Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: "'CAN YOU SPARE US ANY TORPEDOES?' SHOUTED SEFTON"]
With Beatty off Jutland
A Romance of the Great Sea Fight
by
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of "The Submarine Hunters"
"A Sub and a Submarine"
"The Dispatch Riders"
&c. &c.
_Illustrated by Frank Gillett, R.I._
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
1920
By Percy F. Westerman
Rivals of the Reef.
A Shanghai Adventure.
Pat Stobart in the "Golden Dawn".
The Junior Cadet.
Captain Starlight.
The Sea-Girt Fortress.
On the Wings of the Wind.
Captured at Tripoli.
Captain Blundell's Treasure.
The Third Officer.
Unconquered Wings.
The Buccaneers of Boya.
The Riddle of the Air.
Chums of the "Golden Vanity".
The Luck of the "Golden Dawn".
Clipped Wings.
The Salving of the "Fusi Yama".
Winning his Wings.
A Lively Bit of the Front.
A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
The Good Ship "Golden Effort".
East in the "Golden Gain".
The Quest of the "Golden Hope".
Sea Scouts Abroad.
Sea Scouts Up-Channel.
The Wireless Officer.
A Lad of Grit.
The Submarine Hunters.
Sea Scouts All.
The Thick of the Fray,
A Sub and a Submarine.
Under the White Ensign.
The Fight for Constantinople.
With Beatty off Jutland.
_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow_
----
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--The Ward-room of H.M.S. "Calder"
CHAPTER II--The Recovered Cable
CHAPTER III--The Stranded Submarine
CHAPTER IV--Not Under Control
CHAPTER V--Sefton to the Rescue
CHAPTER VI--Action at the Double
CHAPTER VII--In the Thick of the Fight
CHAPTER VIII--The "Calder's" Second Scoop
CHAPTER IX--The "Warrior's" Gallant Stand
CHAPTER X--Battered but Unconquered
CHAPTER XI--The Wrecked Sea-plane
CHAPTER XII--The Night Attack
CHAPTER XIII--Sefton in Command
CHAPTER XIV--Out of the Fight
CHAPTER XV--A Day of Suspense
CHAPTER XVI--The Struggle in the Mountain Pass
CHAPTER XVII--Safe in Port
CHAPTER XVIII--Too Late!
CHAPTER XIX--The Smack "Fidelity"
CHAPTER XX--Captured
CHAPTER XXI--U99
CHAPTER XXII--The British Submarines at Work
CHAPTER XXIII--And Last
----
Illustrations
"'Can you spare us any torpedoes?' shouted Sefton" . . . _Frontispiece_
"'We surrender make.... We haf a leak sprung'"
"Without hesitation Sefton made a flying leap over the guard rails"
"Poising himself for an instant, Sefton leapt on the 'Calder's' deck"
"She sent a huge shell at point-blank range crashing into the
light-built hull"
"The 'Calder' had played her part, and it seemed base ingratitude to
leave her to founder"
WITH BEATTY OFF JUTLAND
CHAPTER I--The Ward-room of H.M.S. "Calder"
A cold grey morning in April somewhere in the North Sea; to be more
exact, 18 miles N. 75 deg. W. of the Haisborough Lightship.
Viewed from the fore-bridge of H.M. torpedo-boat destroyer _Calder_,
there was little in the outlook to suggest that a state of war had
existed for twenty months. The same short steep seas, the same lowering
sky, the almost unbroken horizon towards which many anxious glances were
hourly directed in the hope that "they" had at last come out.
Two cables' distance from the _Calder_, a typical trawler, with dense
columns of smoke issuing from her funnel, was forging slowly ahead.
Another vessel of a similar type was steaming in almost the opposite
direction, and on a course that would bring her close under the stern of
the almost motionless destroyer. From the galley funnel of each trawler
a trail of bluish smoke was issuing, the reek as it drifted across the
_Calder's_ deck indicating pretty plainly the nature of the "hands'"
breakfast. Of the crew of either craft no one was visible, the helmsman
in each case sheltering in the ugly squat wheel-house on the bridge.
Acting Sub-lieutenant Sefton brought his binoculars to bear upon the
nearmost trawler. The action was merely a perfunctory one. He knew
both trawlers almost about as much as their own crews did, and certainly
more than their respective owners in pre-war times. For close on fifty
hours, watch in and watch out, the _Calder_ had been dancing attendance
on these two almost insignificant specimens of the North Sea
fishing-fleet--the _Carse o' Gowrie_ and the _Dimpled Lassie_, both
registered at the port of Aberdeen.
Carrying bare steerage-way, the destroyer glided slowly past the
_Dimpled Lassie's_ port quarter. From the trawler's stern a flexible
wire hawser led beneath the foaming wake of the propeller, dipping with
a sag that did not gladden the heart of the young officer of the watch.
"Any luck yet?" shouted Sefton through an enormous megaphone.
At the hail two men's heads appeared above the bulwarks aft, while a
greatcoated figure came in view from behind the storm-dodgers of the
trawler's bridge.
"Not the least, sir," replied the master of the _Dimpled Lassie_, Peter
M'Kie, skipper R.N.R. "Are we right, sir?"
The acting-sub had a few minutes previously taken an observation. The
destroyer was playing the part of nursemaid to the two trawlers, for
although both skippers could find their way, even in thick weather,
almost anywhere in the North Sea, solely by the aid of lead-line and
compass, neither had the faintest experience in the use of the sextant.
"Ought to be right over it," replied Sefton. "Carry on, and trust to
luck."
The trawlers were "creeping" with grapnels. Not for mines, although
there was always a possibility of hooking one of those fiendish
contrivances. That was a risk that the tough fisherman faced with an
equanimity bordering on fatalism. Mine-sweeping they had engaged upon
almost continuously since the notable month of August, 1914. Now they
were on particular service--a service of such importance and where so
much secrecy was imperative that these two Scottish trawlers had been
sent expressly from a northern base to scour the bed of the North Sea in
the neighbourhood of Great Yarmouth, where there were Government craft
for disposal in abundance.
Sefton replaced his binoculars, and, turning, found that his superior
officer had just come on deck and was standing at his elbow.
Lieutenant Richard Crosthwaite, D.S.O., the "owner" of the destroyer,
was one of those young officers who had made good use of the chances
that the war had thrown in his way. Specially promoted for good work in
the Dardanelles, he found himself at a comparatively early age in
command of a destroyer that had already made a name for herself in the
gallant but ill-starred operations against the Turks.
"Well, Mr. Sefton?" he asked.
"Nothing much to report, sir," replied the acting-sub. "But we'll get it
yet," he added confidently.
Evidently "it"--hardly ever referred to by any other designation--was
more elusive than Crosthwaite had imagined. A shade of disappointment
flitted across his tanned features. The task upon which the trawlers
were engaged was a matter of extreme urgency. At Whitehall anxious
admirals awaited the news that "it" had been fished up; but "it",
reposing serenely on the bed of the North Sea, had resolutely declined
to receive the embraces of a couple of heavy grapnels.
Crosthwaite, after giving a searching glance to windward, stepped to the
head of the ladder. An alert bos'n's mate, awaiting the signal, piped
the starboard watch. Saluting, Sefton gained the deck and went aft, his
mind dwelling on the prospects of breakfast and a much-needed sleep.
The ward-room, a scantily-furnished apartment extending the whole width
of the ship, was showing signs of activity. From one of the adjoining
dog-boxes, termed by courtesy a cabin, a short, full-faced,
jovial-featured man had just emerged, clad in regulation trousers and a
sweater. His curly light-brown hair was still wet, as the result of his
ablutions, a slight gash upon the point of his chin betokened the fact
that he had tempted fate by shaving in a stiff seaway, and by the aid of
an ordinary razor dulled by the penetrating salt air.
"Oh, it's quiet down here----" he began singing in a ringing baritone.
"No need to rub that in, Pills," exclaimed a drawling voice. "The fact
is patent to all. Can't you give us 'They don't run Corridor Cars on
our Branch Line' by way of a change?"
Thereon hung a tale: something that took place when Jimmy Stirling first
joined the mess at the Portsmouth Naval Barracks as a Probationary
Surgeon, R.N.V.R.
"I called attention to the fact that it was quiet down here with
deliberate intent, my festive Box-spanner," retorted the surgeon. "At
last, after weeks of expostulation, your minions have succeeded in
quelling that demon of unrest, the steam steering-gear. For the first
time for a fortnight I have slept serenely, and, thanks to that blessed
balm, I feel like a giant refreshed. Now, how about it?"
He made a dive into the adjoining cabin, where the engineer-lieutenant
was in the act of struggling with a refractory collar. The next instant
the two men lurched into the ward-room engaged in what looked to be a
mortal struggle.
Cannoning off the stove, sweeping a sheaf of books from the wall,
glissading from the cushioned lockers, the high-spirited officers
tackled each other with mock-serious desperation until, with a violent
heave, the athletic doctor deposited his engineering confrere fairly
upon the table. With a series of crashes, cups, saucers, tureens,
teapot, coffee-pot, eggs and bacon sidled in an indescribable state of
chaos upon the floor.
"Time!" exclaimed Sefton authoritatively. "Look here, you fellows. I
haven't had my breakfast, and I suppose you haven't had yours? Not that
it matters to me. And, Pills, has your supply of bromide run out?"
The combatants separated and began taking stock of the damage.
"You logged a gale of wind last night, I hope, Sefton?" asked the
engineer-lieutenant in tones of mock anxiety. "Must account for this
smash-up, you know---- Any luck? Have they got it?"
The acting-sub, now that conversation had reverted to the inevitable
"it", was bound to admit that the preceding night's labours had been
fruitless. The possibilities of the recovery of the much-desired "it"
monopolized the attention of the occupants of the ward-room until the
steward, outwardly stolidly indifferent to the unsympathetic treatment
of his labours, provided another repast.
They were boyish and high-spirited officers on H.M.T.B.D. _Calder_.
Their pranks were but an antidote to the ceaseless strain of days and
nights of watch and ward.
"To get back to things mundane," persisted the engineer-lieutenant as
the trio sat down to their belated meal, "will they find it?"
"It is my firm belief that they will," replied Sefton decisively. "Even
if we have to mark time about here for another month."
"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated the surgeon piously, "I pine for fresh
water. Your vile condenser-brewed fluid is simply appalling, my festive
Box-spanner. And I yearn for newspapers less than a week old."
The engineer-lieutenant glared defiance at his medical confrere. He
knew perfectly well that the water on board was brackish and insipid,
but it was condensed under his personal supervision. Any disparaging
remarks upon his _metier_--even if uttered in jest--touched him to the
quick.
A resumption of the "scrap" seemed imminent, when a bluejacket, tapping
at the ward-room door, announced: "Captain's compliments, sir; they've
just hooked it."