Free The Cruel Sea (1951) by Nicholas Monsarrat

answered Ferraby.
    ‘What were you altering for, sub?’
    ‘A fishing boat, sir,’ he said, compromising with the strict truth. ‘We’re clear of it now.’ His surprise made him add: ‘How did you know, sir?’
    He heard the Captain chuckle. ‘The steering engine makes a lot of noise down here . . . Everything all right?’
    ‘Yes, sir. The next light’s coming abeam now.’
    He waited for a comment, but none came, and presently a slight snore told him that he need not wait any longer. Obscurely, he felt rather proud of that snore. It was the most definite compliment he had had so far in the ship.

    It grew lighter: the sky imperceptibly paled: to the eastward, the land took on a harder outline, and beyond the nearest hills others began to come into view, their snow summits waiting to catch the first shafts of the sun. Matching the sky, the sea round them paled also, turning from black to a livid grey; and a distant lighthouse, which had been beckoning them towards the horizon, struggled against the coming of daylight and faded till its beam was a faint, wan flicker against a mist of rising land. The whole length of the ship gradually emerged, from a dark outline into a three-dimensional and solid structure, with frost glistening all along the upper works: on the bridge, figures and then faces came up sharp and clear – lined faces, grey with cold and fatigue, but relaxing now as the dawn cheered them.
    Below, the ship stirred and came to life, welcoming or accepting the end of the watch. The smoke from the galley chimney thickened, and bore with it a coarse and cheerful smell of frying: feet rang on ladders and along the iron deck: from a hatchway aft, the grey bristly face of Chief E.R.A. Watts peered at the daylight as if scarcely believing in it. The first night at sea was over.
    Just before eight, Lockhart came up to the bridge to take over the watch. He had had nearly four hours’ sleep and was feeling fresher than he had expected.
    ‘All alone?’ he asked, when he had had time to look round him.
    ‘Yes,’ answered Ferraby. He could not resist elaborating. ‘I took the last two hours myself.’
    Lockhart smiled. ‘Is that so? And to think that I slept peacefully through it all . . .’ He looked at the nearest point of land. ‘How far have we got?’
    Ferraby, showing him their position on the chart, asked: ‘Are you taking over? Where’s Number One?’
    ‘Eating breakfast,’ said Lockhart tonelessly. ‘Snorkers. Good-oh.’
    For a moment they stood side by side in the cold morning air. The sun was now just under the rim of the hills; it was a lovely morning. Still steady, still as tranquil as the day, Compass Rose ploughed northwards past magic islands. Lockhart sniffed the faint breeze. ‘Fun, isn’t it?’ he said.
    ‘Yes,’ said Ferraby. ‘Yes, it is.’

10

    Vice-Admiral Sir Vincent Murray-Forbes, K.C.B., D.S.O., R.N. sat at his desk on the Operations building overlooking Ardnacraish harbour, playing despondently with a silver paperknife engraved: ‘Presented to Lieut.-Commander V. Murray-Forbes, R.N., on relinquishing command of HMS Dragonfly. From the Ship’s Company, October 1909. Good luck.’ He did not see the engraved sentences: indeed, he had not read them for many years; but they had a direct connexion with his despondency, and especially the date, which was incontrovertible. It was something he carried with him always, like an unlucky charm; for it meant, by inference, that he was in his sixtieth year, and was too old to go to sea again.
    The Admiral looked what he was: an old sailor, and surely due for retirement after a lifetime of distinguished service in the Navy. It was a lined face, strong, tremendously wrinkled round the eyes: the broad stretch of gold braid on his sleeves was impressive, and the rows of medal-ribbons seemed no more than the face deserved. The D.S.O. was Jutland, the K.C.B. represented a long and brilliant serial story, from C.-in-C. China to C.-in-C.