Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (496 page)

“Bournemouth steamer he says she be.”

“Then where be Brixham Harbor?”

“Damme, I’m a tax-payer tu. They’ve no right to cruise about this way.
I’ll have the laa on ‘ee if anything carries away.”

Then the man-of-war:

“Short on your anchor! Heave short, you howling maniacs! You’ll get yourselves smashed in a minute if you drift.”

The air was full of these and other voices as the dinghy, checking, swung. I passed one hand down Laughton’s stretched arm and felt an iron gooseneck and a foot or two of a backward-sloping torpedo-net boom. The other hand I laid on broad, cold iron — even the flanks of H.M.S.
Cryptic
, which is twelve thousand tons.

I heard a scrubby, raspy sound, as though Pyecroft had chosen that hour to shave, and I smelled paint. “Drop aft a bit, Alf; we’ll put a stencil under the stern six-inch casements.”

Boom by boom Laughlin slid the dinghy along the towering curved wall. Once, twice, and again we stopped, and the keen scrubbing sound was renewed.

“Umpires are ‘ard-’earted blighters, but this ought to convince ‘em…. Captain Panke’s stern-walk is now above our defenceless ‘eads. Repeat the evolution up the starboard side, Alf.”

I was only conscious that we moved around an iron world palpitating with life. Though my knowledge was all by touch — as, for example, when Pyecroft led my surrendered hand to the base of some bulging sponson, or when my palm closed on the knife-edge of the stem and patted it timidly — yet I felt lonely and unprotected as the enormous, helpless ship was withdrawn, and we drifted away into the void where voices sang:

  Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy gray mare,
  All along, out along, down along lea!
  I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair
  With Bill Brewer, Sam Sewer, Peter Gurney, Harry Hawke,
  Old Uncle Tom Cobley an’ all!

“That’s old Sinbad an’ ‘is little lot from the
Agatha
! Give way, Alf!
You
might sing somethin’, too.”

“I’m no burnin’ Patti. Ain’t there noise enough for you, Pye?”

“Yes, but it’s only amateurs. Give me the tones of ‘earth and ‘ome. Ha!
List to the blighter on the ‘orizon sayin’ his prayers, Navy-fashion.
‘Eaven ‘elp me argue that way when I’m a warrant-officer!”

We headed with little lapping strokes toward what seemed to be a fair- sized riot.

“An’ I’ve ‘eard the
Devolution
called a happy ship, too,” said Pyecroft. “Just shows ‘ow a man’s misled by prejudice. She’s peevish — that’s what she is — nasty-peevish. Prob’ly all because the
Agathites
are scratching ‘er paint. Well, rub along, Alf. I’ve got the lymph!”

A voice, which Mr. Pyecroft assured me belonged to a chief carpenter, was speaking through an aperture (starboard bow twelve-pounder on the lower deck). He did not wish to purchase any fish, even at grossly reduced rates. Nobody wished to buy any fish. This ship was the
Devolution
at anchor, and desired no communication with shore boats.

“Mark how the Navy ‘olds it’s own. He’s sober. The
Agathites
are not, as you might say, an’ yet they can’t live with ‘im. It’s the discipline that does it. ‘Ark to the bald an’ unconvincin’ watch-officer chimin’ in. I wonder where Mr. Moorshed has got to?”

We drifted down the
Devolution’s
side, as we had drifted down her sister’s; and we dealt with her in that dense gloom as we had dealt with her sister.

“Whai! ‘Tis a man-o’-war, after all! I can see the captain’s whisker all gilt at the edges! We took ‘ee for the Bournemouth steamer. Three cheers for the real man-o’-war!”

That cry came from under the
Devolution’s
stern. Pyecroft held something in his teeth, for I heard him mumble, “Our Mister Moorshed!”

Said a boy’s voice above us, just as we dodged a jet of hot water from some valve: “I don’t half like that cheer. If I’d been the old man I’d ha’ turned loose the quick-firers at the first go-off. Aren’t they rowing Navy-stroke, yonder?”

“True,” said Pyecroft, listening to retreating oars. “It’s time to go ‘ome when snotties begin to think. The fog’s thinnin’, too.”

I felt a chill breath on my forehead, and saw a few feet of the steel stand out darker than the darkness, disappear — it was then the dinghy shot away from it — and emerge once more.

“Hallo! what boat’s that?” said the voice suspiciously.

“Why, I do believe it’s a real man-o’-war, after all,” said Pyecroft, and kicked Laughton.

“What’s that for?” Laughton was no dramatist.

“Answer in character, you blighter! Say somethin’ opposite.”

“What boat’s
thatt
?” The hail was repeated.

“What do yee say-ay?” Pyecroft bellowed, and, under his breath to me:
“Give us a hand.”

“It’s called the
Marietta
— F. J. Stokes — Torquay,” I began, quaveringly. “At least, that’s the name on the name-board. I’ve been dining — on a yacht.”

“I see.” The voice shook a little, and my way opened before me with disgraceful ease.

“Yesh. Dining private yacht.
Eshmesheralda
. I belong to Torquay Yacht
Club.
Are
you member Torquay Yacht Club?”

“You’d better go to bed, Sir. Good-night.” We slid into the rapidly thinning fog.

“Dig out, Alf. Put your
nix mangiare
back into it. The fog’s peelin’ off like a petticoat. Where’s Two Six Seven?”

“I can’t see her,” I replied, “but there’s a light low down ahead.”

“The
Agatha
!” They rowed desperately through the uneasy dispersal of the fog for ten minutes and ducked round the trawler’s bow.

“Well, Emanuel means ‘God with us’ — so far.” Pyecroft wiped his brow, laid a hand on the low rail, and as he boosted me up to the trawler, I saw Moorshed’s face, white as pearl in the thinning dark.

“Was it all right?” said he, over the bulwarks.

“Vaccination ain’t in it. She’s took beautiful. But where’s 267, Sir?”
Pyecroft replied.

“Gone. We came here as the fog lifted. I gave the
Devolution
four. Was that you behind us?”

“Yes, sir; but I only got in three on the
Devolution
. I gave the
Cryptic
nine, though. They’re what you might call more or less vaccinated.”

He lifted me inboard, where Moorshed and six pirates lay round the
Agatha’s
hatch. There was a hint of daylight in the cool air.

“Where is the old man?” I asked.

“Still selling ‘em fish, I suppose. He’s a darling! But I wish I could get this filthy paint off my hands. Hallo! What the deuce is the
Cryptic
signalling?”

A pale masthead light winked through the last of the fog. It was answered by a white pencil to the southward.

“Destroyer signalling with searchlight.” Pyecroft leaped on the stern- rail. “The first part is private signals. Ah! now she’s Morsing against the fog. ‘P-O-S-T’ — yes, ‘postpone’ — ’D-E-P-’ (go on)! ‘departure — till — further — orders — which — will — be com” (he’s dropped the other m) “‘unicated — verbally. End,’.” He swung round. “
Cryptic
is now answering: ‘Ready — proceed — immediately. What — news — promised — destroyer — flotilla?’”

“Hallo!” said Moorshed. “Well, never mind, They’ll come too late.”

“Whew! That’s some ‘igh-born suckling on the destroyer. Destroyer signals: ‘Care not. All will be known later.’ What merry beehive’s broken loose now?”

“What odds! We’ve done our little job.”

“Why — why — it’s Two Six Seven!”

Here Pyecroft dropped from the rail among the fishy nets and shook the
Agatha
with heavings. Moorshed cast aside his cigarette, looked over the stern, and fell into his subordinate’s arms. I heard the guggle of engines, the rattle of a little anchor going over not a hundred yards away, a cough, and Morgan’s subdued hail. … So far as I remember, it was Laughton whom I hugged; but the men who hugged me most were Pyecroft and Moorshed, adrift among the fishy nets.

There was no semblance of discipline in our flight over the
Agatha’s
side, nor, indeed, were ordinary precautions taken for the common safety, because (I was in the Berthon) they held that patent boat open by hand for the most part. We regained our own craft, cackling like wild geese, and crowded round Moorshed and Hinchcliffe. Behind us the
Agatha’s
boat, returning from her fish-selling cruise, yelled: “Have ‘ee done the trick? Have ‘ee done the trick?” and we could only shout hoarsely over the stern, guaranteeing them rum by the hold-full.

“Fog got patchy here at 12:27,” said Henry Salt Hinchcliffe, growing clearer every instant in the dawn. “Went down to Brixham Harbour to keep out of the road. Heard whistles to the south and went to look. I had her up to sixteen good. Morgan kept on shedding private Red Fleet signals out of the signal-book, as the fog cleared, till we was answered by three destroyers. Morgan signalled ‘em by searchlight: ‘Alter course to South Seventeen East, so as not to lose time,’ They came round quick. We kept well away — on their port beam — and Morgan gave ‘em their orders.” He looked at Morgan and coughed.

“The signalman, acting as second in command,” said Morgan, swelling, “then informed destroyer flotilla that
Cryptic
and
Devolution
had made good defects, and, in obedience to Admiral’s supplementary orders (I was afraid they might suspect that, but they didn’t), had proceeded at seven knots at 11:23 p. M. to rendezvous near Channel Islands, seven miles N.N.W. the Casquet light. (I’ve rendezvoused there myself, Sir.) Destroyer flotilla would therefore follow cruisers and catch up with them on their course. Destroyer flotilla then dug out on course indicated, all funnels sparking briskly.”

“Who were the destroyers?”

“
Wraith, Kobbold, Stiletto
, Lieutenant-Commander A. L. Hignett, acting under Admiral’s orders to escort cruisers received off the Dodman at 7 P. M. They’d come slow on account of fog.”

“Then who were you?”

“We were the
Afrite
, port-engine broke down, put in to Torbay, and there instructed by
Cryptic
, previous to her departure with
Devolution
) to inform Commander Hignett of change of plans. Lieutenant-Commander Hignett signalled that our meeting was quite providential. After this we returned to pick up our commanding officer, and being interrogated by
Cryptic
, marked time signalling as requisite, which you may have seen. The
Agatha
representing the last known rallying-point — or, as I should say, pivot- ship of the evolution — it was decided to repair to the
Agatha
at conclusion of manoeuvre.”

“Is there such a thing as one fine big drink aboard this one fine big battleship?” “Can do, sir,” said Pyecroft, and got it. Beginning with Mr. Moorshed and ending with myself, junior to the third first-class stoker, we drank, and it was as water of the brook, that two and a half inches of stiff, treacly, Navy rum. And we looked each in the other’s face, and we nodded, bright-eyed, burning with bliss.

Moorshed walked aft to the torpedo-tubes and paced back and forth, a captain victorious on his own quarterdeck; and the triumphant day broke over the green-bedded villas of Torquay to show us the magnitude of our victory. There lay the cruisers (I have reason to believe that they had made good their defects). They were each four hundred and forty feet long and sixty-six wide; they held close upon eight hundred men apiece, and they had cost, say, a million and a half the pair. And they were ours, and they did not know it. Indeed, the
Cryptic
, senior ship, was signalling vehement remarks to our address, which we did not notice.

“If you take these glasses, you’ll get the general run o’ last night’s vaccination,” said Pyecroft. “Each one represents a torpedo got ‘ome, as you might say.”

I saw on the
Cryptic’s
port side, as she lay half a mile away across the glassy water, four neat white squares in outline, a white blur in the centre.

“There are five more to starboard. ‘Ere’s the original!” He handed me a paint-dappled copper stencil-plate, two feet square, bearing in the centre the six-inch initials, “G.M.”

“Ten minutes ago I’d ha’ eulogised about that little trick of ours, but
Morgan’s performance has short-circuited me. Are you happy, Morgan?”

“Bustin’,” said the signalman briefly.

“You may be. Gawd forgive you, Morgan, for as Queen ‘Enrietta said to the ‘ousemaid,
I
never will. I’d ha’ given a year’s pay for ten minutes o’ your signallin’ work this mornin’.”

“I wouldn’t ‘ave took it up,” was the answer. “Perishin’ ‘Eavens above! Look at the
Devolution’s
semaphore!” Two black wooden arms waved from the junior ship’s upper bridge. “They’ve seen it.”