*A NAVAL VENTURE*
*CHAPTER I*
*The "*_*Achates*_*" goes to Sea*
On one miserably wet and cheerless afternoon of February, 1915, the
picket-boat of H.M.S. _Achates_ lay alongside the King's Stairs at
Portsmouth Dockyard, whilst her crew, with their boat-hooks, kept her
from bumping herself against the lowest steps. The rain trickled down
their glistening oilskins, and dark, angry clouds sweeping up from
behind Gosport Town on the opposite side of the harbour, and scudding
overhead, one after the other, in endless battalions, made it certain
that a south-westerly gale was raging in the Channel.
At the top of the steps, with his back to the wind and rain, his feet
wide apart, and his hands in his pockets, was the midshipman of the
boat, in oilskin, sou'wester, and sea-boots. This was Mr. Vincent
Orpen--commonly known as the Orphan--not very tall, but sturdy and
broad-shouldered in his bulky oilskins. Between the brim of his
dripping sou'wester and his turned-up collar showed a pair of very
humorous eyes, a determined-looking nose and mouth, and a pair of large
ears reddened by the cold and rain.
He was waiting to take the Captain--Captain Donald Macfarlane--off to
Spithead, where the _Achates_ lay, ready for sea, but this absent-minded
officer had very probably forgotten the time or place where the boat was
to meet him.
Near by, taking shelter in the lee of the signalman's shelter-box, the
marine postman and a massive, friendly dockyard policeman were standing
with the rain dripping off them.
Presently the midshipman splashed across to them and spoke to the
postman.
"The Captain did say King's Stairs; didn't he?"
"King's Stairs at two o'clock, sir; I heard him myself; King's Stairs at
two o'clock, and it's now past the half-hour. He was only a-going up to
the Admiral's office, he said; just time for me to slip outside to the
post office and back again, sir."
Down below, in the picket-boat, Jarvis, the coxswain, an old, bearded
petty officer--a Naval Reserve man--was grumbling to one of the crew:
"The Cap'n can't never remember nothink--he'll forget hisself one o'
these fine days."
"This ain't a fine day," the young A.B.--Plunky Bill--answered cheekily.
"Stow it! I'll give yer 'fine day' when we gets aboard: I knows it
ain't. We'll get a fair dusting-down going out to Spithead, and a good
many of you youngsters'll wish you'd never come to sea when we gets out
in the Channel to-night."
"I 'opes we ain't going back to the mine-bumping 'bizz' in the North
Sea, a-waiting for to be terpadoed," Plunky Bill said presently,
viciously shoving the picket-boat's dancing stern off the wall with his
dripping boat-hook.
"That's about our job," growled Jarvis. "Better blow up yer
swimmin'-collar when you gets aboard, and tie it around yer bloomin'
neck."
"A precious lot of good they collars be--with sea-boots and oilskins on,
and the water as cold as charity."
"Nobody's askin' you to wear it. When you feels you wants to drown,
quick, just 'and it over to me--I don't. Dare say you ain't got no one
to miss yer; I 'ave--a missus and six kids," growled the coxswain.
Just then the trap hatch of the stokehold flapped up, and out of the
small square opening emerged the bare head of the stoker of the
picket-boat--an old, grey-headed Naval Reserve man, who actually wore
gold spectacles, the effect of which on his coal-begrimed face was very
quaint. He looked round him in a patient, dignified manner, and sniffed
at the wind and rain.
There was a shout from the top of the steps, and Mr. Orpen, with his
hands to his mouth, called down: "Keep out of the rain, Fletcher--don't
be an ass!"
The old man did not hear; but one of the boat's crew for'ard bawled out
to him: "'Ere, close down yer blooming 'atch--chuck it, grandpa--shut
yer face in--the Orphan's a-singing out to yer--'e's nuts on yer 'ealth,
'e is." The old stoker, wiping his rain-spotted spectacles, meekly
obeyed, pulled the hatch over his head, and disappeared from view.
Then the postman, with his big, leather letter-bag, clattered down,
splashing the puddles on the steps. "The Cap'n's coming at last," he
said, and stowed himself away under the fore peak.
Down came Mr. Orpen, jumped aboard, and took the steering-wheel. A
moment later, and after him came the tall, gaunt figure of the Captain,
the rain trickling off the gold oak-leaves on the peak of his cap,
dripping off his long, thin nose and running down his yellowish-red
moustache and pointed beard. His greatcoat was glistening with
raindrops, and his trousers beneath it were soaked and sticking to his
thin shins.
"I forgot to bring my waterproof," he said. "I'm not late, am I?" and
nodding cheerfully, he stepped into the boat.