CHAPTER I

In

Peril on the Sea

BY

MONTAGUE T. HAINSSELIN

AUTHOR OF

_"IN THE NORTHERN MISTS," ETC._

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO

_THE SAME AUTHOR_

IN THE NORTHERN MISTS

GRAND FLEET DAYS

NAVAL INTELLIGENCE

THE CURTAIN OF STEEL

_PREFACE_

Having spread myself discursively in four books dealing with the

naval aspect of many things; _videlicet_ and to wit:

_of Shoes_; especially of Pusser's Crabs, footwear of the British

Matlow in all climes; of sea-boots, which may be taken up On Loan,

and with a certain amount of tact and discretion may be attracted

into the orbit of personal and private gear; and of Uniform Boots,

plain-fronted and without toe-caps, the mark of the correctly-garbed

Naval Officer, distinguishing the pukka navy man not seldom from his

temporary brother who is apt to be known by his Feet of Clay, i.e. a

pair of Plain-clothes boots with patterns punched in holes all over

their bows:

_and Ships_; treating of them according to their various classes and

according to their many kinds of work in the Great War:

_and Sealing-wax_; also of Red Tape, and other such weapons of

officialdom; how they vex the souls of bluff happy-go-lucky

sailormen; how they can be parried and evaded by guile and

experience; and how the command to Give Reasons In Writing must be

correctly met by the soft answer that turneth away wrath, beginning

with I Have The Honour To Submit and finishing with the additional

Honour--(really, it is a wonder that the humble delinquent can bear

the weight of so many honours!)--of Being Your Obedient Servant:

_of Cabbages_; and other succulent produce of the kitchen garden,

sent by the very kindest of Committees to the men of the Grand Fleet

month after month, a welcome change from the official spud. Also of

other cabbages, grown by optimistic and energetic and enthusiastic

Naval Officers in extemporised gardens upon the islands of Flotta and

Fara:

_and Kings_, and notably of our own most gracious sovereign Liege

Lord, and his visits to the Fleet where he was welcomed indeed as

King, but doubly and trebly welcomed as being himself a Navy man.

--_Having_, I say, discoursed of these and similar matters in certain

volumes which both the general public and the reviewers have received

with very great kindness--though a friend of mine _did_ say to me,

"whenever I find that I can't go to sleep I just take up one of your

books and read a chapter, and then I soon drop off"; and I am left

guessing to this very day whether or not he meant it as a

compliment--having, I repeat, written these four books of essays and

sketches (this sentence is really going to close now) it occurred to

me that it would be a great relief to myself, if not to my readers,

if I were to write a story.

A Naval story, of course. I quite understand that I must confine

myself to my own sphere and not try to write about people and things

I didn't know--though I believe there have been story-writers who

have been known to do such a thing.

Well, it sounds easy enough, to write a Naval story. But it is the

very dickens of a job when you actually settle down to do it; and

I'll tell you why.

First, because most of the fashionable methods of treatment,

applicable readily enough to shore-going stories, do not fit in at

all well with a nautical atmosphere.

For example, there is the method which may be described politely as

the Biological--and impolitely as, well, choose your own word for it,

please. Books of this kind generally contain a Triangle and a

Problem, like Euclid; but with this exception they do not at all

resemble him.

Even with the worst intentions, however, it would be almost

impossible to conform to this method, because the Navy is not

Bisexual: unless you count the Wrens; and these, unfortunately--or is

it fortunately?--are not allowed to go to sea; and anyhow, the Wrens

deserve a story all to themselves, and it should be written in

letters of gold.

Then there is another favourite story-form, in which you are told at

great length how John Smith, of Yorkshire or the Midlands, cooms doon

fro' th' hoose to th' works i' th' morning and fares back fro' th'

works to th' hoose at neet, and does this for twenty-odd years

without any more exciting incident than taking tea on one occasion

wi' a neebour; and that's all there is to it.

Here again, the method appears scarcely thrilling enough for a sea

story, and I'm quite sure you wouldn't really like it.

Or there is that other method, greatly affected by certain writers,

of describing minutely the hero's daily doings from the moment of his

birth, through his childhood, youth, adolescence, and early manhood,

until--until you feel that you really couldn't stick another page of

him!

That is all very well in its way; but the lives of all naval officers

are really so very much alike in most details that if I were to

attempt this sort of writing I might get myself into serious trouble

with the very senior officers, who would want to know why I had dug

up their past in this barefaced manner!

And that reminds me; in my last book, "The Curtain of Steel," I took

particular pains to insist, in the preface, that there were no

portraits amongst the characters therein depicted; there was, I

stated only one part-exception to this--I had drawn from life in one

sole instance; "and that," said I, "was the face of a good man."

Well in due course I had a letter from one of my late messmates,

which said, "when we read the preface and saw it stated that there

was one portrait, the face of a good man, everyone blushed

self-consciously." It just shows how hard it is to ram an idea into

some people, doesn't it?

Anyhow, at the risk of being again disbelieved or misunderstood, I

beg to repeat the statement in reference to this present book that

THERE ARE NO PORTRAITS IN IT.

But, to go back to the difficulties of writing a sea story. The

second of these is that there is always Captain Marryat to contend

with.

I mean that this splendid old fellow has set the pace so rapidly that

any modern weakling who endeavours to follow lamely in his footsteps

will not be considered to be giving his readers their money's worth

unless he provides a fight with cannons and cutlasses, or some

hairbreadth escape, on every other page.

Now, naval warfare up to date has been proved to be somewhat

monotonously free from stirring incidents. Marryat would probably

have used up the whole of this war's sea-fighting in one book, or in

two at most. There have been plenty of actions with the enemy, of

course, and very thrilling ones; but they have been so equally

distributed amongst the various units of the Navy that it would be an

impossibility to make a hero participate in a sufficient number to

enable one to make a whole volume out of him.

So the only thing to do was to take an incident--or rather, in this

case, to invent one--and with it fill up the two hours' traffic of a

book. The incident had of course to be of the real old-fashioned

cut-and-thrust order; nobody wants analytical and psychological

character drawing in a naval story. The play's the thing--and, after

all, in spite of the people who scorn to introduce into their books

anything so utterly _démodé_ as a plot, and even sniff at the

vulgarity of mere incidents, there is something to be said for a yarn

which does not profess to be anything more than a yarn with no more

purpose than that of wiling away an idle hour or two.

I like writing prefaces. I don't know if you like reading them. Do

you mind if I go on with this one for a bit?

I know I shall get into hot water about Patrick Sheridan's dialect.

Once upon a time I wrote a little story in which I made an Irishman

say:

Begobs; it was, perhaps, a weak thing to do, but really I meant no

harm. Well, an Irish correspondent wrote at once to the paper, very

indignantly, to protest against my putting that expression into the

mouth of one of his compatriots. And it appears that something of

this sort nearly always happens when anyone attempts to reproduce a

so-called Irish dialect, and especially when he reproduces it very

badly--as I admit I do.

This is very strange; one may with impunity write in that peculiar

and well-known Loamshire dialect which is nowhere found but in the

English novel or on the English stage--and no Englishman ever thinks

of grumbling; he is, indeed, rather amused, though generally still

more bored. But if one dares to make an Irishman say "fwhat" for

"what," or "whoy" for "why"--well, it is treated as just one more

injustice to Ireland!

Yet, what can one do? There are conventions to be observed and these

are maintained because they are not only conventions but

conveniences; and just as you have a stage Irishman whom you can

recognise at once by his knee-breeches, flower-pot hat, and little

black dudheen, so you have also the book-Irishman who is labelled as

such by a few unmistakable turns of speech. It makes no difference

that the stage-Irishman and the book-Irishman are never seen and

never have been seen in real life. Their peculiarities are simply

labels, like those which the Elizabethans used to stick up on their

back-cloths to say "This is a castle"; it wasn't in the remotest

degree like a castle, but everyone knew what was meant.

And, of course, even the most scrupulously careful effort to

reproduce dialect phonetically in print is bound to be a lamentable

failure. Many people will probably be surprised to be told that the

function of the written or printed word is primarily to record

_ideas_, and only secondarily--if at all--to record _sounds_.

Certainly, our own English alphabet, with its ridiculously inadequate

complement of twenty-six letters, is hopelessly unfitted to do the

work of a gramophone; the thing would be impossible, really, were the

alphabet ten times as big. And that is why the very greatest

writers, such as Dickens, never seriously attempt to reduce to

writing every word of their dialect-characters in the exact form

implied, but content themselves with inserting a dialect-word here

and there, thus avoiding a form of writing which would be an

intolerable labour to the reader, while sufficiently indicating that

the curiosities of speech are to be understood throughout. It is not

necessary to place milestones at every yard of the road.

I hope it is not necessary also for me to apologise for this same

Patrick Sheridan being a thorough Bad Hat. If you can't employ a

Villain in a story, what can you do? It does not necessarily follow

that the villain is taken as a type of his whole race and nation; and

in this present case I positively disavow any such intention; so be

it known to all men by these presents.

Oh yes, there is one thing more. When I announced, in the sanctity

of the home circle, my determination to write a story, the Critic on

the Hearth--the junior one--said, "Well, mind you don't write

anything about girls and Love; 'cause you can't do it!"

Did you ever hear of such a thing? Of course, no man could take a

dare like that; and, besides, what would a naval story be like if it

didn't contain something about both of these subjects? A wishy-washy

affair! Try and imagine Jack without his Faithful Poll! The thing

simply can't be done. So there just had to be Girls and Love in it.

But whether I have given satisfaction or not must remain unknown

until the aforesaid Critic on the Hearth reads the attempt in cold

print; and then it will be too late to complain.

Naval readers will be certain to note a few inaccuracies in the

description of a "Court of Iniquity" at the end of the book.

But that is because...

And I am confident that this will be recognised as an adequate

explanation.

And now, having as I hope disarmed criticism all round beforehand--a

wise precaution to take, and one which I trust will be justified by

results--perhaps I had better go ahead with the yarn.

H.M.S. _Vivid_,

1919.

_In Peril on the Sea_

CHAPTER I

It is cold, very cold, up on the bridge of the solitary cruiser.

The chilling mist which has been gathering over the face of the still

waters all the afternoon now thickens and banks up into a dense white

fog as the short October evening closes swiftly in.

An anxious time indeed for those on the bridge; a fog is more to be

dreaded than the heaviest gale. Not half so dangerous is the sea

when its lashing waves sweep the ship's decks as when it lies

treacherously calm, leaden and lifeless, beneath the impenetrable

shroud of the white sea-mist.

Yet the grim irony of War can make even this axiom suffer a

sea-change: if any testimony were needed to the stern reality of

naval life in war time it could be found in this, that even the hated

sea-fog may have its welcome side.

One danger drives out another. If the fog blinds the eyes of the

look-out men, it also blankets the periscope of any lurking hostile

submarine.

So the _Marathon_ slows down to ten knots: and presently to seven.

The escorting destroyers, one on either bow, can no longer be seen;

they can only be heard by the mournful ringing of the fog-bell at one

minute intervals, the sound coming muffled and diminished across the

veiled waters.

The navigating bridge, which is the highest platform of a complex

structure built around the foremast, forms a little world of its own,

poised between sea and sky and isolated from that other little world

of the ship far beneath.

The occupants of this island in mid-air are few--to be exact, just

four men; two bluejacket look-out men, the officer of the watch, and

the navigator.

Of these, the look-out men have nothing to do just at present, for

the simple reason that they cannot see even as far as the bows; the

officer of the watch also finds his position a sinecure, since the

ship is on a steady course and he has not even an order to call down

the voice-pipe to the bridge beneath, where the quartermaster stands

by the side of the able seaman at the wheel.

The navigating officer alone of the four finds something to occupy

his time. He is standing at a tiny chart table with a hinged glass

cover which, when raised, acts as a wind screen. Here he bends over

his chart and makes many calculations in silence, as he has in fact

been doing for the past half-hour.

Stapleton, the officer of the watch, finds the proceedings distinctly

uninteresting. He has had no one to speak to and practically nothing

to do ever since he came on watch. The cold strikes through his

thick duffel coat, and even his heavy sea-boots and the woollen

stockings drawn well up over his knees outside his trousers are a

poor protection in this raw weather.

Pulling down the wrist of his gauntlet he glances at his watch in the

fading light, and notes with satisfaction that it is close on six

o'clock. In a very few minutes he will be able to leave the bridge

and go below.

But in reality he does not mind either the cold or the tedium of

watch-keeping. He is far too keen for that. Every line of his tall,

strong-knit figure and of his somewhat hatchet-like face spells

keenness. And if proof of this were wanted, there is the fact that

there is no need at all for him to be keeping watch; as first

lieutenant and executive officer of the ship watch-keeping forms no

part of his regular duties; yet he has undertaken to keep a standing

first dog, to relieve the other watchkeepers and to keep things in

this department up to the high-water mark of smartness and efficiency.

That is his way.

Now that his self-imposed task is nearly over he steps forward to the

navigating officer at the chart table, and says:

"I'm away below in a moment, Navvy. What about it? It's beastly

thick--do you think we ought to give the Owner a call?"

The navigator looks up from his work and peers into the fog-bank.

"Well, I shouldn't--not yet," he answers. "The old man is having a

doss in his sea-cabin--he'll be up all through the night, probably.

I shall be here for a bit myself, and I'll call him if necessary.

But I think the fog may lift presently. It seems to me to be more

patchy than it was. Shouldn't be surprised if it were only local,

and if so we may run out of it before long."

"All right, old man, if you think so." And with a nod he turns away,

as Morley, the lieutenant who is to keep the last dog, appears coming

up the ladder on the very stroke of four bells. Relieving the bridge

strictly up to time is a virtue of the _Marathon_, thanks to the

first lieutenant, who won't countenance any slackness in this

respect, and sets a good example himself. With a few rapid words

technical phrases and seaman's language he "turns over" to Morley;

and then, relapsing into everyday phraseology, he callously bids that

young officer "Don't let yourself get over-heated--and beware of

being led away into idle gossiping by that garrulous navigator." And

with a laugh he rattles down the ladder and makes his way to the

wardroom.

The half dozen officers whom he finds assembled in that very warm and

cosy room he greets with:

"Phew, what a cheery old fug!" and it certainly is a very different

atmosphere from that of the navigating bridge. As for being cheery,

the blazing fire and the glow of the electric lights beneath their

shades of yellow silk make the wardroom a very pleasant place indeed.

Stapleton peels off his thick duffel coat and sheds some of his other

trappings, then flings himself into a comfortable arm-chair near the

fire and announces to the mess in general that he is not too proud to

accept a drink from anyone. As, however, this hint meets with no

acceptance, he is constrained to summon the waiter himself and to

make the necessary arrangements.

"What's it like up topside?" queries Dale, the surgeon, looking up

from the card-table where he is playing bridge with the

fleet-paymaster, the senior engineer-lieutenant, and one of the

watchkeepers.

"Pretty thick. But I think it's beginning to clear a little."

"Well," remarks the engineer-lieutenant. "I hope so, anyway. I

don't much care for crawling along at this speed. Hallo! what's

that?"--his attentive ear has caught the sound of a bell in the

engine-room ringing a quick succession of sharp strokes. "Slowing

down again? What's that for, I wonder?"

He looks puzzled; and with a brief excuse to the others at the card

table makes off to go below, where he feels he may be wanted.

But the reason for slackening speed is not for long a mystery. A

messenger from the bridge, a smart young signalman, enters and

approaches the recumbent first lieutenant, and presents a signal-pad.

The first lieutenant takes it carelessly and reads aloud:

"_Floating object, apparently mine, on surface bearing right ahead of

you_. Hm, cheerful prospect, isn't it?"

"Who's that from, Number One?" enquires the fleet-paymaster.

"From one of our destroyers. I suppose we are slowing down to touch

it off. Well, it isn't in my line. Someone else can attend to that

business, I'm not going to disturb myself for that--all right,

signalman. Guns, this seems to be more in your line than mine."

The gunnery-lieutenant who has been, chuckling quietly to himself

over a novel, has in fact already pricked up his ears at the mention

of something relating to his own beloved artillery; and elated at the

prospect of firing one of his guns, if only at a floating mine, he

flings down his novel and strides off to make for the upper deck.

There is a mild excitement amongst those in the wardroom who have not

followed him up on deck to watch the proceedings. Someone remarks

with contemptuous disgust on the flagrant disregard for the ways of

civilisation which has prompted the Hun to scatter his floating mines

broadcast on the ocean in defiance of all international law. But the

remark is made with little fervour and scarcely any bitterness--the

Hun has multiplied his diabolical deeds in so many other undreamt of

directions that such a trifle as this has long ago ceased to seem a

thing to be wondered at.

The young watchkeeper at the bridge-table treats the matter

facetiously. "Dashed bad luck, I call it," he grumbles; "if only

those silly signalmen weren't so darned officious, we might have had

the joss to bump the thing! A nice little hole in the for'ard

compartments or a broken stem-piece ought to be good for a couple of

months in dock, and then we might all of us have wangled a nice drop

of leave!"

Stapleton rounds upon him in a tone of affected horror, "_What!_ you

mutinous, unpatriotic, selfish young anarchist! The _Marathon_ is to

get blown up just to give you a month's holiday? Well I'm ... no,

words fail me!"

He laughs, but there is a certain seriousness in his voice which is

not all affected. The very idea of any disaster happening to the

_Marathon_--except in battle with the enemy, which would be the

fortune of war and a very different matter altogether--is something

which he does not care to contemplate. Not without the envy of half

the other two-and-a-half stripers of his seniority did he achieve the

coveted appointment of first lieutenant to the _Marathon_, the very

latest thing in light cruisers. Only two sister-ships, the _Salamis_

and the _Thermopylæ_, were in commission at the time when Stapleton

was appointed; and there was more competition to go to one of this

_Greeko_ class, as the Navy affectionately termed them, than there

was for ships of the most powerful battle-squadron; such was the

reputation of these marvellous little cruisers, in which speed,

armament and armour combined to form something nearly approaching a

naval constructor's dream.

Surgeon Dale looks up presently from the table where he has been

holding a post-mortem on the last hand in the temporary absence of

his partner.

"Guns is a long time downing that mine," he remarks; "What's the

delay, I wonder?"

Stapleton awakens at this remark to the realisation that he has been

lost in a reverie about his beloved ship, and that the double

explosion of gun and mine which might reasonably have been expected

for some minutes past has, as a matter of fact, not been heard at all.

He too looks up wonderingly. And, as if in answer to his unspoken

query, the skylight overhead is at that moment lifted and the face

appears of an excited officer who calls down into the wardroom.

"I say, it isn't a mine at all--it's a boat! A drifting boat. With

people in it. Shipwrecked. We're stopping to pick them up!"