"Confound the wretched thing, Sefton!" exclaimed Major-General
Crosthwaite explosively.
"I hereby confound it!" said his companion with grim solemnity. "I'll
do anything you like, provided you don't ask me to evacuate this
luxurious cushion and push."
"Now if I had my chauffeur here----" began the General, then, realizing
that his duty to his country had necessitated the release of the man for
military service, he held his peace on that point, only to break out in
another direction.
"It's that horrible concoction that is sold as petrol," he remarked with
an air of profound wisdom. "Sixty per cent paraffin and ten per cent
water. Nine o'clock in the evening, miles from anywhere, and the
idiotic car as obstinate as a mule."
Dick's father, enjoying a hard-earned fortnight's leave after a
strenuous time at the front, had performed what he would have considered
a desperate task in pre-war days. He had actually driven his own
motor--a twenty-horse-power touring-car--from Shropshire to Southampton.
Luck, in the shape of complete immunity from tyre troubles and the two
thousand odd things that might go wrong with a car, had hitherto
favoured him. Whereat he became conceited with his powers as a
motorist; but it was pride before a fall, and Major-General Crosthwaite
found himself stranded with his three companions somewhere in the
vicinity of the little Wiltshire town of Malmesbury.
The eldest of the three passengers was Admiral Trefusis Sefton, K.C.B.
(retired), whose son Jack was at that very moment engaged upon his
desperate venture of bringing the crippled _Calder_ across the North
Sea. Residing near Southampton, he had accepted Crosthwaite Senior's
invitation to spend a long week-end at the latter's house near
Bridgnorth, and the Major-General thought it was a good opportunity for
having a motor-tour by fetching his guest from the south of England.
"I'll take young George with me," wrote the Major-General, "and there
will be room in the car for Leslie. They can't get into worse mischief
than if they were left at home, and one will be company for the other."
So George Crosthwaite accompanied his father from Bridgnorth to
Southampton. Shrewdly the fifteen-year old lad suspected that the
primary object of his sire was to let his son see what an expert driver
Crosthwaite Senior had become.
Leslie Sefton, also aged fifteen, jumped at the invitation, and, in
spite of various and oft-repeated warnings from his parent not to
skylark, his exuberant spirits formed a sympathetic counterpart to those
of young George Crosthwaite.
Declining his son's offer of expert advice and assistance, the general
divested himself of his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, inserted his
monocle in his eye, and spent four precious minutes in deep
contemplation of the stationary car. Then he applied rudimentary tests
to half a dozen different parts without locating the trouble, while the
admiral placidly smoked a choice cigar and meditated upon the pleasing
fact that he had never succumbed to the motor craze.
George and Leslie, seated on a bank by the roadside, were discussing the
merits and demerits of various types of aeroplanes when the former's
parent interrupted the pleasant discussion.
"George."
"Sir?"
"I want you to go into Malmesbury and get them to send a car to tow us
in."
Young Crosthwaite, unlike either of the two sons in the parable,
prepared to obey. "Obey orders at the double" had been dinned into his
head from time immemorial. On one occasion when the colonel--as he was
then--was entertaining a high War Office official, George, in his
alacrity to carry out his parent's behests, collided with the portly
butler bearing a heavily-laden tray. But the culprit's plea that he was
fulfilling the oft-reiterated order calmed the colonel's inward wrath
(he dared not "let himself go" just then) and earned a substantial tip
from the highly-amused guest.
"Coming?" asked George laconically, addressing his chum.
"Rather," was the reply.
George threw his greatcoat into the car. As he did so, his sharp eyes
caught sight of a tap that was turned off when it should have been
turned on.
Deftly he depressed the little lever, and, somewhat to his parent's
surprise, "tickled" the carburetter.
"It's no use doing that," said the discomfited motorist. "Hurry up and
be off. We'll be stranded here all night if you don't bestir yourself."
Crosthwaite Senior's astonishment increased when the dutiful George
climbed into the car and released the self-starter. The motor fired
without a hitch.
"By Jove!" ejaculated George's parent, too delighted to think of
thanking his son. "However did you manage it?"
"Only turned the petrol on," replied George calmly.
"Have you been playing any tricks----?" began the general, then resolved
to repeat the question at a more favourable private opportunity. "Jump
in, Sefton; we've wasted an hour already. Might have been in Gloucester
by this time. 'Fraid we'd better put up in Malmesbury to-night."
On the lowest gear, the car crawled slowly up the stiff gradient leading
to the little town, and pulled up outside an ivy-clad inn within a
stone's throw of the imposing ruins of the abbey.
"Any news to-night, I wonder?" enquired the general as the four sat down
to a substantial supper. "Suppose there's no chance of a late paper in
this out-of-the-way spot?"
"'Fraid not," replied the admiral. "You see, it is on a branch line.
Decent weather, eh?"
"Not so bad for our men in the North Sea," remarked Crosthwaite
complacently. "They've had a long, rotten winter, although Dick never
complains on that score. Must be quite yachty weather, I should
imagine," he added, with the memories of a certain pleasure cruise to
the Baltic in June flashing across his mind.
He picked up a morning paper from a settee and glanced at it. He had
read the selfsame news fourteen hours previously. Yet a paragraph had
hitherto escaped his notice.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed.
"What's that?" enquired the admiral.
"Suppose, after all, it's nothing much," observed General Crosthwaite.
"Masters of neutral steamers arriving at Danish ports state that they
sighted numerous wrecks and hundreds of floating corpses. Another Reuter
yarn, I take it."
"More U-boat frightfulness perhaps," hazarded Admiral Sefton.
And yet the report was a mild form of paving the way towards the
announcement of the Jutland battle. This was on Friday. Already
Germany had claimed a glorious and colossal naval victory, and the
tardiness of the British Government in giving the lie direct to the
boastful Hunnish claims gave, at least temporarily, a severe shock to
neutrals' belief in the invincibility of Britain's sea power. Already
American pro-German papers had appeared with highly coloured accounts of
Great Britain's crushing naval disaster; cartoons depicting John Bull's
consternation at the return of the battered British lion with a badly
twisted tail spoke volumes for the incontestable superiority of the
German navy.
Happily ignorant of the disquieting rumours, and, indeed, of any
knowledge of the naval action, the motorists slept soundly until eight
on the following morning.
"Another fine day," declared Crosthwaite Senior at breakfast. "We ought
to be home by three in the afternoon. Any papers yet?" he enquired of
the waiter.
"No, sir, not until eleven," was the reply.
"Must wait until we get to Gloucester, I suppose," grunted the general.
"One of the penalties for stopping at a place on a branch line."
"A fine little place, Pater," remarked George. "Absolutely top-hole.
Wish we were staying here. There's an awfully decent stream down
there--looks just the place for fishing."
"Can't beat the Severn for that, my boy," declared his father, loyal to
his native town and the river that flows past its site. "Buck up, my
boy, and finish the packing. I want to see that that petrol-tank is
properly filled--no unsealed cans, remember."
George Crosthwaite was really a useful assistant to his parent.
Crosthwaite Senior frankly recognized the fact, but forbore from giving
his son, personally, due credit, avowing that it was bad for discipline
to be lavish with praise.
"Smart youngster, Sefton, my boy," he declared in proud confidence to
the admiral. "He has his head screwed on the right way, although I
suppose I ought not to brag about it. Have to be careful, though, that
he doesn't kick over the traces just yet."
It was nearly nine before the car was ready to resume its journey. In
high spirits, for the bracing air and bright sunshine made a perfect
day, the party set off.
Major-General Crosthwaite started at a strictly moderate pace. He
invariably did; but it was always noticeable that, before he had covered
many miles, he accelerated the speed until it reached a reckless pace
bordering on fifty miles an hour. Towards the end of his day's journey,
he would develop a speed that caused his sedate passengers to quake with
apprehension, and his youthful ones to revel in the terrific rush
through the air.
Twenty minutes after leaving Malmesbury the car, now running splendidly,
bounded up the steep ascent into old-world Tetbury. Here, taking a
wrong turning, the motorists had to retrace their way, Crosthwaite
Senior slowing down in order to avoid a similar mistake.
Presently Leslie caught sight of a placard displayed outside a
news-agent's shop. In flaring red letters were the words: "Big Naval
Action in the North Sea".
Leaning over the seat he gripped his father's arm. By this time the car
was well beyond the shop.
"What's wrong?" bawled the admiral, for the wind-screen had been lowered
and the breeze was whistling past his ears.
"Big scrap in the North Sea--it's on the placards," replied his son,
"Heave-to, Crosthwaite!" exclaimed Admiral Sefton. "Stop here!"
The driver, imagining that something was amiss, and that he had
unknowingly run over something, applied his emergency brakes, bringing
up his car all standing and at a grave risk to the tyres. Leslie, taken
unawares, shot forward, "ramming" his parent in the small of the back
with his head and forcing the admiral against the dash-board.
"What the----!" began the astonished Crosthwaite Senior.
Almost unconscious of the rough treatment by his son, Admiral Sefton
descended from the car. Already George had executed a flying leap, and
was running towards the news-agent's shop.
Returning with a handful of papers he met the admiral half-way.
"It's 'The Day', sir!" he exclaimed, confident in the belief that the
long-expected struggle for naval supremacy had been settled once and for
all in Britain's favour.
Admiral Sefton grabbed the proffered paper with super-energy, almost
tearing the flimsy fabric with his powerful fingers as he fumbled with
the recalcitrant leaves.
Then the look of eager expectancy faded from his face, giving place to a
dull, strained expression of incredulity.
"Come along, Sefton!" sang out Crosthwaite Senior. "Don't be greedy
with the good news. Why, man----"
"We've got it properly in the neck, Pater," announced his son.
"Fourteen of ours, including the _Queen Mary_, sunk."
"But the enemy--the German losses are heavier than ours?" enquired the
general, snatching at the paper George was holding.
The two officers scanned the official report. "Owing to low
visibility"--was ever an Admiralty dispatch issued with such halting
excuses? A straightforward admission of our losses, it is true, but
nothing to suggest that the Germans had incurred similar or heavier
casualties, or even that the British navy had gained the day. And then
there was the perplexing statement that the Germans had rescued a number
of British seamen, and no corresponding report to the effect that we had
saved any of theirs. Everything pointed to a running fight in which the
Huns were the pursuers.
Admiral Sefton was dumbfounded. Had there been a convenient wall, he
might have turned his face towards it and groaned in spirit. Instead he
set his jaw tightly and thought hard.
"What do you make of it?" enquired the general. "Looks bad on the face
of it, eh?"
"We must wait for further details," was his companion's guarded reply.
The journey was resumed, but all the joy had vanished from the minds of
the party. No longer, the beautiful scenery appealed to them; the
crisp, bracing air and brilliant sunshine called in vain.
Down the steep "hairpin" road through Nailsworth, and along one of the
prettiest valleys of the Cotswolds, the car literally crawled. General
Crosthwaite, contrary to his usual practice, was driving slowly and
listlessly. His keen zest had disappeared. As he gripped the
steering-wheel he thought deeply, remembering that his son was somewhere
out there in the trackless, mine-strewn North Sea.
The admiral, too, was meditating. He would dearly have liked to have
paced to and fro, with his hands clasped behind his back in true
quarter-deck style; but since the limits of the car made such a
proceeding impossible, and it was equally difficult to alight unless the
car stopped, he "sat tight" and made a mental review of the battle,
constructing his theories upon the slender foundations conveyed in the
official report.
Gradually his perplexities vanished. The firm belief in the well-being
of the navy that had gripped his mind ever since those long-past
_Britannia_ days was not to be shattered by a disquieting and obviously
incomplete report, even though it bore Admiralty endorsement.
"Hang it all!" he exclaimed, startling his friend by bawling into
Crosthwaite Senior's ear. "Hanged if I'll go by that report. Just you
wait, my dear fellow, until supplementary information is forthcoming.
It's my belief the Admiralty have something up their sleeve, and that
we've won hands down."
"You think so?" asked the general eagerly.
"Think so! I know it," was the now decided reply. "Carry on,
Crosthwaite, full-speed ahead, and we'll see what news there is when we
get to Gloucester."
"Hope you're right," thought the army officer. Visions of a previous
naval disaster--that of the gallant Craddock's defeat off Coronel, the
first news of which came from German sources--urged that such a thing as
a naval defeat might be possible, especially in view of the great part
played by chance. A misunderstood order might result in disaster. A
chance shot or an accidental internal explosion might imperil the
superiority of the British fleet.
But there was always the dominating factor--men, not ships, win battles.
The British seaman, with the glorious traditions of centuries behind
him, is in every way superior to the brute who mans the fleet of the
Black Cross Ensign.
Then the general found himself mentally kicking himself for not sharing
in the admiral's optimism.
"Sefton's right," he concluded. "When we get more news we'll find that
all's well."
At Gloucester the admiral sent off a telegram, bought four different
papers, scanned the bulletins in the windows of the publishing offices,
and found himself little wiser than before; but at Worcester, where the
motorists stopped for lunch, they found the outlook much brighter.
Steps had already been taken to counteract the depressing effects of the
preliminary official announcement of the Battle of Jutland. The loss of
the _Warspite_ and _Marlborough_, both ships having been claimed as sunk
by the Germans, was categorically denied, and a statement of the British
vessels, known to be sunk, given. Enemy ships, aggregating in tonnage
more than that of our losses, were claimed only when definite reports of
their fate were received, from which it was now evident that, far from
being a German victory, the honours rested with the fleet under
Jellicoe's command.
At the post office Admiral Sefton obtained a wire, sent in reply to his
telegram from Gloucester. It was from an old shipmate, now holding an
appointment at Whitehall, and was as follows:--
"Vessel in question has not returned to base."
Without a word the admiral handed the buff paper to his friend. Hardly
a muscle of Crosthwaite Senior's weather-beaten face moved as he read
the momentous but indefinite news, although the "vessel in question" was
the T.B.D. _Calder_, and both men had similar personal interests in the
matter.
For the moment private considerations held supreme sway. The two men
mutually extended their right hands and exchanged sympathetic grips.
"If they are knocked out, it was in the thick of the scrap," declared
General Crosthwaite. "I'll stake my all upon that."
"_Dulce et_----" began the admiral, then, coming to the conclusion that
he was a trifle premature, he exclaimed: "Dash it all, Crosthwaite,
strange things happen at sea! They may turn up after all."
"It's the suspense," added Crosthwaite. "Look here, I'll take the car
right slap on to Edinburgh, and go on to Rosyth. Are you game?"
"Carry on," said Admiral Sefton. "I'm with you."