The Sea Turtle's Back

THE SEA TURTLE’S BACK

Walter Bazley

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

The Sea Turtle’s Back

© Copyright 2010 Walter Bazley

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-7458-6 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7549-3 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 2/16/2012

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1—Broxbourne

Chapter 2—HMS Artemis

Chapter 3—Iceland Trawler Badger

Chapter 4—Rebecca

Chapter 5—The Middle Watch

Chapter 6—HMS Tarquin

Chapter 7—Looters Will Be Shot

Chapter 8—The Buddha

Chapter 9—The Long Journey Home

Chapter 10—RMS Orion

Chapter 11—The Outback

Epilogue

ENDNOTES

For my grandchildren:

Alex, Claire, Philippa,

Rachel, Rebecca, Jennifer

and Michael

Acknowledgements

My thanks go out to all my brother officers, friends and even a few relatives who have combined, whether they know it or not, to make up this book. In most cases I have changed their names, just as I have changed the names of the ships. Most of the incidents involved occurred more than sixty years ago, and if my memory is faulty in some of the details, it does not diminish my respect for those about whom I write.

Walter Bazley Ottawa, June 2010

Prologue

Another gigantic wave reared up from the depths and advanced on the stricken ship, rolling broadside across the sea with precision and fury, like a row of ghostly houses and seeming to hesitate before engulfing the gray bulwarks and sweeping over the hatches. Thirty-thousand tons of ship shook and groaned under the onslaught but despite the awful punishment the vessel slowly righted itself, if only to prepare for the next encounter. No ship that had been fashioned by the hand of man could sustain such punishment indefinitely. It might sink in water two miles deep unless the storm abated, the engines came to life and the bow of the ship could be steered into the oncoming waves. The ship had lost power, an almost fatal condition. Indeed, a vessel a quarter her size could have ridden out the storm as long as there was power on the shafts and the Captain knew his business. Without power, the greatest ship afloat was helpless. These were the simple calculations which occupied the mind of the lone figure who was hunched on the bridge, glancing first at the chart of the North Atlantic spread out in front of him, then through the dripping windows at the turbulent sea. The great steamship Marquess, two years from the fanfare and ceremony of its launching, lay in mortal danger.

Paul Henriques wore the four gold stripes of a captain on his epaulettes plus the oak leaves specified by the steamship company for officers in command. He was the only person on board, the crew and passengers having been taken off by helicopter. Their departure had been a relief; he had watched from his vantage point on the wing of the bridge as they were shuttled away in groups of six by a craft that resembled nothing so much as a frail dragonfly. He had bidden them farewell and then brusquely waved off the helicopter, which had returned for one last trip. He was alone with his ship.

In only one sense he was not alone because he had a battery-powered radiotelephone that had enabled him to summon help in the early hours. Five ships had answered his call. The largest, a passenger liner, stood off a mile distant and conducted a rescue that must have thrilled the passengers who crowded her decks. The other ships were thanked and informed that their help was no longer needed. An ordinary seagoing ship cannot pick up a tow, certainly not in foul weather, and all the captains involved knew that their presence was futile. They had done their seamanly duty by answering his distress call. Their engine room telegraphs clanked to ‘half ahead’ and they steered away through the storm to their various destinations. Only a deep-sea tug with its specialised equipment could save Marquess. Paul’s final contact had been to request the passenger liner to make a lengthy signal on his behalf, knowing that his words would be heard all over the northwest Atlantic. He was equidistant from Boston and Halifax, some five hundred miles from both. It was the responsibility of authorities ashore to assign a vessel, a deep-sea or ‘fleet’ tug as they had been known in wartime, to come out and find him at the coordinates of latitude and longitude that he had given in his mayday signal.

His message was brief and to the point: "Steamship Marquess bound Cape Town to Montreal in sinking condition without power in position, he began, adding the co-ordinates. Passengers and crew with exception of captain transferred by helicopter to Ocean Dancer first light 23rd. Rogue wave set ship over 65 degrees loosening heavy items of cargo in number-five hold. Ocean tug only hope. Henriques. Captain."

He knew what had gone amiss. In Cape Town they had loaded massive blocks of stone at the bottom of number-five hold. These had been secured with chains, but the chains were new and could have stretched, despite their being fastened with bottle screws. He had remonstrated with the foreman and had asked for more chains stretched fore, aft and athwartships, plus baulks of timber set between the stone blocks and ship’s ribs. His first officer had only half-heartedly supported him. It would have taken an additional day to arrange, he was told; the expense could not be justified. Besides, other items of mixed cargo were accumulating on the jetty, timetables would be put out and passengers would complain. As they steamed into the North Atlantic the weather had been uniformly foul and a succession of small problems had bedevilled the ship.

Realisation washed over him that he was beyond the reach of help. The loneliness of command, the isolation that a captain normally feels aboard his ship was nothing compared with his present situation. Until a few hours ago he had been surrounded by his deck officers, engineers, purser and wireless officer. His decisions, so far as the ship was concerned, were his alone, but the officers were professional seamen like himself. He could call on their opinions and listen to what they had to say; but now he did not even have the familiar comfort of their voices.

His signal passed, he went in search of something to eat. There was a small captain’s galley on the upper bridge, but because electric power had been lost he had to make do with bread and a slice of corned beef. He wondered what Rebecca and the children were doing. There was a four or five hour time difference; they’d be at home. Someone from head office could have phoned her by now. Perhaps, by the time she heard, it would all be over. He drew his scarf more tightly round his neck as his mind wandered. He had to put himself in the position of whatever tug or salvage ship was sent, assuming that Marquess remained afloat. ‘Passing the tow’ at sea was tricky and there were different ways of attempting it. The cable used would weigh many tons and hauling it inboard and securing it to the capstan of Marquess, without power, was out of the question. Perhaps, he reasoned, he could lower the anchors to the waterline and, by holding them with the capstan brake, a salvage vessel might grapple them. Marquess could then be towed by her own anchor cable. Difficult, he thought, even in a calm sea, and although the storm had abated, the swells were still long and hazardous. He estimated the ship to be three feet below her Plimsoll¹ line, which represented a huge amount of water in the holds. In a word, she could sink at any moment.

Paul returned to the chart table across the sloping deck and made his entries in the ship’s log. He wrote slowly and carefully, first filling out the standard entries of wind direction and force, temperature, pressure and cloud conditions. For the ship’s course and speed he simply put Lying stopped. Engine room abandoned. Under the ‘Remarks’ column he used all the available space, then turned to a separate sheet and continued his account. He decided that if it became obvious that Marquess was sinking, he would stow the logbook in a canvas bag and preserve it as best he could. There was a Carley² raft abaft the wheelhouse, which he might launch and use for himself. He knew that if the logbook could be saved it would be scrutinised and its wording studied by the owners in London, their lawyers and insurance agents, and by marine experts on both sides of the Atlantic. It would be prime evidence in whatever legal proceedings there might be, and probably quoted for years to come. He made it simple and factual and when he was unsure, as for instance in estimating the height of the rogue wave, he described it in layman’s terms: It appeared to be twice the height of the foremast, but not part of the storm itself. The storm was generally from the west but this wave seemed to have reared up from the south. The ship’s heading, as noted elsewhere, was north. She did a corkscrew, buried her bows and rolled to starboard. Then he added, There were no lookouts on the wings of the bridge and, when the ship was more or less righted, the first officer reported injuries but no fatalities. A little later he wrote, A list of crew and passengers is attached. The purser informed me that the two passengers travelling as Mr. and Mrs. Smith were travelling under false passports.

He put his cap on the chart table, lay down on the settee and tried to compose himself. At least he would not have to watch the final agony, the roll that would never be corrected, the wave that would come up from the deep and break the ship in two. If I’m lucky, he thought, she’ll go without my waking, she’ll sink without groan or sigh. He had switched off the radiotelephone to spare its battery while his thoughts took flight to the pleasures and perils of other days. Some people, he knew, had a love affair with their own infancy, a nostalgia for lost innocence, but Paul’s childhood was in the nature of a thousand separate memories. He rested his head on a leather cushion and braced himself against the motion of the ship. Gratefully he closed his eyes and became conscious only of the agony of his ship and the sounds of the storm.

Chapter 1—Broxbourne

Paul was born and grew up near the village of Broxbourne, which lay in the shallow valley of the river Lea. It was twenty miles north of London, a nondescript confusion of cottages with small charm or character; a thrown-together sort of village with railway station and church, a tedious collection of houses and a main street that was too narrow even by the modest standards of the 1920s. One night a lorry missed its turn in the centre of the village and went crashing through the wall of a house, killing two of the occupants. On another occasion, when Paul was four or five years old, he watched as an airship made its stately progress overhead. The villagers gathered on the street as the vast contraption appeared in the sky and seemingly lurched forward on its journey to distant lands. The grownups said that it was going to India, where Paul had lived briefly when he was very young. It was only a few hundred feet aloft and although he could not see the passengers, he could hear the engines and make out the propellers thrashing the morning air. He wondered why they were not larger, like the sails of a windmill.

If Broxbourne could be said to have had a centre it was the post office where people took letters and parcels to be stamped and sent to their destinations. Not far away, on a corner, was the Saracen’s Head with its gruesome sign showing the severed head of a dark-skinned man apparently horrified by its own detachment. During public-house hours the drinking fraternity stood with glasses in their hands and in good weather a few sat on a bench that rested against the wall of the building. The ripe aroma of malt and hops was ever present and drifted into the roadway, a gratuitous advertisement of the satisfactions to be found within. The harness shop, a little further down, was filled with saddles, bridles and shiny brasses. It had an elegant smell in keeping with the skilled workmanship of the leather trade. Each employee was a craftsman in his own right, which gave the place an unspoken seniority within the village. The bakery and cake shop was a little apart, its aromas a reminder of the homeliness and monotony of English life. The butcher shop, by comparison, reeked of animals and their insides. In those days, the line had not been drawn effectively between death and dinner, the butcher had not cleaned up his act and there were forlorn creatures tethered at the back of the shop awaiting the completion of their misery. Further on, the bookshop appeared neutral, having no distinctive or compelling odours beyond dust and oldness. An open Bible was displayed in the window but, as with most shops in Broxbourne in those days, the windows were not formed of wide expanses of plate glass but ordinary panes. The ironmonger was next with his shiny collection of hammers, saws and nails.

On Saturday mornings Paul would ask his mother if he could accompany Amy and Stubbington on the weekend shopping expedition. Paul’s mother did not take part in these excursions but agreed, because it got him out of the way while leaving her secure in the knowledge that he was in trustworthy hands. Stubbington would back the car out of the garage, which had been a stable until the Henriques family had purchased the house, and Amy climbed into the back seat with her shopping basket. There was a glass partition between front and rear seats so that in more opulent circumstances such confidences as might be exchanged behind would be known only to those responsible for them. The car, an Armstrong Siddeley, had a square, dependable look and a roomy interior. Stubbington said that it had been designed so that a gentleman would not be obliged to remove his top hat, and a lady in court dress would not be inconvenienced.

On Saturdays it was the custom of the village shopkeepers to clear their shelves of perishable items. Refrigeration in those days was just another long word, and it was with reason, therefore, that the well-dressed customers would be served until midday at regular prices, after which the poor were offered leftovers at much reduced rates. In later years the practice might have been called ‘dumping’, but in those days it was known as charity. As the clock struck midday, the poor, sometimes whole families together, would wait to be beckoned inside and costs fell to levels that had not been seen in England for more than a century. A loaf of bread went down from two and a half pence to a halfpenny, cakes and pastries to a quarter of their normal price and meat scraps would be wrapped in newspaper and pushed across the counter without the ceremony of a weigh scale. Nor were local fish, such as pike and bream, as well as rabbits, milk, cheese and vegetables allowed to go bad or collect dust over the weekend. The drama lasted no more than half an hour and, as shelves were cleared, the conscience of the village was eased. The poor took their way homeward with sacks over the men’s shoulders and baskets in the hands of women and children. Meanwhile, the more affluent stood back and chatted among themselves, seeming to take comfort from the shopkeepers’ largesse. From his level no higher than the counter, Paul saw Stubbington take a shilling from his pocket and nod to the shopkeeper at the same time indicating a distressed little group.

That lot’s genuine, he said to Amy. Thirteen children. Not like some here that dresses in old clothes of a Saturday morning.

I wish they had done that in India, Paul’s father said later. I applaud this sort of charity because the recipients pay in some measure for what they receive. Government handouts are not the same. That afternoon Paul’s father asked about the family with thirteen children and was told that they lived two miles out in the country in a village so small it didn’t have a name.

There’s Romany blood there somewhere, Stubbington said. I heard tell that the man could divine for water with two sticks. Good at it, he is. He works as a labourer and has a vegetable garden.

They’d need to grow vegetables with thirteen children, Paul’s mother said.

Paul’s father was a judge, not senior in his profession, but fortunate to have been appointed to a judgeship in England after his career in Bengal had been cut short. Paul’s mother could not tolerate life under the hot sun of India, was always ill with sunstroke and put on such a display of dissatisfaction that they felt compelled to pack and return to England. It was a move with which few of their friends could sympathise because it flew in the face of the assumption that the standard of living was higher on the sub-continent than it would be in a comparable position at home. A few years earlier he might have practiced law in England, but in his heart he wanted to do justly, to be seen doing it and possess the authority to make his decisions count for something. To embrace only one side of a dispute left him unsatisfied, and he had perplexed his contemporaries by announcing that a lawyer who had not at some stage of his career been called upon to sit and pass judgment had sidestepped the demands of his profession. Indeed, to be retained by one litigant or another, to be recompensed according to his performance in the courtroom, could never equal, in his eyes, the higher duty of determining where justice truly lay.

As a father, Justice Henriques was not so well defined. When Paul was born he was nearly fifty and, having been married several years, he had allowed the thought of children and the good intentions that he had manifested as a young man to slip silently away. His wife was younger, he reasoned, she did no work, had few hobbies or interests outside the home so she was likely to make a suitable mother. This was one of his few faulty judgments.

Paul’s mother regarded her son as an intrusion in her life, an incident for which she had been unprepared, so she had handed him over to an Indian nursemaid, later to Amy and Stubbington. Only when a visitor, relative or neighbour came calling was Paul summonedto be ritually kissed and fussed over. Her only notable accomplishment was her facility with languages, but her harsher critics would say that she made little sense in any of them. To the quiet, uncomplicated people of Broxbourne she appeared breezy and theatrical. She had chosen, together with her studious husband, to live in a house on the edge of the village, although she might have fitted more naturally into the teeming metropolis of London. On first being introduced the natural reaction was that she was an actress, or