''Ow do, granfer? Where did yer git that 'at?'
Page 230.
Joshua smiled condescendingly. 'Fawgs!' he said. 'Sometimes we 'as 'em in th' North Sea fur days an' days on end—weeks sometimes.'
'But 'ow does ships find their way abart then?' Pincher persisted.
'Find their way abart?' Billings repeated, scratching his nose with an oily forefinger. 'I dunno rightly. They eases down an' keeps their soundin'-machines goin' reg'lar, an' uses their compasses; but I reckons they doesn't allus know where they is. They pretends to, o' course, but I believe they trusts ter luck more 'n 'arf th' time.'
Martin sucked his teeth. 'But supposin' we 'its somethink?' he asked. 'Supposin' we 'ad a bargin' match wi' another ship, or runs ashore?'
Billings grunted. 'W'en that 'appens yer kin start thinkin' abart it,' he returned. 'It's no good yer troublin' yer 'ead abart wot may 'appen; yer won't git no sleep, an' won't 'ave no happetite, if yer does. S'pose we gits blowed up by a mine or by one o' them there ruddy submarines; s'pose we 'as a collision wi' somethink a bit bigger'n ourselves, or per'aps 'as a bomb dropped on our 'eads from a bloomin' hairyoplane or a Zeppeling?'
'Well, an' wot abart it?' demanded the ordinary seaman, rather perturbed at Billings's summing up of the different ways in which they might meet their fate.
'Wot abart it? Why, I tells yer it ain't no use yer worryin'. If we does 'ave bad luck an' 'as an 'orrible disaster, shove yer life-belt on an' trust ter luck, same as yer did in th' ole Belligerent. It takes an 'ell of a lot to sink a deestroyer,' Joshua added. 'I've seen 'em 'arter collisions wi' their bows cut orf, their starns missin', an' chopped clean in 'alves, I 'ave; but still they floated some'ow, an' wus towed back 'ome inter 'arbour.'
'I don't fancy seein' this 'ere ship chopped in 'alves,' said Pincher dubiously.
'Don't talk so wet,' Joshua growled. 'Yer ain't frightened, are yer?'
'Course I ain't!' came the indignant reply.
'Yer looks ter me as if yer wus,' said the A.B. 'But, any'ow, don't worry yer 'ead. A deestroyer's a ruddy sight safer'n some other ships. We've got speed, we 'ave, an' kin run away if we're chased by an 'ostile cruiser, an' we don't draw too much water fur bumpin' mines and sichlike. Jolly sight safer 'n livin' ashore, I calls it.'
'I dunno so much.'
'Course it is. Look at th' ways yer kin lose th' number o' yer mess w'en ye're livin' on th' beach,' Billings replied with a snort. 'Yer kin be run over an' laid out by a motor-bus. Yer kin be drownded in yer barth, or git a chimney-pot dropped on yer napper in a gale o' wind. Yer kin be suffocated in yer bed if yer leaves th' gas burnin', an''——
'An' yer nearly dies o' suffocation if yer drinks more 'n a gallon o' beer,' chimed in another man, who knew Billings's past history.
Joshua turned round wrathfully. 'I don't stan' no sauce from th' likes o' you, Dogo!' he exclaimed, advancing threateningly.
'It's true, ain't it?' queried Dogo, retreating to a convenient distance. 'Besides, I never said 'oo it wus 'oo nearly died o' suffocation, did I?'
'No, but I knows ruddy well 'oo yer means, yer perishin' lop-eared milkman; an' nex' time yer sez things ter me I'll give yer a clip 'longside th' ear'ole as'll keep yer thinkin' abart it fur a week!'
The bystanders laughed.
'Don't you take no notice o' 'im, Pincher,' Joshua went on. ''E ain't no sailor. Afore this 'ere war started 'e wus drivin' one o' these 'ere milk-carts an' shoutin' "Milk-o!" artside th' 'ouses, an' makin' love ter th' slaveys!' It was perfectly true so far as the driving of the milk-chariot was concerned, for Dogo Pearson, after serving his first period in the navy, had retired into civil life as a milkman, only to be called up again on the outbreak of war.
It was Dogo's turn to get angry. 'Look 'ere, Billin's!' he said angrily; 'I'll 'ave yer know'——
'You men had better be gettin' on with cleanin' that gun!' came the wrathful voice of Mr Menotti, who had come forward unseen. 'It's not half done, red rust everywhere, an' you're all standin' round spinnin' yarns. Get a move on, or I'll have you up here cleanin' it in your spare time!'
The argument ceased, and the gun's crew, stifling their amusement, busied themselves with their emery-paper, bath-brick, and polishing-rags.
'You wait till I gits yer on th' mess-deck, me boy-o!' growled Joshua sotto voce when the gunner's back was turned.
'Orl right, chum,' Dogo grinned unconcernedly; 'don't go gittin' rattled.'
Billings was really a great friend of his.
All things come to an end in time, even sea fogs, and that same evening the Mariner steamed jauntily into her first port of call and dropped her anchor.
'I'm glad you've arrived all right,' said the senior naval officer when Wooten went over to report himself. 'To tell the truth, we were a bit anxious about you.'
'Anxious, sir! Why?'
'We've had to close the Channel to all traffic until it's been swept,' said the S.N.O. 'A steamer went up on a mine bang in the middle of the fairway about an hour after you must have passed the place.'
'Good Lord!' the lieutenant-commander ejaculated with a sigh of relief.
The S.N.O., who was used to such things, smiled blandly. 'Have a cigarette,' he said, pushing the box across. 'What about a glass of brown sherry? I've just got a new lot in, and it's rather good stuff.' He reached up and fingered a hanging bell-push.
'Thank you, sir. I think I will.'
The S.N.O. rang the bell for his steward.
CHAPTER XIII.
FRITZ THE FRIGHTFUL.
I.
Pincher soon discovered that life on board a battleship and life in a destroyer were two totally different existences.
In the Belligerent a cast-iron routine had always been adhered to, at sea or in harbour, fair weather or foul. Nothing was suffered to disturb that routine, unless it were occasional excursions to sea in the small hours of the morning and frequent coalings. Times were laid down for everything. Day after day bugles blew or pipes twittered at exactly the same hours; and to the ship's company, the actual workers, things seemed to run as smoothly as clockwork with a minimum of effort on the part of every one. They all knew what to do, and when to do it; and the men themselves never realised the forethought, the energy, and the capacity for organisation on the part of the commander and other responsible officers which were necessary to produce such a result. They took it for granted. Their groove was made for them, so to speak, and they suffered themselves to slide along its well-oiled length without troubling their heads as to what supplied the motive-power. Moreover, men were told off for their jobs collectively, not individually. Their bodies seemed to be regarded as machines capable of so many units of work, and there were such numbers of them in the ship, and the vessel herself was so huge, that the labours of any single person, provided always he was not a very important person, did not seem to have any effect on the community as a whole. Indeed, a seaman could even go on the sick-list, or leave the ship altogether, without his absence being noticed or felt except by his own messmates and friends.
But in the Mariner things were very different, for here the labours of every single individual counted. If a man neglected his work or idled his time away, his shortcomings had their effect on some one else. They were soon noticed, and the laggard speedily found himself chased and goaded into a proper state of activity by Petty Officer Casey; and Casey, a glutton for work himself, always had a persuasive way with him, and a horny fist to back up his arguments.
There was a routine, of course, and very nice it looked on paper; but the life was so full of sudden surprises that as often as not any preconceived time-table went by the board. It was not surprising, for the Mariner and the other destroyers of her flotilla had always to be ready for service at the shortest notice, and her men frequently found themselves bundled unceremoniously out of their hammocks in the middle of the night to get the ship to sea. It did not matter whether it was blowing a gale, raining, or snowing; go to sea they must, and did.
Sometimes they chivied Fritz; and he—a wise man, but no gentleman—waited for no one. It was not the fault of the destroyers that he had usually vanished into space by the time they arrived to strafe him. Fritz was the ubiquitous Hun submarine, any 'untersee-boot' which happened to come into their domain, and a merry little dance he sometimes led them. Occasionally, to vary the monotony, they called him Hans, Adolf, Karl, or some other Teutonic appellation; but more often than not he was just Fritz, and Fritz he will remain until the end of the war. Sometimes, though reported as such, he was not really Fritz at all.
'The skipper of the trawler Adam and Eve reports having sighted a periscope flying a large flag in latitude xy^° z^′ N., longitude a^° bc^′ E., at six-thirty this morning,' was the sort of thing they were sometimes told. 'Proceed to the vicinity with all despatch, and search.'
Proceed they did, hot-foot and full of warlike energy, only to find that the skipper of the Adam and Eve had been mistaken, and that his periscope with its large flag was nothing but some other fisherman's dan buoy broken adrift from its nets. Dan buoys, seen in the half-light of the early morning or evening, are apt to be deceptive, particularly when the imagination is stirred at the thought of the substantial honorarium to be earned for authentic information of the enemy.
But even battleships and cruisers make mistakes sometimes. The newspapers have never mentioned one fierce engagement which took place in a certain northern harbour, in the chill gray light of an early dawn, when a long black submarine was suddenly seen approaching the outer cruiser of a line of men-of-war lying peacefully at their anchors. He came in on the flood-tide, grim and menacing, causing a great commotion in the water, and with his periscope raising its flutter of spray. Now and then he disappeared altogether.
It was Fritz, they thought, come to pay them an early morning visit, and with all the joy in the world the officer of the watch in the cruiser opened fire. It was easy shooting. The guns barked angrily, and four-inch shell spouted, foamed, and burst round the invader until he was a submarine no longer. The fleet was flung into a state of considerable excitement; but the submarine sank gracefully to the bottom, while the officer of the watch, metaphorically patting himself on the back, told his agitated pyjama-clad commanding officer of what had occurred.
'Are you quite certain you got him?' the latter inquired anxiously.
'Absolutely certain, sir,' the lieutenant replied. 'We all saw him hit several times. He sank by the bows.'
'Have sunk hostile submarine,' was the signal made to the flagship a few minutes later. 'Request permission to send down divers to investigate.'
'Approved!' came back the answer. 'Report results.'
'Divers have been down, but report they can find no traces of the alleged submarine,' another semaphore message went across three hours afterwards.
The flagship did not deign to answer, but her signalmen tittered; the 'alleged' tickled them.
'I'm absolutely certain he was hit, sir,' the officer who had opened fire reiterated for the thousandth time. 'I'm positive I saw him sink—absolutely positive!'
'Well, where the deuce has he got to, then?' the captain wanted to know, shrugging his shoulders unbelievingly. 'The damned thing surely can't sink and not leave a trace of anything behind him!' He seemed rather irritable.
Three days later a light cruiser anchored towards the entrance of the harbour, and started talking. 'There is a large black object stranded on the beach abreast the ship,' she said by semaphore. 'Am sending boat to investigate.'
'Object previously reported is a whale,' came a supplementary message in less than half-an-hour. 'It has been dead some days, and appears to have been killed by shell-fire.'
The defunct monster advertised his presence far and wide when the tide fell. People approached him wearing gas-masks and with ammonia-soaked handkerchiefs held to their noses. How the authorities got rid of him history does not relate. One cannot very well bury a thing the size of a house. Perhaps they sold him for fertiliser.
There were no C.B.'s or D.S.O.'s conferred for that battle, though the shooting certainly had been good.
But all this has carried us rather far from the Mariner and her men. They always found Fritz, Hans, Adolf, Karl, or whatever they chose to call him, as cunning as a hatful of monkeys; but the destroyers and other craft which sought to compass his destruction admired him for his efficiency, for efficient he certainly was. He combined boldness with seaman-like caution, and would suddenly appear in an area crowded with traffic, sink a merchant ship or two, and then disappear into space. Occasionally he behaved as a sportsman, and towed the boats containing the crews of the ships he had just sunk in towards the shore. Sometimes, when it came to sinking liners and passenger-ships with women and children on board, his reputation was unsavoury; but even the righteous wrath and indignation of his pursuers, who always played the game themselves, were not levelled so much at Fritz himself as at those who had given him orders to go out and do his dirty work.
The Mariner was once working in an area in which Fritz was very active indeed, when Hills the telegraphist clambered on to the bridge in a state of purple excitement, flourishing a sheet of paper.
'Well, what is it?' Wooten demanded. 'What's the matter?'
'There's a steamer down to the south-east'ard makin' the S.O.S. call, sir!' the man ejaculated agitatedly. 'Says she's bein' overhauled by a submarine, who's firin' on her. I've got her position, course, and speed!'
'The devil you have!' said Wooten, putting the telegraphs to 'Full speed,' and giving the helmsman a new course. 'Let's have her position.' He took the paper from the telegraphist, and laid the latitude and longitude off on the chart. 'Lord!' he remarked, rather perturbed, 'we're a good forty miles off. It'll take us over an hour to reach her. They'll be strafed by then, poor devils!'
The Mariner, meanwhile, with smoke pouring from her funnels and a great bow-wave creaming aft from her sharp stem, was dashing off at something over thirty knots.
Wooten scratched his head. 'Hills,' he said at last, as an inspiration seized him, 'call her up by wireless, and make her in plain English—not in code, mind—"Hang on. Destroyer will be with you in twenty minutes." Got that?'
'Yessir,' said the man, writing it down.
'Very well. Don't make our name, but use all the juice you can, so that they'll think we're very close. Understand?'
'Yessir,' nodded Hills, leaving the bridge rather mystified.
'You see, sub,' the skipper went on, 'we can't possibly get to this chap in time to save him from being sunk. All we can do is to try to frighten Fritz and to make him abandon the chase. D'you see?'
Hargreaves nodded vaguely.
'I don't believe you understand in the least what I'm driving at,' Wooten continued, smiling. 'Fritz has got wireless, and is on the surface. If he's the wily bird I imagine him to be, he'll have a fellow in his box-office listening to what's going on. He'll hear my signal, will take it in, translate it—they all know English—and there's just a chance it'll scare the life out of him, and make him shove off out of it. Savvy?'
Hargreaves nodded.
The scheme actually did work successfully, and Fritz was badly had, for in less than twenty minutes the unknown steamer was talking again. 'Submarine has abandoned chase, and has dived,' she said abruptly. 'Who are you?'
'Mind your own perishing business!' went back the reply in rather politer language.
Fritz seemed to work in spasms, for a fortnight would go by without a sign of him; and then, quite suddenly, there would come another recrudescence of his activity in another and quite unexpected locality. But the small craft were always hot on the scent the moment he bobbed up. They made his life a misery and a burden; and, though it is true he succeeded in sinking many a merchant ship, many of his species did not return to Wilhelmshaven. There were various effective ways of dealing with him, though exactly what those methods were must perforce be left a secret.
II.
But Fritz was not the only thing they hunted; for once, in the English Channel, the Mariner was sent to sea to look for Fritz's mother, a suspicious sailing-vessel supposed to be supplying him with petrol and other commodities.
It was midnight when the orders came, pitch-dark, snowing hard, and blowing half a gale of wind, and there was considerable risk in taking the ship to sea at all. First they had an altercation with the side of the jetty, the brunt of which was taken by the whaler at her davits, and caused that boat to open her seams and crack her ribs in resentful indignation. Then, since there was no room to turn, Wooten had to perform the rather ticklish manœuvre, in the midst of a snow-flurry, of steering stern first through a line of closely anchored ships with no lights. Any naval officer will agree that handling a destroyer in such circumstances, with a strong wind broad on the beam, the night so dark that it is impossible to see more than a hundred yards, and clouds of black, oil-fuel smoke making it darker still, is apt to be hair-raising and startling. Wooten found it so at any rate, and congratulated himself that he succeeded in getting to sea with no further damage than a badly squeezed whaler.
Shortly before daylight they arrived at the spot where the suspicious sailing-vessel had been sighted from the shore. They were all in a state of suppressed excitement, for they fully believed they were in for something at last; while the guns' crews, fidgeting with impatience, were standing by their weapons ready to open fire.
Wooten himself was very hopeful. 'If this report is true,' he said to the first lieutenant, 'I shouldn't at all wonder if we found a submarine taking in petrol alongside her.'
MacDonald, inclined to be sceptical, shook his head and smiled. 'I have my doubts, sir,' he said with true Scottish caution. 'It's my opinion that the whole yarn is pure bunkum.'
When the dawn broke in a blaze of scarlet and orange there was a sailing-craft in sight, and she was barely a mile away from the place where the submarine supply-ship had been reported. She seemed rather an ordinary-looking vessel, ketch rigged, with a sturdy, broad-beamed hull, and was hove-to under the lee of the land. Her sails were patched and dingy, and, like Joseph's coat, were of many colours. But really and truly there was nothing at all remarkable about her, though most of the officers and fully half the men were firmly convinced that she was a Hun of most immoral character.
The Mariner approached her warily, with guns trained, and the men's fingers itching on their triggers. They longed to fire. The Jessie and Eva, however, evinced no particular interest in the proceedings; and when the destroyer steamed up close alongside, and went astern to check her way, only a small, sleepy-eyed boy was visible on deck.
'Where d'you come from?' Wooten bellowed through a megaphone.
'Brixham, surr!' answered the youth with a broad west-country burr, as a tousled head appeared up the after-companion and stared at the destroyer in amazement.
'Where's your skipper?' the lieutenant-commander asked.
'Here Oi be, surr!' said the owner of the head, scrambling out of his cubby-hole, and appearing on deck in jersey and sea-boots. 'What'll you be waantin', surr?'
'Where d'you come from?'
'Brixham, surr.'
'How long have you been out?'
'Nigh on three-fourr days, surr.'
'What's your name?'
'Jarge, surr—Jarge Willyum Cobley,' answered the man, in unmistakable Devonshire accents.
Wooten turned to the first lieutenant. 'Lower the dinghy, and go on board and have a look at her,' he said rather disappointedly. 'Seems to me she's as innocent as a new-born babe; but ask 'em if they've seen any men-of-war or submarines about, and find out how long they've been here. Get back as soon as you can.'
'Ay, ay, sir.'
The boat was lowered, and the Jessie and Eva, for the first time in her career, found herself boarded by an officer and two men armed to the teeth.
'Whaat du th' li'l man-o'-warr waant, surr?' queried the skipper, eyeing MacDonald's holstered weapon with some apprehension. 'Us is from Brixham, surr.'
'Yes, that's all right. I merely want to have a look round.'
He examined the smack fore and aft; but there was not the least vestige of anything incriminating about her. Her papers were in order, her two men and the boy were obvious west-countrymen, and she herself was full of fish. She had been in her present position or thereabouts for the last three days, the skipper said, and he intended returning to Brixham with her catch that afternoon.
'Well, there's nothing the matter with you,' said the first lieutenant with a laugh, as he prepared to get back to his boat. 'Care for a bit of navy plug?' He knew well enough how to get the right side of fishermen, and never dreamt of boarding a trawler without a couple of inches of strong navy plug tobacco in his pocket.
Old Cobley beamed. 'Ay, surr,' he said, accepting the gift. 'Us doan't of'en get navy 'bacca. Would 'e care fur some fish, surr? 'Tis fine fresh caught.'
'Thanks very much,' answered the lieutenant, who had taken the precaution of bringing two buckets across in the boat with him; 'I should.'
'Peterr!' the old fisherman bellowed to the boy, 'put some fish inter th' orficer's boat, an' luk lively naow.'
Peter obeyed his orders, and the dinghy eventually returned to the ship with the buckets full and her bottom covered with a slippery, sliding mass of newly caught herrings, a turbot or two, and dozens of other varieties which nobody could put a name to. They had sufficient to provide the ship's company of the Mariner with two excellent meals, and the total value of the haul, if brought ashore, could not have been far short of thirty shillings. Tobacco to the approximate value of four-pence sometimes does work wonders, and well MacDonald knew it. He was a Scotsman.
But Wooten was anxious to find out how the report had originated. His orders to search for a suspicious vessel had mentioned 'a black-hulled, ketch-rigged craft, with several white patches in her mainsail,' and this description suited old Jarge Cobley's smack to a T. Moreover, she had been found close to the position mentioned in the report.
'Any silly juggins could have seen that she was innocent!' the lieutenant-commander declared wrathfully. He forgot that it was easy to be wise after the event, and that, barely half-an-hour before, he and most of his men had been quite firm in their conviction that the Jessie and Eva was a Hun in disguise.
The Mariner first signalled to a coastguard station ashore, but the coastguardmen declined all responsibility, and merely stated that they had heard a rumour that, the previous afternoon, some agitation had been caused amongst the military authorities in the neighbouring coast town of Baymouth by a report that a strange vessel had been seen hovering in a most suspicious manner off the coast. The coastguardmen, having satisfied themselves that there was no such craft in the neighbourhood, had taken no further interest in the matter. That was all they professed to know about it.
Wooten himself did not know until afterwards that the garrison of Baymouth consisted of a small detachment of the 8th (Service) battalion of the Midshire Rangers. It was commanded by a major who, having contracted a chill, was absent on sick-leave. Next came a captain, and he, the day being Sunday, had gone off on his motor-bicycle to see his wife, leaving Second Lieutenant Tarry-Diddle, a newly caught subaltern, in charge of the gallant troops. Tarry-Diddle, a most promising and zealous youth, was the 'military authority' referred to.
The Mariner steamed three miles along the coast to Baymouth, and here the first lieutenant was landed in the dinghy to make inquiries. There was some surf on the beach, and he was very wet before he got ashore; but, escorted by a local constable and a tribe of urchins, who were firmly convinced that he was a prisoner from a German submarine just sunk in the bay by the destroyer, he was eventually ushered into the presence of the senior military officer in the town. This time it was Captain Bumble-Dyke, and he was having his breakfast.
An hour later MacDonald returned to the ship and described the scene to Wooten. 'I got ashore,' he said, 'and asked for the boss military man in the place. He was having his breakfast when I arrived, and was quite affable; asked me if I'd care for some of his bacon and eggs, in fact. I was wet through and beastly cold, so said I'd have a cup of coffee. Then I asked him about the suspicious sailing-vessel of his. He evidently thought at first that I'd come to pay an official call, though why he should imagine I'd come at that hour in the morning, wet through, and wearing a dirty muffler and sea-boots, I'm sure I don't know. He seemed rather surprised, and stared at me for a bit, and then asked what suspicious sailing-vessel I meant. He said he hadn't heard of one, and went off into a yarn about his having been away all the day before, his motor-bike having punctured, and his only having got back at two o'clock that morning.' No. 1 smiled at the recollection.
'Go on with the yarn,' said Wooten, beginning to laugh.
'Well, sir, I told him that the military people at Baymouth had reported a suspicious craft off the coast yesterday evening. "It's the first I've heard of it," he said. "Well, your people reported her, anyhow," I told him. "It must have been Tarry-Diddle!" he answered. "He was in charge here all yesterday. He's not said anything to me about it, though it's true I haven't seen him since I returned." "Who's Tarry-Diddle?" I asked. "He's my subaltern," he said. "We'd better send along for him." We did, and he fetched up in about ten minutes. Seemed a decent little chap, but a bit nervous. "What's this about a suspicious vessel off the coast?" asked the captain. "Yes, sir. We sighted one yesterday, and reported it," says Tarry-Diddle, looking at me rather anxiously. "Most suspicious-looking craft. Ketch rigged, black hull, and several white patches in her mainsail. She's been hovering round the bay for three days, sir." I laughed; couldn't very well help it, for he'd described the Jessie and Eva exactly. "What's the matter?" the captain asked me. "Matter!" I said. "Why, your suspicious craft is nothing but an ordinary Brixham trawler. We've just examined her." "The deuce she is!—Whom did you report her to, Tarry-Diddle?" "I sent a wire straight to the Admiralty, sir," the poor little chap said. The captain got rather purple in the face. "Good God!" he shouted, jumping up, "d'you mean to say that you wired to the Admiralty to tell 'em that—— Oh Lord! you'll get me hanged! What the deuce d'you mean by it?" "I'm awfully sorry, sir," said Tarry-Diddle, rather frightened and very white about the gills. "I thought I'd done the right thing." "Done the right thing, you blithering young jackass!" roared the captain. "Why the devil didn't you get the naval people to have a look at her? How on earth can you tell whether a ship's suspicious or whether she isn't? I go away for twelve hours, and leave you in charge, and this sort of thing happens! I tell you, Tarry-Diddle, it won't do. It won't do at all! I shall have to report the matter to the colonel!" He started stamping up and down the room in a fearful state of excitement. I couldn't help laughing.'
Wooten was laughing himself. 'What happened then?' he spluttered.
'Tarry-Diddle got in a bit of a funk, sir. "It happened like this, sir," he explained. "The sergeant-major was walking along the front yesterday afternoon"—— "To hell with the sergeant-major!" shouted Bumble-Dyke; "where the deuce does he come in?" "That's just what I'm trying to explain, sir," said Tarry-Diddle; and I do believe the young devil was laughing. "Oh, go on, and let's hear what you have to say!" spluttered the captain. "Well, sir, the sergeant-major was walking along the front yesterday afternoon behind two retired naval officers—at least, he said they were retired naval officers. They were talking, and one of them drew the attention of the other to the sailing-craft, and said he thought she looked rather suspicious. The other chap agreed, and said the Admiralty ought to be asked to send a ship to have a look at her." "I've never met any retired naval officers here," grumbled Bumble-Dyke. "I've seen most of the residents in the club, too." "I'm only telling you what the sergeant-major said, sir," Tarry-Diddle went on. "He came back to me at once, and told me what he'd heard, so I sent the wire off to the Admiralty on one of those yellow forms." "That accounts for our little excursion, then," I chipped in.'
'Oh Lord!' gasped Wooten, 'this is the limit. Go on. What happened then?'
'Well, sir,' MacDonald continued, laughing, 'the captain called the poor little chap all the names he could think of; told him he ought to be court-martialled, and shot at dawn, and all the rest of it. They were still at it hammer and tongs when I came away.'
Wooten smiled. 'I feel rather sorry for Tarry-Diddle,' he said. 'But I'm not certain he didn't deserve it, draggin' us out of harbour in the middle of the night all for a ruddy craft which any darned son of a gun could have seen was only a Brixham trawler.' It did not occur to him that he had been badly taken in himself. 'By the way,' he added, 'who were the two retired naval officers?'
'They were invented by the sergeant-major,' MacDonald chuckled. 'One of them was the steward at the yacht club, who goes about in a yachting-cap and a gold badge, and t' other was the man who's in charge of the bathing-machines in the summer. That's what I was told, at any rate.'
'Lord!' said the skipper, laughing, 'it reminds me of that parson, at the other place, who said he had seen the periscope of a submarine at seventeen miles. Seventeen perishin' miles, mark you! He sent a wire to the Admiralty, too, and they called out every destroyer within a hundred miles. But it wasn't Fritz at all, merely the mast of a ship hull down on the horizon. It was rather a clearer day than usual, that's all!'
No. 1 laughed. 'They're all so jolly keen on reporting things, sir; but I must say this sort of thing is the limit.'
'I agree,' said Wooten, chuckling. 'However, we mustn't let Tarry What's-his-name get into trouble. I'll send in a report sayin' we couldn't find any rakish-lookin' craft in the neighbourhood, and that I expect the military people were mistaken. You know,' he added, 'these fellows who've joined the new army are devilish good chaps and devilish keen, and one doesn't want to have 'em strafed unless one can't help it—what?'
'I quite agree, sir.'
'And when we get in I'll write a letter to Bumble-Dyke, asking him not to be too hard on him.'
He was as good as his word, and never regretted it, for less than a year later the name of Temporary Lieutenant Richard Tarry-Diddle, as he was then, appeared in the Honours List. He had won his Victoria Cross at Ypres.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE NORTH SEA.
I.
There were many different topics of conversation in the wardroom of the Mariner. The seven members of the mess talked learnedly upon dozens of subjects, no matter whether they knew much about them or not. Nothing was too abstruse. They discussed the Mendel theory, atavism, and how onions acquired their flavour and violets their scent with as much zest and freedom as they argued about the possibilities of a German invasion of Britain, and the rights and wrongs of universal service. Conversation frequently became strident, and heated argument occasionally gave way to flat contradiction; while contradiction sometimes terminated in a babel in which every one aired opinions to which nobody listened. One can hardly expect anything else when seven men of widely divergent views and ideals, and with different characters and temperaments, live cheek by jowl in the same small ship. The subjects most often brought under discussion, however—the hardy perennials, so to speak—were:
(1) Whether or not the High Sea Fleet of his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of all the Germans was likely to emerge into the North Sea.
(2) Former ships.
(3) The iniquities of one Harry Smith, officers' steward of the second class.
Opinions on No. 1 varied, and need not be entered into here; but No. 2 provided them with many hours' conversation.
'When I was in the old Somerset, in nineteen-nine,' somebody would start the ball rolling, 'we had a fellow who'——
'By George, yes!' continued some one else; 'that reminds me of the Saturn in China in nought-five. Did you ever hear the yarn about the watch-keeper who'—— And straightway the floodgates of reminiscence were opened.
It was perfectly natural, for there were seven of them, and among them they had served his Majesty or his predecessors for nearly eighty years. Moreover, they had been in every imaginable type of ship, in many different parts of the world, and had never been shipmates before. Five of the seven we have already met. The other two were Augustus Black, the surgeon-probationer of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and George Bonar, the midshipman of the Royal Naval Reserve. Of them, more anon.
Topic No. 3, the sins and omissions of Harry Smith, came up for consideration at least twice daily. He was an unkempt individual, with long black hair and sallow complexion, who had just entered the service. Before deciding to serve the King he had, or had not, been a shining light in a livery and bait stable. He may have been an excellent ostler, but did not scintillate as an officers' steward. Nominally he was supposed to assist Watkins, the senior steward, who, under the supervision of Mr Menotti, did for the officers as regards their messing. Watkins himself was all that could be desired, but the redoubtable Harry frequently 'did for' the members of the mess in more senses than one.
The galley, where all the cooking was done, lived forward, and though it must have been painful for Smith to fall on the slippery steel deck on the way aft with the joint for the evening meal, it was still more annoying for seven officers with healthy appetites to discover that their leg of mutton, together with its dish, had flopped gracefully overboard and had sunk to the bottom of the harbour. On one occasion the dish of bacon for breakfast came to grief; whereupon Smith, trusting that nobody was looking, gathered up what remained on the deck, and replaced it in the dish with his fingers. But the eagle eye of the first lieutenant was upon him, and there was trouble.
Besides being the food-carrier to and from the galley, Smith acted as the wine steward in Watkins's absence, was supposed to clean and wash up the table silver and crockery, and to keep a watchful eye upon the table-napkins and tablecloths. It was unfortunate that he poured the sherry into a decanter half-full of port; but he was forgiven, for the mixture, under the guise of 'madeira,' was offered to, and accepted as a quid pro quo by, unsuspecting dockyard employees who had provided the first lieutenant with—well, certain things which he required for the ship. Smith was not pardoned for losing the upper half of an expensive silver-plated entrée-dish, for breaking or losing in ten days no fewer than seventeen tumblers, four plates, two cups, and a butter-dish, or for using the best damask table-napkins as dishcloths or for boot-polishing, for all those articles had to be accounted for. Wooten was also extremely annoyed one Sunday morning when, on going the rounds, he discovered the hairbrushes and celluloid dickey of the culprit, together with one toothbrush, a shirt, six raw and juicy chops done up in newspaper, some emery-paper, knife-powder, and three loaves of wardroom bread, nestling side by side in the same cupboard. No! Harry Smith, though undoubtedly a feature of the ship, and a source of abundant and animated conversation, was not an acquisition.
'Let's get rid of the blighter!' some one suggested.
They tried to, but the only substitute available was a callow, pimply faced youth who, before the war, had been a railway porter.
'Lord!' laughed the skipper, 'if he comes we sha'n't have any crockery at all at the end of a fortnight.'
And so Smith remained.
Augustus Black was a medical student at one of the London hospitals who had volunteered his services on the outbreak of war. The powers that be had accepted his offer, enrolled him in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve as a surgeon-probationer, provided him with the sum of twenty pounds wherewith to purchase the necessary uniform, and presently desired him to repair forthwith to his duties on board H.M.S. Mariner.
The ship's company as a whole were disgustingly healthy; but Black attended to their minor ailments, cuts, and contusions, packed them off to the depot ship or hospital if they became really ill, held what he vulgarly called 'belly musters' once a month or oftener, and gave them lectures on first-aid and personal hygiene. In the ordinary piping times of peace a destroyer carries nothing but a medical chest containing the simpler remedies, together with bandages, splints, tourniquets, and dressings. She has no doctor, and if a man is hurt or becomes ill he is given first-aid or relief by one of his shipmates, and is sent to the depot ship or hospital for treatment as soon as possible. In war, however, when any ship may conceivably be in action at any moment, and when twenty-four hours or more may elapse before wounded men can see a medical officer, valuable lives may be saved if injuries are properly attended to and dressed on the spot. That was why Black and many others like him had been sent to destroyers.
In addition to his other duties, he acted as wine-caterer for the mess, and, since there was no cabin available, slept on a settee in the wardroom, and shaved, bathed, dressed, and kept his clothes and other belongings in the sub-lieutenant's cabin, or wherever else he could find room. His existence must have had its drawbacks and inconveniences; but, being adaptable, he did not seem to mind them, for he was an excellent messmate, always cheerful, and was not in the least addicted to sea-sickness.
Bonar, the R.N.R. 'snotty,' slept in a hammock in the tiny flat outside the officers' cabins, and where he kept his possessions was always something of a mystery. He had been at sea in the mercantile marine before the war, and, in spite of his youth, was a most useful member of society. He helped the sub with his charts, assisted Wooten with his official correspondence, wrote up the fair log, and justified his existence in many other ways.
The authorities realised that life in small ships was sometimes apt to breed staleness; so, though the Mariner and her flotilla were often at sea, and while in harbour were always ready to sail at short notice, officers and men were allowed ashore in the afternoons whenever they could be spared. They were always liable to instant recall, of course, and never got very far from their ships; but this did not prevent them from playing games or otherwise amusing themselves. It did them all the good in the world, and kept them fit and contented.
On board, their amusements were simple. They all read a great deal, and their expenditure on 'sevenpennies,' cheap books at one shilling, and magazines must have put considerable profit into the pockets of the publishers who catered for their needs, notwithstanding the enhanced price of paper and the shortage of labour. One thing all agreed upon was their debt of gratitude to Jack London. They read his books not once, but a dozen times; and, prolific writer though he is, they wished he were more prolific, for there was a snap and a liveliness about his work which appealed to them. In the evenings in harbour the officers either read, argued, listened to the gramophone, played with the doctor's Meccano set, or indulged in ping-pong. It is true that the wardroom of a destroyer is not an ideal place for this game. The table was small; collisions with hanging lamps, furniture, and Harry Smith with his arms full of newly cleaned glasses and cutlery were frequent and sometimes painful; while the balls had an unhappy knack of losing themselves under settees and cupboards. But in spite of these disadvantages the players became expert.
Farther forward the men also contrived to keep themselves happy. They had their band—consisting of a drum, a couple of concertinas, many mouth-organs, and a flute—which disported itself on deck on fine evenings. They also sang loudly and sentimentally; while one versatile person imitated Mr Charles Chaplin, bowler hat, moustache, baggy trousers, and all. They had their racing crews for the whaler and the dinghy, and in the dog-watches were not slow in challenging other destroyers to races. Sometimes they won and sometimes they did not; but the contests always gave the onlookers the opportunity of indulging in ribald and strident remarks at other people's expense.
Amongst the ship's company were a certain number of men who had done their time in the navy, had retired into civil life after their various periods of service, and had either volunteered or been recalled on the outbreak of war. They were all excellent men, just as good as any of their shipmates, while what little rustiness there was about them wore off within a month of their joining the ship. Their experiences and occupations ashore had been varied, to say the least of it.
'Dogo' Pearson, the milkman, has appeared before; but besides him there was an ex-member of the Liverpool police, an Edinburgh fireman, a cattle-puncher from Arizona, and a man who had served as a steward-valet on board a yacht belonging to some rich potentate in the Argentine. Then there was David MacLeod, who hailed from Stornoway; Donald MacIver, from the Orkneys; and Roderick Mackay, from Lerwick. They were all fishermen and members of the Royal Naval Reserve, and naturally were good seamen. Moreover, Wooten found them most useful as reliable weather prophets.
'Well,' he would say to MacLeod on the bridge at sea, 'what d'you make of the weather?'
The Scotsman would look up at the sky and note the direction and force of the wind. 'Sur,' he would answer slowly, 'we'll ha'e a wee bit blaw afore the mornin'.'
'Blow!' Wooten would echo, rather surprised. 'Why d'you say that? The glass is high, and there's a fine enough sky; isn't there?'
MacLeod would wag his head wisely. 'I dinna ken why,' he would say. 'The wund'll ha'e gone roond tae the north-east, an'll start blawin' fresh afore the mornin'.'
And blow it invariably did, precisely from the quarter MacLeod had mentioned.
The torpedo coxswain of a destroyer is a very important person indeed. He is always a chief petty officer or petty officer who acts as ex officio master-at-arms of the ship, and as such supervises the discipline, is the mouthpiece between the men and the officers, brings men up for punishment when they have misconducted themselves, and makes out and forwards the punishment returns to the depot ship. This, since serious offences are infrequent in torpedo-craft, is perhaps the least of all his duties. He also performs the work carried out by the ship's steward in a big ship, being responsible, under the supervision of the C.O., for the drawing and issue of all clothing, victuals, and rum, besides keeping the store-books for the same. As these have to be forwarded to the victualling paymaster of the depot ship at certain intervals, this, since it involves no small amount of paper work and much calculation, may be called the most onerous of his tasks.
But the coxswain's chief function, his raison d'être, is to act as a skilled helmsman. He is generally a man of long service and tried experience, who has done all his time in torpedo-craft. He knows, or should know, the individual idiosyncrasies of practically every type of destroyer in the navy; and, this being the case, he is the commanding officer's right-hand man if he is good—and he usually is—and his bête noir if he is bad. He steers the ship going in or out of harbour, when she is moving away from or going alongside a jetty or another ship, during steam tactics and manœuvres, or in action. In short, he is the qualified helmsman whose presence is required at the wheel in any circumstances calling for special skill and knowledge. He draws extra pay for his attainments, and has been through special courses to fit him for his rating; but his value lies in the fact that he has learnt his trade through long experience at sea.
William Willis, the coxswain of the Mariner, was a short, well-covered little man, with a laughing red face and a pair of twinkling blue eyes. He was always laughing, no matter how bad the weather, no matter what happened; while he had the peculiar knack of always appearing on the bridge at the very instant he was wanted, and without having to be sent for. How, when, and where he slept or ate at sea Wooten never discovered; for no sooner had the next destroyer ahead hauled out of the line to avoid a floating mine, or an important signal been made, than Willis, breathing like a grampus, clambered ponderously up on to the bridge and relieved the helmsman. It seemed second nature to him to arrive at the moment he was most needed. One peculiar trait of his was that he never would admit that the weather was really bad.
'Bit rotten, cox'n, eh?' Wooten would remark, shaking the drops of water out of his eyes after a green sea had lolloped over the forecastle and deluged every one on the bridge with spray.
'Not near so bad as I 'ave 'ad, sir,' Willis always answered stolidly. 'When I was in the Boxer we was once 'ove-to for three days in weather like this 'ere.' He occasionally varied the formula by mentioning the Zephyr, the Angler, the Kangaroo, the Albatross, the Garry, the Mohawk, or various others of the destroyers in which he had served; but no matter if the barometer had dropped half-an-inch in an hour, or the wind was blowing with almost hurricane force, or the ship was rolling and pitching to an extent that nobody would have believed possible if he had not seen and felt it, her weather, in the coxswain's opinion, was never so bad as that experienced by the other craft he had been in.
Sometimes, in the days when Wooten was still new to the ship, and before he had come to understand the ways and tricks of handling her—and a destroyer does occasionally take a deal of handling—they got into difficulties. Perhaps they would be going alongside an oiler [34] at dead of night to replenish their fuel, and the wind would get on the wrong bow, and a strong tide sweep the ship the wrong way. Willis rarely talked on the bridge, but then it was that he considered himself entitled to speak.
'Why not try 'er with a touch astern starboard, sir?' would come a hoarse remark. 'Slew 'er stern round—see?' He never spoke as if he were offering advice; he merely made a suggestion, as it were, and oftener than not Wooten acted upon it, and found it good.
Daniel Bulpit, the chief engine-room artificer, Thompson's trusted assistant and second in command, had few peculiarities. He was a hard-working, conscientious, and thoroughly capable west-countryman, who was always cheerful and always obliging. In appearance he was short and thick-set, with a fresh complexion, hair slightly tinged with gray, and blue eyes; and what he didn't know about the Mariner and her internal economy was not worth thinking about. Before joining the destroyer he had been at the College at Dartmouth, teaching the naval cadets their business in the pattern-shop. He had evidently been popular there, for when he went ashore he was frequently recognised and accosted by certain of his 'young gentlemen,' most of whom by this time had attained the dignity and single gold stripes of sub-lieutenants.
Gartin, the chief stoker, was a character, and, among other duties, had charge of the engineer's stores and tools. He was a tall man, with shaggy eyebrows, black hair, and a black beard, and, judging from the conversation occasionally heard issuing from the storeroom hatch, took his job very seriously indeed, and regarded most people, certainly all seamen, as disciples of Barabbas.
'Please, will yer let us 'ave the loan of a cold chisel an' a nammer?' once asked Pincher Martin.
The chief stoker glared. He had a rooted antipathy to all men who came to borrow tools, for as often as not they omitted to return them. This necessitated a game of hide-and-seek throughout the ship on the part of Gartin himself; while, when the implements were eventually retrieved, the edges of the chisels were generally found to be jagged, the saws blunt, and the punches broken. 'What d'you want 'em for?' he asked suspiciously.
'Ter cut a length o' three an' a narf wire in 'alves.'
'Ain't got none!' snapped Gartin.
Pincher knew full well that he had. 'We carn't do th' job without 'em,' he expostulated mildly.
'Can't 'elp that; you'll 'ave to do the best you can, or else borrow 'em off some one else. I ain't got no 'ammers nor chisels, I tells you!'
'But I see'd'——
'Can't 'elp what you see'd. I ain't got none; that's flat, ain't it?'
'Well, if yer really 'aven't got 'em I s'pose I'll 'ave ter go an' tell the bloke wot sent me ter borrow 'em,' said Martin with an air of resignation.
Gartin pricked up his ears. ''Oo was it 'oo sent you?'
'Fu'st lootenant,' said Pincher, inventing a polite fiction on the spur of the moment.
'Why didn't you say so afore?' Gartin demanded wrathfully, opening a tool-box. 'Think I'm 'ere to 'ave my time wasted like this? You're quite certain it was th' fu'st lootenant sent you?' He thought he had seen a twinkle in Pincher's eye.
'Well, 'e said 'e wanted the job done this mornin', any'ow,' the ordinary seaman prevaricated.
The chief stoker produced the hammer and the chisel, and handed them across as if he were making a gift of the Crown Jewels. ''Ere you are. Look out you returns 'em. If you don't'—— He glared fiercely and shook his head.
'If I doesn't?'
'If you don't I'll take you afore the engineer horficer an' the captin, an' 'ave the price of 'em stopped outa your pay. I'm fed up wi' chasin' people round the ship. They comes to me borrowin' things right an' left, never says so much as "Thank you," an' never troubles to return the gear wot they borrowed. I ain't 'ere to get runnin' round arter seamen wot isn't no better'n a pack o' thieves!'
'I'll look out I returns 'em orl right,' said Pincher, retreating up the ladder with a broad grin all over his face.
'I'll look out you pays for 'em if you don't!' was the chief stoker's final remark.
Pincher retired chuckling, with the tools in his possession. He did not feel the least bit uneasy. Gartin's bark was always worse than his bite, and nobody ever took him really seriously.
Hills, the petty officer telegraphist, was a burly, powerful-looking man of average height. His eyebrows, like Gartin's, were long and bushy, the hair on his head was thick and luxuriant, while his chin, though he shaved every morning regularly, was always bristly and blue by the evening. At sea he spent most of his time in the wireless office abaft the charthouse. It was a tiny apartment, about eight feet by five, and every conceivable nook and cranny, and almost every square inch of the walls and ceiling, was occupied by instruments. Where there was room on the walls Hills had decorated his little den with photographs of his wife, children, relations, and friends, and sundry flamboyant and highly coloured picture post-cards. There was just room for a mahogany slab which served as a table, and a chair bolted to the deck, in which, with a pair of telephone-receivers clipped over his ears, Hills sat enthroned like some mysterious wizard in his cave. The wireless office was soundproof and practically airtight. Its occupant detested draughts, and at sea in winter, when the two small side windows were kept tightly shut, the atmosphere could almost be cut with a knife. In the early mornings, when Hills had had an all-night sitting, and felt peevish and looked dishevelled, his shipmates always said his hairy face assumed a simian aspect, and that he himself reminded them of a gorilla in his cage. It was a libel, but this did not prevent certain irreverent persons from forgathering outside his den at cockcrow, opening the door gently, and then, scratching themselves after the manner of apes, inquiring tenderly as to his health.
''Ullo, "Birdie," 'ow goes the zoo? Wot time does th' hanimals feed this mornin'?'
'Oh, go to 'ell!' 'Birdie' would exclaim irritably. Sometimes he adopted stronger measures, emerged from his lair with a ferocious expression, and, armed with a broom-handle, pursued his tormentors round the forecastle to the accompaniment of yelps of pain and howls for mercy as he belaboured them roundly.
But Hills was popular on board, and was thoroughly good at his work; so, taking things all round, Wooten and the officers had reason to congratulate themselves upon having a good ship's company.
II.
Who would not sell a farm and go to sea? Life in the navy, even in war, has its compensations. At any rate, the sailor's commodious residence conveys him, his belongings, his food, and his weapons to the scene of his activities at a speed of anything between seven and a half and thirty-six knots, according to circumstances. The soldier, on the other hand, though he may sometimes ride upon a horse or travel in a train, generally has to rely upon his own flat feet for locomotion. Moreover, he carries on his person several days' provisions, spare clothing, a rifle, a bayonet, ammunition, and equipment, together with an assortment of bombs, gas-masks, and entrenching tools. Any spare space or weight-carrying capacity which may remain to him is presumably at his own disposal, and may be utilised for accommodating gifts of tobacco, magazines, and socks from home. So the sailor is lucky in a way; while he also escapes the mud of the trenches, the plagues of flies, and other abominations—for which he is duly grateful. It is true, though, that his floating home, particularly if it is a small one like a destroyer, is very subject to the vicissitudes of the weather, and has a knack of being abominably wet and very unstable in a seaway. But life at sea in peace and life at sea in war are not so very different. The ocean, with its gales, calms, and fogs, is always the same, and hostilities only mean more time spent at sea, a few extra dangers thrown in, in the shape of mines and submarines, and the chance of a 'scrap' with the enemy.
Sometimes, during their expeditions to that region known as 'the other side,' for the express purpose of discomforting the Hun, the Mariner and the light cruisers and other destroyers with her had bad weather. Occasionally it was very bad indeed, and until they got used to it some of the ship's company wished fervently that they had never joined the navy at all. When their little ship was punching home against a rapidly rising gale, the green seas had a playful habit of breaking over the bows and of washing waist-deep over the upper deck; while, even in the quiet intervals, sheets of spray came flying on board until every one was soaked through and through, in spite of oilskins.
The movement was dizzy and maddening. It was usually a combined pitch and roll, a horrible corkscrew motion which left one wondering what antics the ship was going to indulge in next. At one instant the bows would be flung high into the air on the crest of a wave until the forefoot and some length of the bottom were clean out of the water. Then the sea would fall away from underneath, and, after hesitating a little, the bows would fall into the next hollow with a sickening downward plunge. Then a great gray wall of advancing water, topped with a mass of yeasty foam, would rear itself up and obliterate the horizon ahead. Sometimes the ship lifted in time to ride over it. Sometimes she seemed to hang, and the liquid avalanche broke on board and surged over the forecastle with a crashing and a thudding which made the whole ship quiver and tremble. At such times the mess-decks, the wardroom, and the cabins, however watertight they were supposed to be, were usually inundated with several inches of water. Hot food was often out of the question, for even if the cook were not seasick, or his fire were not extinguished by the sea, he, not being blessed with the tentacles of an octopus, could hardly prevent himself from being hurled violently forth through his galley door, let alone retain an array of saucepans, kettles, and frying-pans on the top of a nearly red-hot stove. Something was bound to go, and 'cookie' took very good care it was not he. Then it was that officers and men ate and drank what they could. Wooten favoured Bovril from a vacuum flask, corned beef sandwiches, and cheese; but some people, having no appetites, preferred to fast.
Destroyers cannot steam very fast against a heavy head-sea, and with bad weather from the west there was always the possibility that the enemy's battle-cruisers might emerge from their lair and chase and sink the retiring British ships one by one as they punched slowly homewards. Small craft are not suited for fighting in very bad weather, and such an eventuality might have been disastrous; but nobody seemed to trouble his head about it.
Life at sea in the summer, when there was hardly a ripple on the water, with a brilliant sun and no fog, was enjoyable, though it is true that they always ran a certain amount of risk from mines, floating or otherwise. The dangerous red squares, oblongs, and circles on the chart were abundant and well scattered. Ships did not willingly venture over them; but summer sun and absence of wind breed fogs, and they might be at sea in misty weather for a couple or more days with no glimpse of the land, no chance of taking an observation of the sun, and nothing but a dead reckoning position to work from. This—since tides, currents, and wind have a variable effect—might sometimes be anything up to twenty miles wrong, so destroyers occasionally trespassed upon the red danger areas without really meaning to do so. How could they help it?
Liberties should not be taken with mines. They are inventions of the Evil One, and at the beginning of the war caused many people to suffer from insomnia; but later on those who did nothing but traverse waters in which some unscrupulous mine-layer had deposited her eggs lost much of their dread of them. Familiarity had bred not actually contempt, but a species of fatalistic indifference which is rather difficult to describe. A mine explosion is always serious, sometimes disastrous, and it is never exactly pleasant to know that your ship may be blown up at any moment, and that you and your shipmates may have to take to the boats, if there is room in them for all hands and the cook, or if there is not, to go bathing in life-belts or swimming-collars. Moreover, some of you may be killed or wounded by the explosion itself, particularly if it occurs under a magazine; and if it happens close to the enemy's coast one may possibly be rescued by the Huns and incarcerated in Germany for the duration of the war. There is a chance of being saved by a British ship if one is anywhere near; but whichever way one looks at it, an under-water explosion is never anything but unpleasant to the victim thereof.
But there is nothing to be gained by worrying. In war one can go to Kingdom Come in such a variety of ways, all equally violent and all horrible, that it is as well never to allow the mind to dwell on any particular method of extinction. People never run unnecessary risks, naturally; but risks have to be taken, and mines moored beneath the surface are invisible at any time. 'Floaters,' too, are a source of danger; and, though mines which have become parted from their moorings are nominally supposed to be harmless, Hague Conventions and the tenets of International Law are sometimes disregarded. War has lost its old-time chivalry. It is now a dirty and an ungentlemanly business—one at which the modern Hun excels.
III.
One dark winter evening the Mariner and three other destroyers were groping their way back toward the British coast after being at sea for two days and two nights. They had had the usual North Sea weather, thick haze and some rain; but during the later portion of the trip there had been a gale of wind from the south-west and an unusually bad sea. Even now, when they were close to the coast, and should have been more or less under the lee of the land, it still blew hard, with a heavy perpendicular lop which made the little ships pitch and wallow as they drove through it. The evening was as black as the mouth of the nethermost pit, and the sky was completely overcast, while for the last forty-eight hours they had never had a glimpse of the sun or the land. Their position, as usual in such circumstances, was more or less an unknown thing, a mere matter of dead reckoning and guesswork, which even the constant use of the sounding-machine could not verify.
Making the land after dark in peace-time, with all shore lights blazing, sometimes gives cause for anxiety; but in war, when all the lighthouses and lightships are extinguished, when many buoys are removed, and there are various dangerous mined areas to be dodged and avoided, it becomes something more than a joke. If mines are known to be present, the feeling is not at all a pleasant one. It is rather like being blindfolded and trying to find the door in a pitch-dark room, the floor of which is well strewn with bombs ready to explode on being touched. That was the sort of sensation at the back of Wooten's mind.
The Mariner happened to be the third ship in the line of four, and at five-fifty-one precisely, when the skipper, the sub-lieutenant, and the usual quartermaster, signalman, and lookouts were on the bridge watching the next ahead, there came a rumbling, crashing roar from somewhere close astern. It made the ship dance and tremble, and was nothing the least like the sharp report of a gun. The sound was more or less muffled, and the violent, reverberating thud could only be compared with the sudden banging of a heavy steel velvet-covered door in a jerry-built villa, if such a thing can be imagined.
Wooten, who had heard such reports before, knew at once what it was. 'God!' he exclaimed anxiously, looking astern; 'some one's got it in the neck!'
Some one had—the Monsoon, the ship astern—and a moment later her signal-lamp was flickering agitatedly in and out in the darkness. 'Have struck a mine!' she spelt out hastily.
Wooten cursed under his breath. 'These things always happen on nights like this!' he observed bitterly. 'Just like our rotten luck!—Signalman!'
'Sir?'
'Tell Monsoon I'm coming to her assistance,' Wooten gave the necessary orders to the quartermaster at the wheel.—'Hargreaves, have the boats turned out ready for lowering in case she goes, and send down to No. 1, and tell him to be ready for taking her in tow. As fast as you can!'
The sub. hurriedly left the bridge, and Wooten, working the helm and the twin screws, circled round until his ship was about fifty yards away from and abreast of the damaged vessel, which had fallen off into the trough of the sea. The Mariner's men, meanwhile, in all stages of deshabille, had thronged to the upper deck at the sound of the explosion, and were making the various necessary preparations.
'Are you all right?' the skipper bellowed as the ship slid slowly past, rolling heavily.
'I don't know about being all right,' came back a voice. 'My stern, with the rudder, screws, and the whole bag o' tricks, is missing. I think she'll float, though.'
'Right! I'll take you in tow!' went back the reply.—'Good Lord!' added Wooten, swaying to the heavy rolling and looking at the sea; 'it's going to be the devil's own job, though.'
It was. When a searchlight shone out and illuminated the scene, the Monsoon seemed to be in a very bad way. She was not rolling very heavily, for some portion of her damaged stern was still connected to the hull, causing her to lie over to starboard toward the wind until the mast was at an angle of thirty degrees to the vertical, and broken water could be seen washing half-way across her upper deck. The spectacle was an alarming one, for she seemed to be in some danger of capsizing.
The Mariner, meanwhile, had drawn slightly ahead. She was rolling so heavily that at one moment her rails were under water, and the next were high in the air, while the men working on the wet and slippery deck had the greatest difficulty in preventing themselves from being hurled bodily overboard.
Wooten manœuvred his ship until her stern was on a level with the Monsoon's bows, and about thirty feet distant; where-upon men stationed aft endeavoured to hurl heaving-lines across on to the forecastle of the damaged vessel. If a small line could be got across from ship to ship, the end of it would be made fast to a coir hawser in the Monsoon. The coir would then be dragged over to the Mariner, and on the end of it would be secured the steel-wire towing-hawser, one end of which would be hauled on board and secured in the towing ship, and the other in the vessel being towed. But, try as they might, they could not bridge the space. The wind simply laughed at them, and hurled their lines back in their faces, while all the time the throwers were in constant danger of being shot into the sea by the movement. Except for the glare of the searchlight, it was pitch-dark. Wooten could not approach any closer for fear of bringing the vulnerable stern, with its rudder and screws, into collision with the Monsoon's bows, and if he allowed that to happen his own ship would be disabled and rendered helpless, and the last state of affairs would be worse than the first. There was only one alternative, and that was to lower a boat to take the lines across; but this again was easier said than done.
Hargreaves, the sub-lieutenant, and five men took their places in the whaler hanging at her davits, and the boat was then lowered gradually toward the water. The skipper watched them with his heart in his mouth, for as she descended, and the falls lengthened, the scope of her oscillation became longer and longer, and dizzier and dizzier. The ship herself was still rolling horribly, and at one instant the whaler was swung giddily out at an impossible angle over the water, while the next she came into contact with the ship's side with a crash and a thump which threatened to stave in her planks and to precipitate every mother's son of her crew into the sea. Watching the business was a ghastly nightmare which seemed to last for minutes. In reality it must have been over in a few seconds, but Wooten heaved a sigh of heartfelt relief when he saw the boat fall with a splash on to the top of a gigantic sea. But the next moment he held his breath again, for she was flung bodily aft on the crest of the billow until she was all but deposited on deck as the ship rolled drunkenly toward her. Then she sank out of sight somewhere under the bottom as the Mariner lurched over the other way, to reappear a few seconds later, with her crew plying their oars lustily. How they ever succeeded in getting clear nobody quite knew, for in that sea only a merciful Providence saved Hargreaves and his five men from disaster.
The line was passed across by the boat, and the end of the Monsoon's wire hawser was shackled on to a length of chain cable at the Mariner's stern, and when this had been done the two ships were connected and everything was ready for going ahead. The whaler was then rehoisted after another series of hairbreadth experiences, and the struggle began to get the damaged ship head on to the sea and wind preparatory to towing her into safety. A bare hour and twenty-four minutes had passed since the explosion had occurred. To Wooten and his men it had seemed like half the night.
Pincher Martin, who was on the bridge at one of the engine-room telegraphs up till midnight, saw and heard all that went on. By the time the Monsoon was safely in tow both vessels were lying broadside on to the wind and sea, with their heads to the south-eastward. The course to get the damaged ship head on to the waves and toward the shelter of the coast was south-west, and at first Wooten went dead slow ahead with both engines to tug her round. But it was a more difficult task than he had bargained for. He could not go fast, for the violent motion on his ship and the consequent jerking on the towing-wire would have caused the latter to part like a piece of thread; and even as it was, the wire was jerking out of the sea one minute, humming like a harp-string, while the next the bight of it was sagging loosely under the water. Moreover, a destroyer is not an ideal ship for towing another at the best of times. The tow-rope necessarily has to be made fast in the extreme stern, not, as is the case in a properly fitted tug, more or less amidships in the spot where the vessel pivots when turning. The consequence is that manœuvring-power is reduced almost to a minimum, while on this particular occasion the Monsoon, with her stern cut off and some of the wreckage trailing behind her, lay like a log on the water, and did her very utmost to pull the Mariner round the wrong way—that is, to the east, instead of through south to south-west. It was rather like trying to tow a derelict motor-bus with a bicycle.
The skipper worked his engines very gingerly, and tautened out the tow with his helm to port. Then he gradually increased the revolutions of the turbines until they should have been travelling at eight knots.
'How's her head, coxswain?' he asked after an interval.
'South sixty-five east, sir,' said Willis.
Wooten sighed deeply, and verified the statement by glancing at the compass. 'Lord!' he said, 'she was there ten minutes ago. Isn't she moving at all?'