Orders to Proceed
During the next fortnight, Brian Strong kept his augmented staff
hard at work. Ninety men were employed in turning out numbers of the
apparatus that was to knock the Rioguayan air fleet out of the
running. In three shifts the enthusiastic men toiled, Brian
personally superintending two shifts a day, while Peter was in
charge of the third.
Meanwhile the personnel of the Royal Navy was being strongly
increased. Ex-officers and men volunteered and were gladly accepted.
The fleet reserve was called up, the R.N.R. and R.N.V.R. veterans of
the Great War offering their services in shoals.
The existing ships, even including those hastily brought forward for
commission, were in danger of being over-manned. Owing to the
wholesale scrapping of serviceable warships, there were available
roughly three times the number of trained men actually required to
put every existing ship into commission.
Amongst the ex-officers regranted a commission was Peter Corbold.
Without identifying himself as a relative of the inventor of the
mysterious ray, he had made an application through the usual channel
for service afloat. Now that the apparatus was tested and adopted by
the British Government, he felt that he was no longer bound to
remain an assistant experimenter. But he rather dreaded breaking the
news to Uncle Brian. Peter had a lurking suspicion that it was
hardly fair to his relative.
During a brief spell in the workshops, Peter found an opportunity of
broaching the news.
Uncle Brian listened quietly. Hardly a muscle of his face moved
during the announcement.
"That's all right, Peter," he said, when his nephew had unburdened
himself. "Quite all right, my boy. As a matter of fact, I knew how
keen you were to volunteer for sea service, so I approached Sir John
Pilrig on the subject. You'll find that you'll be appointed to the
_Rebound_ as lieutenant borne for wireless duties."
"Wireless duties!" exclaimed Peter. "Precious little I know about
that."
Uncle Brian winked.
"Camouflage," he rejoined. "You're in charge of the anti-aircraft
apparatus to be installed on board the flagship. It wouldn't do to
let everybody know. In war-time, one must not call a spade a spade.
It must be described by some other name and be disguised to resemble
something that it is not."
Two days later, Peter Corbold's appointment to H.M.S. _Rebound_ was
announced.
The _Rebound_ was a post-war battleship, of 40,000 tons, armed with
eight 15-inch guns, and embodying many details of construction that
bitter experience at Jutland had taught the naval constructor. At
present, she was at Bermuda with the rest of the small, but
efficient, squadron that represented the total available force at
the Empire's disposal without seriously impairing her naval
resources elsewhere.
Diplomacy backed up by the guns of the British Navy had all but
settled the Near Eastern question. British warships on the East
Indian station were an invaluable asset in keeping a vast section of
a fanatical India under control, even though the seat of incipient
disorder was eight hundred miles from the Arabian Sea. A squadron
lying off Suakin and Port Sudan had a salutary effect upon the
fractious dervishes of Darfur and Kordofan; while by the same token
the Egyptian Nationalists were gently but firmly called to order.
The withdrawal of any of these vessels would inevitably result in
wide-spread trouble that would with certainty lead to a world-wide
war. Almost too late came the realization that the drastic
curtailment of the British Navy left the Empire in desperate
straits, with no margin for emergencies.
Meanwhile, the squadron detailed for South American waters had been
held up at Bermuda, pending the arrival of the anti-aircraft
apparatus, which was now being turned out in sufficient numbers to
render the ships invulnerable to the attacks of the Rioguayan
flying-boats.
At length, the initial supply of Brian Strong's device was ready.
The destroyer _Greyhound_ was ordered to proceed with the sets of
apparatus to Bermuda and to take supernumeraries to the fleet.
Amongst the latter was Peter Corbold, with the rank of full
lieutenant.
The voyage out was uneventful. At Bermuda, Peter reported on board
the flagship, which, with the _Repulse_, _Royal Oak_, and
_Retrench_, comprised the capital ships of the small but efficient
fleet that was to try conclusions with the numerically superior
battleships of Rioguay.
Having reported himself to the officer of the watch and been
introduced to the Captain, Peter was escorted to the ward-room. Here
he looked for familiar faces, and he did not look in vain. Amongst
the officers were several who had been in his term at Dartmouth.
According to the custom of the service, newly joined officers are
given twenty-four hours to "shake down". During that period they are
excused duty in order to allow them to become acquainted with the
internal arrangements of the ship.
Peter, with his usual keenness, was making a tour round, under the
guidance of the "gunnery jack", when he was "barged into" by a burly
"two striper", who dealt him a hearty whack on the shoulders.
In the dim light, for the meeting took place in the
electrically-lighted passage between the engine-rooms, Peter was at
a loss to establish the identity of the officer with the boisterous
greeting.
"Mouldy blighter," exclaimed the lieutenant. Then Peter knew.
"Weeds, old son," he ejaculated. "I didn't expect to find you here."
"But I did," replied Cavendish; "heard you were appointed. Saw you
coming up over the side, in point of fact, only I couldn't hail you.
My watch--still on it," he added hurriedly. "See you later, old
thing."
Cavendish, with several of the other survivors of the _Complex_, had
been "turned over" to the flagship on her arrival at Bermuda a week
previously, so that her normal complement was now exceeded. It was
the same with the rest of the fleet. Trained officers and men were
plentiful. The deficiency lay in the number of ships available.
After "seven-bell" tea the chums met again.
"So you're the new gadget expert, I hear," said Cavendish.
"Something that's going to make the Rioguayans feel the breeze, eh?
What sort of 'ujah' is it?"
Peter explained.
"That sounds all right," remarked the sceptical Cavendish. "It's
been tested and all that; but will it stand concussion when we're in
action?"
"It will stand up to it as well as any searchlight," declared Peter.
"While we were testing the gadget an enemy submarine was
depth-charged about three hundred yards off. That was some
concussion! and I examined the apparatus afterwards. It was O.K."
"Nothing like our principal armament firing salvoes," said
Cavendish. "My action station is 13 turret. Where's yours?"
"Fore-top, I believe," replied Peter. "Not sure, though. It depends,
so the Commander informs me, upon the disposition of the little
stunt I'm supposed to be in charge of. When are we going south, do
you know?"
Cavendish shook his head.
"Waiting for the oil-tankers, I believe. And there's trouble with
the _Repulse's_ under-water fittings. We can't go without her.
Dockyard divers might fix up the damage. Wonder if the Rioguayan
navy will come out, or will it act like the Hun High Seas Fleet?
Hello, what's that? General signal."
The two officers were pacing that side of the quarter-deck which was
theirs by custom. The other side was by the same tradition the
owner's.
From the signal yard and almost immediately above their heads a
hoist of gaily-coloured bunting fluttered in the breeze.
It was the signal to "weigh and proceed".
Cavendish gave a low whistle. "What's up now?" he asked.
A messenger from the decoding officer came hurrying aft. The
lieutenant stopped him, and repeated his question.
"They're out, sir," replied the man, saluting. "Enemy have appeared
in force off Barbadoes and Barbuda."
"Good business, Peter," ejaculated Cavendish. "They're raiding. Will
try to bust up Jamaica before they've done. We'll give it to 'em in
the neck."
For the next half-hour a scene of bustling activity took place.
Steam pinnaces were scurrying between the ships and the dockyard,
picking up liberty men, who had been hastily recalled to duty. The
final consignments of urgent stores were being hurriedly unloaded
from lighters alongside the warships. Cruisers and destroyers not
lying at moorings were already shortening cable. Derricks were
swinging in and out as they hoisted the heavy boom-boats. The signal
halliard blocks were _cheeping_ as hoist after hoist of bunting rose
and fell from the ship's upper-bridges; the semaphores waved their
arms with bewildering rapidity as if mutually bewailing their
inability to join in the din. Above all other sounds came the hiss
of escaping steam.
It was a chance--a chance at long odds--but the Admiral was throwing
away no opportunity.
The Rioguayan fleet was out. Possibly in ignorance of the presence
of the British warships concentrated at Bermuda, the Republicans
thought it a propitious moment to carry out a "sweep" amongst the
Windward Islands. At a moderate estimate, they might reach a point
some eight hundred miles from their base at San Antonio. Bermuda was
approximately 1200 miles away from the estuary of the Rio Guaya. The
proposition that confronted the British admiral was the chance of
being able to intercept the enemy before the latter gained the
shelter afforded by the neutral waters of the Republics of San
Valodar and San Benito.
"Do you think they'll fight, sir?" inquired a midshipman, as he
passed Cavendish on his way to the fire-bridge. Cavendish, by virtue
of his having been in action with the _Cerro Algarrobo_, was
regarded by the members of the gun-room as an unimpeachable
authority on Rioguayan matters.
"They probably will," was the non-committal reply.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed the "snottie". "Won't it be something to write
home about!"
Poldene, the Paymaster-Commander, who happened to overhear the
conversation, stopped to speak to the two lieutenants.
"That youngster," he remarked, nodding in the direction of the
receding midshipman, "that youngster is a bit too optimistic. I
wonder whether he'll sing the same tune after the show's over?"
"It'll be a pretty stiff business," declared Cavendish. "Those
fellows fight when they're cornered--fight like a cargo of mad
devils--'specially if they think they're going to win. Spanish
blood, you know."
"They want teaching a lesson," continued Poldene, "and we'll do it.
But, by Jove, I don't mind admitting that I funk going into action."
The Paymaster-Commander wore the ribbon of the D.S.O., awarded him
for a particularly gallant deed at Jutland. He had seen the real
thing, shorn of all the ornamental trappings of glory. A vision of a
shell-shattered battery, tenanted only by mangled human beings and
illuminated by the vivid white glare from a pile of burning cordite
cartridges only three yards distant from the open ammunition
hoist--that was his sole clear recollection of the greatest naval
battle that the world had seen.
No, Poldene did not hanker after another similar experience. One was
enough, more than enough, for a lifetime. Almost without exception,
the older officers and men who had been under fire during the Great
War held similar views. But as the present job _had_ to be done,
they jolly well meant to do it thoroughly.
The British ships had a stupendous task in front of them. Apart from
the disadvantage of numerical inferiority, they were fighting
thousands of miles from home waters. There was no docking
accommodation for the battleships within a few hours' steaming. The
smaller "lame ducks" might be patched up in the neglected dockyard
at Kingston, Jamaica, and also at Bermuda. In either case, it was a
long distance for a shell-torn vessel to go. The wavering neutrality
of San Valodar and San Benito had also to be taken into account. A
slight success of the Rioguayan arms might turn the scale and induce
those two Republics to declare war.
But one thing the Rioguayans had grossly under-estimated--the
character of the man behind the gun.