Читать книгу A Naval Venture - T. T. Jeans - Страница 5

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Ordered to the Mediterranean

Up above, under the fore bridge, the Orphan, looking like an undersized elephant, with all his warm clothes under his oilskins, tramped from port to starboard, and back again round the conning-tower. The crews of his four 6-pounders were clustered round their guns, hunched up in all sorts of winter clothing. Many of them wore their duffel jackets with great gauntleted gloves drawn up over their sleeves, and had already pulled the hoods of their jackets over their heads, giving them the appearance of Eskimo or Arctic explorers; the others were in oilskins padded out with jerseys, jumpers, flannels, and thick vests.

Once issue warm clothing to a bluejacket and never will he leave it off, whatever the temperature, unless he is made to do so.

The chirpy little gunner's mate had reported "all correct, sir, guns cleared away, night-sight circuits switched on, sir, and four rounds a gun ready."

The Orphan had reported himself to the officer of the watch, on the bridge above him, and now had nothing to do, for the best part of two hours, but walk up and down and keep warm.

"They tells me that one of 'em submarines was nosing round these parts two days ago, sir," one of his petty officers said, as he stopped at one gun, looked through the telescope sight, and tested the electric circuit. "It ain't much weather for the poor murdering blighters."

It was not. Darkness was rapidly closing in, and the gale howled angrily out of the west, driving masses of dark rain-clouds and a heavy sea before it.

The Achates dipped her fo'c'sle constantly, and when she lifted and shook herself, the spray shot up far above her bridge screens.

The Orphan and his guns' crews on the wind'ard side would feel the ship quiver as a wave thudded against the casemate below them, and then had just time to duck their heads before millions of icy particles of spray soused viciously over them.

Presently the Orphan took shelter in the lee of the conning-tower and leant moodily against it, thinking of the warmth and gaiety of the dance he had been at the night before, also of a certain little lady in white and blue.

In peace time it is depressing enough to leave a cosy harbour, and face a wild winter's night in the Channel; but in war time the chance of blowing up on a mine and the risk of being torpedoed make the strain very considerable.

For the first night and the first day or two, most people are inclined to be rather "jumpy"; though afterwards this feeling wears off quickly, and one leaves everything to "fate" and ceases to worry.

Only a few days before, Germany had announced to the world the commencement of her submarine blockade of the English coast, so the Channel was probably already swarming with submarines; though even the Orphan, depressed and miserable as he was then, could not have imagined that these submarines had orders to sink merchant ships and mail steamers at sight and without warning, and that a civilized nation had sunk so low, nineteen hundred years after Christ was born into the world, as to plot the whole-sale murder of inoffensive women and children.

But he was miserable enough without knowing that, and opening up his oilskin coat, practised blowing up his safety waistcoat. Then he wondered whether his guns' crews had their swimming-collars with them—as was ordered—and went from gun to gun, dodging the spray, to find out.

It was quite dark now, the foc's'le and the turret below were invisible, and he had to grope his way along to find the guns' crews by hearing them talk or stumbling against them.

One or two of the men had lost their collars; another had burst his trying how big he could blow it; others had left them down below in their kit-bags or lashed in their hammocks.

Plunky Bill, the cheeky A.B. belonging to the picket-boat, was the only one who had his. The gunner's mate explained that "Plunky Bill 'ad a sweet'eart in Portsmouth what was fair gone on 'im, and 'ad made 'im promise to always wear 'is collar".

Plunky Bill evidently thought he had a grievance, and growled out that "'E wasn't going to be bothered with young females, not 'im; a-making 'im look so foolish-like".

"Well, they ain't no use, nohow," the gunner's mate grunted, jerking a thumb towards the heavy sea.

"Any news, sir?" the gunner's mate shouted, when he and the Orphan had regained the lee of the conning-tower, round which solid icy spray swished almost continuously. "The Ruskies are giving it to them Austrians in the neck, proper like, ain't they, sir?"

"Didn't hear any," the miserable Orphan shouted back.

"D'you know where we're off to?" the other asked.

"North Sea again," the Orphan told him.

The gunner's mate had no use for the North Sea—never wanted to see it again, and said so in blood-curdling language.

"What about the Dardanelles, sir?" he asked a moment later. "That's the place I'd like to be in. There's a sight of old 'tubs' gone out there. Any news, sir?"

But the Orphan had heard none, and climbed up on the bridge above to have a yarn with the midshipman of the watch—the Pimple.

He was full of schemes for "ragging" the China Doll.

"Patting your 'tummy', Orphan; that was cheek if you like! and the Sub didn't like it either."

The Pimple was very deferential to the Sub—rather too much so; what the Sub did and what he said made up most of the Pimple's daily existence. "He'd like us to take it out of the China Doll, wouldn't he?"

"Don't be an ass. Let the China Doll alone—it's too beastly wet and cold to bother about him. What about that cake you 'sharked' off the table?" So the Pimple, ever ready to ingratiate himself with anyone, produced a big wedge of gun-room cake out of his greatcoat pocket, and the two of them, crouching under the weather screens, munched away silently.

It was so dark that they could not see the look-out man, who was holding the brim of his sou'wester over his eyes to shield him from the rain and the spray, and trying to pierce the blackness of the stormy night in front of him. Both snotties were startled by a sudden cry from him: "Something a-'ead, sir! on the starboard bow, sir!" Another look-out also spotted something; everyone tried to see it; the officer of the watch dashed to the end of the bridge and peered through his night-glasses; the gunner's mate, down below, could be heard shouting to the guns' crews to "close up"; the breeches of the guns snapped to as they were loaded; and the Orphan, stuffing the remnants of the cake in his pocket, scrambled down the ladder.

"There it is, sir! There! there!—I can see it!' came excitedly out of the darkness. Everyone thought of submarines.

"Just like one, sir!" a signalman bawled to the officer of the watch, who yelled to the Quartermaster "hard-a-port", and rushed into the wheel-house to see that he did it.

At that moment a bobbing light began flickering out of the darkness ahead—a signal lamp.

"It's the challenge, sir," the signalman shouted.

"All right; reply; bring her on her course, Quartermaster. Starboard your helm, hard-a-starboard!" shouted the officer of the watch coolly; and as the Achates' bows swung back again, she swerved past a long, black object down below in the water, with its twittering signal light tossed about like a spark from a chimney on a dark night, and by that faint light they could just see the outline of three funnels before the light was shut off and everything disappeared.

It was only a patrolling destroyer. One could not see her rolling, or the seas breaking over her, but one could realize the horrible discomfort aboard her.

"Poor devils!—a rotten night to be out in—we nearly bumped into her," thought the officer of the watch, jumping to the telephone bell from the Captain's cabin, which was ringing excitedly.

"Nothing, sir; a patrol destroyer; had to alter course to clear her. No, sir, the wind is steady, sir."

It was six o'clock now—four bells clanged below—the first dog-watch was finished, and presently the Pink Rat came up to relieve the Orphan.

"Jolly slack on it!" grumbled the Orphan as he bumped into him and dived down below.

The easiest way aft was along the mess deck—the upper deck was so dark—and as the Orphan passed through one of the stokers' messes he saw Fletcher, the old stoker of his picket-boat, sitting at a mess table, all alone, under an electric light, his face buried in his hands, and a Bible before him.

"What's the matter, Fletcher? you look jolly mouldy," he said, stopping at the end of the table. "What's the matter? Bad news?"

"Yes, sir," he said gently, standing up, one hand pushing his gold spectacles back on his nose, the other marking the place in the book. "A letter from my wife. Our last boy's been killed in France, sir. That's the third; he was a corporal, sir."

His old, refined, tired face looked so abjectly miserable that the Orphan did not know what to say. "Come and get a drink. That'll buck you up," he stuttered.

But Fletcher shook his head. "I'm an abstainer, sir; thank you very much." And the snotty, muttering "I'm sorry", went away along the rest of the noisy, crowded mess deck towards the gun-room.

There was comparative quiet there. The Sub and Uncle Podger were sitting in front of the stove, reading.

"You know old Fletcher—the stoker of my boat; he's frightfully miserable; he's sitting down in his mess looking awful; he's just heard that his last son's been killed; I wish we could do something for him. The letter must have come when I brought off the postman."

"How about a drink?" asked the Sub, scratching his head. "I am sorry."

"Who's that?" asked Uncle Podger; "that old chap with the gold specs?"

The Orphan nodded.

"Fancy having to stick it out—all the misery of it—in a mess deck, with hundreds of chaps cursing and joking all round you," the Sub said. "I don't see what we can do to help him."

"You've got a cabin," Uncle Podger suggested. "Get him down in it; shut him in for an hour. What he wants most is to be alone."

"Right oh!" said the Sub, springing to his feet. "I've got the first watch; he can stay there till 'pipe down';" and he sent Barnes, the purple-faced marine, to find Fletcher and tell him that the Sub-lieutenant wanted him at once in his cabin.

The Sub, swinging his mighty shoulders, stalked down to his cabin, and presently there was a knock outside, and Fletcher peered in. "Yes, sir?"

"I've just heard, Fletcher," the Sub said, holding out his hand. "We are all very sorry; you'd like to be by yourself for a while. Stay here till 'pipe down'; no one shall come near you."

He pushed the old man down in the chair, drew the door across, and went into the gun-room.

A few minutes later the Pimple, who had been to his chest, outside the Sub's cabin, came in.

"Old Fletcher's blubbing like anything," he said. "I heard him."

"Get out of it, you little beast!" roared out the Sub. "Get out of the gun-room till dinnertime. Who told you to go sneaking round?" and Uncle Podger got in a well-judged kick which deposited the miserable Pimple on the deck outside.

The Orphan had the "middle" watch that night, so he turned into his hammock early, and was roughly shaken before it seemed to him that he had been to sleep a minute.

"Still raining?" he grunted to the corporal of the watch who had called him, as he climbed out and hunted round for his clothes.

"Raining and blowing 'orrible!"

He groped his way for'ard, only half awake, stumbling on the unsteady slippery deck-plates, barking his shins against a coaming, and bumping into the rest of the watch as they came up from the lighted mess deck like blind men. He "took over" from the snotty of the first watch, and, as soon as his sleepy eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, began pacing up and down across the narrow deck.

The gale still howled wildly through the fore shrouds, the wet signal halyards still flapped noisily against each other, and the rain still came driving under the bridge; but by this time the Achates had altered course and was running up-Channel, so had the seas on her starboard quarter, and though she was rolling heavily no spray came over her. That was one thing to be thankful for, the Orphan thought, as he looked into the utter blackness ahead of him.

Presently he leant against the conning-tower. But there was nothing for his eyes to rest on, and the screaming of the gale and the roaring of the rushing seas mingling together to make one continual, tumultuous clamour in his ears, lulled him nearly to sleep.

He started—he thought he was dancing with the little lady in white and blue—grinned to himself, and went up on the bridge to have a yarn with Bubbles, who was now the midshipman of the watch; tracked him by his laugh and his snorting noise; doubled up he was, at some yarn the Navigating Lieutenant was telling him—he always laughed long before a yarn came to an end!

"The ass jumped on to the top of the conning-tower—got an arm round the periscope tube, and began banging away at the periscope with a hammer!" the Navigator was shouting as the Orphan came up. (Bubbles threw his head back and roared.) "He'd only got in a few whacks when the old submarine began to dive; down went the conning-tower and the periscope, and the last that was seen of him was a hand and a hammer giving one last whack!"

Bubbles choked and snorted with laughter.

"What was it—a German submarine—was he drowned—did they catch the submarine?" the Orphan asked.

"Yes, they did. It had been badly hit before. We swept for it, and found it three days later, and the brave ass was still clinging to the periscope tube with his feet twisted round the conning-tower rail."

"Who was he?" gasped Bubbles when he could stop laughing.

"No one in particular, only the deck hand of a trawler," the Navigator said, in his cynical way.

Mr. Meredith, the officer of the watch, a tall, good-looking Naval Reserve lieutenant with a weather-beaten face, and rather bald-headed, came up. "It's five bells, you fellows. How about some cocoa? I've got a tin of gingerbreads."

"That's the ticket, old chap!" the Navigator cried, and Bubbles was sent off to make the cocoa and bring it up to the chart-house.

Ten minutes later, the cheery chart-house was filled with the fragrant odour of cocoa, the Navigator's charts had been rolled aside; two were sitting on the table, the other on the settee which was the Navigator's bed at sea, all with steaming cups of cocoa in their hands.

"Where's the 'War Baby'? Go and fetch the War Baby," the Navigator shouted; so off Bubbles went, the light going out as the door slid back, and coming on again as it closed and "made" the electric circuit.

Presently, in came the youngest-looking thing in soldiers anyone ever saw, with a face as pink and white as the China Doll's, and the first buds of a tiny moustache on his upper lip.

"It's perfectly damnable outside," he piped in his girlish voice, as he seized a biscuit and a cup of cocoa.

"Hullo!" sang out the Navigator, as they all heard a knock on a door beneath them; "there's someone banging at the Skipper's door." (The Captain, when at sea, slept in a tiny cabin immediately beneath the chart-house and above the shelter deck.)

They heard the Captain's voice calling "Come in"; and the Navigator, seizing his glasses, and singing out that "the Captain would be up on the bridge in a jiffy—he always does if anyone wakes him," went out, followed by the others.

In a minute the Captain came up, shouting for him.

"Here I am, sir."

He seized the Navigator by the arm excitedly—the Captain was seldom anything but calm—and drew him into the chart-house. "Read this," he said, snapping his jaws together and sticking out his little pointed beard, as the door was closed and the light glared out.

The Navigator read: "Achates is to proceed with dispatch to Malta, calling at Gibraltar for coal if necessary."

"That means the Dardanelles, sir! Finish North Sea, sir?"

Captain Macfarlane looked down at him with twinkling eyes and smiled happily.

In five minutes' time the Achates had ported her helm and was on her new course; the news had flown round the bridge, been bellowed down below to the guns' crews, and shouted down the voice-pipes to the engine-room.

"We're off to Malta!—the Dardanelles!" and everyone who passed the good news added, "Finish North Sea. Thank God!"

The sober, obsolete old Achates seemed to know where she was bound. On her new course she once more faced the gale and the seas, diving and pitching, shaking and trembling, throwing the wild spray crashing against the weather screens, flying over the bridge and pattering against the funnels.

What cared she, or anyone aboard her, however wildly the gale blew!