Мариус Габриэль - The Ocean Liner

Thomas felt that it was very personal indeed, though he didn’t say so. He was still aching for a kiss from Masha’s soft lips, which he was watching yearningly; but it didn’t come. Masha simply pressed his hand, looking warmly into his eyes. ‘Thank you, Thomas. I won’t forget it.’

And he had to be content with that.

Miss Fanny Ward was in a highly agitated state. She had called Mr Nightingale into her stateroom and was clutching at him with tears in her eyes.

‘I know someone has stolen them. And they’re precious, so precious. It’s not just the value of the stones, Mr Nightingale. They were given to me by Dotty’s father. They’re diamonds of the first water from South Africa. I would lose anything sooner than those. We must search the ship. Every cabin, every suitcase.’

‘Now then, Miss Ward,’ he said soothingly. ‘Now then . I couldn’t help noticing, in the lifeboats last night, that you were wearing rather a lot of jewellery. Is it possible that in all the excitement, you dropped the rings overboard?’

‘Look,’ she said piteously, holding out her hands for him to see. ‘They hardly fit over my knuckles any more. They simply can’t fall off!’

‘Let’s retrace your steps. Where were you when the alarm went off?’

She pointed to the bed. ‘Asleep.’

‘So you got up.’

‘I got up and I opened the door to ask what was going on. They told me there was a submarine. So I ran to my jewellery box and I took as many of my things as I could carry.’

‘Did you put the two diamond rings on?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember. I can’t remember if I did or not.’

‘And you’ve searched your jewellery box thoroughly?’

‘I’ve had every single thing out,’ she wailed. ‘I believe someone came into my cabin while I was in the lifeboat, and simply helped themselves!’

‘Let’s see, now.’ Mr Nightingale inspected the heavy, inlaid box. Then he took the walnut chest of drawers on which the box stood, and showing a surprising turn of strength, pulled it away from the bulkhead. He insinuated his slender body in the gap behind it, and bent down. When he straightened again, he was holding something in his hand.

‘One,’ he said, presenting Miss Ward with a sparkling diamond ring, ‘and two.’ He gave her the other.

Her face turned pink with delight, and for a moment it was as though she were indeed eternally young, eternally pretty.

‘Oh, Mr Nightingale. You are wonderful. They must have fallen down there while I was digging through the box.’

‘All’s well,’ Mr Nightingale said, pushing the chest of drawers back into its alcove, ‘that ends well.’

‘You must think me an awful old fool,’ she said, looking up at him through sparse, wet lashes. ‘But you know, at my age – well, this is all I have left.’

‘You still have your beauty,’ Mr Nightingale replied gallantly.

‘You’re a brave man,’ Miss Ward said gently. ‘In more ways than one. We all saw that the crew lifeboat was given up to the passengers.’

‘Just doing our job,’ he replied airily. ‘I’ve been doing this for a lot of years, as you well know, Miss Ward. And the passengers behaved awfully well.’

‘It’s one thing to endure dangling in a lifeboat; but it’s quite another to face going down with your ship and keeping a smile on your lips.’ Miss Ward selected a handsome ruby ring from her hoard and slipped it on to Mr Nightingale’s finger. ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever make this voyage again. This is something for you to remember me by.’

Flushed with pleasure, Mr Nightingale took her knobbly little claws in his own well-manicured hands and kissed them. ‘Bless you, Miss Ward.’

‘Bless you,’ she murmured, ‘Naughty Nightie.’

HMS Tisiphone , a spanking new Tclass submarine, recently completed by the VickersArmstrong’s engineering works in BarrowinFurness, sliced through the sparkling waves to investigate the results of the morning’s stalk. The mood on board was one of elation. Her crew, led by one of the Royal Navy’s youngest submarine skippers, Lieutenant-Commander George Henry Cottrell, crowded the deck, scanning the water around them. The 4-inch gun was manned, but there was no need for it; the single torpedo they had launched had sent the enemy submarine straight to the bottom. The Germans, as they all agreed, hadn’t even seen them coming.

Tisiphone eased through the floating debris and oil. They were looking for any survivors, but the crew were also eager for souvenirs of their first kill of the war. An enterprising AB was using a boathook to fish objects out of the drink. He was rewarded with a few German sailor’s caps, which were stuffed with kapok, and had floated to the surface. The men squabbled over these trophies eagerly.

‘Is there a boat’s name on any of them?’ Cottrell called out from the conning tower.

‘No, sir.’

They passed by the trash of onions, fragments of rubber and waterlogged debris of all sorts which floated languidly in the swell. A group of life jackets was revealed in a distant trough. The men shouted down to the control room, and Tisiphone nosed towards it.

Cottrell leaned on the rail over the eager ratings. ‘Keep an eye out for submerged wreckage.’

‘Aye-aye, sir.’

‘This one’s alive!’

The shout brought the crew of HMS Tisiphone scrambling to the starboard side to get a look. They had seen several bodies so far, mostly floating face down. But the boathook had pulled in a figure that moved feebly in the water, his pale face stark under a straggling beard, locks of hair plastered across the high forehead.

‘Come on, Fritz.’ Hands hauled the German on to the deck, where he lay dazed and staring. He was uninjured but in a state of shock, shivering violently with the cold and seemingly unable to understand or answer the questions he was asked. There were no insignia to be seen on his overalls. They began to wrap him in a blanket against hypothermia.

German voices could now be heard shouting hoarsely from the sea.

‘There are a few more of the buggers.’

Another four oily and exhausted German sailors were pulled on to the deck.

‘This one’s in a bad way,’ the AB reported. They took off the life jacket and examined the man’s wounds. ‘Looks like he’s been shot.’

‘Shot?’ Cottrell repeated. He clambered down from the conning tower to see the injured survivor at closer hand. Pushing his cap back on his head, he squatted in front of the German, who had been propped up against the turret. The German’s eyes were closed, but he was breathing shallowly. This man was too badly hurt to even tremble with the cold. Tentatively, Cottrell touched his uninjured arm. The man opened his eyes slowly and focused on Cottrell.

‘Hallo, Tommy,’ he murmured.

‘It’s George, actually,’ Cottrell said. ‘Do you speak English?’

‘Little bit.’

‘That makes things easier. What’s your name?’

‘Leutnant zur See Rudolf Hufnagel.’

This was rather too much of a mouthful for Cottrell to attempt. ‘Right. Are you the captain?’

The German shook his head slowly. ‘First Watch Officer.’

‘And the name of your boat?’

‘ U-113 .’

‘Thank you.’ Cottrell indicated Hufnagel’s wounds. ‘Just to be clear, we didn’t shoot you. We only torpedoed your sub.’

Hufnagel nodded wearily. ‘I know this.’

‘Would you like to tell me who did shoot you?’

The German moved his bedraggled head in the direction of the other survivor, closing his eyes again. ‘That man.’