The Long Trick Part 20

Harcourt and Mordaunt, descending the accommodation ladder in the rear of the remainder of their party, were greeted by Morton, at the wheel of the picket-boat, with a broad grin.

"Come on," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed impatiently. "Hop in! We've got to get back and be hoisted in. Who won the Light-weights by the same token?"

"Billy did," replied Harcourt. He settled himself comfortably on top of the cabin of the picket boat and pulled up the collar of his greatcoat about his face.

Morton jerked the engine-room telegraph and the boat moved off.

"Why are we in such a hurry?" queried Harcourt. "Are we going out?"

The boyish figure at the helm glanced aft to see his stern was clear, and put the wheel over, heading the boat in the direction of their s.h.i.+p.

"Yes," he said. "At least a signal has just come through ordering us to raise steam for working cables at seven p.m."

Lettigne, perched beside Mordaunt on the other side of the cabin-top, leaned across. The crowded excitements of the afternoon had lapsed into oblivion.

"D'you mean the whole Fleet, or only just us?" he asked.

"The whole Fleet," replied Morton, staring ahead between the twin funnels of his boat. "I suppose it's the usual weary stunt; go out and steam about trailing the tail of our coat for a couple of days, and then come back again." The speaker gripped the spokes of the wheel almost savagely. "Lord!" he added, "if only they'd come out...."

Mordaunt fingered his nose gingerly. "They do come out occasionally, I believe. You'd think their women 'ud boo them out.... They sneak about behind their minefields and do exercises, and they cover their Battle-cruisers when they nip out for a tip-and-run bombardment of one of our watering-places. But we'll never catch 'em, although we can stop them from being of the smallest use to Germany by just being where we are."

"We could catch them if they didn't know we were coming South," said another Mids.h.i.+pman perched beside Mordaunt with his knees under his chin.

"But they always do know," said Harcourt over his shoulder. "Their Zepps always see us coming and give them the tip to nip off home!"

"Fog..." said Mordaunt musingly.

"Yes," said another who had not hitherto spoken. "That 'ud do it all right. But then you couldn't see to hit 'em. 'Sides, you can't count on a fog coming on just when you want it."

"Well," said Morton, with the air of one who was wearied by profitless discussion. "Fog or no fog, I only hope they come out this time."

He rang down "Slow" to the tiny engine-room underneath his feet, and spun the wheel to bring the crowded boat alongside the port gangway.

A Fleet proceeds to sea in War-time with little or no outward circ.u.mstance. There was no apparent increase of activity onboard the the great fighting "towns.h.i.+ps" even on the eve of departure. As the late afternoon wore on the Signal Department onboard the Fleet Flags.h.i.+p was busy for a s.p.a.ce, and the daylight signalling searchlights splashed and spluttered while hoist after hoist of flags leaped from the signal platform to yardarm or masthead; and ever as they descended fresh successive tangles climbed to take their place. But after a while even this ceased, and the Flags.h.i.+ps of the squadrons, who had been taking it all in, nodded sagely, as it were, and turned round to repeat for the benefit of the s.h.i.+ps of their individual squadrons such portions as they required for their guidance.

Then from their hidden anchorage the Destroyers moved past on their way out, flotilla after flotilla in a dark, snake-like procession, swift, silent, mysterious, and a little later the Cruisers and Light Cruisers crept out in the failing light to take up their distant positions. On each high forecastle the minute figures of men were visible moving about the crawling cables, and from the funnels a slight increased haze of smoke trembled upwards like the breath of war-horses in a frosty landscape.

One by one the dripping anchors hove in sight. The water under the sterns of the Battles.h.i.+ps was convulsed by whirling vortices as the great steel-shod bulks turned cautiously towards the entrance, like partners revolving in some solemn gigantic minuet. The dusk was fast closing down, but a saffron bar of light in the West still limned the dark outlines of the far-off hills. One by one the majestic fighting s.h.i.+ps moved into their allotted places in the line, and presently

"Enormous, certain, slow...."

the lines began to move in succession towards the entrance and the open sea.

The light died out of the western sky altogether, and like great grey shadows the last of the Battle-squadrons melted into the mystery of the night.

CHAPTER IX

"SWEETHEARTS AND WIVES"

Betty finished her breakfast very slowly; she had dawdled over it, not because there was anything wrong with her appet.i.te, but because the days were long and meals made a sort of break in the monotony. She rose from the table at length and walked to the open cas.e.m.e.nt window; a cat, curled up on the rug in front of the small wood fire, opened one eye and blinked contemplatively at the slim figure in the silk s.h.i.+rt, the short brown tweed skirt above the brown-stockinged ankles, and finally at the neat brogues, one of which was tapping meditatively on the carpet. Then he closed his eyes again.

"Would it be to-day?" wondered Betty for about the thousandth time in the last eight days. She stared out across the little garden, the broad stretch of pasture beyond the dusty road that ended in a confused fringe of trees bordering the blue waters of the Firth. A flotilla of Destroyers that had been lying at anchor overnight had slipped from their buoys and were slowly circling towards the distant entrance to the harbour. Beyond the Firth the hills rose again, vividly green and crowned with trees.

A thrush in the unseen kitchen garden round a corner of the cottage rehea.r.s.ed a few bars of his spring song.

"It might be to-day," he sang. "It might, it might, it might--or it mightn't!" He stopped abruptly.

Eight days had pa.s.sed somehow since an enigmatic telegram from the India-rubber Man had brought Betty flying up to Scotland with hastily packed trunks and a singing heart.

Somehow she had expected him to meet her at the little station she reached about noon after an all-night journey of incredible discomforts. But no India-rubber Man had been there to welcome her; instead a pretty girl with hair of a rusty gold, a year or two her senior, had come forward rather shyly and greeted her.

"Are you Mrs. Standish?" she asked, smiling.

Despite the six-months-old wedding ring on her hand, Betty experienced a faint jolt of surprise at hearing herself thus addressed.

"Yes," she said, and glanced half-expectantly up and down the platform.

"I hoped my husband would be here ..."

The stranger shook her head. "I'm afraid his squadron hasn't come in yet," she said, and added rea.s.suringly, "But it won't be long now.

Your sister wrote and told me you were coming up. My name's Etta Clavering...."

"Oh, thank you," said Betty. "You got me rooms, didn't you--and I'm so grateful to you."

"Not at all," said the other. "It's rather a job getting them as a rule, but these just happened to be vacant. Rather nice ones: nice woman, too. No bath, of course, but up here you get used to tubbing in your basin, and--and little things like that. But everything's nice and clean, and that's more than some of the places are." They had sorted out Betty's luggage while Mrs. Clavering was talking, and left it with the porter to bring on. "We can walk," said Betty's guide.

"It's quite close, and I expect you won't be sorry to stretch your legs."

They skirted a little village of grey stone cottages straggling on either side of a broad street towards a wooded glen, down which a river wound brawling to join the waters of the Firth. Cottages and little shops alternated, and half-way up the street a rather more pretentious hotel of quarried stone rose above the level of the roofs. Hills formed a background to the whole, with clumps of dark fir clinging to their steep slopes, and in the far distance snow-capped mountains stood like pale opals against the blue sky. The air was keen and invigorating, and little clouds like a flock of sheep drifted overhead.

Mrs. Clavering led the way past the village towards a neat row of cottages on the brow of a little hill about a quarter of a mile behind it, and as they ascended a steep lane she turned and pointed with her ashplant. A confusion of chimneys, cranes and wharves were shrouded in a haze of smoke and the kindly distance.

"You see," she said, "you can almost see the harbour from your house.

That's where the s.h.i.+ps lie when they come in here. This is your abode.

They'll send your luggage up presently. I hope you'll be comfortable.

No, I won't come in now. I expect you're tired after travelling all night. You must come and have tea with me, and meet some of the others." She laughed and turned to descend the hill, stopping again a few paces down to wave a friendly stick.

Etta Clavering occupied a low-ceilinged room above a baker's shop in the village, and had strewn it about with books and photographs and nick-nacks until the drab surroundings seemed to reflect a little of her dainty personality. Thither, later in the day, she took Betty off to tea and introduced her to a tall fair girl with abundant hair and a gentle, rippling laugh that had in it the quality of running water.

"We belong to the same squadron," she said. "I'm glad we've met now, because directly our husbands' s.h.i.+ps come in we shall never see each other!" She turned to Etta Clavering. "It's like that up here, isn't it? We sit in each other's laps all day till our husbands arrive, and then we simply can't waste a minute to be civil ...!"

She laughed her soft ripple of amus.e.m.e.nt, cut short by the entrance of another visitor. She was older than the other three: a sweet, rather grave-faced woman with patient eyes that looked as if they had watched and waited through a great many lonelinesses. There was something tender, almost protecting, in her smile as she greeted Betty.

"You have only just come North, haven't you?" she asked. "The latest recruit to our army of--waiters, I was going to say, but it sounds silly. Waitresses hardly seems right either, does it? Anyhow, I hope you won't have to wait for very long."

"I hope not," said Betty, a trifle forlornly.