"Be a sport, Jack!" exclaimed Leslie Sefton coaxingly.
"And take a sort of busman's holiday, eh?" rejoined the sub, regarding
his young brother with a tolerant smile. "Well--I'll see."
"Thanks awfully," was Leslie's comment. Experience had taught him that
Jack's "I'll see" invariably ended in acquiescence.
Two months had elapsed since the eventful encounter on Blackstone Edge.
August was well advanced, bringing with it a spell of gloriously fine
weather; and, since the young people must needs have holidays, even in
war-time, and the Admiral felt in need of a rest after the strenuous
shooting-match on the bleak Pennine Hills, the Sefton family had taken a
furnished house overlooking Poole Harbour.
Sub-lieutenant Sefton had been temporarily appointed to the Portsmouth
Naval Barracks, pending another term of service afloat. His fairly
frequent periods of week-end leave, he invariably spent with his
parents, since Poole was within easy railway distance of the senior
naval port.
Young Leslie was in his element. Before he had been at Poole more than
three hours he had already chummed up with the owners of several
pleasure craft. But a few days of sailing in a landlocked harbour soon
whetted his appetite for a trip beyond the bar, and for the present his
wishes in that direction were thwarted. Owing to the war-time
conditions, no pleasure-boat or yacht was permitted to leave the
spacious inland cruising-ground.
Time after time, Leslie watched with yearning eyes the brown-sailed
fishing-fleet steal past the patrol-boats guarding the entrance, and
glide seaward to the fishing-ground off the Dolphin Bank. For the most
part, the boats were manned by grey-bearded stalwarts and young boys,
worthy descendants of Harry Page, Thompson, and other Poole fishermen
whose prowess against the French is still remembered by the inhabitants
of the Dorset seaport. Already the British navy had claimed almost
every able-bodied fisherman of fighting age, and nobly the men had
responded to the call, leaving grandfathers and grandsons to work the
boats in the open waters of the English Channel.
At last Leslie found an opportunity. Getting on the right side of old
"Garge" Cottenham, owner and master of the five-ton smack _Fidelity_, he
prevailed upon that worthy to allow him to make an all-night trip to the
fishing-grounds.
Unfortunately the admiral did not see eye to eye with his energetic son.
Even Leslie's declaration that he would be assisting in a work of
national importance by helping to provide the nation's food left him
unmoved. As a last resource the lad appealed to Jack, who had just
arrived upon the scene for the week-end.
"Isn't the harbour good enough for him?" asked Admiral Sefton.
"You don't get the lift of the open sea, you know, Pater," replied the
sub. "Leslie's got the old instinct, you see."
"S'pose so," admitted his parent. "A couple of centuries of sea life is
bound to tell, eh? All the same, I don't like the idea of the boy
knocking about in a smack. He'll get into a dozen scrapes, and end up
by tumbling overboard and getting mixed up in the trawl. Now if I were
there to look after him----"
The admiral paused. Had old Garge Cottenham extended the invitation to
him, the bluff old sea-dog could not have resisted the call of the
sea--e'en were it through the medium of a five-ton smack. Between the
man who in the splendour of a gold-laced uniform had directed the
movements of a fleet and the other who grasped the tiller of a grubby
fishing-boat existed a common tie--that mysterious and overpowering
freemasonry of the sea.
On second thoughts, Admiral Sefton remembered his comfortable bed and
well-ordered repast, comparing them with the discomforts of a night
afloat and relatively hard fare.
Here Jack stepped nobly into the breach.
"Perhaps the kid wouldn't object if I went with him," he suggested.
"Not keen on it, you know, but----"
And so it came to pass that when Leslie coaxed his big brother the
latter capitulated.
"But what if your fisherman pal declined to ship me with him?" he added.
"No fear," replied Leslie. "I'll make that all right; only don't tell
him you're an officer."
"Oh, for why?" enquired the sub.
"I don't know exactly," was his brother's reply. "Somehow I fancy Old
Garge doesn't like naval officers."
Wherein Leslie was correct. Years ago Skipper Cottenham had fallen foul
of the lieutenant-in-charge of a revenue cutter, and the memory of the
meeting still rankled.
After lunch Leslie made his way to the quay, returning in an hour's time
with the information that Old Garge didn't object (he was not over
anxious to avail himself of a supposed amateur's offer of assistance),
and that the _Fidelity_ would cast off at seven o'clock that evening.
Clad in an old pair of serge trousers and a brown sweater, and carrying
an oilskin coat that, despite the maker's guarantee, stuck tenaciously
wherever it was folded, the sub accompanied his wildly-excited brother
to the steps, where a boat was in readiness to convey them to the smack.
In the boat was a freckled, chubby-faced, flaxen-haired youngster of
about thirteen, whom Leslie introduced to his brother as Tim,
great-grandson of the owner and master of the registered fishing-boat
_Fidelity_.
"Where's the _Fidelity_ lying?" enquired the sub, after the youngster
had sculled the heavy boat for nearly two hundred yards.
"Down Stakes," was the mysterious reply. "Us'll see her in a minute or
so, when us gets round t'bend."
Working the long single oar vigorously, and aided by the strong ebb
tide, Tim quickly urged the heavy boat along.
"There he be," he announced. "Third in the row from here."
Sefton looked in the direction indicated. The fishing-fleet was already
making preparations for a start. Most of the boats had their mainsails
set. Two or three had already slipped moorings, and were gliding down
the main channel under the lee of the wooded Brownsea Island.
With the practised eye of a true seaman, the sub realized that, in spite
of her sombre garb of grey paint, mottled with tar marks, the _Fidelity_
was "all a boat".
With a sharp entry and fine run aft, noticeable despite the squat stern
and heavy transom, the smack showed every promise of speed combined with
stiffness. Built with a view of encountering the short steep seas of
Poole Bar, she was typical of the weatherly boats that have justly
earned a splendid reputation for seaworthiness.
"Evenin'!" was Old Garge's greeting. "Come aboard. Look alive, Tim,
an' make fast the boat's painter. Then do 'ee cast off. There's Bill
Moggridge an' Peter Wilson under way already. Us mustn't let 'em get
across t' Bar ahead of the _Fidelity_."
Quickly, as the result of much practice, young Tim cast off the heavy
mooring-chain from the bitts, and trimmed the head-sails. Heeling
slightly to the light south-westerly breeze the smack gathered way,
leaving hardly a ripple in her wake as she glided almost noiselessly
through the calm water.
The sub revelled in the movement. Vividly it recalled long-past days in
the _Britannia's_ cutters, racing in the landlocked estuary of the Dart.
Since then opportunities for fore-and-aft sailing had been few and far
between. Contrasted with the terrific vibration of a swiftly moving
destroyer, the gentle movement was peaceful and soothing.
A short spell of close-hauled work, as the smack tacked towards the
entrance, was followed by a run, full and by, down the buoyed channel to
the bar buoy. From the heights above Studland a stiff breeze swept
down, causing the water to foam at the _Fidelity's_ sharp stem.
"That be good!" ejaculated Old Garge. "Us be overtakin' them," and he
nodded in the direction of the two boats that were still leading by less
than a cable's length. "Wind'll drop afore long, I's afraid."
"It will go down with the sun," said Sefton. "But we'll get the first of
the east-going tide outside."
The skipper of the _Fidelity_ stared at his guest. Already he had come
to the conclusion that the tall bronzed young fellow was no mere
landlubber. The sub's deliberate pronunciation of the word "tackle"
during a previous conversation had told him that.
"Patrol," announced the skipper laconically, indicating a steam trawler
as she rounded the detached chalk pinnacle known as "Old Harry". "She's
there to keep Garmin submarines away, you know. Ever seen a Garmin
submarine, mister?"
"Have you?" enquired Sefton, countering the old fellow's curiosity.
"Only one, and 'er was no good to nobody," replied Old Garge. "They
sunk 'er away down Christchurch Bay. Seed the navy chaps a-getting her
up, only the patrol boat ordered me away. That was away back last
summer. Since then they submarines 'ave given this part a wide berth."
"I'd like to see one getting properly strafed," declared Leslie. "What
would you do, Jack, if one showed its nose up just now?"
"Chuck it," ejaculated the sub good-humouredly. "We're supposed to be on
the way to the fishing-ground, not chasing U boats. Hallo! There's The
Needles Light."
By this time the sun had set in a haze of vivid crimson. Against the
dark grey of the eastern sky, the coastwise lights of The Needles and
St. Catherine's were beginning to assert their presence in the rapidly
waning twilight. Contrary to expectation the breeze still held,
although under the shadow of Hengistbury Head, bearing three miles to
the nor'ard, a number of fishing-craft lay completely becalmed.
"Evenin', Peter!" shouted Old Garge cordially, as the _Fidelity_ drew
ahead of the hitherto leading boat. Peter waved his arm in reply. His
response was not so cordial, seeing that his boat had been outstripped,
greatly to the glee of Leslie and young Tim.
For the next quarter of an hour all hands were busily engaged in paying
out the nets. Then, under triced-up mainsail, the smack floundered
slowly through the water, towing the length of fishing-gear astern.
The first haul produced very indifferent results. Leslie began to think
that it was poor sport, since the catch consisted of less than a dozen
medium-sized whiting and a couple of small bass. Nor did the second
cast fare much better.
"'Tes this east'ly wind we've a-been havin' that's done the mischief,"
explained the skipper of the _Fidelity_. "I thought when it veered we'd
be in luck. Howsomever, we'll have another shot."
Again the nets were paid out, and the smack, hampered with her tow,
stood off in the direction of the distant St. Catherine's Light.
"Mighty slow, isn't it?" confided Leslie to his brother. "Wish Old
Garge would up nets and make for home. Sailing's all right, but this
almost bores me stiff."
"Patience!" rejoined Sefton. "This is your choice. How would you care
to go fishing for months, blow high, blow low? No matter whether it be
summer or winter, you've got to go on fishing--fishing for a brute that
will bite you pretty hard at the first favourable opportunity."
"You mean submarines?" asked the lad. "I should like to see one. It
must be fine sport."
"Not on board this hooker, though," added the sub. "Give me something
that can hit back."
Force of habit made the young officer glance to windward. He would not
have been altogether surprised had a pair of twin periscopes appeared
above the surface of the moonlit water. After all, he reflected, there
wasn't much chance of that. The fishing-ground was well out of the
recognized steamer tracks. A U boat, especially in the English Channel,
where she ran an almost momentary risk of destruction, would not waste
time over the shallow Dolphin Bank to look for insignificant
fishing-smacks. Still, Hun submarines did erratic things sometimes.
Then the sub laughed at his fancies. The possibility was so remote that
he ridiculed the suggestion.
Meanwhile Old Garge had disappeared under the half-deck. A wreath of
smoke from the dilapidated iron chimney, and the banging of several iron
utensils, announced the fact that he was preparing some sort of repast.
Tim, mechanically sawing the tiller to and fro, kept the smack on her
course.
The _Fidelity_ was now well to the east'ard of the rest of the fleet. A
couple of miles separated her from the nearmost of the brown-sailed
boats, whose dark canvas showed up distinctly in the slanting rays of
the moon.
"We're giving them the slip, aren't we?" enquired Leslie, indicating the
still busily engaged smacks.
Tim glanced over his shoulder.
"Granfer," he called out; "we'm a long way down t' east'ard. Shall us
up nets?"
"No; you just carry on," replied Old Garge, his voice muffled in the
confined space. "I'll be with you in a minute. I'm fair busy just
now."
Another half-hour passed, but the skipper still remained out of sight.
The wind had now dropped, and the smack, with her main-sheet slacked
right off, floundered heavily, dipping her boom-end at every roll.
Already the day was breaking beyond the chalk cliffs of the Isle of
Wight. Momentarily, the search-lights from The Needles Channel
batteries were growing fainter in the grey dawn.
"Isn't it grand!" exclaimed Leslie, inspired by the sight of daybreak at
sea.
The sub merely shrugged his shoulders. Untold spells of duty as officer
of the watch had made him regard the spectacle with complete
indifference.
But the next instant Jack Sefton's lassitude fell from him like a
discarded mask, for, at less than a hundred yards on the _Fidelity's_
port quarter, appeared the pole-like periscopes of a submarine.