On the Saturday following John's first experience of his Chief's
excellent bachelor cuisine, two men sat in a little, barely furnished
room, four hundred feet above the sea. There was no view from the single
window of the little apartment, the one-story building of which it
formed a part was deeply embedded and concealed between high
grass-covered mounds. Both men were beyond middle age, one of them, in
fact, wearing the gold stripes of a naval commander, was over sixty
years of age, a trim-bearded, well-preserved officer, drawn for war
service from the reserve.
Lieutenant-Commander Grieves was chief naval officer attached to the
fort. His companion, Colonel Hobin, was ten years his junior--a sharp,
nervous, over-strung little man. Hobin held the reputation of a
first-class officer; he knew every yard of Heatherpoint Fort, which was
his present charge. His big guns were as children to him, and in regard
to his subordinates he was a strict disciplinarian, with a reputation
for fairness both to officers and to men.
At the present moment he was consuming marmalade, which he took from its
jar with a dessert-spoon and spread on thick bread and butter. There
were none of the refinements of home in the mess-room at Heatherpoint. A
tablecloth existed, and a limited number of knives, forks, and spoons.
The chef of the fort was a gloomy looking individual who had joined up
at Liverpool and plain and good was his motto.
"I don't like it," exclaimed Hobin, suddenly. He was pouring the
Commander another cup of black-looking tea. "I don't like the look of
things at all."
"Nor do I," said the Commander, "but the responsibility is yours, and I
think you did well to communicate with the powers that be."
"The powers that be will do nothing," complained Colonel Hobin; "they
never do."
"If things are wrong at all," said the old naval lieutenant, "somebody
in the fort's wrong, for I'll bet my hat nobody can get in and out
without us knowing it."
"That's what is really troubling me," said the Colonel, the frown
deepening on his brow. "It's damnable, Grieves, to think that we are
being outwitted. I have turned every man in the fort inside out, and
they all seem to me honest as the day."
"Wasn't one of the men in the lower fort reported to have a foreign
accent?"
"He was," answered the Colonel, with a bitter laugh, "and I had him up
and put him through a third degree examination, with the result that his
accent turned out to be nothing more dangerous than an Irish brogue.
He's as loyal as I am, and when I mentioned the fact of the signal book
I believe if I hadn't been in uniform he would have hit me."
"If we were one of those tin-pot forts over there," returned the
Lieutenant-Commander, jerking his thumb contemptuously in a certain
direction, "I wouldn't mind, but we really count in the defences."
"We are the heart of this system of defence," returned Hobin tartly,
"and yet we go and lose a signal book. If it was only that," he went on,
"I might have thought there was carelessness in it, but there are other
things, queer things, Grieves, that I cannot formulate into words even
to you. I put it all before the authorities. Whiston listened as
politely as he always does, and said he'd speak to the Intelligence
Department about it, but nothing will be done."
"They'll have to do something."
"They won't," said Hobin. Colonel Hobin was constitutionally inclined
to pessimism, despite his ability. "They won't," he said. And at that
moment the door opened, and a young lieutenant, who had that day joined
the battery, entered the room.
"Good evening, sir," said the young man to Colonel Hobin.
Hobin nodded grumpily. The young man drew out a chair, seated himself,
and reached for the bread and butter. Hobin, from the head of the
table, handled the teapot.
"Weak or strong?" he demanded of the new-comer.
"Weak," answered John Manton, who had been at Heatherpoint a matter of
four hours, and was taking his first meal in the fort.
The Lieutenant-Commander pushed the marmalade pot towards him, and John
began to spread it upon his bread and butter, not quite so thickly as
his Colonel had spread it a minute or two before.
Everything was in order in regard to John's presence at Heatherpoint.
Dacent Smith had arranged the whole matter, and for the first time in
his life John Manton, who had once before been on the way to an
officer's uniform, found himself of commissioned rank.
And for once, Colonel Hobin was mistaken in thinking that the War Office
and Intelligence Department had left him entirely neglected.
"Well, how do you like Heatherpoint, Mr. Treves?" inquired the old
Lieutenant-Commander genially.
"So far as I have got," answered John, "I am delighted with the chance
to be here." He spoke truthfully.
"When you've had six months of it, and been through the winter," said
the Colonel grimly, "with your wind-gauge showing seventy miles an hour
for weeks on end, and the lighthouse siren never stopping booming, I am
afraid you won't be in quite the same cheerful mood."
"I am cheerful by nature, sir," said the young man, tucking into the
marmalade. He ate heartily, and by the time he had finished the Colonel
was smoking a cigar.
Lieutenant-Commander Grieves filled his pipe, lit it, and, with a nod at
the Colonel, sauntered out to his quarters. For the first time John was
alone with Hobin. For some minutes there was silence, then the Colonel
spoke.
"You will take the leave book to-night, Treves. Ask Parkson about it."
"Very good, sir," John answered.
"You can go now, if you like," said the Colonel. "Get Parkson to show
you the run of the place before parade in the morning."
At this point John rose mysteriously, opened the door into the corridor
and looked out. Then, to the Colonel's surprise, he closed it again,
and came quietly back into the room. From the inner pocket of his coat
he took a long, narrow, yellow envelope, which he handed to Hobin.
"What's this?" demanded the Colonel. He tore open the envelope and
began to read with furrowed brows.
When Colonel Hobin had perused the official-looking letter a second and
a third time, his brow cleared; he lifted his eyes and looked at John
with a new and keen interest.
"So you are from the Intelligence Department?"
"Yes, sir."
"I had no idea of that."
"My transfer was effected as quietly as possible, sir, with a view to
arousing no suspicion. The letter is merely my credentials from General
Whiston."
The Colonel nodded.
"Judging from this," said the Colonel, "General Whiston has an extremely
high opinion of your gifts."
John tried to look as modest as possible.
"I am a great believer in luck, sir," he said, "and up to now I have had
plenty of it." He was thinking of the saving of the _Imperator_, which
had brought him so many laurels from Dacent Smith.
"I hope you'll bring luck to me," said the Colonel. "I can promise you I
need it." He was delighted that the powers that be had really sent
help, despite his disbelief in them. His eyes were still upon John. He
liked the young man's frank expression, his cheerful and easy manners
and the bold poise of his head.
"A good-looking, heftily-built youngster," thought he. "I only hope he
is as shrewd as he looks active."
"Now, I suppose," he said aloud, "you want me to tell you all the
trouble?"
"I should like to hear of anything, sir, that has aroused your
suspicions," said John.
"That's a tall order," answered Hobin. "Everything has aroused my
suspicions, and yet, if I put it into words, it may look like nothing to
you. Have you ever had the sensation, Treves," he said, "that things
were going wrong around you, and yet you could not lay your finger on a
thing that is definitely wrong?"
"I have felt that way sometimes," admitted John.
"That's the way I feel now," returned the Colonel. Then, quite briefly,
he gave John particulars of the loss of a signal book, which, however,
might have been due to carelessness. Other things he told John were
also mere surmises and sensations. "I must explain," he said, "that
this fort, and Scoles Head opposite, are key positions in our South
Coast defences. If we were incapacitated, the enemy would sneak in to
---- and wreak the devil knows what damage. Given a big enough
concentration of submarines, he could probably get fifty to a hundred
ships----"
"It's hardly likely," John answered, "that he will ever be able to sneak
in."
Hobin was silent for a minute, looking John over carefully.
"Would it surprise you to hear that we have already been incapacitated?"
demanded the Colonel suddenly.
He thrust out his chin truculently as though challenging John to doubt
him.
"How was that, sir?"
"For an hour one morning last week the whole eastern side of Upper Fort
was out of action. I've been a gunner for thirty years, Treves, and
until now such a thing has never occurred in my experience."
"Could it have been an accident, sir?"
"In normal times," answered the Colonel, impressively, "I would have
said yes; now I say, no! Three of the guns, numbers one, six and eight,
in this battery"--he jerked his head towards the south--"went wrong
suddenly. A cleaning squad was at work on number one, and discovered
that the gun could not be handled at all. It was just after daylight in
the morning. You know how perfectly these six- and nine-inch guns are
swung?"
John nodded.
"A child can swing them like a toy cannon. My own boy's often done it,"
went on the Colonel. "Well, on this particular morning the guns would
not elevate. Just lay inert, like dead masses of metal. Everything was
in order, both in the gun-chamber and engine house. But the guns
wouldn't budge, and for an hour this whole upper fort was out of action.
If the enemy had tried to rush us at that time, we could have done
nothing! I was not quite so jumpy as now. Not quite so many things had
happened to arouse my suspicions, and I blamed Ewins."
"Who is Ewins, sir?"
"Our chief gunner."
"Did Ewins discover what was wrong?" John asked.
"Neither Ewins nor any of us," answered the Colonel. "What happened is a
mystery to us all. Ewins was in bed when the thing occurred, and,
knowing how jealous he is of his gun, one of the cleaning squad called
him. He came out of his hut half dressed. I hear from Parkson that he
was in a blind rage, and felt his gun all over, as a mother may feel for
a bruise on her baby; but he could make nothing of it."
"I'd rather like to see Ewins," said John, "if it can be managed."
"He is on duty now," responded the Colonel. "Come along and make his
acquaintance. But, for Heaven's sake, don't run away with any idea that
Ewins is a wrong 'un. Ewins is the best gunner on the South Coast, one
of the old rule of thumb school. He knows nothing of trajectories or
curves, and hardly ever looks at the wind gauge. But he has made
ninety-eight per cent. at a submarine target doing nine knots."
"What was the range, sir?"
The Colonel told him, and John opened his eyes in surprise.
"Come along," said Hobin.
Together they left the mess-room, crossed a narrow, asphalted pavement,
ascended a short ladder and came upon a gorgeous view of the ocean and
the blue waters of the Solent. Beyond, to the right, lay England, an
irregular coast-line, with swelling hills, green in the foreground and
blue in the distance. In the middle of the picture, to the right, rose
the tall tower of Ponsonby Lighthouse. The tower gleamed white in the
bright sunshine. Colonel Hobin led the way along the edge of a
grass-covered cliff, and presently, below him, John observed the long
muzzle of a six-inch gun camouflaged scarlet, blue and green.
"That's Ewins's special gun," explained the Colonel. "You'll see he has
the place of honour."
The green cliff-top sloped stiffly here, and beneath him John could see
the big, circular iron gun platform, and below it the ladder leading
into the gun chamber. On a parapet beyond the gun, and on the very edge
of the cliff, a sentry paced back and forth, his outline picked out
sharply against the blue of the sea that murmured faintly four hundred
feet below. At the open breach of the gun itself another soldier was at
work, a man who was long and thin, and a little grey at the temples. He
was delicately wiping certain shining parts of the weapon with an oiled
rag. As the Colonel's feet, followed by John, smote the iron platform,
the soldier drew himself erect and stood at attention.
"This is Ewins," said the Colonel to John. John greeted Ewins with a
friendly smile. Until that moment he had doubted him. Only a few days
earlier he had met one traitor in Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, and as he and
the Colonel approached the gun platform he had been wondering if in
Ewins he was to meet a second.
Ewins was thin-faced, with a weather-reddened skin and clear, brown
eyes. He was a man in the late forties, a typical old soldier. John,
looking at him, wondered if it was possible that he could have been
corrupted, but somehow he found it difficult to suspect the man.
Colonel Hobin made an excuse and left the two together.
"You are in a grand position here, Ewins," said John.
"Fine, sir," answered the soldier. His accent was British through and
through. John gave him permission to carry on, and Ewins closed his
breech with a heavy click.
"The Colonel has been speaking very highly of your gunnery."
Ewins looked up quickly, with an expression of pleasure in his eyes.
"Has he, sir?" He paused a moment and hesitated. "It makes a great
difference being under him, sir; he sort of brings it out, if you know
what I mean; puts you on your mettle."
John made a mental note of his admiration for the Colonel.
"I heard about your trouble last week, Ewins."
"You mean Tuesday morning, sir?"
"Yes," John answered. "What was the trouble after all?"
Ewins looked perplexed.
"It beats me fairly, sir. There was nothing wrong when they called
me--that is, there was nothing wrong after I'd been here a minute or
two. You know how she works, sir." As he spoke he almost with a finger
raised the great muzzle of his weapon, then made a neat sweep to right
and left. "Well, she just lay here like a dead thing."
"I suppose the explanation would be simple enough if we only knew it,"
answered John.
Ewins shook his head.
"I don't like it, sir. I was pretty wild that morning, thinking some of
these young recruits had been messing about, but the same thing had
happened to number six and eight." He pointed to a lower platform,
beyond where the sentry was passing. "They went wrong that same
morning," he continued.
"And got right again in the same mysterious way?" inquired John.
"Yes, sir."
"You don't think any of your cleaning squad had a hand in it?" inquired
John.
"No, sir; I talked pretty straight to them, but it wasn't them."
"Perhaps you have an enemy in the fort, Ewins?"
The old soldier smiled.
"I don't know about that, sir," he said; "but everybody seems pretty
friendly with me. I have been here a long time, sir."
"So I hear," said John.
"I don't think anybody in the fort, sir," Ewins went on, "would do a
dirty trick on me like that. You see, sir," he said, in a voice of
intense seriousness, "it put us out of Action."
John was silent for a moment. For the first time the full gravity of
what had happened struck his consciousness.
"I'll swear it wasn't an accident," continued Ewins, emphatically. "Old
'Crumbs' said it was; but he don't know anything about guns."
"Who's 'Crumbs'?"
"I beg pardon, sir; I meant Private Sims, the baker."
"He said it was an accident?" pursued John.
"Yes, sir. I lost my temper that morning, and when I come here and
found how things were, I gave one of the squad a bit of a push."
"Was 'Crumbs' one of the squad?"
"Oh, no, sir; he come in to bring me a lump of cake." Ewins looked
sheepish a moment. "You see, sir, I am partial to cake, and he
generally hands me a bit at odd times. He was in the gun chamber when I
got here, sir, looking for me, with a bit of cake in his hand."
"But it was five o'clock in the morning!"
"It was new cake," said Ewins; "he'd just baked it."
"But you weren't supposed to be on duty."
"No, sir," answered Ewins.
"Wouldn't 'Crumbs'--Private Sims--know you were off duty?" probed John.
Ewins smiled again.
"He don't know much about soldiering, sir; they never do."
John had further talk with the chief gunner, which talk grew more and
more technical as Ewins noticed John's interest in his work. But after
a good many questions it still seemed to John that "Crumbs" walking
about with cake at five o'clock in the morning showed an excessive
benevolence. He felt he wanted to make the acquaintance of "Crumbs."
And before going back to the Colonel in the mess-room, he looked in at
the bake-house, a single-storied building next to the kitchen.
"Crumbs" was in a white apron and a white cap when John entered and
found him at work. The bake-house was dark, the air warm and fragrant
with a scent of freshly-baked loaves. "Crumbs," with flour on his
eyelashes, and a heavy, drooping moustache, also powdered with flour,
turned as John entered. In his hands he held a big iron tray of
newly-baked loaves. John introduced himself. He felt that every step
he made must be made with infinite caution.
"You've got a fine bakehouse here, Sims."
"Yes, sir; not so bad."
"I hear you are a master hand at cake making."
"Well, not exactly," deprecated "Crumbs." "I can hardly say that." He
placed his tray of bread on the table.
"Sergeant Ewins tells me he's very fond of cake," went on John.
"Crumbs's" eyes moved quickly. The momentary, fleeting glance he cast
at John was unobserved.
"The sergeant has a sweet tooth, sir."
"So have I," answered John, with a smile. "Perhaps you will make a note
of that, Sims."
Sims smiled. John noticed that his complexion was sallow, that he was a
loosely built, shambling man of forty. There was nothing in the least
suspicious about him. No trace, so far as John could gather, of a
foreign accent. He went out of the bakehouse in a dissatisfied frame of
mind.
The mystery of the guns was still a mystery.
* * * * *
Next morning, at parade, John ran his eye along the men of the battery
until it rested upon "Crumbs." The man, with his sallow complexion and
glassy eyes, struck him as looking vacant and somewhat foolish.
"You are either that, my friend," thought John, "or most devilish
cunning. I wonder which it is?"
He made it his business during that day, and the days which followed, to
acquaint himself with every member of the battery. Nothing, however,
occurred to arouse his suspicion or to give him the slightest clue to
the untoward things that had happened. He wrote a letter to Dacent
Smith reporting matters, and on the afternoon of the third day he
decided to go into Newport for an afternoon's recreation. Colonel Hobin
granted him leave instantly--and then John changed his mind, and decided
not to go. He had no reason for staying in the fort, other than that he
wanted to be on the spot as much as possible. He took a book from the
badly-equipped fort library, and went to his room. Here he flung
himself on the bed, and read for an hour or two. Save for the
never-ending moan of the wind and the grind of the wind-gauge, the fort
buildings were very quiet. Colonel Hobin, Parkson, and another officer
were on duty, a subaltern was on leave, and in the four bedrooms that
ran along the corridor John was the only occupant. He was lying, deeply
absorbed in his book, when something made him turn his gaze towards the
door. To his amazement, he saw the latch lift without noise. A moment
later the door moved cautiously open, and "Crumbs," in white cap and
apron, came softly in. For a minute the intruder did not see John.
"Well, Sims, what is it?"
"Crumbs's" mouth clicked shut. The start he had received caused his
head to jerk.
"What do you want, Sims?"
"Crumbs" smiled under his black, flour-speckled moustache.
"It was the cake, sir," he said. "You told me you were fond of cake,
sir, and I just put a cake in the mess-room for you."
John rose from the bed.
"Is there nothing else you want?"
"No, sir, thank you," answered "Crumbs," moving towards the door. John
noticed, as he went, that his nose had been flattened at the bridge, as
though at some time or other a heavy blow had fallen upon it.
"I only wondered," John went on, "why you came into my room."
"Merely to tell you about the cake, sir."
He went out, closing the door quietly behind him. When the door was shut
between himself and John, he drew himself suddenly erect, and listened
for a moment, then moved quickly away down the passage.