She was not new, and nobody could call her handsome. She was evidently
more accustomed to rough weather than paint, and her sloping
forecastle and low freeboard were old-fashioned, to say the least of
them. She jogged slowly along, rolling to a short beam sea, with an
apologetic air, as if she felt ashamed of being what she was--a
pre-war torpedo-boat on local patrol duty.
She steered no particular course, and varied her speed capriciously as
she beat up and down. Being in sight of the land--a grey, hard, low
line to the westward--there was no need for accurate plotting of
courses. On the bridge stood her Captain, a dark, lean, R.N.R.
Lieutenant, pipe in mouth and hands in "lammy" pockets. The T.B. was
rolling too much for any one to walk the tiny deck of the bridge; in
fact, a landsman would have had difficulty in standing at all. He
turned his head as his First Lieutenant swung up the little iron
ladder behind him.
"What's for lunch?" he asked, carefully knocking out his pipe on the
rail before him.
"The same," said his laconic subordinate, who was engaged in a rapid
survey of the compass card, revolution indicator, and the horizon
astern. The two stood side by side a moment looking out at the sea and
sky to windward. "Any pickles?" said the Captain.
"No, only mustard."
The Captain sighed and turned to leave the bridge. The First Lieutenant
pivoted suddenly--"It's better'n you and I had off the Horn in the
_Harvester_. You'd 've been glad to get beef then, even if it was in a
tin." He snorted, and turned forward again to look ahead. The Captain
remained at the foot of the ladder, reading a signal handed to him by a
waiting Boy Telegraphist. The argument on the subject of tinned beef had
lasted a year already, and could be continued at leisure.
The boy received the signal back and vanished below, while the Captain
climbed slowly to the bridge again. He spoke to the man at the wheel,
and himself moved the revolution indicator.
"Panic?" said the First Lieutenant (neither of them seemed to use more
than one word at a time, unless engaged in an argument).
"Sure," was the reply. "Tell 'em to make that blinkin' stuff into
sandwiches and send 'em up."
The First Lieutenant went down the ladder in silence. The matter of
the tinned beef was to him, as mess caterer, a continual sore point.
The T.B. started on a more erratic course than before, tacking in long
irregular stretches out to seaward. Smoke was showing up against the
land astern, and there was a sense of stirring activity in the air.
Two more torpedo-boats appeared suddenly from nowhere, hoists of
coloured flags flying at their slender masts. The three hung on one
course a moment, conferring, then spread fanwise and separated. The
first boat turned back towards harbour and the growing smoke-puffs,
which rapidly approached and showed more and more mine-sweepers coming
out.
A droning, humming noise made the Captain look up, and he pivoted slowly
round, following with his eyes a big seaplane a thousand feet above him.
As the sound of the engines died away, it seemed to start swelling
again, as another machine appeared a mile abeam of them, and following
the first.
The T.B. swung round ahead of the leading sweepers, and turned back to
seaward. Her speed was not great, but half an hour after the turn the
sweepers were hull down astern. A small airship slipped out of a low
cloud and droned away on the common course. Every type of small craft
seemed to be going easterly, and the sea, which an hour ago had been
almost blank, was now dotted with patrol ships of every queer kind
and rig. From overhead it must have looked like a pack of hounds
tumbling out of cover and spreading on a faint line. But, like the
hounds, the floating pack was working to an end, and whatever the
various courses steered, the whole was moving out to sea.
The Boy Telegraphist hauled himself, panting, on to the bridge, and
thrust a crumpled signal before the Captain's eyes. The Captain
grunted and spoke shortly, and the boy dashed off below. A moment
later the piping of calls sounded along the bare iron deck, and men in
heavy sea-boots began to cluster aft and at the guns. The funnels sent
out a protesting spout of brown smoke as the T.B. began to work up to
her speed, and the choppy sea sent up a steady sheet of spray along
her forecastle and over the crouching figures at the bow gun. The rest
of the pack appeared to have caught the whimper too, for everything
that could raise more than "Tramp's pace" was hurrying due east. A
faint dull "boom" came drifting down wind as the First Lieutenant
arrived on the bridge, and the two officers looked at each other in
silence a moment.
"Bomb, sir?" said the junior, showing an interest which almost made
him conversational.
"Sure thing," said the other. "She gave us the tip when she saw him,
and that'll be one to put him under."
"How far d'you think it was?"
"Seven-eight mile. You all ready?"
The First Lieutenant nodded and slipped down the ladder again. Three
miles astern came a couple of white specks--the bow-waves of big
destroyers pushed to their utmost power. The Captain studied them a
moment with his binoculars, and gave a grunt which the helmsman
rightly interpreted as one of satisfaction. Slow as she was, the old
T.B. had a long start, and was going to be on the spot first. The dark
was shutting down, and the shapes of the other T.B.'s on either beam
were getting dim.
* * * * *
The night was starlit, and with the wind astern the T.B. made easy
weather of it. The two officers leaned forward over the rail staring
ahead towards the unseen land. Lights showed on either hand, and
occasionally they swung past the dark squat shape of a lit trawler,
also bound home.
"Are you going to claim?" asked one of the watching figures. The other
paused before replying--
"We-ell," he said, "I'll just report. I think we shook him to the
bunt, but it's no good claiming unless you can show prisoners, Iron
Cross and all." Another ruminative pause. "Your people were smart on
it--devilish smart." Another pause. "What's for dinner?"
A dark mass ahead came into view, and turned slowly into a line of
great ships coming towards them.
The T.B. swung off to starboard, and slowed her engines. One by one
they went past her--huge, silent, and scornful, while the T.B. rocked
uneasily in the cross sea made by their wakes. The Captain watched
them go, chewing the stem of his unlit pipe. They were the cause of
the day's activity, but it was seldom he met them at close range
except like this, in the dark on his way home.
The line seemed endless, more and more dark hulls coming into view,
and fading quickly into the dark again. As the last swung by the
T.B.'s telegraph bells rang cheerfully, and she jogged off westward to
where a faint low light flickered at intervals under the land.