THE AFTERMATH
Such was the Battle of the Mist, a triumphant assertion after nearly
two years of vigil and waiting, of British Sea Power. It commenced
with a cloud of smoke on the horizon no larger than a man's hand. Its
consequences and effects spread out in widening ripples through space
and time, changing the vast policies of nations, engulfing thousands of
humble lives and hopes and destinies. Centuries hence the ripples will
still be washing up the flotsam of that fight on the shores of human
life. Long after the last survivor has passed to dust the echo of the
British and German guns will rumble in ears not yet conceived. Princes
will hear it in the chimes of their marriage bells; it will accompany
the scratching of diplomatists' pens and the creaking wheels of the
pioneer's ox-wagon. It will sound above the clatter of Baltic
ship-yards and in the silence of the desert where the caravan routes
stretch white beneath the moon. The Afghan, bending knife in hand over
a whetstone, and the Chinese coolie knee-deep in his wet paddy-fields,
will pause in their work to listen to the sound, uncomprehending, even
while the dust is gathering on the labours of the historian and the
novelist....
But this tale does not aspire to deal with the wide issues or
significances of the war. It is an endeavour to trace the threads of
certain lives a little way through a loosely-woven fabric of great
events. At the conclusion there will be ends unfinished; the colours
of some will have changed to grey and others will have vanished into
the warp; but the design is so vast and the loom so near that we, in
our day and generation, can hope to glimpse but a very little of the
whole.
* * * * *
The India-rubber Man sat on the edge of the Wardroom table with his cap
tilted on the back of his head, eating bread and cold bacon. The mess
was illuminated by three or four candles stuck in empty saucers and
placed along the table amid the débris of a meal. The dim light shone
on the forms of a dozen or so of officers; some were seated at the
table eating, others wandered restlessly about with food in one hand
and a cup in the other. The tall, thin Lieutenant known as Tweedledum
was pacing thoughtfully to and fro with a pipe in his mouth and his
hands deep in his trousers pockets.
There had been little conversation. When anyone spoke it was in the
dull, emotionless tones of profound fatigue. One, just out of the
circle of candle-light, had pushed his plate from him on the completion
of his meal, and had fallen asleep with his head resting on his
outstretched arms. The remaining faces lit by the yellow candle-light
were drawn, streaked with dirt and ornamented by a twenty-four hours'
growth of stubble. All wore an air of utter weariness, as of men who
had passed through some soul-shaking experience.
The door opened to admit the First Lieutenant. He clumped in hastily,
wearing huge leather sea-boots. Beneath his cap his head was swathed
in the neat folds of bandages whose whiteness contrasted with his
smoke-blackened faced and singed, begrimed uniform.
"Hullo!" he said, "circuits gone here, too?" He peered round the
table. "My word!" he exclaimed. "Hot tea! Who made it? The galley's
a heap of wreckage." He poured himself out a cup and drank thirstily.
"A-A-ah! That's grateful and comforting."
"I made it," said the Paymaster. "With my own fair hands I boiled the
kettle and made tea for you all. Greater love than this has no man."
"Reminds me," said a voice out of the shadows, "that Mouldy got rather
badly cut about the head and lost the best part of his left hand. He
went reeling past me during the action yesterday evening with young
Morton slung over his shoulder: he was staring in front of him like a
man walking in his sleep."
"He was," confirmed the Paymaster. "In the execution of my office as
leading hand of the first-aid party, I gave him chloroform while the
P.M.O. carved bits off him." The speaker rested his head on his hand
and closed his eyes. "Next time we go into action," he continued, as
if speaking to himself, "someone else can take that job on."
"What job?" asked the India-rubber Man, suddenly turning his head and
speaking with his mouth full.
"Fore medical distributing station. I've done a meat-course at
Smithfield market ... slaughter-houses before breakfast, don't you
know? I thought I could stick a good deal----" The Paymaster opened
his eyes suddenly. "I tell you, it was what the sailor calls bloody
... just bloody."
"How is young Morton?" asked the First Lieutenant.
No one appeared to know, for the enquiry went unanswered. The tall
figure pacing restlessly to and fro stopped and eyed the First
Lieutenant.
"Tweedledee's killed," he said dully. "Dead..." He resumed his
thoughtful walk and a moment later repeated the last word in a low
voice, reflectively. "Dead ..."
"I know," said the First Lieutenant.
Tweedledum halted again. "I wouldn't care if we had absolutely wiped
them off the face of the earth--sunk every one of them, I mean. We
ought to have, with just such a very little luck.... And now they've
slipped through our fingers, in the night." Tweedledum extended a
thin, nervous hand, opening and clenching the fingers. "Like slimy
eels."
"Some did," said the India-rubber Man musingly, filling a pipe. "Some
didn't. I only saw our guns actually sink one German Battleship; but
the visibility was awful, and we weren't the only pebble on the beach;
our line was miles long, remember."
"I saw one of their Battle-cruisers on fire and sinking," said Gerrard.
"I was in the top. And all night long our Destroyers were attacking
them. Two big ships blew up during the night." He cut a hunk of bread
and spread it thickly with marmalade. "We must have knocked
seven-bells out of 'em. And we didn't lose a single Battleship."
"Must have lost a Battle-cruiser or two, though," said the Engineer
Lieutenant, sitting with his head between his hands and his forefingers
propping open his eyelids. "Damn it, they fought the whole German
Fleet single-handed till we arrived! Must have..." His voice trailed
off and his fingers released his eyelids which closed instantly. His
chin dropped on to his chest, and he slept.
"Any other officer scuppered besides Tweedledee?" asked the Major of
Marines. "What's up with your head, Number One?"
"Only scratched by a splinter. A nearish thing. I haven't heard of
anybody else. We really got off very lightly considering they found
our range." The First Lieutenant clumped off towards the door. "Now I
must go and see about clearing up the mess. I reckon it's all over bar
the shouting."
As he went out Thorogood entered the Wardroom. "Would anyone like a
nice beef lozenge?" he enquired, removing a packet from his pocket.
"Owner having no further use for same."
"Where are we going?" asked the Paymaster. "I should like to go home,
I think, if it could be arranged conveniently, James?"
"Not to-day," was the reply. "We're looking for the lame ducks on the
scene of yesterday's action. It's very rough and blowing like blue
blazes, so I don't suppose there are many lame ducks left afloat--poor
devils.... With any luck we ought to get in to-morrow morning, though."
The sleeping figure with the outstretched arms suddenly raised his head
and blinked at Thorogood. "Where's the elusive Hun?" he demanded.
"'Opped it," was the reply. "Otherwise vamoosed----"
"Singing 'I'm afraid to go home in the dark,'" interposed the
India-rubber Man dryly. He got down off the table and stretched his
arms. "Well, I shan't be sorry to get some sleep."
"Sleep!" echoed Thorogood. "You ought to see the stokers' mess-deck.
The watch-off have just come up from below after sixteen hours in the
stokeholds. They're lying sprawling all over the deck like a lot of
black corpses--just all-in."
Tweedledum sat down on the corner of the table vacated by the
India-rubber Man.
"I wish I knew exactly how many of them we did sink before the
Commander-in-Chief called off the Destroyers this morning," he said
plaintively.
"So would a lot of people," replied Thorogood. "We're three hundred
miles from home, and there's every reason to suppose there are one or
two submarines and mines on the way. Those of us who get back will
probably find out all we want to know in time. I shouldn't worry,
Tweedledum. In fact, I don't see why you shouldn't get a bit of sleep
while you can."
"By Jove!" said Gerrard as a sudden thought struck him. "I wonder if
they know all about it at home yet. Won't our people be bucked!"
"And the papers," added the Captain of Marines. "Can't you hear the
paper-boys yelling, 'Speshul Edition! Great Naval Victory!' My word,
I'd like to be in town when the news comes out." He considered the
mental picture his imagination had conjured up. "I think I should get
tight...!" he said.
* * * * *
The village street had a curiously deserted air when Betty walked up it
on her way to the post office. The mail train had passed through about
an hour before, and as a rule about this time the tenants of the rooms
and cottages on the hill-side made their way to the post office at the
corner to collect their letters and chat in twos and threes round the
windows of the little shops.
In the distance Betty saw a little group gathered in front of the
boards that displayed the contents bill of the morning paper before the
windows of the village stationer's. Recognising Eileen Cavendish,
Betty quickened her pace, but as she drew near the group dispersed and
Mrs. Cavendish entered the shop. Betty stopped for an instant as the
flaring letters on the poster became visible, stared, took a couple of
paces and stopped again opposite the boards; then she gave a little
gasp, and with a thumping heart entered the low doorway of the little
shop. The next moment she collided with Eileen Cavendish who was
blundering out, holding an open newspaper in front of her. Her face
was white under the shadow of her broad-brimmed hat, and her blue eyes
like those of a terrified child.
"Have you heard?" she said, and thrust the sheet under Betty's eyes.
"There's been a big action.... Our losses are published, but no
details."
"Names?" cried Betty. "Oh, let me see!"
"Only the ships that have gone down. Our husbands' ships aren't
mentioned."
"Wait while I get a paper," said Betty. "I shan't be a second. What
are you going to do?"
The other considered a moment. "I shall go and see Mrs. Gascoigne,"
she replied. "Will you come too? She may have heard something."
Betty bought her paper and rejoined Eileen Cavendish in the street.
"Poor Mrs. Thatcher..." she said. "Did you see? Her husband's
Destroyer----"
"I know. And there are others, too. There must be five or six wives
up here whose ships have gone---- Oh, it's too dreadful ..." She was
silent a moment while her merciless imagination ran riot. "I couldn't
bear it!" she said piteously. "I couldn't bear it! I didn't whine
when Barbara was taken. I thought I might have another baby.... But I
couldn't have another Bill."
"Hush," said Betty, as if soothing a child. "We don't know yet. We
mustn't take the worst for granted till we know. I expect we should
have heard by now if--if----" She couldn't finish the sentence.
They reached the door of Mrs. Gascoigne's lodgings and the landlady
opened the door. Her round, good-natured face wore an air of concern.
"She's just awa' to Mrs. Thatcher, west yonder. Will ye no' step
inside and bide a wee? She'll no' be long, a'm thinkin'."
She preceded them into the low-ceilinged parlour, with the
horsehair-covered sofa and the Family Bible on the little table in the
window, that had been a haven to so many faint-hearted ones during the
past two years.
"Ye'll have heard the news?" she asked. "There's been an action. Mrs.
Thatcher's man's gone down, and Mrs. Gascoigne, she's awa' to bring her
a bit comfort like." She surveyed the visitors sympathetically. "A've
nae doot there's mair than Mrs. Thatcher'll be needin' comfort the
morn, puir lambs."
"Oh," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "don't--don't! Please don't----" She
regained her self-control with an effort and turned to the window with
her lip between her teeth.
"Will I bring ye a cup of tea?" queried the landlady. "I have the
kettle boilin'."
"No thank you," said Betty. "It's very kind of you, but I think we'll
just sit down and wait quietly, if we may, till Mrs. Gascoigne comes
in. I don't expect she'll be long."
The landlady departed a little reluctantly, and Eileen Cavendish turned
from the window.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm a coward to go to pieces like this.
You're a dear.... And it's every bit as bad for you as it is for me, I
know. But I'm not a coward really. Bill would just hate me to be a
coward. It's only because--because..." She met Betty's eyes, and for
the first time the shadow of a smile hovered about her mouth.
Betty stepped forward impulsively and kissed her. "Then you're all
right--whatever happens. You won't be quite alone," she said. They
sat down side by side on the horsehair-covered sofa and Eileen
Cavendish half-shyly rested her hand on Betty's as it lay in her lap.
"I'm a poor creature," said the elder girl. "I wish I had
something--something in me that other women have. You have it, Mrs.
Gascoigne has it, and Etta Clavering. It's a sort of--strength.
Something inside you all that nothing can shake or make waver." Tears
welled up in her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks. "It's
Faith," she said, and her voice trembled. "It's just believing that
God can't hurt you..." She fumbled blindly for her tiny handkerchief.
Betty's eyes were wet too. "Ah!" she said gently. "But you believe
that too--really: deep down inside. Everybody does. It's in
everything--God's mercy...." Her voice was scarcely raised above a
whisper.
"I know--I know," said the other. "But I've never thought about it.
I'm hard, in some ways. Things seemed to happen much the same whether
I held my thumbs or whether I prayed. And now that I'm terrified--now
that everything in life just seems to tremble on a thread--how _can_ I
start crying out that I believe, I believe...!" Her voice broke at
last, and she turned sideways and buried her face in her hands.
"But you _do_," said Betty with gentle insistence.
The door opened and Mrs. Gascoigne entered. There was moisture in her
fine grey eyes. "I'm so glad you two have come to keep me company,"
she said. She walked to the mirror over the fireplace and turned her
back on her visitors for a moment while she appeared to adjust her hat.
"I've been helping poor little Mrs. Thatcher to pack. She has had a
telegram, poor child, and she's off South by the afternoon train."
She turned round, still manipulating hat-pins with raised hands, and in
answer to the unspoken question in her guests' faces, nodded sadly.
"Yes," she said. "But they've got his body. She's going to Newcastle."
"Have you had any news yourself?" asked Betty. "We have heard nothing."
"No," replied their hostess. "Nothing, except that the hospital ships
went out last night. I expect the Destroyers got back some time before
the big ships, and we shall hear later in the day. Rob will telegraph
to me directly he gets into harbour, I know."
She spoke with calm conviction, as if wars and rumours of wars held no
terrors for her. "And now," she said, smiling to them both, "let's be
charwomen and drink tea in the middle of the forenoon!" She moved to
the door and opened it, and as she did so a knock sounded along the
tiny passage from the door that opened into the street.
Eileen Cavendish was busy in front of the glass, and half turned,
holding a diminutive powder-box in one hand and a scrap of swans-down
in the other.
"Yes," they heard the voice of Mrs. Gascoigne saying in the passage,
"I'm here--is that for me?" There was the sound of paper tearing and a
little silence. Then they heard her voice again. "Have you any others
in your wallet--is there one for Mrs. Standish or Mrs. Cavendish?
They're both here."
"I hae ane for Mistress Cavendish," replied a boy's clear treble. "An'
there was ane for Mistress Standish a while syne; it's biding at her
hoose."
Betty jumped to her feet. "What's that?" she cried. "A telegram?"
Mrs. Gascoigne entered the room holding an orange-coloured envelope and
handed it to Eileen Cavendish. "Yours is at your lodging," she said to
Betty. Her face was very pale.
With trembling fingers Mrs. Cavendish tore open the envelope. She gave
a quick glance at the contents and sat down abruptly. Then, with her
hands at her side, burst into peals of hysterical laughter.
"Oh," she cried, "it's all right, it's all right! Bill's safe----" and
her laughter turned to tears. "And I knew it all along..." she sobbed.
"Oh," said Betty, "I _am_ glad." She slipped her arm round Mrs.
Cavendish's neck and kissed her. "And now I'm just going to rush up to
my rooms to get my message." She paused on her way to the door. "Mrs.
Gascoigne," she said, "did you get any news--is your husband all right?"
Mrs. Gascoigne was opening the window with her back to the room and its
occupants. "He's very happy," she replied gently.
Betty ran out into the sunlit street and overtook the red-headed urchin
who was returning to the post office with the demeanour of a man
suddenly thrust into unaccustomed prominence in the world.
Furthermore, he had found the stump of a cigarette in the gutter, and
was smoking it with an air.
He grinned reassuringly at Betty as she hurried breathlessly past him.
"Dinna fash yersel', Mistress," he called. "Yeer man's bonny an' weel."
Betty halted irresolutely. "How do you know?" she gasped.
"A juist keeked inside the bit envelope," came the unblushing reply.
* * * * *
The first rays of the rising sun were painting the barren hills with
the purple of grape-bloom, and laying a pathway of molten gold across
the waters when the Battle Squadrons returned to their bases. A few
ships bore traces in blackened paintwork, shell-torn funnels and
splintered upperworks, of the ordeal by battle through which they had
passed; but their numbers, as they filed in past the shag-haunted
cliffs and frowning headlands, were the same as when they swept out in
an earlier gloaming to the making of History.
Colliers, oilers, ammunition lighters and hospital ships were waiting
in readiness to replenish bunkers and shell-rooms and to evacuate the
wounded. All through the day, weary, grimy men, hollow-eyed from lack
of sleep, laboured with a cheerful elation that not even weariness
could extinguish. Shrill whistles, the creaking of purchases, the
rattle of winches and the clatter of shovels and barrows combined to
fill the air with an indescribable air of bustle and the breath of
victory. Even the blanched wounded exchanged jests between clenched
teeth as they were hoisted over the side in cots.
Before the sun had set the Battle-Fleet, complete with coal, ammunition
and torpedoes, was ready for action once more. Throughout the night it
rested, licking its wounds in the darkness, with vigilance still
unrelaxed and its might unimpaired. For the time being its task had
been accomplished; but only the enemy, counting the stricken ships that
laboured into the shelter of the German mine-fields, knew how
thoroughly.
The succeeding dawn came sullenly, with mist and drizzle shrouding the
shores and outer sea. As the day wore on a cold wind sprang up and
rolled the mist restlessly to and fro across the slopes of the hills.
On a little knoll of ground overlooking a wide expanse of level turf
covered with coarse grass and stunted heather stood a man with his
hands clasped behind his back. In the courage, judgment and sober
self-confidence of that solitary figure had rested the destiny of an
Empire through one of the greatest crises in its history: even as he
stood there, bare-headed, with kindly, tired eyes resting on the misty
outlines of the vast Fleet under his command, responsibility such as no
one man had ever known before lay upon his shoulders.
Behind him, in the sombre dignity of blue and gold, in a silent group
stood the Admirals and Commodores of the Squadrons and Flotillas with
their Staff Officers; further in the rear, in a large semicircle on
slightly higher ground, were gathered the Captains and officers of the
Fleet.
Where the turf sloped gradually towards the sea were ranged the seamen
and marines chosen to represent the Fleet: rank upon rank of motionless
men standing with their caps in their hands and their eyes on the
centre of the great hollow square where, hidden beneath the folds of
the Flag they had served so well, lay those of their comrades who had
died of wounds since the battle. A Chaplain in cassock and white
surplice moved across the open space and halted in the centre, office
in hand:
"I am the Resurrection and the Life..."
The wind that fluttered the folds of his surplice caught the words and
carried them far out to sea over the heads of the living--the sea where
the others lay who had fought their last fight in that grim battle of
the mist. A curlew circled low down overhead, calling again and again
as if striving to convey some insistent message that none would
understand. From the rocky shore near-by came the low murmur of the
sea, the sound that has in it all the sorrow and gladness in the world.
At length the inaudible office for the Burial of the Dead came to an
end. The Chaplain closed his book and turned away; a little movement
ran through the gathering of officers and men as they replaced their
caps. A loud, sharp-cut order from the gaitered officer in command of
the firing-party was followed by the clatter of rifle-bolts as the
firing-party loaded and swung to the "Present!"
"Fire!" The first volley rang out sharply, and the Marine buglers sent
the long, sweet notes of the "Last Post" echoing among the hills.
Twice more the volleys sounded, and twice more the bugles sang their
heart-breaking, triumphant "_Ave atque Vale!_" to the fighting dead.
In the ensuing silence the cry of the curlew again became audible, this
time out of the peace of the misty hills, gently persistent. Faint and
far-off was the sound, but at the last the meaning came clear and
strong to all who cared to listen.
"There is no Death!" ran the message, and again and again, "There is no
Death, no Death... no Death...!"
The firing-party unloaded, and the empty cartridge cases fell to the
earth with a little tinkling sound.