THE HARBOR AT SUNSET
It was an impressive procession of ships that steamed into Punta
Delgada two days after the great battle. As the _Delaware_, at the
head of the column, battle-scarred from stem to stern, passed the
supply ships and fleet-tenders anchored in the roadstead, the shout
that went up seemed as if it would lift the vault of heaven. For miles
astern the battleships stretched out in an apparently endless line,
while destroyers and cruisers lined both flanks. The disabled craft,
including the surrendered ships of the enemy, followed more slowly at
a greater distance, while those unable to steam were still waiting
near the scene of the action for ocean-going tugs to arrive and tow
them in.
In the United States not a hint of an impending naval crisis had
filtered through into the daily press. So when the news of the victory
came, the people were fairly dazed by it. Stirring as it was, and
great as was the rejoicing throughout the land, the full meaning of it
was scarcely realized at first, for the extent to which the enemy
depended on his fleet was not understood by the general public.
But the heads of the Coalition Government in Constantinople
understood, and cursed their lot, and trembled in their shoes. And the
British Admiralty understood, and lost no time instigating the Foreign
Office in London to make certain significant representations to
Washington, which figured largely in the negotiations that followed.
Before long overtures from Constantinople concerning peace were
received in Washington and London. They were met by a firm and solid
front on the part of the Allies. Nothing but unconditional surrender
would be acceptable.
The Constantinople leaders, being better endowed with wits than with
morale, had little disposition to prolong a futile struggle or
continue a losing game, especially as they held the Mediterranean
Powers united by a slender thread of intrigue rather than by unity of
spirit. The control of the sea irrevocably lost to them, their armies
were doomed to ultimate defeat. Therefore, after some clever attempts
at bargaining for terms which were coolly and flatly rejected by the
Allies, they agreed to unconditional surrender. With explosive force
the news spread through the Western world, like a titanic peal of
thunder echoing from mountain crest to valley and reverberating
throughout the land. The bells rang, and all the populace gave
themselves to wild joy or solemn thanksgiving.
As soon as the surrender had been made, the Allied fleet proceeded to
Gibraltar to take possession. At the first opportunity for shore
liberty, Evans found Kendrick, and for hours they talked over the
events since they had separated in the dark on the shore at Punta
Delgada. The tales which Kendrick told of his adventures in finding
his way to the desired post at a radio transmitter fairly made Evans’s
blood run cold. A kaleidoscopic sequence of hardships, narrow escapes,
and undreamed-of expedients to outwit the enemy, long hours in hiding,
disguises, brazen effrontery, and lightning decisions in the face of
danger, all told with the unconcern of one used to living in that sort
of thing, kept Evans enthralled, now laughing, now as nervous as if
himself facing the danger of discovery. Before leaving, Evans arranged
to have the kayak exhumed from her hiding-place and sent back to her
owner.
June was in its prime when Evans, on his release from active duty,
returned to his home, a private citizen. He went to the university
where before the war he had been engaged in research, and asked if he
might resume his former position as Associate in Physics and continue
the researches which had been interrupted. Some there were in the
university who looked askance at the giving of valuable laboratory
space to one who had held no more distinguished a position in the war
than radio gunner. But there stood his unique apparatus which had
taken him years of patient labor to assemble and which no one in the
world but he could use. Fortunately the head of the Physics Department
understood this, and his wish prevailed.
Evans, assured that his cherished laboratory was his once more,
returned to it. The apparatus stood as he had left it, but covered
with the dust of two long years. A flood of happy memories returned to
him of days and nights spent in enthralling quests. He began eagerly
to overhaul and test the apparatus in preparation for the renewed
attack on the great problems which awaited his long-deferred
experiments for their solution. For a few days he tinkered with the
intricate assortment of instruments and devices, inspecting parts
here, making minor repairs on them there, looking over old notes, and
endeavoring to plan his campaign for renewed research. But as the hot
July days wore on, his brain seemed to balk at the task; he realized
that he was tired with the deep-seated fatigue which a day’s rest or a
week’s rest will not cure. On the one hand, the din of a great naval
action still echoed in his ears; on the other, he heard the call of
the sea and the wild New England shore.
“I’ll make a better job of this in September,” he said to himself.
And, closing his laboratory for the summer, he went to New Bedford
where soon he was splicing ropes and helping the riggers at the
shipyard put the _Petrel_ in commission.
In a few days he was again at the wheel of his beloved boat, the sails
pulling hard in the fresh southwest wind. Leaving New Bedford, he
headed for the Maine coast. Once more alone in his seaworthy little
ketch, he cruised along the coast by easy stages, northward and
eastward, farther and farther from the crowded habitats of man, to the
spruce-clad, rocky islands of Maine. Off Seguin he stood well out to
sea, the gentle rocking of the boat on the ocean swell lulling him
into a happy reverie as she glided along before the summer breeze.
Passing the Georges and the endless labyrinth of islands in Penobscot
Bay, he came at last to Mount Desert Island, where Mortimer, breaking
away from his desk in Washington, joined him for a cruise into the
unfrequented waters beyond Schoodic. Here there are bays and harbors
seldom visited by the great stream of cruising yachts, where, over
dense forests of spruce that rise from the water’s edge along a rugged
shore line, great ospreys wheel and scream, and in countless mossy
nooks in the depth of the wood close by the sound of the surf, the
witchery of Nature’s solitude casts a spell over the lonely wanderer.
Into such a bay, as the gorgeous summer afternoon drew to a close, the
_Petrel_ steered her course, her sails beginning to droop as the
breeze gave way to the calm of evening. Two happy men sat lazily in
her cockpit gazing over the placid water into the enchanted forest
that lined the shore ahead of them. Through the day, while bounding
over the sparkling blue waves, their talk had drifted on, as the
spirit moved them, from one phase of the war to another. Evans
delighted Mortimer with his pictures of the life in the navy and
sidelights on the various admirals and others who had figured in the
official doings. He told of his talk with Fraser in the Borge garden
and the conferences that followed—tales which never reached another
mortal ear.
The opal tints of approaching sunset were playing in kaleidoscopic
reflection on the restless surface of the water, and the dying zephyr
just sufficed to give the _Petrel_ steerageway as she headed for a
snug little cove among the spruce trees.
The conversation had drifted through all phases of the war to the
final action, and Mortimer was for the first time receiving a clear
exposition of the underlying strategy and tactics. Evans explained how
the placing of every unit of the fleet was worked out to ensure the
greatest strength in case of every conceivable unforeseen contingency,
and how, guided by the master mind of Fraser, Admiral Johnson’s
fighting spirit had driven home the decisive blow.
The sun had set, and both sea and sky were aflame with gorgeous
colors, while the dark, pointed spruce trees on the shore, now close
at hand, cast mobile reflections dancing on the undulating surface of
the cove. The anchor splashed and the chain rattled down, and then the
sails were lowered and furled for the night. Late into the twilight
the two comrades sat watching the colors fade in sea and sky as the
great chapter of history just closed was unfolded in reminiscence
before them.
“Jim,” said Mortimer, “I know you prefer to work in the dark, but it
makes me uncomfortable to have you go without recognition. I want to
have some open acknowledgment of the Nation’s gratitude to you, to
ease my own feelings. Would you mind if I did something about it?”
Evans gave his friend a look that spoke his depth of friendship.
“I am well content as it is,” he said. “That is something of a boast,
and sometimes I don’t live up to it. But I know that in my better
moods I’m not bothered that way. The pleasure of praise tends to cloy.
Please give recognition to my better self, and let the reward be
always, as now, in the doing.”
THE END