Medusa

I thanked Craig for the drink, excused myself and went up to the Captain’s cabin. It was empty, a cup of black coffee untouched on the desk. I went to one of the portholes. We had swung to our anchor and were now bows-on to the harbour entrance so that I was looking straight across to the cathedral and the domes of Valetta with the signal flagstaff towering above them. The harbour launch had been joined by two police launches, all three of them keeping station opposite to the bridge on the port side. An officer on the leading police launch had a loudhailer to his mouth, the words coming muffled as they reached me through the shatterproof glass: ‘You will plees to lower your gangway. I wish to come on to your ship and spik with the Captain.’ And the reply, from somewhere above me — ‘When you bring the British High Commissioner out we can discuss things. Okay?’

The steward put his head round the pantry door. ‘Captain’s apologies, sir, but he’s been called to the MCO. Can I get you a drink?’

I shook my head. ‘Another cup of coffee would be nice though.’

He nodded, retrieved the untouched cup from the desk and, as he was taking it back into the pantry, he hesitated. ‘Excuse me asking, sir, but do you know the Captain well? I mean, you’re a friend of his, aren’t you?’

I didn’t know how to answer that, so I just gave a bit of a nod and waited.

The steward stood there with the cup in his hand as though trying to make up his mind. Finally he said, ‘I can’t tell him, sir, but perhaps you can. There’s a lot of rumours going round the ship. In the seamen’s messes, I mean. They say the Captain’s — ’ again the hesitation — ‘well, bad luck, if you get me. A sort of Jonah. And it’s not just the Captain. It’s the ship.’

‘Any particular reason?’ I asked.

He stood there awkwardly, feeling no doubt he had said too much already. ‘There’s quite a few — misfits on board, sir.’

‘Troublemakers, do you mean?’ I asked.

He gave a little shrug, shaking his head. ‘Hard to say, sir. Toughies certainly. Real toughies. Some of the lads feel they’ve been landed with a load of shit — if you’ll excuse me — men that other ships wanted to be rid of.’ And he added, These are the comments of lads that volunteered, you understand, specialists most of them, real good lads who thought Medusa was intended for some sort of special service. That’s why they volunteered.’

I took him up then on the use of that word ‘specialists’ and he said they had been on courses, some of them, that weren’t the usual run of courses sailors got sent on — demolition, assault, urban guerrilla warfare. ‘There’s even men on board here who’ve been trained by the SAS.’ And he added, ‘They volunteered for something out of the ordinary. At least, that’s what they thought, something that sounded to them like it was as near to active service as you could get in peacetime. Instead, they find themselves on a ship that’s got a hardcore of throw-outs in the crew. Tell him, will you, sir? Privately. He should know the feeling.’ He said that quickly, almost in a whisper, and as he turned to go into the pantry, the entrance curtain was swept aside and Gareth entered, his face white, his lips a hard, tight line, and he was scowling. ‘Get me some coffee, Jarvis.’ He had a sheet of paper in his hand and he went straight to his desk and sat there, staring at it. He seemed completely oblivious of my presence. The main broadcast began to sound through the ship, Mault’s voice ordering special sea duty men and the cable party to close up. ‘All action stations to be manned and gun crews closed up.’

I couldn’t believe it. I stared at Lloyd Jones. He’d heard it, but he made no move to counteract the order. ‘Can you drop me off now?’ I asked him. The harbour launch …’

He was staring at me, his eyes wide, that shocked look on his face as though suddenly aware that he had a civilian witness to what was happening on board. He shook his head. ‘Sorry.’ He held up the sheet of paper. ‘Orders. No contact with the shore and put to sea immediately. Resist any attempt to prevent departure. Ministry of Defence. Whitehall’s orders.’ He put his hand to his head, leaning forward. ‘Downing Street by the sound of it. Christ!’ And then he suddenly seemed to get a grip of himself. He smiled. ‘Glad to have you aboard. My God I am!’ The steward brought him his coffee and he gulped it down, then reached for his cap and jumped to his feet. ‘Make yourself at home. I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with us for some time now.’ He stopped in the doorway, his face grim as he said very quietly, so that only I could hear him, ‘Medusa is to leave now — immediately.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘It’s Menorca. Port Mahon. I’m sorry, but those are my orders.’ He turned then, putting his hat on and dropping the curtain behind him. There were feet pounding the deck, the throb of engines again and a clanking for’ard, the chain coming in.