Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

That would mean Whale Island. Everything at the double and precise. Mature consideration, taking all of five seconds, suggested that Higgins would not survive the first day of his gunnery course.

“Although, perhaps not. General duties rather than a specialisation – often a better route to promotion.”

“Oh, good, sir. The mater wrote me only yesterday enquiring how soon I would be captain of my own ship. I am writing back now to explain that it takes a number of years, even in wartime. I cannot possibly be given even the smallest boat until I am a lieutenant, and that will not be this year.”

Or next, Simon suspected, unless…

“There is word down the line of small gunboats and torpedo boats in the offing, Mr Higgins. A crew of three or four, perhaps, for the torpedo boats. Coastal Motor Boats, I believe they are calling them. A young lieutenant, even a sub, could make a name for himself with one of those.”

“The mater would be terribly delighted was I to be given a command, even a little one. She was so pleased when I was given my Mention, sir, told me I should give you her thanks. I thought it might be undisciplined if I did, sir, so I did not.”

“It’s not entirely usual, Mr Higgins. Not an offence, though. Express my good wishes to her in your letter, if you would be so good.”

“Oh, she would be delighted by that, sir. She has told me how lucky I was to end up under your command and how kind of you to take me with you to your next ship.”

If only the poor boy knew the reality, that he had been dumped on Simon and left with him as result of pressure from on high.

“I have no doubt that you will make a fine officer and a credit to me, Mr Higgins. Persevere with your navigation – you will have to find your own way if ever you end up in a boat of your own.”

Higgins beamed, delighted that the captain he worshipped should say such kind things to him. He would work his very hardest to justify his faith in him.

Simon retreated to his cabin, calling for Canning, his first lieutenant.

“Zeebrugge again, Canning. Sail on this morning’s tide for Dunkerque, a high speed run and a few manoeuvres while we are at it – just basic stuff, line astern to abreast then to echelon, presenting the broadsides to either quarter, sort of thing. You can deal with that – good experience for you. I have recommended you for command, by the way.”

Canning made his thanks, having thought that his previous captain’s personal report on him would doom him for years.

“What did he have against you, Canning?”

“Well, in fact, sir, it was more a private sort of thing… Not really a Service matter.”

“Oh, good! That will make it far more interesting!”

Canning surrendered and told all.

“Very well, sir. It was a matter of a young lady in Dover – no, that’s wrong, definitely not a lady! Not a whore as such, sir, far from it, she never took money though she had no objection to the odd expensive little present – every week, that was. I knew her first and we had a bit of a thing going for a few weeks. It tailed off, as these things do, sir, and she met up with the captain. Might be she dropped me in his favour, in fact, he being able to afford more expensive presents. All done in good humour, staying friends, you might say, until she fell out with the captain. Why and how, I do not know, but it was in company and she tore him off a strip and ended up by saying that he need not act so self-satisfied, he was not half so good in bed as Brian Canning!”

“Whoops! How soon after that did he file his court martial papers for insubordination?”

“Within the day, sir. I informed my Friend of the details and he spoke to the lawyer from the Attorney General’s department and the Court never heard anything in public – to avoid scandal – and dismissed the charges against me. It did look as if it was going to end my career, sir, then they sent me here as an effective promotion.”

“Quite right, too, Canning. An abuse of the Service, trying to court-martial you. Funny, though!”

“After the event perhaps, sir. Young McCracken should make lieutenant very soon, sir. An able lad. It will allow us to promote young Waller as well.”

“Agreed. I shall put their papers through to the Commodore later in the week. I intend to recommend Higgins for one of these little torpedo craft that are coming into service. He might do well in one of them. He won’t make the grade in anything else.”

“Hardly wise, I would have thought, sir. Not the most able of young men… In fact, damned near the least able I have ever come across.”

“I know. His parentage is the problem, Canning. Let me explain…”

A couple of minutes and Canning sat back, amused and horror-stricken simultaneously.

“One of Dirty Bertie’s bastards! Supposed to be a number of them about, sir. Got to do something for him… A small boat going out in hunt of big game along the coast gives him the chance to make a name for himself without demanding a lot by way of ability. Gets him off our backs as well, sir.”

“Exactly, Canning. I suspect it will get him off everybody’s back in short order. He will take the craziest risks for not realising what they are. There’s a chance he will get away with it – I hope so, I have a slight liking for the lad. If he succeeds, then he becomes the Admiralty’s problem – they will have to work out what to do with him next. If he fails, then he is nobody’s problem; chances are there won’t even be a body to bury.”

“Highly satisfactory, sir. Young Waller is up for his certificate, by the way. Be useful to have him as a watchkeeper.”

“That’s quick – mind you, he has been yachting since he was ten, crewing that is, so he probably knew all he needed before he joined up. Get it written up and I will present it to him.”

Canning produced the document, typed up by a seaman writer on the depot ship, looking very official. Simon signed it and called for Waller.

The boy ran from the wardroom, a matter of a very few yards.

“Found this piece of paper lying about my desk, Waller. It belongs to you.”

A few seconds to take in what it actually was followed by a pleased grin.

“That makes me a watchkeeping officer, does it not, sir?”

“It does, Waller. Well done. You are truly one of us now. Keep learning – there is a lot more to pick up. A good start, young man! Mr Canning will rewrite the watch list to include you with early effect.”

They moved up to the bridge, readying for the day’s business.

“Yeoman, signal half-flotilla to be ready to sail at the top of the tide, in conformity to written orders. You will take us out, Mr Canning. Mr Rees!”

The Commissioned Gunner trotted up to the bridge, carrying something wrapped in canvas.

“A quick rundown on the new Lewises, Mr Rees.”

“Pair of twins, sir, with the new pans. I had hoped for something heavier but anything I could lay my hands on was belt fed. That demands a crew of at least two and would not fit in on the bridge. The Lewises are very similar to the original model, takes two minutes to learn the difference. Higgins has picked it up.”

“Must be simple then, Mr Rees. What are you carrying? That looks like a rifle butt.”

“A Hotchkiss machine gun, sir. French originally, going into production in England at the moment, firing three-o-three rounds. Managed to get hold of a couple through an acquaintance, sir. Longer effective range than the Lewis which might make them come in handy. Higher muzzle velocity. I was thinking of setting their little tripod up on a sort of a pole mounting, hooking them on when wanted, for use against aeroplanes. Could put them up on the Maxim bandstand, sir.”

“Go ahead, Mr Rees. Useful to have some way of irritating those things in the sky. Much in favour, in fact.”