H. M. S. Ulysses by Alistair MacLean Read Free Book Online Page B

Sub-Lieutenant Carslake swore at me— several times. And if I insulted him’—he smiled faintly—‘it was pure self-defence.’
    â€˜This is no place for levity, Ralston.’ Vallery’s voice was cold. He was puzzled—the boy baffled him. The bitterness, the brittle composure—he could understand these; but not the flickering humour. ‘As it happens, I saw the entire incident. Your promptness, your resource, saved the rating’s arm, possibly even his life—and against that a lost paravane and wrecked winch are nothing.’ Carslake whitened at the implied rebuke. ‘I’m grateful for that— thank you. As for the rest, Commander’s Defaulters tomorrow morning. Carry on, Ralston.’
    Ralston compressed his lips, looked at Vallery for a long moment, then saluted abruptly and left the bridge.
    Carslake turned round appealingly.
    â€˜Captain, sir . . . ’ He stopped at the sight of Vallery’s upraised hand.
    â€˜Not now, Carslake. We’ll discuss it later.’ He made no attempt to conceal the dislike in his voice. ‘You may carry on, Lieutenant. Hartley—a word with you.’
    Hartley stepped forward. Forty-four years old, CPO Hartley was the Royal Navy at its best. Very tough, very kindly and very competent, he enjoyed the admiration of all, ranging from the vast awe of the youngest Ordinary Seaman to the warm respect of the Captain himself. They had been together from the beginning.
    â€˜Well, Chief, let’s have it. Between ourselves.’
    â€˜Nothing to it really, sir.’ Hartley shrugged. ‘Ralston did a fine job. Sub-Lieutenant Carslake lost his head. Maybe Ralston was a bit sassy, but he was provoked. He’s only a kid, but he’s a professional— and he doesn’t like being pushed around by amateurs.’ Hartley paused and looked up at the sky. ‘Especially bungling amateurs.’
    Vallery smothered a smile.
    â€˜Could that be interpreted as—er—a criticism, Chief?’
    â€˜I suppose so, sir.’ He nodded forward. ‘A few ruffled feathers down there, sir. Men are pretty sore about this. Shall I—?’
    â€˜Thanks, Chief. Play it down as much as possible.’
    When Hartley had gone, Vallery turned to Tyndall.
    â€˜Well, you heard it, sir? Another straw in the wind.’
    â€˜A straw?’ Tyndall was acid. ‘Hundreds of straws. More like a bloody great cornstack . . . Find out who was outside my door last night?’
    During the middle watch, Tyndall had heard an unusual scraping noise outside the wardroom entry to his day cabin, had gone to investigate himself: in his hurry to reach the door, he’d knocked a chair over, and seconds later he had heard a clatter and the patter of running feet in the passage outside; but, when he had thrown the door open, the passage had been empty. Nothing there, nothing at all—except a file on the deck, below the case of Navy Colt .445s; the chain on the trigger guards was almost through.
    Vallery shook his head.
    â€˜No idea at all, sir.’ His face was heavy with worry. ‘Bad, really bad.’
    Tyndall shivered in an ice flurry. He grinned crookedly.
    â€˜Real Captain Teach stuff, eh? Pistols and cutlasses and black eye-patches, storming the bridge . . . ’
    Vallery shook his head impatiently.
    â€˜No, not that. You know it, sir. Defiance, maybe, but—well, no more. The point is, a marine is on guard at the keyboard—just round the corner of that passage. Night and day. Bound to have seen him. He denies—’
    â€˜The rot has gone that far?’ Tyndall whistled softly. ‘A black day, Captain. What does our fireeating young Captain of Marines say to that?’
    â€˜Foster? Pooh-poohs the very idea—and just about twists the ends of his moustache off. Worried to hell. So’s Evans, his Colour-Seargeant.’
    â€˜So am I!’ said Tyndall feelingly. He