"Send for Lieutenant Nicholls," Turner ordered briefly. "Ask him to come up to the bridge at once."
Carrington stared down at the dark broad seas, seas flecked with milky foam: the bows of the Ulysses were crashing down heavily, continuously.
"You're going to risk it, sir?"
"I must.
You'd do the same, Number One.... What does the Ohio say, Preston?"
"I understand.
Too busy to look after the Royal Navy anyway.
We will make up on you.
Au revoir!"'
"We will make up on you.
Au revoir." Turner repeated softly. "He lies in his teeth, and he knows it.
By God!" he burst out. "If anyone ever tells me the Yankee sailors have no guts, I'll push his perishing face in.
Preston, send:
'Au revoir.
Good luck.'...
Number One, I feel like a murderer."
He rubbed his hand across his forehead, nodded towards the shelter where Vallery lay stretched out, and strapped to his settee.
"Month in, month out, he's been taking these decisions.
It's no wonder..."
He broke off as the gate creaked open.
"Is that you, Nicholls?
There is work for you, my boy.
Can't have you medical types idling around uselessly all day long." He raised his hand. "All right, all right," he chuckled. "I know.... How are things on the surgical front?" he went on seriously.
"We've done all we can, sir.
There was very little left for us to do," Nicholls said quietly.
His face was deeply lined, haggard to the point of emaciation. "But we're in a bad way for supplies.
Hardly a single dressing left.
And no anaesthetics at all-except what's left in the emergency kit.
The Surgeon-Commander refuses to touch those."
"Good, good," Turner murmured. "How do you feel, laddie?"
"Awful."
"You look it," Turner said candidly. "Nicholls-I'm terribly sorry, boy-I want you to go over to the Sirrus."
"Yes, sir." There was no surprise in the voice: it hadn't been difficult to guess why the Commander had sent for him. "Now?"
Turner nodded without speaking.
His face, the lean strong features, the heavy brows and sunken eyes were quite visible H.U. 257 I now in the strengthening light of the plunging flare.
A face to remember, Nicholls thought.
"How much kit can I take with me, sir?"
"Just your medical gear.
No more.
You're not travelling by Pullman, laddie!"
"Can I take my camera, my films?"
"All right." Turner smiled briefly. "Looking forward keenly to photographing the last seconds of the Ulysses, I suppose...
Don't forget that the Sirrus is leaking like a sieve.
Pilot, get through to the W.T.
Tell the Sirrus to come' alongside, prepare to receive medical officer by breeches buoy."
The gate creaked again.
Turner looked at the bulky figure stumbling wearily on to the compass platform.
Brooks, like every man in the crew was dead on his feet; but the blue eyes burned as brightly as ever.
"My spies are everywhere," he announced. "What's this about the Sirrus shanghaiing young Johnny here?"
"Sorry, old man," Turner apologised. "It seems things are pretty bad on the Sirrus."