Part 6

"Do you know, Sub"--Mottin copied the hesitating voice--"I've had cold feet the whole blinkin' time? If it wasn't for one thing I keep thinking of, I'd be properly howling about it."

"And what's that, sir?"

"D'you remember a line of Kipling's in that 'Widow of sleepy Chester' poem? It's about 'Fifty file of Burmans to open him Heaven's gate.' Well, that's keeping me cheered up."

"'Mm--that's true. How many do you think that boat carried?"

"Round about forty--she was a big packet."

"Only twenty file--still, that's good enough. Besides, they'd have done damage to-morrow if we hadn't got them."

"True for you, Sub--and they might have killed women on that trip. Now they won't get the chance."

"Twenty file. Ugh! I'll make 'em salute when I see them. Hullo! See that, sir?" The two men rose to their knees and stared out to the west. A bright glow showed beyond the horizon, and through it ran a flicker of pulsating flashes of vivid orange light. The glow broke out again a point to the northward, and the unmistakable beam of a searchlight swung to the clouds and down again. As they looked, the glow spread, and the rippling flashes as gun answered gun came into view over their horizon. Mottin fumbled for the glasses, but found them wet through and useless. The action was evidently coming their way, and was growing into a pyrotechnic display such as few are fortunate enough to see.

"Destroyers--coming right over us--Very's pistol, quick! We may get a chance here. Don't let the cartridges get wet, man--put 'em in your coat." The guns began to bark clearly above the straining and bumping noise of the crumbling seaplane, and a wildly-aimed shell burst on the water half a mile to windward. Both men were standing up now, staring at the extraordinary scene. A flotilla of destroyers passed each side of them, one leading the other by nearly a mile. The searchlights and gun-flashes lit the sea between the opposing lines, and the vicious shells sent columns of shining water up around the rapt spectators, or whipped overhead in a continued stuttering shriek.

A big destroyer passed at half a cable's length in a quivering halo of light of her own making. The short choppy beam sea sent a steady sheet of spray across her forecastle, a sheet that showed red in the light of the guns. As she passed the Sub-Lieutenant raised his hand above his head, and a Very's light sailed up into the air, showing every detail of the battered seaplane with startling clearness for a few seconds. A searchlight whirled round from the destroyer, steadied blindingly on their faces a moment, and was switched off on the instant. As swiftly as it had approached, the fight flickered away to the eastward, till the last gleam was out of sight, and the two wet and aching men crouched back into the slopping water to continue their baling.

"If they _do_ find us, it'll be rather luck, sir," said the younger man. "She isn't going to last much longer."

"Long enough, I reckon. But they may go donkey's miles in a running fight like that. Is that petrol tank free?"

* * * * *

"Yes, I couldn't get the union-nut off--it was burred; so I broke the pipe and bent it back on itself. It'll hold all right, I think--at least it will only leak slowly. Hullo, she's going, sir."

"Not quite. Pass that tank aft and we'll crawl out on the tail. That'll be the last bit under, and we may as well use her all we can."

* * * * *

With gasps and strainings they half-lifted, half-floated the big tank along till they had it jammed on end between the rudder and the control-wires. They straddled the sloping tail, crouching low to avoid the smack of the breaking seas, their legs trailing in the icy water. With frozen fingers the Sub-Lieutenant removed two Very's cartridges from his breast-pocket and tucked them inside his leather waistcoat.

A flurry of snow came down wind. The two were too wet already to notice it, but as it grew heavier the increased darkness made Mottin lift his head and look round. At that moment a gleam of brightness showed through to windward; as he looked it faded and vanished. He leaned aft and shouted weakly--

"Come on, man--wake up! Fire another one. They're here!"

It seemed an age to him before the pistol was loaded, and his heart sank as a dull click indicated an unmistakable misfire. He watched the last cartridge inserted with dispassionate interest. If one was wet, the other was almost certain to be, and--Bang! The coloured ball of fire soared up into the driving snow, and the pistol slipped from the startled Sub-Lieutenant's hand and shot overboard. The searchlight came on again and grew stronger and nearer, and as the glare of it became intolerable, a tall black bow came dipping and swaying past at a few yards' range. Mottin almost let his will-power go at that point--the relief was too great. He had a confused memory afterwards of crashing wood as the tailplane ground against a steel side, and of barking his shins as he was hauled across a wire guard-rail and dropped on a very nubbly deck. The wardroom seemed a blaze of intense light after the darkness outside, and the temporary surgeon who took charge of him the most sensible and charming person in the Service.

* * * * *

"Sit down--take your coat off--lap this down. That's right. Now, I have two duties in this ship--I'm doctor and I'm the wine caterer. They are not incompatible. You will therefore go to bed now in the Captain's cabin, and you'll have a hot toddy as soon as you're there; come along now and get your clothes off. Your mate is in the First Lieutenant's cabin, and he won't wake up till morning."

Twenty minutes later Mottin, from beneath a pile of blankets, heard a tinkle of curtain rings and looked out. A muffled, snow-covered figure entered quietly and began to peel off a lammy coat. Mottin coughed.

"Hullo! How are you feeling? I've just come for a change of clothes. I won't be long--I'm Sangatte. No, that's all right. I won't be turning in to-night; we're going right up harbour, and I'll be busy till daylight."

He bustled round the chest of drawers, pulling out woollen scarves, stockings, &c., and talking rapidly. "Lucky touch our finding you. I noted position when your first light went up, but as the chase looked like running on ninety mile yet, I didn't expect to find you. Your joss was in, because the snow came down and they put up a smoke-screen and ceased fire, so we lost touch, and I hadn't far to come back to look for you. Got a Fritz, did you? Good man! We'll have a bottle on your decoration when we get in. The Huns? Yes, they lost their rear ship right off, and the others were plastered good and plenty. We lost one on a mine, but we took the crew off and sank her. I sank your 'plane just now--tied a pig of ballast to her and chucked it over. I thought you might have left some papers--oh! you've got 'em, have you? That's good."

"Yes, they're in my coat pocket. I say, haven't I seen you before? I seem to remember you. Do you hunt?" Mottin stretched his legs out sleepily as he spoke.

"Yes--met you with the Hambledon or Cattistock, I expect. Haven't been on a horse for all of three years, though; and I don't suppose there'll be much doing that way for a long time, now they're putting half the country under plough. S'long. I'm for the bridge; ring that bell if you want anything. The Doc.'s got one or two wounded forrard, so he'll be busy, but my servant'll look out for you." The curtain clashed back, and Mottin, turning over, slid instantly into a log-like sleep.

A TRINITY.

The way of a ship at racing speed In a bit of a rising gale, The way of a horse of the only breed At a Droxford post-and-rail, The way of a brand-new aeroplane On a frosty winter dawn. You'll come back to those again; Wheel or cloche or slender rein Will keep you young and clean and sane, And glad that you were born.

The power and drive beneath me now are above the power of kings, It's mine the word that lets her loose and in my ear she sings-- "Mark now the way I sport and play with the rising hunted sea, Across my grain in cold disdain their ranks are hurled at me. But down my wake is a foam-white lake, the remnant of their line, That broke and died beneath my pride--your foemen, man, and mine." The perfect tapered hull below is a dream of line and curve, An artist's vision in steel and bronze for gods and men to serve. If ever a statue came to life, you quivering slender thing, It ought to be you--my racing girl--as the Amazon song you sing.

* * * * *

Down the valley and up the slope we run from scent to view. "Steady, you villain--you know too much--I'm not so wild as you; You'll get me cursed if you catch him first--there's at least a mile to go, So swallow your pride and ease your stride, and take your fences slow. Your high-pricked ears as the jump appears are comforting things to see; Your easy gallop and bending neck are signals flying to me. You wouldn't refuse if it was wire with calthrops down in front, And there we are with a foot to spare--you best of all the Hunt!" Great sloping shoulders galloping strong, and a yard of floating tail, A fine old Irish gentleman, and a Hampshire post-and-rail.

* * * * *

The sun on the fields a mile below is glinting off the grass That slides along like a rolling map as under the clouds I pass. The early shadows of byre and hedge are dwindling dark below As up the stair of the morning air on my idle wheels I go,-- Nothing to do but let her alone--she's flying herself to-day, Unless I chuck her about a bit--there isn't a bump or sway. So _there's_ a bank at ninety-five--and here's a spin and a spiral dive, And here we are again. And _that's_ a roll and twist around, and that's the sky and there's the ground, And I and the aeroplane Are doing a glide, but upside-down, and that's a village and that's a town-- And now we're rolling back. And _this_ is the way we climb and stall and sit up and beg on nothing at all, The wires and strainers slack, And now we'll try and be good some more, and open the throttle and hear her roar And steer for London Town. For there never a pilot yet was born who flew a machine on a frosty morn But started stunting soon, To feel if his wires were really there, or whether he flew on ice or air, Or whether his hands were gloved or bare, Or he sat in a free balloon.

IN THE MORNING.

Back from the battle, torn and rent, Listing bridge and stanchions bent By the angry sea. By Thy guiding mercy sent, Fruitful was the road we went-- Back from battle we.

If Thou hadst not been, O Lord, behind our feeble arm, If Thy hand had not been there to slam the lyddite home, When against us men arose and sought to work us harm, We had gone to death, O Lord, in spouting rings of foam.

Heaving sea and cloudy sky Saw the battle flashing by, As Thy foemen ran. By Thy grace, that made them fly, We have seen two hundred die Since the fight began.

If our cause had not been Thine, for Thy eternal Right, If the foe in place of us had fought for Thee, O Lord! If Thou hadst not guided us and drawn us there to fight, We never should have closed with them--Thy seas are dark and broad.

Through the iron rain they fled, Bearing home the tale of dead, Flying from Thy sword. After-hatch to fo'c'sle head, We have turned their decks to red, By Thy help, O Lord!

It was not by our feeble sword that they were overthrown, But Thy right hand that dashed them down, the servants of the proud; It was not arm of ours that saved, but Thine, O Lord, alone, When down the line the guns began, and sang Thy praise aloud.

Sixty miles of running fight, Finished at the dawning light, Off the Zuider Zee. Thou that helped throughout the night Weary hand and aching sight, Praise, O Lord, to Thee.

AN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS.

The wardroom of the Depôt ship was just emptying as the late-breakfast party lit their pipes and cigarettes and headed for the smoking-room next door, when a signalman brought the news in. The Commander, standing by the radiator, took the pad from the man's hand and read it aloud. He raised his voice for the first few words, then continued in his usual staccato tones as the silence of his audience showed that they were straining their ears in fear of missing a word:--

"_Lyddite_, _Prism_, _Axite_, and _Pebble_ in action last night with six enemy destroyers--_Pebble_ sunk--fifty-seven survivors aboard _Lyddite_--enemy lost two sunk, possibly three--_Lyddite_ with prisoners and _Prism_ with _Axite_ in tow arriving forenoon to-day."

There was a moment's pause as the Commander handed the signal back, and then half a dozen officers spoke at once. The Fleet-Surgeon was not one of them. He gathered up his two juniors with a significant glance, as one sees a hostess signal to her Division as the dessert-talk flags, and the three vanished through the door to get to work on their grim preparations. The Engineer officers conferred for a minute in low tones and then followed them out. The signal had given clearer data for the workers in flesh and bone to act on than it had for those who work in metals, and there was nothing for the latter to do but to get their men ready and to guess at probabilities. The remainder of the Mess broke into a buzz of conversation: "_Axite_, she must be pretty well hashed up; it must have been gun-fire, a torpedo would have sunk her.... Rot! why should it? What about the _Salcombe_ or the _Ventnor_? _They_ got home.... Yes, but not from so far out, and there's a sea running outside too.... Well, the Noorder Diep isn't a hundred miles, and that must be where...."

The Commander beckoned the First Lieutenant to him, as that officer was rising from his chair at the writing-table. "You'd better warn the Gunner, Borden, that the divers may be needed; and tell my messenger as you go out that I want to see the Boatswain and Carpenter too--thank you." He turned to the ship's side and looked out through the scuttle at the dancing, sunlit waters of the harbour. He had supervised the work of preparation for assisting and patching lame ducks more than once before, and he knew that his subordinates needed little assistance from him. What was troubling his mind was the question of the casualties. The _Pebble_ was gone, so there was no need for spare hands to be provided for her, while her survivors were actually a gain. They would not be fit for work for a bit, though, a good few of them probably wounded, and the remainder perhaps needing treatment after immersion in a December sea. Then the three others--it sounded like a hard-fought action, and hard fights meant losses. That was the worst of these destroyer actions, the casualties were mostly good men, and it took so long to train good ratings. If only one saved the officers and men it wouldn't really matter how many destroyers were lost, he reflected, as he walked out of the mess towards his cabin and the little group of Warrant and Petty officers who awaited him by the doorway.

It was barely an hour later, and the bustle of preparation aboard the Depôt ship was still in progress when they came in sight. The outer forts had reported them as approaching the entrance, and the next news was good also, for it was simply the deduction on the part of the watching ships' companies, when they saw the big black-and-yellow salvage tugs that had been out since dawn come chugging up harbour alone, that the victors had disdained assistance. Then the _Lyddite_ showed her high bow and unmistakable funnels as she swung round the entrance shoals and steadied up harbour at a leisurely ten knots. At that distance she looked dirty and sea-worn, but intact. Close astern of her came _Prism_ and _Axite_, and as they showed, the watchers involuntarily caught their breaths.

The _Prism_ looked queer and foreign somehow, with no foremast, a bare skeleton of a bridge, and a shapeless heap where the forward funnel had stood. The _Axite_ looked just what she was--a mere battered hull, with very little standing above the level of her deck, her stern nearly awash, and her bow bent and torn as if some giant hand had gripped and twisted it. As the pair of cripples neared the dock entrance, two smaller tugs which had followed astern came hurrying up to close on the _Axite's_ sides, while the towing hawser that had been watched with such anxiety through three cold and stormy watches splashed in the churned-up water under the _Prism's_ counter. The _Prism_ increased speed slightly, and up against the blustering wind came the faint sound of cheering from the cruisers down the harbour as she passed them. She eased down into station astern of the _Lyddite_, and the Yeoman of Signals on the Depôt ship's bridge shifted his telescope from the shaking canvas of the wind-dodger to the steadier support of a stanchion.

"What's she like--can you make 'er out?" A Leading Telegraphist had walked out from the wireless office, and, in obvious hopes of getting hold of the telescope, was standing at his elbow.

"Pretty sight, I don't think," replied the Yeoman grimly. "Dirty work for the hospital there, and I reckon it's 'Port Watch look for messmates'--all along under the bridge she's been catching it, and I can't see--Yes, O.K.--He's up there on the bridge--_Who?_ The skipper, of course. Mister Calton, Commander--begging his pardon. Me and him were in the old _Cantaloup_ two years. Gawd! but ain't they been in a dust-up! What do you say? _Lyddite?_"

He turned to look as the big destroyer passed, half-raised his glass, and then lowered it. There was enough for his naked eye to see to discourage him from a closer view. Her decks were crowded with men, lying, standing, or sitting down. The white bandages showed up clearly against the general background of dull grime, and the bandages were many. A torpedo-tube pointing up like an A.A. gun, and a dozen or so of splinter holes in funnel and casing, showed that some, at least, of the wounded were her own. About the casing, between the wounded, lay dozens of dull brass cartridge-cases, and aft--a curious touch of triviality--two seamen and a steward were emptying boxes of smashed glass and crockery overside. A few men waved and shouted in reply as the Depôt ship roared a welcome across to her, but the greater number were silent. The two scarred and blood-spotted craft swung gently in to the jetty, where the lines of ambulances and stretchers awaited them, and as the first heaving-lines flew, the Yeoman turned to the Telegraphist with a look almost of pride on his dark saturnine face--

"Well, I'm ----," he said admiringly, "if that ain't swank! Did you see 'em? Why, stiffen the Dutch--they've got new Sunday Ensigns hoisted to come up harbour with, and"--he swung round and levelled his glass at the _Axite_, now almost hidden in the smoke and steam of the group of tugs around her at the lock gates--"I'm damned if she ain't got a new one up too. Here, have a look at it, man. It's on a boathook staff sticking up in the muzzle of the high-angle gun----"

1917.

The "liaison officer" felt distinctly nervous as his steamboat approached the gangway. He had no qualms as to his capabilities of carrying out the work he was detailed for--that of acting as signals-and-operations-interpreter aboard the Flotilla leader of a recently allied destroyer division--but the fact that he had been told that he must be prepared to be tactful weighed heavily on his mind. His ideas on the subject of Americans were somewhat hidebound, but at the same time very vague. Would they spring the statement on him that they had "come over to win the War for you," or would they refer at once to their War of Independence? Did the Yankees hate all Britishers, or---- His boat bumped alongside the neat teak ladder, and he noted with a seaman's appreciation the perfectly-formed coachwhipping and Turks' Heads on the rails. A moment later he was standing on a very clean steel deck, gravely returning the salute of what appeared to be a muster of all the officers in the ship.

A tall commander took a pace forward. "_Malcolm_," he said, "I'm Captain--glad to meet you." The Englishman saluted, and they shook hands. "My name's Jackson," he replied, and turned as the American, taking his arm, ran through a rapid introduction to the other officers. Each of these repeated the formula, accompanied by the quick bow and handshake. Jackson followed suit as best he could, and began to feel that on such formal occasions he had the makings of a real _attaché_ or diplomatist in him.

A few minutes, and he found himself sitting in a long-chair in a wardroom which might have been a counterpart of his own, and accepting a long cigar from the box handed him. "Did you have a good trip over?" he ventured.

"We sure did, and saw nix--not even a U-boat. Had a bit of a gale first day out, but it blew off quick. But say, there wasn't a German ship for three thousand miles. Don't you ever see some about?"

"Well, you see--er--no. They only show out now and then, and it's only for a few hours when they do. Of course, there are plenty of Fritzes, but they keep under most of the time--you don't see them much."

"Well, we thought it real slow, didn't we, Commander? We were just ripe for some gunplay, but we never got a chance to pull."

Jackson looked across at the Commander and smiled. "We felt that way for a long time, sir. But now we just go on hoping and keeping ready. We've had so many false alarms, you see."

The Commander laughed. "That's one on you, Benson," he said. "We won't get so excited next time we see the Northern Lights."

There was a general shout of laughter, and Jackson turned cold. This, he thought, was a little early for him to start putting his foot in it. The officer called Benson, however, did not appear to be about to throw over the alliance just yet. He walked to the sideboard, and returned with a couple of lumps of sugar in his hand. "Lootenant," he said gravely, "in the absence of stimulants in the U.S. Navy, I can only give you what we've got. We've no liquor aboard, but we've sure got sugar."

"Yes," said the Commander. "We're all on the water-waggon here, whether we like the ride or not."

Jackson sat up in his chair and shed his official pose. He could, at any rate, talk without reserve on Service subjects. "Well, sir," he said, "I'm not a teetotaller, but it doesn't worry me to go teetotal if I've got to. I don't worry about it if I'm in training for anything; and the fact is--well, if there was a referendum, or something of that sort, in the Navy as to whether we were to be compulsory teetotallers or not, I believe the majority would vote for 'no drinks.' _I_ would, anyway, and I'm what you'd call an average drinker."

"They didn't ask us to vote any, but if they had--in war-time--I guess we'd have voted the same way. If you can't get it you don't want it, and we've kind of got used to water now. And so your name's Jackson? Any relation?"