the sea temperature!” Black smoke poured from the funnels as the chief stokers in the boiler rooms ordered more sprayers. Shuddering along every girder and plate as she strained round in her turn, the ship fought clear and, still accelerating, glided into cool blue water.

“Half ahead together.”

The bow wave dropped. The boiling wake subsided. The Commander appeared on deck and glared in disbelief at the dust on the quarter-deck.

“Let that be a lesson to us, Pilot,” said the Captain. “Mind your own bloody business until after breakfast!”

The ship returned to normality so quickly that it was difficult for the Captain to believe that the volcanic island had not been a phantom; only the cloud, now far astern, remained as proof that he had not dreamed the whole incident. The dust, however, was not a trick of imagination. It lay thickly all over the ship and the seamen had to use hoses to wash it off.

Mr Merrydown appeared on the bridge.

“Pity we couldn’t have avoided the dust, Captain,” he said severely. “It’s very bad for the works.”

The Captain remembered. “The trial! I’d forgotten about it. What are we to do now, Pilot? We obviously can’t have it here.”

“We can go north about fifty miles from here, sir, and still be in the area. It brings us a bit nearer the shipping routes but it should be pretty clear. It’s been published in the Notices to Mariners.”

The Captain snorted derisively. “Fat lot of good that will be. If you want to keep anything a secret, publish it in Notices to Mariners. We’d better close up radar. We’ll start the trial at nine-thirty. What do you want us to do, Merrydown?”

“We’d like to fire the first one with the ship stopped, Captain. Then at low speeds, working up to as fast as you can go, steaming on a north-south line. Then we’ll do the same thing on an east-west line. Finally we’ll fire with the ship circling. After that, Bat and I will correlate the data and decide whether we require another set of readings.”

At nine-thirty, Bat Masterson stepped proudly up to Miranda, like a conductor mounting his rostrum. All the other mornings had been rehearsals; this was the performance. Bat Masterson and the Conference Pear climbed into their seats, made switches, set levers, and waited for Miranda’s tuning noise, warming the intricate circuits and relays in her interior. But Miranda remained passive and silent. Patiently, like a rider whose horse is being fractious, Bat Masterson went through Miranda’s starting routine again. But still Miranda refused to start. The sailors watched with bated breaths; their hearts were with Bat Masterson.

“What’s the matter, Bat?” Mr Merrydown shouted from the screen.

Bat Masterson ignored him and set himself to start Miranda. No theatre organist practising for an audition, no lathe operator turning out jobs against the clock, could have rivalled Bat Masterson’s performance in the following minutes. He pounced from knob to lever and from lever to switch. He set gauges to zero and levers to maximum. He reset gauges to full deflection and levers to neutral. He tried every permutation and combination of the controls. But Miranda remained unresponsive.

At last, red-faced and unable to meet the eyes of the sailors, Bat Masterson climbed down and opened a small tool box set in Miranda’s base. He took out a crank and inserted it in a hole in the side of the pedestal.

“Well, goddamn my old sombrero,” said The Bodger. “It’s a starting-handle! “

But the starting-handle was of no more use than anything else. Bat Masterson and the Conference Pear both tried. But Miranda refused to start.

Paul and Mechanician Fogarty--with bundle of cotton waste and a hammer--waited at the base of the pedestal. Although neither of them knew anything about Miranda, they had both felt that they ought to be there.

“What’s the matter, Bat?”

Bat Masterson turned and gestured hopelessly. He was almost in tears.

“I don’t know. She’s never done this to me before.”

Mechanician Fogarty tired of the inaction. He strode forward firmly and struck Miranda a resounding blow on the barrel with his hammer. Immediately Miranda hummed into vibrant, chuckling life. Bat Masterson and the Conference Pear leaped into their seats and tried out the controls. Miranda functioned perfectly, performing all her set pieces, even to spinning like a top; she had recognized the hammer blow of a master.

“Thank God for that,” said the Captain. “Can we start now, Merrydown?”

“As soon as you’re ready, Captain.”

“Anything on radar?”

“Scan clear of all contacts in long range, sir.”

“Very good. All right, Merrydown, it’s all yours. The ship’s stopped and we’re heading north.”

“Right. We’ll fire the first one on a bearing of red three zero.”

Bat Masterson brought Miranda to a bearing of red three zero. As soon as he had set the bearing and bent himself to the firing circuit, Miranda trained herself to a bearing of green three zero. Again Bat Masterson brought her to point on the port bow and again, slowly but inexorably, Miranda swung round to starboard.

“What the hell’s wrong now,” the Captain muttered. “What’s the matter, Bat?”

“She’s preset to green three zero. It must be the computer.”

“Does it matter whether it fires to port or starboard?” the Captain asked.

“Not at all, Captain. All right, Bat, we’ll fire the first one on green three zero.”

Bat Masterson made one more attempt to point Miranda on red three zero but Miranda was adamant. “Check radar,” said the Captain.

“Scan clear of all contacts in long range, sir.”

“Very good. Go ahead, Merrydown.”

Bat Masterson held up his thumb. The Conference Pear, in the lower seat, held up his thumb. Beetle and Mr Merrydown held up their thumbs and all the sailors standing in rows in the background held up their thumbs. Mr Merrydown completed the count-down.

Whatever her other shortcomings, Miranda fulfilled all expectations in her moment of truth. The cable deck, A gun deck and Miranda herself disappeared in a pall of black smoke. The thunder of Miranda’s mighty voice rolled away into the sky and the violence of her recoil shook
Carousel
from end to end. When the smoke cleared Miranda and Bat Masterson and the Conference Pear could be seen spinning like a top.

‘‘
Goddamn
my old sombrero!”

“Are you all right, Bat?”

“Scan clear of all contacts in long range, sir.”

“Red rocket fire on the starboard bow, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s another one, sir.”

“Does this thing fire a red rocket when it lands, Merry down?”

“No. The nose cap stains the water yellow.”

“My Good God,” whispered the Navigating Officer, piously, “we’ve hit some poor bastard. Right in the middle of the Pacific! With the press on board too! “

Through his binoculars the Captain could see the thin tracing of a rocket on the horizon. As he watched, it was followed by another and by a puff of black smoke.

“Scan clear of all contacts in long range. . . .”

The Captain’s face distorted in a hideous grimace of rage. “
Somebody
tell that man to stop making bloody stupid reports before I go in there myself and . . .”

The Navigating Officer sprang into the Radar office. He found Able Seaman Golightly, the R.P. rating on watch, conscious that there was some upset on the compass platform, studying his plot and anxiously turning the tuning dials.

“I think the set’s off tune, sir.”

The Navigating Officer controlled himself. “Now you tell us,” he said coldly.

“Contact zero-two-nine,” reported Able Seaman Golightly suddenly, “forty-five thousand yards, moving slowly left, range closing, sir.”

“That must be the nose-cap,” said Mr Merrydown. “Nose-cap be damned!” the Captain retorted. “That’s a ship and there’ll be hell to pay if your damned machine’s hit it! Well, we’ll go and see. Come round to zero-two-nine,” he said to Michael, who was Officer of the Watch.

Michael took a professional pride in bringing the ship to her new course with the minimum of helm orders. Besides, he was conscious that Stephen was watching him.

“. . Midships, steady.”

“Midships, steady, sir. Zero-two-six, sir.”

“Steer zero-two-nine.”

Michael lifted his head from the compass.

“Hobbes,” said the Captain, “never give a helmsman the order ‘Steady’ unless you’re within two degrees of your course.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Michael, his cheeks burning. He could see Stephen grinning. The Captain, too, had noticed Stephen; he had a momentary vision of the headlines--“Navy’s secret weapon strikes innocent ship”--”Another Lucky Dragon?” For a moment the Captain sighed for an old-time sea captain’s power of permanent arrest.

Miranda had been cleverer than any of them. There was indeed a ship over the horizon, on Miranda’s exact firing bearing. She was a small coaster, heading east but apparently stopped and rolling in the long Pacific swell. She had black sides and a red funnel with a black band. Her two masts were covered with flags and lines of washing hung on her quarter-deck. With her high bow and tapered stern, her flying flags and her perky funnel, her whole appearance suggested ruffled dignity, like a hen who has been suddenly sprayed with water. The sea around her was stained yellow.

The Chief Yeoman of Signals put his telescope to his eye.

“She’s wearing the Liberian flag, sir,” he said.

“What signal is she flying?”

“Can’t read it, sir. Most probably Liberian swear-words,” the Chief Yeoman added, under his breath.

“We’ll send away a boat to pick up the nose-cap and give them a couple of bottles of whisky. That should make our peace with them. Pass the word to the First Lieutenant to lower the seaboat.”

Carousel
stopped three cables from the coaster and lowered the whaler. As the boat crept over the intervening water,
Carousel
’s ship’s company studied the coaster.

A crowd had gathered on the coaster’s upper deck to stare at the cruiser. One figure stood out amongst them.

“What an Amazon!“ said the Navigating Officer.

She stood well over six feet in her leather sea-boots. Her flaxen hair hung down to her waist in two plaits like hawsers. She wore a vast pair of blue overalls gathered by a length of rope. The whaler’s crew had noticed her too.

“Talk about the Widow Twanky,” said Stephen, who had slipped past The Bodger and into the boat at the last moment. His eyes were gleaming at the prospect of a world scoop.

The Widow Twanky put her hands to her lips. Even at that distance they could hear her voice as plainly as though she were in the whaler.

“What language is that, I wonder?” said Stephen.

“Swedish,” said Bat Masterson, unexpectedly.

The Widow Twanky spoke for some time.

“What’s she saying?” asked Andrew Bowles, who was the midshipman of the boat.

“She says go away.”

“I’ll hold up the whisky bottles,” said Stephen. “That should soften her.”

The Widow Twanky spoke again.

“What’s she saying now?”

“She’s telling you what to do with the whisky bottles.”

“Ask her if she’s seen the nose-cap.”

Bat Masterson shouted the question over the water. The Widow Twanky gave a short answer.

“What does she say?”

“She’s telling you what to do with the nose-cap.”

The whisky bottles, however, had attracted the attention and approval of at least one other member of the coaster’s ship’s company. A tiny man in a moustache and an apron was hovering about behind the Widow Twanky. He was gesturing towards the whaler.

“He wants us to go round the other side.”

“Let’s do that then,” said Stephen. “I want to go on board.”

Bat Masterson eyed the Widow Twanky. “Do you think that’s wise?” he said.

“Of course. I’ll show them my press-card.”

There was a jumping ladder hanging down the coaster’s side and Stephen began to climb up it. When he reached the top there was an outraged bellow and a scuffle. Stephen described a parabola. They heard him yell as he hit the water.

“He
would
go, you see,” said Bat Masterson.

The Bodger was watching through a telescope. “I’ve just remembered who that bloke is,” he said. “He was an ordinary seaman doing his National Service when I was Jimmy of
Voluminous
. “
There
he goes. How
splendid
! “