Читать книгу Midshipman Raxworthy - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 4

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The way in which the commander summed up the situation was brief and to the point—very much so.

“Sheer carelessness; leave jammed!”

Midshipman Kenneth Raxworthy set his jaw firmly, looked the commander straight in the face and said nothing. He wanted to expostulate at the injustice of the sentence—which meant that long-looked-for Christmas leave would be denied him—but the strong sense of naval discipline prevailed. He must swallow the bitter pill unflinchingly. In the Royal Navy orders must be carried out smartly and unquestioningly. After they have been executed one may relieve one’s feelings by grousing about their futility or otherwise, provided the grumble does not reach the ears of the officer responsible for the order.

It certainly was hard lines on the young midshipman. In bringing the motor-picket-boat alongside her parent ship—the light cruiser Kirkham—the helm had jammed, with the result that, before way could be taken off her, the picket-boat had smashed her stem-head against the ship’s side.

To make matters worse, the accident had been witnessed both by the captain and the commander, who happened to be on the fore-bridge. The Owner, as the captain of a warship is commonly dubbed, requested the Bloke, otherwise the commander, to investigate the cause of the mishap and deal with the delinquent in a suitable manner should the midshipman be at fault.

Directly the motor-pinnace had been hoisted Kenneth formally reported the accident to the officer-of-the-watch, who was pacing the quarter-deck.

“Commander wishes to see you in his cabin, my lad,” observed the officer-of-the-watch.

Knowing full well that the Bloke’s wishes were a command, Kenneth went below “at the double”, and knocked at the sliding door bearing the intimation in raised brass letters that it gave access to the cabin of the immediate arbiter of his destinies.

“Of all the lubberly ways of coming alongside, yours is the worst exhibition I’ve seen since I’ve been in the Service,” began the commander without any preamble. “What have you to say?”

“I tried to put the wheel hard-a-starboard and it jammed, sir.”

Ever since he had gained the rank that gave him gilt oak leaves on his cap, the commander had almost daily listened to excuses from lower-deck defaulters, and less frequently to explanations often highly exaggerated from junior officers. Long familiarity had bred contempt and invariably he looked upon an excuse as a feeble attempt to mitigate the penalty. He had become a past master in the art of bowling out a defaulter.

“Stand fast a minute,” he ordered, and left the cabin.

In point of fact the midshipman had to “stand fast” for a long five minutes before the Bloke returned with a cold triumphant look in his eyes.

“The steering-gear has been thoroughly tested,” he announced bluntly. “It operates quite easily.”

Since there was no question there could be no reply. It was considered worse than bad form for a junior to contradict a senior officer’s statement. Kenneth remained silent.

“Sheer carelessness!” declared the Bloke. “Leave jammed!”

Accepting the silent gesture of dismissal the midshipman saluted and, leaving the cabin, hurried along the half-deck to the gun-room.

The only occupants of the midshipmen’s den at the moment were two cheerful-looking youths, one of whom was disentombing articles of clothing from the depths of a sea-chest, while the other was poring over the pages of Bradshaw to reassure himself that a certain train did start at a certain time. At intervals for the last ten days he had looked up that train, making sure that asterisks and other mysterious signs did not affect its departure and subsequent arrival at its destination.

Already news had reached the gun-room that Kenneth Raxworthy had been “on the carpet” before the inexorable commander.

“What did he say?” inquired Whitwell, the midshipman struggling with the time-table.

“Leave jammed,” replied Kenneth laconically.

“Hard lines!” rejoined both snotties sympathetically.

“And he chucked my seamanship in my teeth,” continued Kenneth bitterly. “Said it was the most lubberly bit of work he’d ever seen. I told him that the steering-gear had jammed and he went for a look-see.”

“And then?” prompted Stamford, who was still heaving personal gear from the sea-chest.

“He said that the gear was all O.K.,” replied Raxworthy. “Mind you, I don’t say that it isn’t now, but I can swear it did jam as I came alongside. Well, that’s torn it, Jimmy, absolutely,” he continued, addressing Whitwell. “I’d better write to your people and tell them that I cannot accept their invitation.”

Kenneth’s people were in India, and as the midshipman had no relations at home where he could spend Christmas, his chum Whitwell had asked his parents to invite him for the festive season.

The invitation had been sent to include Midshipman Welburn, and the three chums were looking forward to a topping time at Kindersley Manor. Whitwell’s people’s hospitality was well known to the gun-room of H.M.S. Kirkham, and even though the remaining members had their own homes in which to spend Christmas, most of them rather envied the good luck of Kenneth Raxworthy and Jimmy Whitwell.

The Whitwells did things on somewhat a lavish scale, but without ostentation. Usually, just before Christmas leave started, their car was sent to whatever home port in which Kirkham chanced to be, and Jimmy and his chums were conveyed to Kindersley Manor with the least trouble to themselves, and without any drain upon their limited exchequer. The Manor was Liberty Hall as far as the young guests were concerned. There were shooting-parties, plenty of outdoor sports and indoor amusements while—no small attraction this—Jimmy Whitwell had several decidedly pretty sisters who—to quote the verdict of those midshipmen who knew—were “sports without being sidey”.

And now, almost at the eleventh hour, the Bloke’s decree had fallen almost as swiftly and effectually as the knife of a guillotine.

There was not the faintest hope of the commander relenting. He prided himself upon his cast-iron discipline, and had never been known to countermand an order.

“Hard lines, old son,” remarked Whitwell sympathetically, adding: “We’ll think of you when you’re standing middle watch on Christmas morn, my lad!”

“Don’t rub it in,” rejoined Kenneth gloomily, as he sat down to write the letter announcing his regrets at being unable to spend Christmas at Kindersley Manor.

Contrary to usual custom the light cruiser Kirkham had not been ordered to return to her home port for the purpose of giving Christmas leave. The fishery protection cruiser Gannet, having developed engine defects, had been sent south for repairs and in consequence Kirkham was under orders to remain on the east coast pending the former’s return to her station.

Junk Harbour is never a particularly inviting spot even in summer. During the winter, conditions are simply appalling. The outer roadstead, in which the light cruiser rode to her own anchors, was practically open to gales between nor’-east through east to sou’-east, and these are the prevailing ones between September and March. Slight protection is afforded by the Mutches, a cluster of rocky islets, a few of which are inhabited by hardy fisherfolk whose daring in wresting a livelihood from the treacherous sea is equalled by their disregard for law and order as laid down by the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries.

On the outermost rock comprising the Mutches a lofty lighthouse serves as a guide to mariners making for Junk Harbour, but so exposed is this beacon that often the three light-keepers have to wait a week or more before their reliefs can come off from the little town of Mautby.

Of Mautby itself there is little to be said. It is the terminus of a branch line from which two trains depart and two arrive every weekday—unless the line is blocked by snow. On Sundays communication by rail ceases. There are two very indifferent inns, no cinema, and hardly any amusements for the men of His Majesty’s ships who happen to be lying in Junk Harbour.

It was three miles from this back-of-beyond town and in the centre of Junk Harbour outer roadstead that Mr. Midshipman Raxworthy was to spend his Christmas!