'Ain't we got a ship's cat, Nobby?'
Where upon the stoker Nobby looks at him pityingly and says:'
'E's got it all wrong, sir.
Poor old Riley just came all over queer, took a weak turn, 'e did.
I 'ope 'e ain't 'urt 'isself?'
He sounded quite anxious."
"What had happened?" Tyndall queried.
"I let it go at that.
Young Nicholls took two of them aside, promised no action and had it out of them in a minute flat.
Seems that Riley saw in this morning's affair a magnificent opportunity for provoking trouble.
Cursed you for an inhuman, cold-blooded murderer and, I regret to say, cast serious aspersions on your immediate ancestors, and all of this, mind you, where he thought he was safe-among his own friends.
His friends half-killed him... You know, sir, I envy you..."
He broke off, rose abruptly to his feet.
"Now, sir, if you'll just lie down and roll up your sleeve... Oh, damn!"
"Come in." It was Tyndall who answered the knock. "'Ah, for me, young Chrysler.
Thank you."
He looked up at Vallery.
"From London-in reply to my signal."
He turned it over in his hand two or three times.
"I suppose I have to open it some time," he said reluctantly.
The Surgeon-Commander half-rose to his feet.
"Shall I------"
"No, no, Brooks.
Why should you?
Besides, it's from our mutual friend, Admiral Starr.
I'm sure you'd like to hear what he's got to say, wouldn't you?"
"No, I wouldn't." Brooks was very blunt. "I can't imagine it'll be anything good."
Tyndall opened the signal, smoothed it out.
"D.N.O. to Admiral Commanding 14 A.C.S.," he read slowly. "Tirpitz reported preparing to move out. Impossible detach Fleet carrier: FR77 vital: proceed Murmansk all speed: good luck: Starr."
Tyndall paused, his mouth twisted.
"Good luck!
He might have spared us that!"
For a long time the three men looked at each other, silently, without expression.
Characteristically, it was Brooks who broke the silence.
"Speaking of forgiveness," he murmured quietly, "what I want to know is, who on God's earth, above or below it, is ever going to forgive that vindictive old bastard?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
THURSDAY NIGHT
IT WAS still only afternoon, but the grey Arctic twilight was already thickening over the sea as the Ulysses dropped slowly astern.
The wind had died away completely; again the snow was falling, steadily, heavily, and visibility was down to a bare cable-length.
It was bitterly cold.
In little groups of three and four, officers and men made their way aft to the starboard side of the poop-deck.
Exhausted, bone-chilled men, mostly sunk in private and bitter thought, they shuffled wordlessly aft, dragging feet kicking up little puffs of powdery snow.
On the poop, they ranged themselves soundlessly behind the Captain or in a line inboard and aft of the long, symmetrical row of snow-covered hummocks that heaved up roundly from the unbroken whiteness of the poop.
The Captain was flanked by three of his officers-Carslake, Etherton and the Surgeon-Commander.
Carslake was by the guard-rail, the lower half of his face swathed in bandages to the eyes.
For the second time in twenty-four hours he had waylaid Vallery, begged him to reconsider the decision to deprive him of his commission.
On the first occasion Vallery had been adamant, almost contemptuous: ten minutes ago he had been icy and abrupt, had threatened Carslake with close arrest if he annoyed him again.
And now Carslake just stared unseeingly into the snow and gloom, pale-blue eyes darkened and heavy with hate.
Etherton stood just behind Vallery's left shoulder, shivering uncontrollably.
Above the white, jerking line of compressed mouth, cheek and jaw muscles were working incessantly: only his eyes were steady, dulled in sick fascination at the curious mound at his feet.