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  Ten minutes later the Liberty boat in the next berth to us slipped her moorings and with much hooting was hauled out into the open river by a diminutive tug that fussed around, churning the cold slate surface of the water to a muddy brown. I took a stroll round the ship. There was no doubt about it, we were getting ready to sail, and I began to feel that sense of excitement that is inevitable with the thought of putting to sea.

  As I came abreast of the gangway I saw the figure of the first mate hurrying across the quayside. He walked quickly up the gangway and disappeared below the bridge in the direction of the Captain’s cabin. I was reminded then of the conversation I had overheard the previous night. I leaned against the rail staring down unseeingly at the bustle of the docks, trying to figure out what had been meant, when Rankin’s voice interrupted my thoughts, “Get your bedding all right, Corporal Vardy?” he asked.

  I turned. His face looked grey above the blue-clothed bulk of his body and the little oyster eyes were bloodshot. “Yes,” I said, “I got them all right.” And then without stopping to think, I said, “Does the name Kalinsky mean anything to you, Rankin?”

  He took a little breath and his eyes narrowed. “You trying to be funny, Corporal?” he asked, endeavouring to cover that momentary shock.

  “No,” I said. “I just happened to hear two people mention your name in connection with Kalinsky.”

  “Who were they?” he asked.

  I turned to go. But he caught me by the shoulder and spun me round. “Who were they?” he hissed angrily.

  The bloodshot little eyes were staring at me over their pouches of flesh and there was a flicker of something I couldn’t make out for a moment. And then I realised that he was frightened. “Who were they?” he repeated.

  “The Captain and the first mate,” I said.

  He let me go then and I left him standing slightly dazed at the top of the gangway. It was warmer now and the heat of the boilers was melting the snow round the engine-room hatches. Several ships had moved out into the harbour and there was an air of expectancy over the ship and the port that it was impossible to ignore.

  I went below for a shave. The crew’s washrooms were primitive. But there was plenty of hot water. The cook was standing in the open doorway of the galley, a fat, greasy man with a wart on his lower lip and little twinkling brown eyes. He produced a tin mug full of steaming cocoa for me with the conspiratorial air of an amateur producing a rabbit out of a hat.

  I stood chatting with him as I drank, gratefully sweating in the warmth of his roaring galley fires. He’d been in almost every port on the globe. This was his fourth visit to Murmansk. “Ever heard of a man called Kalinsky in Murmansk?” I asked.

  “On Molotov Street—wot used to be St. Peter’s Street?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “What sort of a bloke is he?”

  “Well, he ain’t a Slav and he ain’t a Jew and he ain’t a Turk neither, nor a Greek,” he said. “But I guess he’s a mixture of every race that ever set up shop to barter the pants off of an honest seaman. He’s wot we’d call in England a fence. Why, you ain’t in trouble with him, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve got nothing to barter except my rifle.”

  His round little tummy heaved with laughter. “Kalinsky ain’t above buying rifles,” he said. “He’s doing a good trade just at the moment in rifles and sabres with the Yanks as souvenirs of Russia. Swears they’re Cossack, but they range from Lee Enfields to Italian carabinieri carbines.”

  The whole thing fell into place now. Rankin had been in charge of some Naval stores and Kalinsky was a receiver. No wonder Rankin had had plenty of money. But what puzzled me was why the Captain and his first mate wanted a hold over Rankin.

  It was past eleven when I went up on deck again and Bert was on duty. “Any signs of our pushing off?” I asked him.

  “Not a sign.”

  The gangway was still down. But the Captain was up on the bridge, pacing to and fro, his black, pointed beard darting aggressively about him as he surveyed his ship. The quayside was practically empty. A solitary girl walked through the churned-up snow. She was dressed in a khaki greatcoat. A black beret was pulled over her dark curls and she carried a kitbag. She was looking up at the name of the ship, her face white in the dull light. Then she made for the gangway and began to struggle up it, trailing the kitbag behind her.

  “Blimey! there’s a girl comin’ on board,” Bert said, catching hold of my sleeve. “Don’t look all that strong neither. Why don’t yer go an’ give her a ’and wiv ’er kit?” Then as I didn’t say anything, he pushed his rifle into my hand. “’Ere ’ang on to that, mate, an’ pretend yer on guard. If you ain’t goin’ ter be a little gentleman I s’ppose I’ll ’ave ter show yer that’s it’s a board school eddication wot’s the best.”

  It’s incredible to think that I let Bert go and help her up the gangway, instead of going myself. Was it because I was too busy gazing at that white, strained face? It was a sad face and yet it looked as though it should have been gay. I wondered about her nationality and why she was coming aboard a ship bound for England. Some stray emerging from war-shattered Europe—a Pole perhaps, or a Czech, or possibly a Frenchwoman?

  I watched Bert shoulder her kitbag, saw the sudden flash of a smile on that wan face and then a voice at my elbow said, “Have ye seen Warrant Officer Rankin, Corporal?”

  It was Hendrik. “Not for the last hour,” I told him. “Why?”

  “The Old Man wants him. If ye see him, tell him to be gude enough to step up to the bridge.”

  He went for’ard and I stood there looking down at the empty quayside. The ice in the snow ruts ruled black lines beside the sheds. A tug hooted close by and a voice from the bridge—Hendrik’s voice—called through a megaphone, “Stand by to catch that line, Jukes.”

  Bert suddenly materialised from the companionway, his leathery little face puckered in a grin. “Well,” I said as he took his rifle, “what was she like?”

  “As nice a kid as I met in me natural,” he replied. “An’ believe it or not, mate, she’s English. Name of Jennifer Sorrel. Seen it on the label of ’er kitbag. Gawd knows wot she’s doin’ in this dump. Didn’t ast ’er. But she looks as though she’s ’ad a pretty thin time of it. Face as white as the snow on that roof over there and the skin sort of transparent-like and dark rings under the eyes. But a lady, I could tell that.” He began whistling Daisy, Daisy, or trying to, for he’d lost the art with his teeth. “That Mr. Cousins, wot’s second officer, he took charge of ’er. The bleedin’ officers always ’as all the luck. An’ me wiv no teeth in me ’ead. The missis ain’t ’alf goin’ ter kid me aba’t that. ’Ope the new’ns ’ave come through. They should ’ave by now, shouldn’t they? ’Ullo, they’re gettin’ the gangway up. That means we’re on our way, don’t it?”

  As if in answer to his question the Trikkala’s siren blared forth. A feather of white steam blew at the funnel head. The tug gave a single answering hoot. Captain Halsey appeared on the bridge, a megaphone in his hand. “Let go for’ard,” he called. The second officer, Mr. Cousins, waved his arm from the bows. A Russian on the quayside lifted the heavy loop of the line from its bollard. It splashed in the water as the bows began to swing away from the quay. The gap between the ship’s side and the quay steadily widened. The black, refuse-scattered water lapped at the piers. “Let go aft.” And as the line hit the water, the engine-room telegraph rang twice. The engines suddenly sprang to life under the hatches close beside us. The ship shuddered. The filth of the river bottom was churned to the surface. Then, as we slipped our tow, the Trikkala, under her own steam, swung in a great arc across the river and made down-stream, round the bend and out into Kola Bay, where the convoy was forming.

  It was one o’clock before all the ships of the convoy were gathered in the mouth of the estuary. And at one-fifteen we sailed. When I came off duty at three the Murman Coast was just a dirty white smudge between the leaden grey of the sky and the restless grey of t
he sea.

  According to the gossip of the ship we were bound for Leith in the Firth of Forth. And I reckoned that it would take us about five days. I mentioned this to Bert when I relieved him again at seven that evening. He said, “Christ! Have we got five days of this.” The wind was getting up and it was freezing cold out there on the blacked-out deck. “I’d like ter know what the ’ell’s in them cases. You’d fink it was the Bank of England we was guarding. If it’s aero engines, I reck’n it’s a ruddy disgrace. Why should we ’ave ter stand abart ’ere catching our death for nuffink. Them cases ain’t goin’ ter get up an’ walk overboard.”

  “I can’t help it,” I said. “The orders are that a guard has to be mounted on them, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “It ain’t your fault, Corp. But it do seem ruddy silly, don’t it? Well, s’ppose I may as well turn into the ol’ scratcher an’ git a bit o’ shut-eye before I come on dooty again. Goo’night, Corp.”

  “Goodnight,” I said.

  He disappeared and I was left alone in the dark. By leaning over the rail I could make out the white line of our wake. And for’ard were the dimmed navigation lights of the ship ahead riding above the white path she carved through the sea. An occasional burst of sparks trailed from our funnel. The superstructure of the deck was a vague dark silhouette against luminous clouds behind which flickered the Northern Lights. The steady throbbing of the engines and the sound of water swirling back from the Trikkala’s bows filled the night with sound. I was alone there save for the officer of the watch on the bridge and my blood thrilled to the feel of the ship live under my feet as she trod the dark waters, skirting the top of Norway.

  At ten to nine by my watch I slid back the door a fraction to call Bert. “What the hell are you two up to?” I cried, and stepped quickly inside, pulling the door to, for they had the lights on and there was only a piece of sacking for blackout. Bert and Sills both had their bayonets in their hands and the fools were busy ripping the top off one of the packing cases.

  “We ain’t doin’ no ’arm, Corp,” Bert said. “Just ’avin’ a look-see to find a’t just wot it is we spend all day out there in the miserable cold guardin’. Sorry, mate—we planned to ’ave everything put back nice and tidy like before you came orf guard. But these cases is stronger than we expected.”

  “Well, get to work right away hammering it down again,” I said. “If anyone sees they’ve been tampered with there’ll be trouble.”

  “’Ere nark it, Corp. Look, we just aba’t got this one open. Put yer baynit in there, Sills,” he said, pointing to a corner of the case they had been working on. “Now—up she comes.”

  With a squeak of nails being drawn out of wood they prised the lid up. Inside were smaller boxes packed tight together. “Well, whatever it is, it ain’t aero engines like it says on the a’tside,” Bert said.

  “You fools!” I said. “For all you know this may be some sort of a secret weapon, a dangerous chemical—anything. How do you expect me to explain that case being opened.”

  “Orl right, Corp, orl right.” Bert said, taking out one of the smaller boxes which measured about eighteen inches by nine. “Keep yer, shirt on. We’ll fix it so as nobody won’t notice.” He got the box between his knees and I heard the top of it come open. Then Bert whistled softly through his gums. “Cor, knock me for a row of little green apples!” he exclaimed. “Take a look at this, Corp.” He thrust the box towards me. “Silver! That’s wot it is, mate. Tons and tons of it. No wonder they put a guard on it.”

  It was silver all right. Four bars, snug in their little wooden box, winked brightly in the light of the naked electric light bulb.

  “Gawd! Wot couldn’t I do wiv one o’ them,” Bert muttered. “I’d like ter see the Ol’ Woman’s face when I dumped one of ’em on the kitchen table, casual like, as though it were a bar of soap.” He stopped then for there was the sound of boots on the deck outside. “Look a’t—someone’s comin’!” He and Sills whipped the box out of sight as the door swung back and Rankin entered.

  “Why’s there no guard outside?” Rankin asked. His face was flushed with drink and his little eyes blinked in the glare of the light.

  “I just came in to call my relief,” I said.

  “You should train your men to relieve you automatically,” he said. “Get to your post. Just because it’s dark, I suppose you think you won’t be seen sneaking in out of the wind. Fine officer you’ll make! I came to tell you that if we have boat-drill, our boat is Number Two, on the port side.” Then he saw the bayonet in Bert’s hand. “What are you up to, Cook?” he asked.

  “I ain’t doin’ nuffink, Mr. Rankin—honest.” Bert’s expression was one of injured innocence.

  “Why’ve you got that bayonet in your hand?” Rankin persisted.

  “I was just cleaning it.”

  “Cleaning it!” Rankin sneered. “You’ve never cleaned anything in your life that you weren’t ordered to clean. Let’s see what you’ve been up to?” He moved farther into the room and then he saw the opened packing case. “So, you’ve been opening one of these cases, have you? When we dock, Cook, you’ll find yourself——”

  “’Ere ’alf a mo’, Mr. Warrant Officer,” Bert interrupted him. “Ain’t yer got no curiosity? We wasn’t doin’ no ’arm. We was just curious, that’s all. Do you know wot’s in them boxes?”

  “Of course, I do,” Rankin replied. “Now get that case done up again.”

  Bert chuckled. “Bet you fink it’s aero engines, same as wot it says on the a’tside. Well, ’ave a decco at this.” And he kicked the box of silver bars across the floor.

  Rankin’s eyelids opened in surprise. “My God!” he said in an awed voice. “Silver!” Then he turned to Bert and his voice was angry and a little scared. “You fool, Cook I This is bullion. See, there was a seal on that box. You’ve broken it. My God—there’ll be trouble over this. As soon as we dock, you’ll be under arrest. So will you, Corporal,” he added, turning to me. “And get back to your post.”

  I was moving to the door when Bert’s voice stopped me. “Nah look ’ere, Mister Rankin,” he said. “I ain’t goin’ on no fizzer, see. Soon as we dock I’m going on leave ter see the missis an’ kids. If there’s any fizzin’ ter be done, it won’t be me wot fries.”

  “What do you mean?” Rankin asked.

  “I mean that it’s you wot’s in charge o’ this guard,” he said. “An’ it’s you wot’s responsible for the correct be’aviour of your guard—get me? The best thing for all of us is ter pack this little treasure box up an’ no more said. Wot you say, Mr. Rankin?”

  Rankin hesitated. “All right,” he said at length. “Pack it up. I’ll have to make a report to the Captain and it’ll be up to him whether any action is taken or not. You can’t hide that broken seal and the Treasury officials at the other end will want to know how it happened.”

  I went back to my post then. And a few minutes later Rankin came out. “That man Cook needs watching, Corporal,” he said and disappeared into the dark bulk of the bridge structure.

  CHAPTER II

  THE EXPLOSION

  THE DISCOVERY THAT we were guarding a cargo of silver bullion made a profound impression on me. But I can’t say that I felt in any way uneasy. As I paced alone in the gloom of the deck, listening to the throb of the engines and the swish of the water swirling along the ship’s sides, I had none of that sense of suspicion and doubt that developed later. But I suspect that it was the sense of responsibility that sharpened my wits. And then again, I was at sea now. I was in an element I understood. All the frustration and acceptance of authority engendered by four years in the Army was blown away. With the deck alive under my feet and the sting of the salt spray in my face, I felt more assured, more confident than I had felt for four years.

  As I stood there in the dark against the port rails with the icy east wind cutting my face, the mechanical voice of a distant loud-hailer blared at us across the water. “Ahoy, Trikkala! Ahoy?” it called. �
��Scorpion calling Trikkala.”

  The bridge answered, the voice muffled by a megaphone. “Ahoy, Scorpion. Trikkala answering. Go ahead.”

  At first I could see nothing. Then the white of a bow wave showed in the darkness off our port quarter. And as the loud-hailer blared out again, I made out the sleek shadow of a destroyer coming up alongside us. “Gale warning, Trikkala!” said the loud-hailer. “Gale warning! Close American Merchant. Close American Merchant, and keep closed.”

  “Okay, Scorpion,” the bridge answered. The engine-room telegraph rang and the beat of the engine took up a faster rhythm. The destroyer’s bow wave creamed to a white plume and the vague shadow of the warship sheered away from us and was swallowed in the darkness.

  Sills came out to relieve me. “We nailed oop cases, Corporal,” he said. “But we couldn’t do ought about seals.”

  Inside the guardroom I found Bert sitting on one of the cases rolling a cigarette. We had got an issue of tobacco out of the ship’s canteen. For such a cocky little man he looked almost crestfallen. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “Reck’n I put me foot in it proper this time, but I didn’t see them seals. Anyway, ’ow was I ter know we was sitting on the blessed Bank of England.”

  “It’ll sort itself out, Bert,” I said. And I went below for a mug of cocoa. The cook was seated in front of the red glow of his fire, his hands clasped across his stomach and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose. A book lay open on a pile of chopped-up meat on the table at his elbow and a tortoise-shell cat lay curled up in his lap. He had been dozing. He took off his glasses as I entered the galley and rubbed his eyes. “Help yourself,” he said.

  The dixie of cocoa stood in its usual place. I dipped my mug into it. My body absorbed gratefully the warmth of the galley and the thick liquid scalded my throat as I drank. He began gently stroking the cat. It woke, blinked its green eyes and stretched. Then it began to purr, the sound blending into the roar of the galley stove and the distant pulsing of the ship’s engines.