“‘Asn’t the visitor come aboard, Sir? ‘E told me he’d purposely abandoned the Pedantic for the pleasure of the trip with us. Told me he was official correspondent for the Times; an’ I know he’s littery by the way ‘e tries to talk Navy-talk. Haven’t you seen ‘im, Sir?”
Slowly and dispassionately the answer drawled long on the night; “Pye, you are without exception the biggest liar in the Service!”
“Then what am I to do with the bag, Sir? It’s marked with his name.” There was a pause till Mr. Moorshed said “Oh!” in a tone which the listener might construe precisely as he pleased.
“He was the maniac who wanted to buy a ham and see life — was he? If he goes back to the Pedantic — ”
“Pre-cisely, Sir. Gives us all away, Sir.”
“Then what possessed you to give it away to him, you owl?”
“I’ve got his bag. If ‘e gives anything away, he’ll have to go naked.”
At this point I thought it best to rattle my tins and step out of the shadow of the crane.
“I’ve bought the ham,” I called sweetly. “Have you still any objection to my seeing life, Mr. Moorshed?”
“All right, if you’re insured. Won’t you come down?”
I descended; Pyecroft, by a silent flank movement, possessing himself of all the provisions, which he bore to some hole forward.
“Have you known Mr. Pyecroft long?” said my host.
“Met him once, a year ago, at Devonport. What do you think of him?”
“What do you think of him?”
“I’ve left the Pedantic — her boat will be waiting for me at ten o’clock, too — simply because I happened to meet him,” I replied.
“That’s all right. If you’ll come down below, we may get some grub.”
We descended a naked steel ladder to a steel-beamed tunnel, perhaps twelve feet long by six high. Leather-topped lockers ran along either side; a swinging table, with tray and lamp above, occupied the centre. Other furniture there was none.
“You can’t shave here, of course. We don’t wash, and, as a rule, we eat with our fingers when we’re at sea. D’you mind?”
Mr. Moorshed, black-haired, black-browed, sallow-complexioned, looked me over from head to foot and grinned. He was not handsome in any way, but his smile drew the heart. “You didn’t happen to hear what Frankie told me from the flagship, did you? His last instructions, and I’ve logged them here in shorthand, were” — he opened a neat pocket-book — ”‘Get out of this and conduct your own damned manoeuvres in your own damned tinker fashion! You’re a disgrace to the Service, and your boat’s offal.’”
“Awful?” I said.
“No — offal — tripes — swipes — ullage.” Mr. Pyecroft entered, in the costume of his calling, with the ham and an assortment of tin dishes, which he dealt out like cards.
“I shall take these as my orders,” said Mr. Moorshed. “I’m chucking the
Service at the end of the year, so it doesn’t matter.”
We cut into the ham under the ill-trimmed lamp, washed it down with whisky, and then smoked. From the foreside of the bulkhead came an uninterrupted hammering and clinking, and now and then a hiss of steam.
“That’s Mr. Hinchcliffe,” said Pyecroft. “He’s what is called a first- class engine-room artificer. If you hand ‘im a drum of oil an’ leave ‘im alone, he can coax a stolen bicycle to do typewritin’.”
Very leisurely, at the end of his first pipe, Mr. Moorshed drew out a folded map, cut from a newspaper, of the area of manoeuvres, with the rules that regulate these wonderful things, below.
“Well, I suppose I know as much as an average stick-and-string admiral,” he said, yawning. “Is our petticoat ready yet, Mr. Pyecroft?”
As a preparation for naval manoeuvres these councils seemed inadequate. I followed up the ladder into the gloom cast by the wharf edge and the big lumber-ship’s side. As my eyes stretched to the darkness I saw that No. 267 had miraculously sprouted an extra pair of funnels — soft, for they gave as I touched them.
“More prima facie evidence. You runs a rope fore an’ aft, an’ you erects perpendick-u-arly two canvas tubes, which you distends with cane hoops, thus ‘avin’ as many funnels as a destroyer. At the word o’ command, up they go like a pair of concertinas, an’ consequently collapses equally ‘andy when requisite. Comin’ aft we shall doubtless overtake the Dawlish bathin’-machine proprietor fittin’ on her bustle.”
Mr. Pyecroft whispered this in my ear as Moorshed moved toward a group at the stern.
“None of us who ain’t built that way can be destroyers, but we can look as near it as we can. Let me explain to you, Sir, that the stern of a Thorneycroft boat, which we are not, comes out in a pretty bulge, totally different from the Yarrow mark, which again we are not. But, on the other ‘and, Dirk, Stiletto, Goblin, Ghoul, Djinn, and A-frite — Red Fleet dee-stroyers, with ‘oom we hope to consort later on terms o’ perfect equality — are Thorneycrofts, an’ carry that Grecian bend which we are now adjustin’ to our arriere-pensée — as the French would put it — by means of painted canvas an’ iron rods bent as requisite. Between you an’ me an’ Frankie, we are the Gnome, now in the Fleet Reserve at Pompey — Portsmouth, I should say.”
“The first sea will carry it all away,” said Moorshed, leaning gloomily outboard, “but it will do for the present.”
“We’ve a lot of prima facie evidence about us,” Mr. Pyecroft went on. “A first-class torpedo boat sits lower in the water than a destroyer. Hence we artificially raise our sides with a black canvas wash-streak to represent extra freeboard; at the same time paddin’ out the cover of the forward three-pounder like as if it was a twelve-pounder, an’ variously fakin’ up the bows of ‘er. As you might say, we’ve took thought an’ added a cubic to our stature. It’s our len’th that sugars us. A ‘undred an’ forty feet, which is our len’th into two ‘undred and ten, which is about the Gnome’s, leaves seventy feet over, which we haven’t got.”
“Is this all your own notion, Mr. Pyecroft?” I asked.
“In spots, you might say — yes; though we all contributed to make up deficiencies. But Mr. Moorshed, not much carin’ for further Navy after what Frankie said, certainly threw himself into the part with avidity.”
“What the dickens are we going to do?”
“Speaking as a seaman gunner, I should say we’d wait till the sights came on, an’ then fire. Speakin’ as a torpedo-coxswain, L.T.O., T.I., M.D., etc., I presume we fall in — Number One in rear of the tube, etc., secure tube to ball or diaphragm, clear away securin’-bar, release safety-pin from lockin-levers, an’ pray Heaven to look down on us. As second in command o’ 267, I say wait an’ see!”
“What’s happened? We’re off,” I said. The timber ship had slid away from us.
“We are. Stern first, an’ broadside on! If we don’t hit anything too hard, we’ll do.”
“Come on the bridge,” said Mr. Moorshed. I saw no bridge, but fell over some sort of conning-tower forward, near which was a wheel. For the next few minutes I was more occupied with cursing my own folly than with the science of navigation. Therefore I cannot say how we got out of Weymouth Harbour, nor why it was necessary to turn sharp to the left and wallow in what appeared to be surf.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Pyecroft behind us, “I don’t mind rammin’ a bathin’-machine; but if only one of them week-end Weymouth blighters has thrown his empty baccy-tin into the sea here, we’ll rip our plates open on it; 267 isn’t the Archimandrite’s old cutter.”
“I am hugging the shore,” was the answer.
“There’s no actual ‘arm in huggin’, but it can come expensive if pursooed.”
“Right-O!” said Moorshed, putting down the wheel, and as we left those scant waters I felt 267 move more freely.
A thin cough ran up the speaking-tube.
“Well, what is it, Mr. Hinchcliffe?” said Moorshed.
“I merely wished to report that she is still continuin’ t
o go, Sir.”
“Right-O! Can we whack her up to fifteen, d’you think?”
“I’ll try, Sir; but we’d prefer to have the engine-room hatch open — at first, Sir.”
Whacked up then she was, and for half an hour was careered largely through the night, turning at last with a suddenness that slung us across the narrow deck.
“This,” said Mr. Pyecroft, who received me on his chest as a large rock receives a shadow, “represents the Gnome arrivin’ cautious from the direction o’ Portsmouth, with Admiralty orders.”
He pointed through the darkness ahead, and after much staring my eyes opened to a dozen destroyers, in two lines, some few hundred yards away.
“Those are the Red Fleet destroyer flotilla, which is too frail to panic about among the full-blooded cruisers inside Portland breakwater, and several millimetres too excited over the approachin’ war to keep a look- out inshore. Hence our tattics!”
We wailed through our siren — a long, malignant, hyena-like howl — and a voice hailed us as we went astern tumultuously.
“The Gnome — Carteret-Jones — from Portsmouth, with orders — mm — mm — Stiletto,” Moorshed answered through the megaphone in a high, whining voice, rather like a chaplain’s.
“Who?” was the answer.
“Carter — et — Jones.”
“Oh, Lord!”
There was a pause; a voice cried to some friend, “It’s Podgie, adrift on the high seas in charge of a whole dee-stroyer!”
Another voice echoed, “Podgie!” and from its note I gathered that Mr.
Carteret-Jones had a reputation, but not for independent command.
“Who’s your sub?” said the first speaker, a shadow on the bridge of the Dirk.
“A gunner, at present, Sir. The Stiletto — broken down — turns over to us.”
“When did the Stiletto break down?”
“Off the Start, Sir; two hours after — after she left here this evening, I believe. My orders are to report to you for the manoeuvre signal-codes, and join Commander Hignett’s flotilla, which is in attendance on Stiletto.”
A smothered chuckle greeted this last. Moorshed’s voice was high and uneasy. Said Pyecroft, with a sigh: “The amount o’ trouble me an’ my bright spurs ‘ad fishin’ out that information from torpedo coxswains and similar blighters in pubs all this afternoon, you would never believe.”
“But has the Stiletto broken down?” I asked weakly.
“How else are we to get Red Fleet’s private signal-code? Any way, if she ‘asn’t now, she will before manoeuvres are ended. It’s only executin’ in anticipation.”
“Go astern and send your coxswain aboard for orders, Mr. Jones.” Water carries sound well, but I do not know whether we were intended to hear the next sentence: “They must have given him one intelligent keeper.”
“That’s me,” said Mr. Pyecroft, as a black and coal-stained dinghy — I did not foresee how well I should come to know her — was flung overside by three men.
“Havin’ bought an ‘am, we will now see life.” He stepped into the boat and was away.
“I say, Podgie!” — the speaker was in the last of the line of destroyers, as we thumped astern — ”aren’t you lonely out there?”
“Oh, don’t rag me!” said Moorshed. “Do you suppose I’ll have to manoeuvre with your flo-tilla?”
“No, Podgie! I’m pretty sure our commander will see you sifting cinders in
Tophet before you come with our flo-tilla.”
“Thank you! She steers rather wild at high speeds.”
Two men laughed together.
“By the way, who is Mr. Carteret-Jones when he’s at home?” I whispered.
“I was with him in the Britannia. I didn’t like him much, but I’m grateful to him now. I must tell him so some day.”
“They seemed to know him hereabouts.”
“He rammed the Caryatid twice with her own steam-pinnace.”
Presently, moved by long strokes, Mr. Pyecroft returned, skimming across the dark. The dinghy swung up behind him, even as his heel spurned it.
“Commander Fasset’s compliments to Mr. L. Carteret-Jones, and the sooner he digs out in pursuance of Admiralty orders as received at Portsmouth, the better pleased Commander Fasset will be. But there’s a lot more — — ”
“Whack her up, Mr. Hinchcliffe! Come on to the bridge. We can settle it as we go. Well?”
Mr. Pyecroft drew an important breath, and slid off his cap.
“Day an’ night private signals of Red Fleet complete, Sir!” He handed a little paper to Moorshed. “You see, Sir, the trouble was, that Mr. Carteret-Jones bein’, so to say, a little new to his duties, ‘ad forgot to give ‘is gunner his Admiralty orders in writin’, but, as I told Commander Fasset, Mr. Jones had been repeatin’ ‘em to me, nervous-like, most of the way from Portsmouth, so I knew ‘em by heart — an’ better. The Commander, recognisin’ in me a man of agility, cautioned me to be a father an’ mother to Mr. Carteret-Jones.”
“Didn’t he know you?” I asked, thinking for the moment that there could be no duplicates of Emanuel Pyecroft in the Navy.
“What’s a torpedo-gunner more or less to a full lootenant commanding six thirty-knot destroyers for the first time? ‘E seemed to cherish the ‘ope that ‘e might use the Gnome for ‘is own ‘orrible purposes; but what I told him about Mr. Jones’s sad lack o’ nerve comin’ from Pompey, an’ going dead slow on account of the dark, short-circuited that connection. ‘M’rover,’ I says to him, ‘our orders is explicit; Stiletto’s reported broke down somewhere off the Start, an’ we’ve been tryin’ to coil down a new stiff wire hawser all the evenin’, so it looks like towin’ ‘er back, don’t it?’ I says. That more than ever jams his turrets, an’ makes him keen to get rid of us. ‘E even hinted that Mr. Carteret-Jones passin’ hawsers an’ assistin’ the impotent in a sea-way might come pretty expensive on the tax-payer. I agreed in a disciplined way. I ain’t proud. Gawd knows I ain’t proud! But when I’m really diggin’ out in the fancy line, I sometimes think that me in a copper punt, single-’anded, ‘ud beat a cutter-full of De Rougemongs in a row round the fleet.”
At this point I reclined without shame on Mr. Pyecroft’s bosom, supported by his quivering arm.
“Well?” said Moorshed, scowling into the darkness, as 267’s bows snapped at the shore seas of the broader Channel, and we swayed together.
“‘You’d better go on,’ says Commander Fassett, ‘an’ do what you’re told to
do. I don’t envy Hignett if he has to dry-nurse the Gnome’s commander.
But what d’you want with signals?’ ‘e says. ‘It’s criminal lunacy to trust
Mr. Jones with anything that steams.’
“‘May I make an observation, Sir?’ I says. ‘Suppose,’ I says, ‘you was torpedo-gunner on the Gnome, an’ Mr. Carteret-Jones was your commandin’ officer, an’ you had your reputation as a second in command for the first time,’ I says, well knowin’ it was his first command of a flotilla, ‘what ‘ud you do, Sir?’ That gouged ‘is unprotected ends open — clear back to the citadel.”
“What did he say?” Moorshed jerked over is shoulder.
“If you were Mr. Carteret-Jones, it might be disrespect for me to repeat it, Sir.”
“Go ahead,” I heard the boy chuckle.
“‘Do?’ ‘e says. ‘I’d rub the young blighter’s nose into it till I made a perishin’ man of him, or a perspirin’ pillow-case,’ ‘e says, ‘which,’ he adds, ‘is forty per cent, more than he is at present.’
“Whilst he’s gettin’ the private signals — they’re rather particular ones — I went forrard to see the Dirk’s gunner about borrowin’ a holdin’-down bolt for our twelve-pounder. My open ears, while I was rovin’ over his packet, got the followin’ authentic particulars.” I heard his voice change, and his feet shifted. “There’s been a last council o’ war of destroyer-captains at the flagship, an’ a lot of things ‘as come out. To begin with Cryptic an
d Devolution, Captain Panke and Captain Malan — ”
“Cryptic and Devolution, first-class cruisers,” said Mr. Moorshed dreamily. “Go on, Pyecroft.”
“ — bein’ delayed by minor defects in engine-room, did not, as we know, accompany Red Fleet’s first division of scouting cruisers, whose rendezvous is unknown, but presumed to be somewhere off the Lizard. Cryptic an’ Devolution left at 9:30 P.M. still reportin’ copious minor defects in engine-room. Admiral’s final instructions was they was to put into Torbay, an’ mend themselves there. If they can do it in twenty-four hours, they’re to come on and join the battle squadron at the first rendezvous, down Channel somewhere. (I couldn’t get that, Sir.) If they can’t, he’ll think about sendin’ them some destroyers for escort. But his present intention is to go ‘ammer and tongs down Channel, usin’ ‘is destroyers for all they’re worth, an’ thus keepin’ Blue Fleet too busy off the Irish coast to sniff into any eshtuaries.”
“But if those cruisers are crocks, why does the Admiral let ‘em out of
Weymouth at all?” I asked.
“The tax-payer,” said Mr. Moorshed.
“An’ newspapers,” added Mr. Pyecroft. “In Torbay they’ll look as they was muckin’ about for strategical purposes — hanamerin’ like blazes in the engine room all the weary day, an’ the skipper droppin’ questions down the engine-room hatch every two or three minutes. I’ve been there. Now, Sir?” I saw the white of his eye turn broad on Mr. Moorshed.
The boy dropped his chin over the speaking-tube.
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 374