CHAPTER I

Bound North

"Wonder if she'll do it in time," thought Sub-lieutenant Alec Seton, R.N., as he stolidly paced the stone-paved platform. For the twentieth time in the last two hours he had consulted his wristlet watch and compared it with the smoke-begrimed station clock. "A proper lash-up if she doesn't."

It was 1.40 a.m. on a certain Monday in March of the year of grace 1918. Seton, warned by telegram to rejoin his ship, H.M. Torpedo-boat Destroyer _Bolero_, had been handicapped by reason of the Sunday train service. Due to report at Rosyth at 10 a.m. he found himself at midnight held up at Leeds with the unpleasant prospect of having to wait until 1.50 a.m. before the mail train took him on to Edinburgh.

Seton had been spending part of a well-earned spell of leave at his parents' house in the Peak District. An urgent message demanded his recall before half the period of leave had expired, which was no unusual occurrence in war-time. What was exasperating was the fact that the wire had been delivered at 6 p.m. on Sunday, and even by rushing off and catching the first available train Alec found, on perusing the time-table and consulting various railway officials, that it would be impossible to arrive at Edinburgh before twenty minutes minutes to eight on Monday morning. That left, only a little more than two hours to continue his journey to Inverkeithing and then on to Rosyth. Even then he had no idea where the _Bolero_ was lying, whether she was alongside the jetty or on moorings out on the Forth. To say the least it was "cutting things a bit fine", but it was a point of honour that, if humanly possible, Seton should report himself on board at the hour specified.

"An' we were going into dock for eighteen days for refit," mused the Sub. "Wonder what's butted in to upset things? Some stunt over the other side, or only another sea-trip out and home again, without catching sight of a measly Hun. By Jove, I'm hungry. I'm experiencing an unpleasant feeling in a certain sector of the front."

Vainly he regretted that on his hasty departure he had omitted to provide himself with refreshment. Counting on finding a restaurant-car he had been disappointed; while, on arriving at Leeds, he found it impossible at that hour to get a meal at an hotel. The sight of half a dozen Tommies in full field-kit emerging from a Y.M.C.A. refreshment-room, and dilating upon the excellence of the hot coffee and cakes, filled him with envious desires, which, however, did little to satisfy the cravings of the inner man.

"Ah, I've no belt to tighten," he soliloquized grimly. "Six or seven more hours to go, and not a chance of a snack. Hallo, what's this? Out of tobacco, too, by Jove." Very ruefully Alec surveyed his worn and trusted pouch. Only a pinch of dried dust remained.

"The last straw," he muttered. "Must grin and bear it, I suppose. I'd rather be keeping middle watch somewhere in the North Sea."

A truck, propelled by an undersized man, came into view. The truck was surmounted by a green box with glass panels and brass rails. From a small funnel steam was issuing. Already half a dozen belated passengers were crowding round the new arrival.

"A perambulating coffee-stall," declared Alec. "My luck's turned."

Two minutes later he was sampling the wares of the itinerant vendor. The result was not only disappointing but repugnant, for the beverage, termed coffee by the man presiding over the stall, bore a strong resemblance to greasy water, while the cake was more like sawdust than war-bread at its worst.

Disgustedly Alec left his purchase practically untouched, and resumed his tedious beat up and down the draughty platform, until the long-expected night mail train pulled up at the station.

Through the steam-laden atmosphere Alec made his way, trying to find an unoccupied compartment. Foiled in this direction he edged along the corridor until he almost cannoned into a uniformed attendant.

"All sleeping compartments engaged, sir," replied the man; "but I'll find you a smoker with only one other passenger. This way, sir."

He threw open the blind-drawn sliding door, and switched on one of the four electric lights. One of the seats was unoccupied. On the other was stretched a somnolent figure almost completely enveloped in a large fawn rug, bedizened with the Railway Company's monogram. The sleeper's face was turned towards the partition. On the rack overhead were two weather-beaten portmanteaux, and a naval cap with a tarnished R.N.V.R. badge.

Alec slipped half-a-crown into the attendant's hand.

"No thanks," he replied in answer to the man's inquiry; "I'll be quite comfortable in the circs. Sorry there isn't a tobacco-stall on the train."

He stowed his gear to his satisfaction, patted his empty tobacco-pouch to make sure for the fifth time that it was empty, and then contemplated his soundly-sleeping companion.

"Since it seems that I've a mouldy messmate," he soliloquized, "the best that I can do is to follow his example and turn in."

Switching off the solitary light Alec stretched himself upon the seat, using his great-coat as a pillow. He was asleep before the train left Leeds.

Beyond a slight return to wakefulness as the train pulled up at Carlisle, Alec slept soundly until the first gleam of dawn began to steal through the carriage windows.

He glanced at his wristlet watch. It was half-past five. Sitting up he stretched his cramped limbs.

"By Jove, I am hungry," he muttered. "Won't I make up for it when I get aboard."

Almost the next moment all sense of physical discomfort vanished, as he caught sight of the wonderful vista that met his view. The train was climbing the steep ascent of the hills of Roxburgh. Snow lay deep upon the ground, while the peaks were only partly visible in the grey morning mists. Alec had seen many varieties of scenery in widely different parts of the world, but, as an admirer of nature, he was never tired of "viewing the land".

"Magnificent!" he murmured enthusiastically. "It's worth a night in the train. I've seen the Peak of Teneriffe at sunrise, but our country takes a lot of beating."

A swirling cloud of steam beat against the window pane, momentarily obscuring the outlook. Before it cleared Alec was astonished to hear his name shouted in boisterous tones.

"Alec Seton, by all the powers! What, in the name of all that's wonderful, brings you here?"

Seton's "mouldy messmate" was sitting up and rubbing his eyes--a bronzed, shock-headed youth, who looked, despite his uniform, little more than a schoolboy. His features expanded into a broad grin of whole-hearted delight as he extended a large, horny hand.

For a brief instant Alec was at a loss to recognize his fellow-traveller, then--

"Branscombe, my festive buccaneer."

Guy Branscombe, Sub-lieutenant, R.N.V.R., was one of those war-time productions whose existence, as members of the "band of brothers" under the White Ensign, has been amply justified. He had been a candidate for Osborne, but had failed to satisfy the examiners. Now, taking advantage of his undoubted skill as an amateur yachtsman, he was doing good service both in deep-sea and coastal navigation. These two branches are widely distinct. Generally speaking, officers of the "pukka" navy are indifferent navigators in coastal waters. Inside the "five fathom line" they often lack the confidence that the skilled amateur possesses. Thus the Admiralty soon found the need to accept the offers of British yachtsmen to take command of the shoal of "M.-L.'s"--otherwise Coastal Motor-Launches--the war record of which showed that official confidence had not been misplaced.

In the early days of the war the newly-constituted Motor-Boat Reserve was frequently a subject for ridicule. "Harry Tate's Navy", as it was called, figured in cheap comic papers, and was spoken of jestingly by misinformed critics. True, there were incompetents, who managed to obtain temporary commissions on the strength of baneful influence; but these were soon weeded out, and the zealous, hard-working men remained to "carry on". For the first three years of war the M.-L.'s were rarely if ever in the limelight. Not that they wanted to be; they were content to work whole-heartedly as units of the Great Silent Navy, until even official reticence and the muzzle of the Press Censor failed to hide from public notice the stirring deeds of the officers and men of the puny but doughty M.-L.'s.

"I'm taking over M.-L. 4452," explained Branscombe, when the two men had settled down to the contents of a Thermos and biscuits--for the R.N.V.R. man had taken the precaution to fortify himself amply against the discomforts of long railway journeys. "She's a brand-new hooker, just handed over at Dumbarton by the contractors. We're bound south for----" He hesitated. Alec looked at him inquiringly and raised his eyebrows.

"Dover?" asked the R.N. sub.

"Yes--Dover," replied Guy.

"Lucky blighter," rejoined Seton "Wish I had the chance. There's always something doing in the 'Wet Triangle'. Up here with the Grand Fleet it's the usual out-and-in stunt, with no chance of tumbling across anything more than a Fritz or a mine. Absolute boredom, and all because the Huns won't come out. Now at Dover--any stunt on?"

"Can't say, old man," replied Branscombe with perfect truth. As a matter of fact the R.N.V.R. officer was "in the know". Great operations, as to which all concerned were bound to secrecy, were impending; the risk was great, and the chance of honour correspondingly so; and since success depended upon a sphinx-like silence the secret was being well kept. Branscombe even knew of a case in which two life-long chums were shipmates for three weeks, and although each was detailed off for duty in the forthcoming operations neither hinted to the other that it was his luck to be chosen for the stunt.

The conversation turned into other channels, talking "shop" being tabooed as far as possible, and punctually to time the two chums found themselves on Waverley Station platform with ten minutes to wait for the train that was to take them to their destination--Inverkeithing and Rosyth.