Maiden Voyage

FORTY-SEVEN

Rudyard opened the door of the wheelhouse and stepped in, carrying a Coronation mug full of sweet cocoa. Dick Charles was already there, his face lit an unnatural green by the lights from the ship's instruments. Through the darkness of the windows in front of them, Rudyard and Dick and the helmsman could see their own reflections suspended in the night, as if their own ghosts were tirelessly following them across the Atlantic to remind them, in Shakespearian fashion, of their own mortality.

"Good evening, sir," said Dick, smartly, with scarcely the trace of a stutter.

"Good evening, Mr. Charles," Rudyard replied, and set his cocoa down on the ledge beneath the windows. "Everything quiet?"

"Everything s-steady, sir. The wind's dropped to f-four knots, and w-we're m-making just over the twenty-eight."

"Think she can go faster?"

"P-p-possibly, sir. But Mr. Deacon said to keep her under twenty-eight and a half. He d-doesn't want to b-blow her up the fir—the first time out."

Rudyard smiled. "She won't blow. She's unburstable. And smooth? Look at that skin on my cocoa. Not a ripple. She makes the Aurora seem like a motorbus."

There was a momentary pause while Rudyard leaned over to check their compass heading. Then Dick said, "Have you seen Sir P-peregrine recently, Mr. Philips?"

"I spoke to Dr. Fields just before I came up here."

"Is there any imp-provement?"

Rudyard shook his head. "He's still in a deep sleep. Dr. Fields thinks he may sleep for another twelve hours yet. But there isn't any doubt that he's going to be paralysed."

Dick Charles didn't say it, but the way he looked at Rudyard and then glanced out towards the prow of the ship, where it was cutting a white arrowhead of foam into the darkness of the sea, that look left the thought, Well, so you got what you wanted after all, fluttering between them like invisible signal flags.

"He's a grand old chap, Sir Peh—Sir Peregrine," said Dick. "One I the grand old men."

"That's right," said Rudyard. It suddenly occurred to him that Dick Charles didn't like him at all. Dick hadn't appeared to like Sir Peregrine much when Sir Peregrine was still in charge. But his resentment of Rudyard—for no reason that Rudyard could think of—seemed by comparison to be quite open and undisguised.

"I suppose they'll g-give the Aurora to Ralph Peel," Dick suggested.

"I don't know,' said Rudyard. "So far, nobody's given anything to anyone. Sir Peregrine is still the commodore of the fleet, and still captain of the Arcadia."

"But if he's p-paralysed..."

"If he's paralysed, then it's up to Mr Deacon and the rest of the board to decide what to do. Not to me."

Dick thought about that and then said, "G-good. I'm g-glad we've got that s-straight."

Rudyard looked at him oddly. But Dick Charles only grinned and then picked up his waterproof jacket. "I'll go off d-duty now, Mr. Philips, if it's all the s-same to you."

"Very well. Could you ask Mr. Peel to spare me a moment, if he's in the wardroom?"

"Y-yes, sir."

Dick Charles left, and Rudyard was left staring out at his own phantom face. It had never crossed his mind before that he might not be very popular, and the feeling was both disconcerting and depressing. He picked up his cocoa, spooned out the crinkly brown milk-skin, and ate it. Then he sipped the scalding-hot drink, and wished that he had a digestive biscuit to eat with it.

The helmsman, a short beefy man with cheeks that looked as if they had been peppered with birdshot, said, "Very tranquil sea now, Mr. Philips. We've made up a good twenty miles already.'

Rudyard nodded without speaking. But then he thought that his silence might be interpreted as aloofness, so he turned, and said, "Yes. Very good. We might take the Blue Riband yet."

"Oo, wouldn't talk of it, sir," said the helmsman, sucking in his breath admonishingly. "Sir Peregrine won't have talk of the Blue Riband on the bridge. Says he don't hold with Blue Ribands. Just to get there at premium speed, with premium safety, that's what he says."

Rudyard was tempted to remind the helmsman of the numerous occasions on which vessels commanded by Sir Peregrine had arrived in port with sizeable dents in them, and half of their superstructure missing. But the commodore's sudden stroke appeared to have stirred among the officers and crew a nostalgic feeling of loyalty for the old man, and all his sins seemed to have been mysteriously absolved. Perhaps the days of Sir Peregrine would be remembered as a Golden Age, after all.

The door opened again, and Willis the Wireless came in with a telegraph message. "It's for you, Mr. Philips, personal and confidential."

"Where's it from?"

Willis looked uncomfortable. "Well, from Liverpool, sir."

Rudyard opened the message and read it. For the sake of transmission through the open airwaves, it had been written in very plain and unemotional words. But Rudyard could easily guess what pain and uncertainty had gone into it, and when he had read it once he had to lower his hand and take a deep breath to steady himself.

It said, "Parting incident forgotten. Laurence has now left. Hoping you will return. But can you consider job on land. Absences too difficult. Please reply soon. Mrs. Philips."

"Did you want to send a reply, sir?" asked Willis in a quiet and diplomatic voice.

Rudyard raised the message again and quickly scanned it. Then he said, "Let me think about it. You'll still be on duty for an hour or so?"

"You're sure, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Willis. I'm sure."

"Very good, sir."

After Willis had gone, Rudyard slowly crumpled the message up in his hand and thrust it into his uniform pocket. So, quite unexpectedly, Toy had decided she wanted him back. But at what a time, and under what conditions! "Can you consider job on land?" she had asked, at the very moment when command of the Arcadia was within his grasp. "Can you consider job on land?" when he was standing on the bridge of the world's fastest and largest liner—over a sixth of a mile of harmonious machinery and power. A floating city of more than a thousand people of which he was the despotic leader.

"Hoping you will return", she had written, too—only twenty minutes after he left the rumpled bed of Louise Narron, and had almost managed to reconcile himself to the idea that he would seek a divorce from Toy and marry the opera singer as soon as possible. As he had dressed, he had even imagined himself at grand premieres at the Metropolitan and La Scala, proudly squiring the star herself, with flash guns popping and champagne cascading, and flowers showering down on them from every balcony and box.

And now this quiet restrained message from Toy. "Parting incident forgotten." She meant forgiven, but obviously hadn't wanted to say anything in a wireless message which made him look as if he had done something that needed forgiveness. "Can you consider job on land?"

He looked across at the helmsman but the helmsman was concentrating on his compass. The Arcadia was dead on course, thrusting through the summer night in one long surge of accurate horsepower. Her running lights shone like stars caught in the branches of a moving forest. Her funnels exhaled dark breath. She was magical and luxurious and she was almost his, if only he could convince himself that he loved her more than Toy.

How could he phrase his reply? "Land job impossible sorry"? No, there was no need for him to apologise. He was soon to command one of the greatest ships on earth. Better to say something proud, and stern like "I am married to the North Atlantic. Goodbye." Yes, that was it. He picked up his intercom, and said, "Mr. Willis, I want to send a telegraph. Yes, now."