Godfrey agreed. ‘We ought to sight the coast to-morrow morning, probably. We’ll have to see where we come out, and what the wind is doing. It might be better to go into Poole. We’ll have to see.’
Joan stood erect, and looked out over the dim sea. ‘I liked that nip of brandy,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘Peter, does anyone want anything to eat?’
They became aware that they were very hungry. ‘It’s not half so bad now,’ said Joan. ‘I believe we could cook something hot.’
She went below and emptied tins of beef and vegetables into a large saucepan. She put in a little water, heated it on the Primus stove till it was boiling, added Bovril and condiments, and carried it up to the cockpit with three spoons. They ate it gratefully, and retained it. Satisfied and encouraged, they sent Godfrey down below and settled down together upon watch.
Godfrey knelt by the pilot and examined him. He was still unconscious, breathing rather heavily and growing cold about the hands and feet. The officer went through into the forecastle and boiled a kettle, refilled the hot-water bottle, and laid it in the blankets at the sick man’s feet. He raised the head a little with another cushion; then he had shot his bolt, there was no more that he could do.
He remained kneeling by the sick man, lost in thought. He thought of his flat in Alverstoke, of Enid, his wife, of Joe, their little son. They only had the one child; it was a pity, but naval people mostly had to be content with one. If anything should happen to them … The thought tore his heart. He remembered the prayers he had not thought of since he was a boy; he could not quite remember all the words, but he said what he could remember.
Presently he went over to the other settee, and slept. On deck, Joan and Peter huddled together in the cockpit as the vessel sailed on through the night. It was colder, but the wind was dropping. Joan went below at midnight and cooked another stew; Godfrey awoke and went on deck. Together they shook out a reef and set the foresail; then Joan went below to sleep. When dawn came, Joan and Godfrey were on deck and Corbett was asleep.
It was full daylight when he came up to the cockpit. Ahead of them, in the far distance, land was showing as an isolated lump; over on the starboard bow it showed again. Godfrey nodded to it. ‘St. Albans right ahead. That’s the island over there.’
Corbett stood for a minute, taking it in. ‘Can you lie Portland?’
‘Not quite yet. We may be able to before so long. The wind’s backing all the time.’
Corbett thought for a minute. ‘We’ve got about six gallons of petrol left. We’ll keep a gallon to get into harbour with. I’ll put the engine on; it’ll help her along a bit.’
They sailed on all the morning, gradually raising the wedge bluff of Portland above the horizon. About noon a grey trawler, armed with a gun upon her forecastle and manned by a naval crew, closed up to them and hailed them, asking where they were bound. Godfrey slipped on his monkey jacket and hailed back.
In the early afternoon, five miles from the harbour near the Shambles lightship, a motor torpedo-boat ranged alongside, questioned them closely, and gave them the rather complicated sailing directions for entering the harbour through the mine-field.
At four o’clock they sailed in through the breakwater gap. The harbour was thronged with warships of every sort, with oil tankers, colliers, and a great multitude of smaller craft. In the middle loomed the flat, ungainly bulk of the Victorious.
Godfrey said: ‘She’s here before us. I thought perhaps she might be.’
They dropped sail, and went forward through the fleet under engine alone. The officer went forward to the anchor gear; they brought up in three fathoms at the south side of the harbour, near the stone jetty.
Corbett went below to stop the engine. When he came up again, he glanced forward; Godfrey was standing on the cabin-top, a handkerchief in each hand, sending a long message by semaphore. Corbett stared at the aircraft-carrier; on her bridge the mechanical semaphore wagged at the conclusion of each word.
The officer finished his message and came down from the cabin-top. ‘What’s happening?’ asked Corbett.
‘I told them we were here and wanted the doctor. They’ll probably send off a boat.’
He busied himself with Corbett in stowing the mainsail. In a very few minutes a hard chine launch came swiftly to them from the carrier, throttled her engines, sunk into the water, and made fast alongside. A surgeon-commander, immaculate in uniform, stepped from the boat down on to the deck of the little yacht. Godfrey was there to meet him; they exchanged a few words, and he went below.
The pilot was put on to a stretcher and taken on board the launch; the surgeon turned to Joan: ‘Has he had anything to eat or drink?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t get him to take anything. I kept a hot bottle at his feet.’
‘He’s had nothing at all? That’s quite all right—I wanted to know.’ He glanced around. ‘How long have you been at sea?’
Joan glanced at Peter. He said: ‘Four days, I think. It might be five.’
‘These children. Have they kept well?’
Joan laughed. ‘They never turned a hair. I kept them lying down. The baby slept practically all the time.’
‘Baby? Have you got a baby on board?’
‘Come and see.’
She took him through into the forecastle and showed him little Joan in her cradle, lashed to the bulkhead above the water-closet. The forecastle was a wild litter of spilt food and paraffin, lamps, unwashed dishes, tins of food, petrol-cans, ropes, sails, and gear. The infant beamed up happily at them as they bent over it.
The surgeon-commander straightened up, bumping his head painfully against the deck beams. ‘Not much wrong with her.’ He stared around him at the litter in the forecastle, at the wet squalor of the saloon, at the two children in the waterway bunks. ‘You had it pretty rough, the last two days?’
Joan nodded.
The surgeon glanced at her drawn, haggard face, the wet hair plastered over her forehead, the white salt crusted on her cheeks around her tired eyes. ‘You’ve done a good job, Mrs. Corbett,’ he said suddenly. ‘Your children are well and healthy, and that man will live.’
He went on deck and turned to the launch. He said to Godfrey: ‘I’m taking him straight on shore, to the hospital. I’ll send the boat back for you as soon as I’ve done with it.’
The lieutenant-commander asked: ‘Do you know when We’re sailing?’
‘I haven’t heard.’
The boat slid away and accelerated, rising on to the surface of the water at the head of a broad wake of foam. They watched her for a minute, then turned back to their own affairs. Godfrey went down below to change into his own clothes. Corbett leaned in at the hatch and said to John and Phyllis: ‘You can get up now. Come out on deck.’
They scrambled out into the cockpit. With the coming of the evening the clouds had lifted; over the Chesil Bank there was a sunset in the west, all blue and rose colour. The grey forms of the warships became shot with gold; they took on a purple tinge against the background of the misty downs.
Phyllis asked: ‘Where are we, Daddy? Daddy, where are we?’
John echoed: ‘Where are we, Daddy?’
He was suddenly very tired. ‘Portland,’ he said. ‘Did you think we were never going to get here?’
She nodded. John said: ‘I thought we were going to get here, Daddy.’
‘No, you didn’t, John. Daddy, he didn’t, did he? Daddy, where is Portland? Is it near London?’
He shook his head. ‘Not very. Look at all those battleships. Do you remember seeing them before, at the review?’
Phyllis nodded. ‘Daddy, will there be fireworks on the ships to-night?’
‘Not to-night.’
‘There was at the review, Daddy.’
He sat down on the cockpit seat. He was beginning to grow cold; he became aware that all the clothes that he had on were clammy and damp. He thought with dismay that there was nothing dry on board. Clothes, blankets, mattresses,
and sails—everything was wet, and night was coming on.
Joan came to the hatch. ‘Come out on deck and look at the sunset,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ll go below and light the Primus stove. We’ll have a cup of tea.’
Godfrey heard him. ‘Look here, don’t do that. We can do better than that. We’ll go to the Victorious and have a proper meal.’
Corbett laughed. ‘With all the family?’
‘Of course. Why not?’
Joan said: ‘It’s terribly nice of you, but we really aren’t decent. I couldn’t leave the baby, and I couldn’t take her with me on your ship. No, we’ll be quite all right here.’ She hesitated. ‘If you could send us off some fresh milk from the ship …’
The boat returned and slid alongside. The surgeon-commander stepped on board again. ‘Mrs. Corbett,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen the surgeon-captain in charge. He asked me to tell you that if you would care to take the children to the hospital for to-night, with your husband, he can accommodate you all.’ He smiled. ‘I think if I were you I should accept that offer. There’s a hot bath attached to it.’
Joan said simply: ‘I can’t say no to a hot bath.’
Godfrey said to Corbett: ‘You’d better do that. Then I’ll get all your mattresses, blankets, clothes, and stuff taken on board Victorious and dried by the morning.’
He spoke to the coxswain of the boat and gave him his orders. ‘I’ll see the officer of the watch when I get on board.’
Half an hour later Joan and Peter were lying in hot baths in the bath-house, separated from each other by a green canvas curtain. The children had been taken from Joan by the sick bay stewards to be bathed. Even the baby had been taken from her; in the quiet efficiency of the place she was content to let it go. They lay luxuriating in the hot water, soaking the salt out of their bodies.
‘Peter,’ said Joan from behind the curtain. ‘When did you have a bath last?’
‘Good Lord!—I don’t know.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Not since the war began.’
‘Nor have I. How long is that?’
They tried to count the days, came to a different answer every time, and gave it up. ‘I do hope they’ll let us have another bath in the morning,’ said Joan.
‘They might. It’s a bit of luck getting in with the Navy like this. We might not have got a bath for months.’
Presently they got out, still rocking with the motion of the boat, dressed in borrowed pyjamas and dressing-gowns, and went through to a small dining-room with a fire. A steward was waiting to serve them with short drinks, and a dinner of soup, stewed steak and vegetables, and a steamed pudding.
By the time they reached the coffee stage they were all but asleep. ‘Now I lay me down to rest,’ said Joan. ‘I do like the Navy, Peter.’
They went through to the room arranged for them, stumbling a little as they walked. There were three beds; in one of them the two children were already asleep. The baby was reposing in a drawer laid carefully upon two chairs. Joan and Peter climbed into their beds, turned over, and within five minutes were asleep themselves.
Corbett woke at dawn, slept again, and woke finally at about nine o’clock. Joan and the children were still sleeping; he got up very quietly, went to the bath-house and had a shower, and came back to dress. His clothes were laid out at the foot of his bed; they had been dried and brushed, but were sufficiently disreputable. He left the room before the others were awake, and went along to breakfast in the dining-room.
A signalman came to him as he was finishing. ‘The surgeon-captain has had a signal from Victorious, sir. The captain would like you to go on board this forenoon. He’ll send a boat in for you as convenient.’
Joan was still sleeping; the children were all right. Corbett said: ‘I can go at once.’
‘Very good, sir. I’ll tell the surgeon-captain and he’ll send a signal for the boat. Down at the jetty, sir.’
It was a sunny morning late in March; there was a fresh wind from the Channel. Corbett left the hospital and walked down the road to the jetty; in the harbour the fleet lay spread out before him, bright and cheerful in the morning sun. He sat for a time upon a block of stone upon the jetty watching the traffic of the harbour; presently the boat slid up to the steps.
He got down into the stern-sheets and was carried swiftly to the carrier. As he went, he was distressed about his clothes. In spite of the attention that had been given to them at the hospital they were not very good. He was wearing a very old tweed coat with a torn pocket; though the salt had been brushed from his trousers, traces of motor grease remained. On his head he wore a very battered soft felt hat; his collar had been clean before the war.
The boat drew up to the gangway; he went on board, turning to raise his hat to the quarter-deck. So much, at least he knew about the Navy. Godfrey was there in a new uniform; he came to meet him.
Corbett said awkwardly: ‘I say, I’ve not got clothes to come on board. I’m terribly sorry.’
‘You’re perfectly all right. The Captain said he wanted to see you. You don’t mind?’
‘Not if he doesn’t mind seeing me like this.’
They went forward through the lower hangar, out into an alley at the side, up three flights of very steep steel steps, out on to the flight-deck, wide and unencumbered, and into the island bridge. At the door of the captain’s sea cabin Godfrey knocked and went in. He came out in a minute.
‘Would you come in?’
In the narrow little room, cumbered with berth and desk, there was barely room for the three of them. The captain rose and held out his hand, a broad, youngish man with curly red hair and a merry face.
He said: ‘Mr. Corbett? Good morning. I wanted to meet you to thank you for picking up Godfrey and Matheson. I hope it hasn’t been too inconvenient for you.’
‘Not a bit, sir.’
‘Where were you bound for when we spoke to you?’
‘Plymouth.’
‘Plymouth? But you were running south.’
Godfrey said: ‘It was a very strong wind for a small boat, if you remember, sir. I found that when I got on board. They couldn’t carry any sail at all. They’d been running before it since midnight, waiting for it to moderate.’
‘I see. So actually you haven’t been taken much out of your way by coming back to land them here?’
Corbett smiled, and shook his head. ‘I shan’t put in any claim for compensation. Not after all the hospitality we’ve had.’
‘They made you comfortable in the hospital? I’m glad of that.’ He turned to Godfrey. ‘What’s happening about their stuff?’
‘The boat’s away now, taking it on board. The commander sent off earlier in the morning to clean the vessel out for them, sir.’ He turned to Corbett. ‘I expect they’ll have put everything in the wrong place. I’ll come with you when you go.’
‘It’s awfully kind of you to take all this trouble,’ he said.
The captain held out a cigarette-box. ‘Not a bit. Where are you bound for now, Mr. Corbett? Still for Plymouth?’ He struck a match and lit the cigarette for him.
‘I’d rather like to get your advice on that, sir.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I’m trying to get my wife and children on a steamer for the States, or Canada. I can pay the passage, and I’ve got money over there for them to live on, for a time at any rate. Nothing’s coming into Southampton now. I thought if I got down to Plymouth I might get a boat for them there.’
‘But why didn’t you go by train, or by road?’
Corbett smiled, a little bitterly. ‘I don’t think you quite realise what things are like on shore, sir.’
Godfrey nodded. ‘Things seem to be much worse than I knew, sir.’
The captain eyed them keenly. ‘In what way?’
Corbett said: ‘Things are very difficult in the Southampton district now.’ In short, unembellished terms he told the captain what had happened to them since the war began. At the conclusion he said: ‘You see, I thought it would be easier
to take my family down by sea than going any other way. I still think it’s the safest thing to do.’
There was silence for a moment. The captain said: ‘I see …’ He turned to Corbett: ‘Do you know what things are like at Fareham?’
Corbett shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘No matter.’ The captain turned to some papers on his desk. ‘I’m very doubtful if you’ll get a ship at Plymouth. The town’s had a bad time with these repeated raids. Besides that, as a naval base we’re trying to keep merchant shipping out of it and send them somewhere else. You might strike lucky and get a ship there, or you might have to wait a month. You’d probably do better at Falmouth.’
He explained: ‘You see, so far as possible, and in principle, we’re keeping all merchant shipping out of the Channel. The War Scheme’s working out quite well. Everything’s going to the west coast ports. So far as possible, as I say.’
Corbett said: ‘You mean I’d have to get round to Bristol or some place like that before I could be certain of a ship?’
‘That’s right. Or else to Brest. If you can cross the mouth of the Channel in your boat, you’d get a ship at Brest any day.’ He paused. ‘You must understand, there are four main ports to which we send the whole of the North Atlantic merchant traffic, Mr. Corbett. Brest is one of them, and it’s probably the nearest one for you.’
‘I see.’
Godfrey said: ‘If he decided to do that, we could let him have a chart or two, sir?’
‘Of course. Get him anything he wants.’
Corbett said: ‘I’d like to think about that, sir. It’s a longer passage than I’d reckoned I should have to make. We’re not a very strong crew—only my wife and myself, and, of course, the children don’t make it any easier. If I could go with Commander Godfrey and have a look at the chart, perhaps? It really is most kind of you to help us in this way.’
‘It’s the least that we can do. Yes, go along and have a look at it. If you can face the passage, it’s what I should advise.’
He turned to Godfrey: ‘You’ll have to get through with it this afternoon. We may be sailing to-night.’