After spending a month at Gibraltar, they returned to Portland to give four days' Easter leave, and then sailed off to Berehaven, where they did more gunnery. Then on to the west coast of Scotland for a cruise, and finally back to Portland again.
The time passed very rapidly. Spring gave way to summer, and in due course Pincher found himself passed out of the seamanship training-class and handed over to the tender mercies of a torpedo gunner's mate, who crammed his head with an astounding number of facts pertaining to electricity and torpedo work generally.
One Sunday in the early summer, however, the chaplain rather electrified his congregation. 'I publish the banns of marriage,' he read, 'between Able Seaman Joshua Billings, bachelor, of this ship, and Martha Ann Figgins, widow, of the parish of St Cuthbert's, Weymouth. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, you are to declare it. This is for the first time of asking.'
The commander, and various other officers who knew Joshua intimately, could hardly restrain their mirth.
'The old devil!' Tickle exclaimed in the smoking-room after the service. 'To think of any woman wanting to marry him!'
'There are plenty of worse men than Billings,' the commander disagreed. 'He's not very attractive to look at, I'll admit; but, provided he keeps off beer, he and his Martha'll get on all right. What he wants is a woman to rule him with a rod of iron.'
'You'd better give the lady a few tips, sir,' Tickle suggested.
'Not I!' laughed the commander. 'I shall merely present them with an ormolu timepiece—whatever that may be. It shall be suitably inscribed, too. You see,' he added, 'Billings, in spite of beer, is quite one of the best seamen in the ship, and I shall be very sorry to lose him when he takes his pension.'
There is no need to describe Joshua's wedding, or to tell how some of the officers and a goodly proportion of the ship's company attended the ceremony, how Pincher performed his duties as 'best man,' and how the commander himself was prevailed upon to make a speech and to drink the health of the happy couple in grocers' port wine. It all went off like a house on fire; but at the tea-party afterwards Pincher seemed rather distracted.
''Ullo, chum!' the beaming bridegroom asked him, 'wot's up wi' yer? You've got a face on yer like a sea-boot.'
'I'm just thinkin' somethin',' Pincher explained.
'Thinkin' wot?' Joshua wanted to know. 'Wot an 'appy hoccasion this is, or wot?'
'No, 'ardly that.'
'Wot is it, then?'
'I wus thinkin' that now you've gorn an' married Missis Figgins you are Hemmeline's farther, ain't yer?'
'S'pose I am,' Billings assented, scratching his head, for the question had not occurred to him before. 'Leastways, 'er step-farther.'
'An' s'pose I marries Hemmeline, wot relation are yer to me?'
'You ain't arsked my leaf to court 'er,' Joshua pointed out. 'An' s'pose yer does, I don't know as 'ow I shall give my consent. These haffairs is important—see? I'll 'ave ter hinquire as ter yer prospex, an' suchlike. Supposin' yer wusn't respeccable?'
'Respeccable!' Pincher retorted. 'Don't talk so wet! If I ain't good enuf ter marry Hemmeline, you ain't good enuf fur Missis Figgins—see? She's 'er mother, ain't she?'
'Don't go an' git dizzy on this 'appy day,' Joshua went on with mock gravity. 'Don't go gittin' rattled! Carn't you see w'en a bloke's 'avin' a joke like?'
'It ain't no subjec' ter make fun o',' Pincher answered, rather mollified. 'But, any'ow, s'posin' I does marry 'er, wot relation would you be ter me? That's wot I wants ter know.'
'I reckons I'd be yer step-farther-in-lor,' Joshua answered after due consideration. 'Leastways, that's 'ow I looks at it. I'll arsk th' missis, though. Come an' 'ave a wet.'
Pincher, nothing loath, acquiesced. They went off arm-in-arm.
It all happened very suddenly. The fleet had been reviewed by his Majesty the King at Spithead in the middle of July, and after this certain exercises were carried out in lieu of the usual summer manœuvres. They did not last very long, however, for on Friday, 24th July, theBelligerentarrived at her home port to effect some necessary repairs, and, incidentally, to give four days' leave to her men; so the next morning half the ship's company, including Pincher, left for their homes.
Now the Martin family, being country-people, did not worry their heads with newspapers on weekdays. For one thing, the papers cost money and were difficult to get; and, for another, they had little time to read them. Mr Martin usually boughtReynolds's Weeklyon Sunday; but on that particular Sunday, 26th July, there was nothing in it to give rise to any anxiety. He did notice that there was some sort of trouble between Austria and Serbia; but that could not possibly affect his weekly wages, and beyond remarking casually to his wife that 'them there Balkan nations is 'oly 'orrors for gettin' up rows,' he paid no further attention to it.
On the following Tuesday, 28th July, at ten-forty-threeA.M.precisely, Pincher left the cottage to buy a packet of cigarettes at the village shop. Albert, his youngest brother, aged five, clutching a penny with which he proposed to purchase two sticks of glutinous but very succulent pink nougat, accompanied him. They were away exactly fourteen minutes, and on their return found Mrs Martin, fresh from her wash-tub and with her arms covered in soapsuds to the elbows, bubbling over with suppressed excitement. She was gazing in a perturbed manner at a telegram; for, to the Martinménage, the arrival of an orange envelope was a matter of some importance. It generally spelt trouble. The last one had arrived over a year before to announce that Mrs Martin's sister had been run over by an omnibus.
''Ullo, ma!' Pincher exclaimed, noticing his parent's agitated condition; 'wot's th' racket?'
'This 'ere's just come,' she said excitedly, handing the telegram across with very damp fingers. 'For you, it is. You've got to go back to the ship at once!'
'Go back!' he echoed indignantly, taking the offending missive. 'My leaf ain't up till fu'st train ter-morrer mornin'!'
'Ye'd best read it, son,' remarked the lady, wiping her arms on her apron. 'See for yerself.'
Pincher did so. 'Gosh!' he exclaimed with a whistle of surprise, 'there ain't no bloomin' error abart this 'ere.'
There was not. It was addressed to him personally, and was signed, 'Commanding Officer.' 'Leave cancelled,' it said abruptly, almost brutally. 'Rejoin ship immediately.'
''Strewth! Wot's th' buzz, I wonder?' he murmured, very much puzzled, and looking at the back of the paper as if to find the answer to his question there. 'Wot's it mean?'
'That's wot I'm wonderin',' said his mother. 'Wot does it mean? Ye're not in trouble, are yer?' She had a vague suspicion at the back of her mind that Pincher might have absented himself without leave.
'Trouble! Course I ain't. It ain't that. There's somethin' else in th' wind. One o' these 'ere bloomin' war buzzes, I reckons.' He spoke as if wars and rumours of wars were of everyday occurrence.
Mrs Martin seemed rather alarmed. 'War!' she gasped, looking up with a horrified expression. 'Wot d' you mean, Bill? Surely we're not goin' to war?'
'Course we ain't, ma,' he replied, laughing, and patting her consolingly on the shoulder. 'This 'ere don't mean nothin'; only a bit of a buzz round like. Yer see,' he pointed out with pride, 'we—th' navy, that is—always 'as ter be ready fur these 'ere shows, 'cos if anythin' did 'appen an' we wasn't ready things 'u'd be in a pretty hot mess. S'pose I'd best be makin' a move, though,' he added ruefully. 'Bit orf, I calls it!'
'Gosh! there ain't no bloomin' error abart this 'ere.'
'Gosh! there ain't no bloomin' error abart this 'ere.'
Page 152.
'Goin' now?'
'Fu'st train,' he said, nodding. 'This 'ere telegraph says rejoin immediate. I expec's th' ship's goin' ter sea in an 'urry like, an' they wants me back perticular.'
Mrs Martin gazed at her son with motherly pride. She did not like the idea of his leaving so soon; but it was very consoling to think that he was a person of such importance on board theBelligerentthat the ship could not go to sea without him. He must be very valuable, otherwise they would not have telegraphed.
Albert, who had already assimilated half a piece of nougat, and had covered his face with pink stickiness, looked up inquiringly. 'Bill goin'?' he queried fretfully.
'Yes, ducky,' answered his mother. 'Called back to 'is ship. 'E's goin' now.'
The information was too much for Albert. He withdrew the sweetmeat from his mouth, screwed up his face, and suddenly burst into a howl. 'Ow!' he bellowed; 'Bill's goin' back to 'is ship! Bill's goin' back!' It was a matter of some importance to him, for the presence of his elder brother meant an occasional honorarium of one penny, and one penny meant a plentiful supply of nougat. His little soul delighted in nougat. His mother never gave him pennies.
'Stop yer 'owlin', Albert!' Mrs Martin ordered severely. 'Has if I 'adn't enough to think about without listenin' to yer noise!—Bill,' she went on, glancing at the clock, 'you'd best be off. The Lunnon train stops at the station at eleven-forty-four, same one yer uncle Charles come by yesterday. There's not another till the arternoon. The clock's a bit fast, but it's about quarter-past eleven now, an' the station's a good couple o' miles.'
''Strewth!' muttered Pincher, darting from the room, 'I'll 'ave ter run.' He went to his bedroom, collected his few belongings, and presently reappeared with an oilskin over his shoulder and a small blue bundle in his hand.
Albert, with his mouth wide open, gazed at him tearfully.
'S' long, ma,' Pincher said, putting his arm round his mother's neck and kissing her gently. 'Say good-bye ter farther w'en 'e comes 'ome, an' th' kids w'en they gits back from school.'
'Good-bye, son. Good luck to yer,' she answered, drawing his head down and embracing him, with the tears in her eyes. 'I do 'ope it's not nothin' serious. Write an' let me know 'ow yer gets on.'
'Right you are, ma.—S'long, Halbert,' he went on cheerfully, bending down and kissing his small brother. 'Be a good boy, now, an' don't git worritin' ma, now I'm goin'.'
The tears streamed down the youngster's cheeks. He began to whimper loudly.
'Be a good boy, I tells yer,' Pincher went on, patting him. 'If ma writes an' tells me you've be'aved yerself I'll send yer another penny nex' week. If yer don't, yer won't git no penny—see? Gosh!' he added hastily, 'it's 'igh time I wus orf.' He gave his mother another hurried kiss, and a second later was out of the cottage and racing down the road as fast as his legs would carry him. The shrieks of the inconsolable Albert pursued him.
Mrs Martin watched him till he gave a final wave before disappearing round a bend in the lane, and then returned to admonish her small son. 'Ye're a naughty boy, ye are!' she scolded shrilly. 'If yer don't stop it I'll put yer across my knee an' give yer wot for; straight, I will! Stop it. D'you 'ear wot I say?'
Albert's howls gradually died away into sobs.
Mrs Martin returned to her wash-tub with dismal forebodings in her heart. Telegrams always meant trouble.
'Bless yer 'eart an' soul!' exclaimed Billings, with a loud snort, ''e ain't goin' ter fight. Orl this 'ere racket's only a bit o' bounce like. Same as wot 'e did in that 'ere show in nineteen eleven.' He rammed the tobacco down into his pipe and relit it, with one watchful eye on his companion.
'I presooms ye're talkin' abart that there Meroccer bizness,' said Tubby M'Sweeny, producing a cigarette from the lining of his cap. 'Aggie-dear wus wot they called it.' He seemed rather proud of his superior knowledge.
'Yus, that's it,' Joshua agreed with a nod. 'I knowed it wus Aggie somethin'. But, any'ow, look wot this 'ere Kayser Bill does then! Directly 'e see'd we meant bizness 'e piped down smart, an' sed 'e wus sorry for wot 'e'd done. That's wot 'e'll do this time, I reckons.'
'I dunno so much abart that,' M'Sweeny disagreed. 'Look 'ow them Germans downed France an' done th' dirty on them! I reckons they thinks they kin do the same wi' us—s'welp me, I do.'
'Garn!' jeered the other. 'They've got ter reckon wi' our bloomin' navy, an' it's more'n double as good as theirs. I'm not sayin' they doesn't mean ter fight us later on,' he added, wagging a finger; 'but I says they won't try it on now. 'Sides, they ain't sailors!' To show his contempt he expectorated violently, and with deadly precision, into an adjacent spitkid.
M'Sweeny seemed sceptical. 'Maybe they ain't sailors,' he pointed out solemnly; 'but we ain't see'd nothin' of 'em. We knows nothin' of 'em, either. I've 'eard tell, too, that that there Kayser bloke o' theirs 'as gingered 'em up somethin' crool, an' a navy wot's been gingered up must be on th' top line same as us, mustn't it?'
Joshua shook his head. 'I tell yer they ain't goin' ter fight yet awhile,' he persisted. 'Orl this 'ere racket's only a bit o' bounce. D' you think they doesn't know wot our navy's like? Ain't they bloomin' well scared of it?' Billings, a staunch and very insular Briton, still held to the belief that his own countrymen were the only really good seamen in the world. Those of other nationalities were either 'Dagoes' or 'niggers,' and which of the two terms was the more opprobrious was rather a moot point.
'An' wot abart our army?' came an irrelevant remark from Pincher, who happened to be listening. 'I knows a bloke wot's in th' Black Watch—lance-corporal 'e is—an' 'e reckons our army's bin properly gingered up an' is properly on th' top line.'
'Th' men is orl right,' said M'Sweeny mournfully, 'an' so is the orficers; but we ain't got enuf of 'em. We ain't got a million men in th' army, nor yet 'arf that number, an' that there Kayser's got millions an' millions!' He waved a hand vaguely to give some idea of the Teuton hordes.
'But if we goes ter war our army 'as a slap at somethin', I suppose?' Pincher queried.
'Course they does, fat'ead,' Joshua replied with fatherly condescension. 'They goes an' 'elps th' Frenchies ter take Berlin, while we—th' navy, that is—'as a desprit battle in th' North Sea, an' wipes th' deck with their bloomin' 'Igh Sea Fleet. The army blokes'll be at Berlin in a month or six weeks, an' we'll 'ave done our job in 'arf th' time. W'en we've done it we orl goes 'ome on leaf wi' our medals an' V.C.'s, an' becomes public 'eroes wot saved the country. But you mark my words, the 'ole bloomin' war'll be over in three months w'en it comes. 'Owever, they ain't goin' ter fight now, so wot's the use o' yarnin' abart it? This 'ere racket's only a spasm like. It don't mean nothin'.'
But M'Sweeny, obviously a pessimist, shook his head. 'I dunno so much,' he answered sadly. 'I've bin 'avin' feelin's in me 'ead that somethin' 's goin' ter 'appen soon, an' me feelin's allus comes true. W'en you wus made a leadin' seaman, Josh, I 'ad a feelin' that you'd be an A.B. agen afore long; an' w'en'——
'Wot! d' yer mean yer 'ad a feelin' abart me?' Billings interrupted, rather annoyed. ''Ow dare yer?'
'I 'as feelin's in me 'ead abart lots o' people,' Tubby reiterated solemnly. 'They allus comes true.'
Joshua lifted up his head and laughed. 'Feelin's in yer 'ead!' he jeered. 'Feelin's in yer stummick, more like. It's beer wot's done it, Tubby; an' if it ain't beer, it wus them canteen termarters yer 'ad fur supper larst night!'
'Termarters be damned!' retorted M'Sweeny.
Now this conversation took place during the dinner-hour of Thursday, 30th July, two days after the watch on leave had been hurriedly recalled, and all further shore-going had been cancelled.
Neither Billings, M'Sweeny, nor Pincher—nor, for that matter, any other member of the ship's company—knew exactly how they could become embroiled. They were all painfully aware that there was trouble in Eastern Europe, and that, in some remote sort of way, this trouble transmitted itself to them. But beyond anathematising the 'spasm,' as they called it, on somebody's part which had caused their leave to be stopped, and extra work in the way of coaling and embarking ammunition to be carried out, they regarded the affair as of no more importance than the annual summer manœuvres. War was utterly unthinkable.
But by this time, if they had only known it, practically the whole of the British fleet was on a war footing, and ready for instant action. The newspapers had remained discreetly silent, and the whereabouts of squadrons, flotillas, and individual ships was unknown to the public. They had vanished into the air; but, except in isolated cases, every vessel in the navy was already at her war station or on her way there. Dockyards were working night and day. Naval reservists and pensioners were flocking to their depots; retired officers were coming forward in dozens to volunteer their services. Colliers, oil-fuel ships, ammunition ships, and a thousand and one other fleet auxiliaries had been chartered, and the Admiralty had taken their 'precautionary measures' so rapidly and so unostentatiously that hardly a soul in the country realised that anything untoward was happening.
The fleet was ready, and well it was for Britain that it was so. Germany, relying perhaps on a surprise attack at some 'selected moment' before an actual declaration of war, and while our fleets and squadrons were still dispersed, had bungled badly. She may not have expected us to join in the war; may have imagined that Britain, fettered with the possibility of complications in Ireland, preferred to keep out of a Continental struggle at all costs. But she had made a grievous mistake, an error which, combined with the wisest forethought on the part of the British Admiralty, made it practically impossible for the trident of Britannia ever to pass into the hands of the Teutonic Michael.
Early the next morning, 31st July, theBelligerentleft her home port, and steamed to her base in the English Channel to rejoin the rest of the squadron. It was quite a short trip, but it was on the passage that the eyes of the ship's company were opened to the fact that something serious really was in the wind. For one thing, the ammunition for all the six-inch and lighter guns was brought up from the magazines and shell-rooms and distributed to the casemates and batteries; while certain of the weapons were kept constantly manned—what for, exactly, none of the men quite knew. The captain and the commander looked graver than usual; and Chase, the gunnery lieutenant-commander, rather worried, held hurried consultations with the gunner about shell and cartridges, and had a party of armourers constantly at work throughout the day testing and adjusting the mechanism of his weapons.
The commander and the carpenter, too, the latter armed with a large piece of chalk and a note-book, made a solemn peregrination of the ship, decorating various wooden fittings with cabbalistic signs as they went. Pincher, who happened to be working on the boat-deck at the time, heard part of their conversation. It rather frightened him.
'All this wood of yours will have to be landed or slung overboard, Mr Chipping,' the senior officer remarked, coming to a halt beside a pile of spars and planks on the boat-deck, and eyeing it with evident disfavour. 'If a shell burst in the middle of this little lot we'd have a bonfire in a couple of seconds.'
Pincher pricked up his ears.
'It's all on charge, sir,' the carpenter answered ruefully, with horrible visions of subsequent discrepancies in his store-books. 'I've got to account for every inch of it.'
The commander laughed. 'You storekeeping officers are born obstructionists, Mr Chipping,' he exclaimed. 'If we go to war your store-books will go to the devil, anyhow, so what on earth does it matter? I'm always greeted with the same remark when I'm trying to make the ship a little less like a bonfire. They're invariably "on charge," dammit!'
'And so they are, sir,' put in the carpenter. 'I have to account for 'em.'
'Can't help that. You'd better send in your bill to the Kaiser. Anyhow, we can't have all this lumber up here; it's a regular death-trap.'
Mr Chipping scratched his grizzled head. 'I'll land all what I can't strike below, sir,' he grudgingly assented at last.
'Yes, see to it at once, please. If this pile of wood catches fire it'll play Old Harry on the upper deck with the twelve-pounders and their ammunition.'
Pincher listened open-mouthed, for it was quite obvious from the way they talked that things were far more serious than Joshua had led him to believe. Moreover, he, Martin, was in full agreement with the commander as to the expediency of removing the pile of wood from the boat-deck. His station in action was at one of the upper-deck twelve-pounder guns, and he had no wish to emulate Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego of the Old Testament in their blazing, fiery furnace.
The carpenter got busy with his chalk, and before long the whole pile of lumber was ornamented with little noughts and crosses. The noughts, Pincher assumed, meant that the articles so marked were to be retained, and the crosses that those bearing this mark were to be thrown overboard or landed; and when, a little later, he had occasion to go on to the upper deck he found many other things decorated with the same mystic signs. Certain of the smaller boats, spare spars, cabin doors, accommodation ladders, gratings, lockers, anything and everything wooden, inflammable, or likely to make splinters, were apparently to go by the board. It gave him furiously to think.
The ship arrived at her base during the afternoon, and Captain Spencer went on board the flagship to report his arrival. He was away for an hour and a half, and came back with what the officer of the watch called 'a face like a sea-boot,' and the information that the situation was very serious. Beyond that he professed to know nothing, but every one noticed that the commander was closeted with him in his cabin for fully three-quarters of an hour on his return from the flagship. Petty Officer Finnigan, moreover, the captain's coxswain and a great friend of the admiral's cook on board the flagshipTremendous, told his messmates with much gusto that the cook had informed him that the admiral's steward had told him (the cook) that war with Germany was only a matter of hours.
We have heard of yarns emanating from ships' cooks generally being treated with derision, but presumably admirals' cooks are above suspicion in this respect, for the news spread rapidly, and the 'Belligerents,' believing it implicitly, were flung into a state of ill-suppressed excitement in consequence. Most of them had never seen a shot fired in anger; but the prospect of war—the awful prospect of the unknown—did not seem to alarm them. On the contrary, officers and men went about their business with light hearts and smiles on their faces, for, as Tickle had once pointed out when referring to the same subject, 'it's a bit thick if we're doomed to fire our guns at a canvas target all our lives.' Most of them longed for a run for their money, and to all appearances they were going to have it. The graver possibilities of war did not intrude themselves upon their minds until long afterwards. They all felt cocksure that they, individually, were not fated to die violent deaths by the enemy's shell, torpedoes, mines, bombs, or by drowning. If any one was to be killed, it was not they. They merely pictured to themselves a short and triumphant struggle, at the conclusion of which—in six months at the very most—they, having sunk the enemy's navy, would go home on leave with medals on their manly bosoms, to be hailed as the saviours of their country. Alas for their dreams!
The squadron was in a state of feverish activity. Some ships were taking in final supplies of coal and ammunition, working night and day; while others were landing all their superfluous wooden or inflammable fittings and non-necessary stores. The 'Belligerents' themselves started on the job early the next morning. Such a collection there was! Many tons of paint and varnish; some of the smaller boats; quantities of timber for building targets; wooden accommodation ladders; baulks, spars, and planks; chests of drawers from the officers' cabins, and tin cases and trunks containing their personal effects and more treasured possessions; the midshipmen's and chief petty officers' chests; doors of cabins; gratings; even the wardroom pianola, an instrument which was being paid for on the instalment system, were taken ashore and lodged in a place of security. The work took them a full forty-eight hours.
TheBelligerent, being a pre-Dreadnought battleship, had to have more done to her to make her ready for battle than a similar vessel of a later class, and Sunday, 2nd August, brought no cessation of labour. If anything, it was a more strenuous day than the previous one, for except for a brief service on the quarterdeck, lasting exactly ten minutes, officers and men alike were hard at work preparing the ship for war. There was plenty to be done. Extra lifts and tackles were put upon the yards on the foremast to prevent them crashing down from aloft if struck by a shell, the rigging was snaked down with hawsers to stop it flying away if severed, and extra protection, in the shape of tightly rolled-up canvas awnings, thick enough to stop a substantial shell-splinter, was improvised round the bridge and fire-control positions up aloft.
Fire, first-aid, and stretcher parties were told off and organised, and everything was done, beyond the final wetting of decks, to make the ship ready for immediate action, and to lessen the chances of damage to vessel or men through fire or fragments of flying débris almost as dangerous as the shell-splinters themselves.
Surgical bags containing bandages, dressings, splints, and tourniquets were placed ready to hand in all the gun positions in case men were wounded; morphia tabloids were served out to all the officers of quarters for administration to badly injured men; while the fleet surgeon and Cutting, the 'young doctor,' saw to the gruesome implements of their profession, and caused the operating-table to be transferred from the sick-bay to a convenient site behind armour on the lower deck.
Tickle's cabin was next to the 'young doc's' in Rogues' Alley, as it was called; and, happening to go below during the forenoon, he noticed Cutting through the half-drawn curtain busy with a chamois leather and an array of murderous-looking knives, probes, and forceps laid out on his bunk.
'Hallo, Sawbones!' he remarked, putting his head inside; 'I see you've got all your ironmongery out. Think you're going to have something to do at last—eh?'
'Hallo, Toby! That you? Come inside and have a look. I've an excellent line in cutlery, guaranteed to kill or cure while you wait. What d'you think of that?' He held out a horrible-looking knife with a thin curved blade.
'Ugh!' shuddered Tickle. 'Take the beastly thing away! What d'you do with it?'
'Cut, my dear chap,' the doctor gloated. 'One sharp snick like that'—and he gave the blade a downward jerk, and clicked suggestively with his tongue—'and then we get to work and remove—er—anything you like. Ripping little thing, isn't it?' he laughed. 'This,' the medico continued, laying the knife down and picking up a probe and a pair of forceps, 'is what we use for feeling for a bit of shell inside a chap, and this is what we fish it out with. Quite simply done. Topping little operation to watch.'
'You bloodthirsty little blighter!' Tickle ejaculated.
'Bloodthirsty! Why, it's my job, isn't it? We hardly ever get a chance of doing any decent operations in peace, worse luck!' he added regretfully; 'your sailors are so disgustingly healthy; and if they do get really ill and promise to be interesting cases, they're packed straight off to hospital. Sickening, I call it!'
'M'yes, that's true, I suppose,' Tickle agreed, smiling. 'Look here, though, doc; if you ever have to—er—extract a bit of shell or other foreign substance from my anatomy, look out you don't chuck it away. I want to keep it as a relic.'
Cutting grinned. 'Right-o, Toby; I'll see to it. Now you'd better clear out of here, young fellow, and get on with your work. I'm busy, and I'm sure you ought to be.'
Tickle departed.
The marine postman, who should have been off at eight o'clock, was delayed, and did not come on board with the mails and Sunday papers for the ship's company until nearly noon. But when he did finally turn up he was nearly carried off his feet by the rush of men.
''Ere, posty!' shouted some one, 'got myDispatch?'
'Wot abart myLloyd'sandPeople?' roared another man, elbowing his way through the throng.
'Ain't ye got myReynolds's?' from somebody else.
'Oh, go to 'ell!' retorted the exasperated marine, vainly endeavouring to make his way forward through the crowd with a large leather satchel slung over his shoulder and three bulbous mail-bags on his back. 'Oh, go to 'ell, the 'ole boilin' lot o' you! Orl in good time! 'Aven't none o' you blokes got no patience?' He was annoyed, poor man, and had every right to be, for he had gone breakfastless, and the mail, arriving late, had delayed him many hours.
'Well, tell us th' noos!' some one bellowed above the uproar.
'Noos!' he replied. 'Germany's declared war on Russia, an' all the naval reserves an' pensioners is called out! Wot more d'you want?'
It was quite sufficient; enough, indeed, to reduce a good many of them to a state of excited incoherence. It seemed practically impossible that Great Britain could keep out of the conflict; and, though throughout the ship the general feeling was one of warlike joy, it was tempered here and there by a touch of subdued solemnity. The mail despatched the same evening constituted a 'bloomin' record,' as the long-suffering postman put it, for every officer and man on board had spent the afternoon in writing letters.
'I know'd my feelin's 'u'd come true,' remarked M'Sweeny in his mess during supper. 'I know'd this 'ere wus comin' orl along. I know'd yer wus wrong, Josh.' He wagged his head wisely, and looked at Billings, who was sitting opposite.
'Don't start chawin' yer fat, Tubby,' Joshua retorted. 'Things is quite bad enuf without yer makin' of 'em worse.' He was feeling rather peevish and irritable. He was thinking of his wife, and wondered vaguely when he was likely to see her again.
''Owever,' he added, putting down his fork with a throaty sigh, 'I don't much care wot 'appens now so long as we 'as a decent smack at them blighters. I owes 'em one fur gittin' me bloomin' leaf stopped, an', by gum, they'll git it w'en I runs acrost 'em!' He glared savagely at the man opposite as if he, too, was a potential enemy.
''Ear, 'ear!' shouted another man, banging heavily on the table. 'Them's my feelin's.'
'There, there, me boy-o!' snapped M'Sweeny. 'W'en ye've finished upsettin' me tea, Mister Jones, I'll git along wi' me supper, thankin' yer orl the same. Them bloomin' Germans can wait. Supper carn't.'
''Ark at 'im,' jeered 'Mister Jones.' 'Just 'ark at him! Allus worryin' abart 'is vittles!'
'An' why shouldn't 'e?' suddenly demanded Billings, veering round and taking M'Sweeny's part. 'Better ter be a well-covered bloke like 'im than a lop-eared, spindle-shanked son of a perishin' light'ouse like you. It makes me feel 'ungry ter look at yer.'
Both M'Sweeny and Jones promptly became covered in confusion; for, whereas the former's adiposity was his sore point, Jones was as touchy on the subject of his excessive leanness.
That same night, or, rather, early the next morning, they had their first alarm. The immaculate Aubrey Plantagenet FitzJohnson happened to be the officer of the middle watch—midnight till fourA.M.—and at two-thirty, having absorbed two large cups of hot cocoa and half-a-dozen tongue sandwiches, he was sauntering up and down the silent quarterdeck, pipe in mouth, and longing for his bunk. It was chilly for the time of year. There was no moon, and though here and there stars peeped out between rifts in the clouds moving down from windward on the gentle breeze, the sky generally was overcast and the night was dark.
Quite suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of footsteps running along the boat-deck. Next came the clattering of a ladder and a muffled exclamation as some one fell down the last few steps and landed painfully on the deck, and then the footsteps advanced on to the quarterdeck. Whoever it was was evidently in great haste. FitzJohnson turned round.
'I wants th' orficer o' th' watch,' he heard an agitated voice telling the quartermaster. 'Where is 'e?'
'Here I am. What's the matter? Who's that?'
'It's me, sir—Grimes, ord'nary signalman,' the man panted breathlessly. 'Please, sir, th' yeoman o' th' watch on th' bridge told me to tell you there's a Zeppeling comin' over th' 'ill!'
'A Zeppelin coming over the hill!' the officer echoed, in astonishment, half-suspecting that some one was pulling his leg. 'What the devil d'you mean, my man?'
'It's gawspul truth, sir. 'E's burnin' lights, an' me an' th' yeoman saw 'im quite plain.'
Grimes was obviously in earnest, and the lieutenant did not wait to hear any more. He crammed his cap firmly on his head, darted from the quarterdeck, ran up the ladder leading to the after shelter-deck, sped along the boat-deck, barking both shins badly as he went, and finally clambered up the ladder leading to the fore-bridge, breathless and limp with excitement. 'Where is it?' he gasped.
'Over there on the port bow, sir!' answered an equally agitated yeoman of signals, busy with a pair of binoculars. 'D'ye see where that 'ump sticks up on top o' the 'ill, sir?'
'Yes!'
'There's a bit o' dark cloud on top of it, and just to the left, sir. 'E's be'ind that now. We'll see 'im agen in a minute w'en the cloud passes.'
They both gazed at it anxiously, and presently the mass of vapour thinned and drifted away on the light breeze.
'There, sir!' exclaimed the yeoman, triumphantly waving an arm. 'See 'im now, sir? 'E seems to 'ave altered course to port a bit since I see'd 'im first; but 'e's there all right. See 'is lights, sir!'
The man was quite right; for, looking in the direction indicated, the lieutenant distinctly saw in the sky a bright white light, with, just below and to the left of it, a green light They both seemed to be moving rapidly in a north-easterly direction, and looked for all the world like the steaming and starboard bow lights of a ship suspended in mid-air. He snatched the glasses from the yeoman's hand and looked intently through them. Yes, the white and green lights were quite distinct. They seemed to twinkle as he watched them, and behind them there appeared to be a dark phantom shape rushing through the sky. A Zeppelin, without a shadow of doubt.
Dashing down the glasses with an exclamation, he fled from the bridge as if Satan himself was after him, and running aft, hastily told the marine corporal of the watch to turn out twenty marines with their rifles and ball ammunition, and then to inform Captain Hannibal Chance, R.M.L.I., that a Zeppelin was in sight.
Aubrey P. FitzJohnson was no fool. Not he. He knew that hostilities had not started, but he had read enough history to be aware that hostile acts had frequently been committed before actual declaration of war. Moreover, he was officer of the watch, and as such was responsible for the safety of the ship, and it would never do if he were to be caught napping by a bomb-dropping dirigible. Therefore he must take precautions. There were no anti-aircraft guns mounted in theBelligerent, so the next best thing which occurred to him was twenty marines with their rifles. He might just as well have paraded five thousand schoolboys armed with catapults or pea-shooters, for all the good they could do.
A few seconds later he was knocking frantically on the door of the commander's upper-deck sleeping-cabin.
'Who's making that infernal din?' growled the sleepy occupant, waking up with a start. 'What the devil d'you want?' The commander, poor man, had had a long and busy day, and was inclined to be irritable.
'It's me, sir—FitzJohnson,' the lieutenant exclaimed, putting his head inside the curtain. 'There's a Zeppelin in sight!'
'Awhat!' ejaculated Commander Travers, sitting up in his bunk and switching on the electric light.
'A Zeppelin, sir. I saw her quite distinctly. She's on our port bow, steering to the north-east'ard, and travelling pretty fast. You can see her from the fore-bridge. I've turned out twenty marines with their rifles!'
The commander glared at him for an instant, and seeing he was in earnest, hopped out of his bunk, crammed his feet into a pair of rubber sea-boots, flung on a purple dressing-gown, and dashed out of his cabin. 'You'd better go and call the captain,' he cried back over his shoulder.
Captain Spencer, who had been sleeping soundly, was at first inclined to be sceptical and annoyed; but, convinced from FitzJohnson's manner that an airship really was in sight, he too left his bunk, and, arrayed in a suit of green-striped pyjamas and a uniform cap, joined the commander on the fore-bridge.
The marines meanwhile, in various stages of deshabille, were mustering on the quarterdeck under the orders of their imperturbable sergeant-major.
'Have you served out ball ammunition?' FitzJohnson demanded.
'Yessir; five rounds a man.'
'Well, double your men on to the forecastle, load your rifles, and stand by to open fire as soon as you get orders.'
'Party! 'shon! Trail arrms! Left turn! Double marrch!'
At that moment Captain Chance appeared up one of the quarterdeck ladders. He was wearing a uniform tunic, pink pyjama trousers, dancing-pumps, and a monocle. 'What the dooce is happenin'?' he wanted to know. 'That damfool of a corporal came down to my cabin; but the silly ass was so bally excited, I couldn't make head or tail of what he was talkin' about. For the Lord's sake, old man, what the devil is the matter?'
'There's a Zeppelin in sight,' FitzJohnson told him. 'I've just sent the marines on to the forecastle.'
'Great Cæsar's aunt!' gasped the marine officer, running forward after his men.
The quartermaster, boatswain's mate, corporal of the watch, and Ordinary Signalman Grimes, meanwhile, had spread the news far and wide. Officers in scanty raiment, armed with binoculars, came up the after-hatches and congregated on the quarterdeck; and most of the ship's company, determined not to miss the fun, seemed to have left their hammocks and repaired to the upper deck. It was literally crowded with excited men, who were all talking at the top of their voices.
'There 'e is!' FitzJohnson heard a shrill voice saying as he retraced his footsteps to the bridge. 'See 'im?'
'Where?'
'There!'
'No, that ain't 'im. That's one o' them lights ashore.'
'No, it ain't; not wot I'm lookin' at!'
'I tells yer it is!'
'It ain't, I sez. Ye're lookin' at th' wrong one!'
FitzJohnson eventually arrived on the bridge, to find the captain, the commander, and the first lieutenant already there. The last-named seemed to be rather amused.
'You can fall your men out, Captain Chance,' Captain Spencer called out to the forecastle. 'I'm afraid there's nothing for you to shoot at to-night.'
'I beg your pardon, sir,' said FitzJohnson, coming forward. 'Did you see the Zeppelin? There, sir,' he added, waving an arm; 'you can still see her green and white lights; and when I looked through the glasses just now I distinctly saw her shape.' He was rather afraid that the marines were being sent away prematurely.
Chase, the first lieutenant, unable to bottle himself up any longer, burst out into a hoarse chuckle.
The captain turned round. 'Is that you, Mr FitzJohnson?' he snapped.
'Yes, sir. I'——
'Are you trying to make damfools of the commander and myself?' demanded Captain Spencer. He seemed very much put out about something.
'I beg your pardon, sir,' stuttered the lieutenant. 'I don't quite understand what you mean.'
The commander suddenly flung back his head, and went off into a roar of laughter. 'Oh,' he gasped, 'this is the limit!'
FitzJohnson stared. Had they all taken leave of their senses?
'Did you really see a Zeppelin,' the skipper asked sarcastically, 'or did you merely get me up here in these garments so that I should catch my death of cold?'
'Yes, sir, I really did see it,' the lieutenant faltered, beginning to realise that he had made some horrible mistake.
'What! showing its white and green lights?'
'Yes, sir.'
The captain glowered. 'I believe you're a zealous officer, Mr FitzJohnson,' he said grimly; 'otherwise I should believe that you were treating me with unseemly levity.'
'I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, sir.'
'You don't understand—eh? Well, next time you report a Zeppelin, kindly make quite certain that it is a Zeppelin. This time you've dragged us all out of our beds to look at a couple of rather bright stars.'
'Stars, sir! But I saw the shape behind the lights!'
The captain shook his head. 'Merely a cloud,' he explained. 'If you look at your so-called lights now, you'll see they haven't moved a fraction of an inch since you first saw them. The nearer clouds travelling across them gave you the impression that they were moving. One of 'em does look rather like a green light, I'll admit, but that's merely the dampness in the air.'
'I'm awfully sorry, sir,' FitzJohnson stammered, covered with confusion. 'I had no idea'——
'Of course you hadn't,' Captain Spencer interrupted. 'Nobody realises he's made a fool of himself until afterwards. However,' he added with a chuckle of amusement, 'I'm not really angry; but nobody, except perhaps the Astronomer-Royal, likes being dragged out of bed to look at celestial bodies. Good-night.'
'Good-night, sir,' said the culprit sheepishly.
The captain and the commander left the bridge together. They both seemed amused.
Chase came across to FitzJohnson. 'Dook, old man,' he laughed, digging him in the ribs, 'you've made a bally ass of yourself. The least you can do, after digging me out of my cabin at this unearthly hour, is to give me a cup of your cocoa. Grr, it's beastly cold!'
'Of course I will, No. 1. Come along.'
They left the bridge chuckling.
'Well,' remarked the yeoman of signals when they disappeared, 'I could 'a swore I'd seen 'im!'
Perhaps he could; but he, the cause of all the trouble in the first instance, had taken very good care to maintain a discreet position in the background during the captain's presence.