Part 5 (1/2)

Crosthwaite smiled enigmatically. He knew as much as captains of s.h.i.+ps were supposed to know, which wasn't very much, but more than their subordinates were told.

”Patience!” he replied. ”Can't say more at present. You might see how repairs to that 4-inch gun are progressing.”

Sefton descended the bridge ladder and made his way aft. Slight defects in the mounting of the stern-chaser quick-firer had appeared almost as soon as the destroyer left the Firth of Forth, and the armourer's crew were hard at work rectifying the damage.

Gripping the stanchion rail surrounding the gun platform, for the _Calder_ was rolling considerably in the ”wash” of her preceding consorts, and exposed to a stiff beam wind, the sub watched the operation. He had no need to ask any questions; there was little about the mechanism of a 4-inch and its mountings that he did not know. He could see that the repairs were almost completed, only a few finis.h.i.+ng touches requiring to be done.

”Man overboard!”

The sub rushed to the side just in time to see the outstretched arms of a bluejacket emerging from the following wave of the swiftly moving craft. It was indeed fortunate that the man was still alive, not only had he escaped having his back broken on striking the water, but he had missed the rapidly revolving starboard propeller. Clad in a ”duffel”

suit and wearing sea-boots, his position was precarious in the extreme.

Without hesitation Sefton made a flying leap over the guard-rails. Once clear of the side he drew up his legs and hunched his shoulders, striking the water with tremendous force. Well it was that he had taken this precaution instead of making a dive in the ordinary sense of the word, for, carried onward at the rate of a mile every three minutes, he ran a serious risk of dislocated limbs or a broken back had he not rolled himself into the nearest resemblance to a ball.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”WITHOUT HESITATION SEFTON MADE A FLYING LEAP OVER THE GUARD RAILS”]

He sank deeply, and was swept irresistibly by the back-wash; it seemed as if he were fathoms down. Before he emerged he could distinctly hear the whirr of the triple propellers. Rising to the surface he refilled his lungs with the salt-laden air, for the concussion had wellnigh deprived him of breath. Then he gave a hurried glance around him.

The _Calder_ was already a couple of cables' lengths away, while the destroyer next astern was almost on top of him. As she swept by, a lifebuoy was hurled towards the sub, luckily missing him by a bare yard.

The second and last destroyer astern saw the swimmer, and by porting helm avoided him easily, and saved him from the great discomfort of being flung about in her wake like a pea in a saucepan of boiling water.

Without making any attempt to slow down and send a boat, the destroyer flotilla held on.

Sefton soon realized the necessity for this apparently inexplicable act.

It was impossible without grave risk to the flotilla to break up the formation, while the danger was still further increased by the fact that the First Cruiser Squadron was pelting along somewhere three or four miles astern, and these vessels, being of a considerable tonnage, carried a tremendous amount of way. Above all, it was war-time, and individuals do not count when greater issues are at stake.

Presently the sub descried the head and shoulders of the missing man as he rose on the crest of the broken waves. He, too, had succeeded in reaching a lifebuoy thrown by the nearmost destroyer. Short as had been the time between the man's tumble overboard and Sefton's deliberate leap, owing to the speed of the flotilla nearly a quarter of a mile separated the would-be rescuer from the object of his gallant attempt.

”No use hanging on here,” thought Sefton, as he clung to the buoy.

”Must get to the man somehow.”

Then it was that he realized that he had gone overboard in a thick pilot coat and india-rubber sea-boots. These he sacrificed regretfully, since there was no chance of replenis.h.i.+ng his kit until the _Calder_ returned to port--that is, if he had the good fortune to survive his adventure ”in the ditch”. The operation of discarding the boots gave him a tussle, during which he swallowed more salt water than desirable; then, relaxing his grip on the lifebuoy, Sefton struck out towards the man.

The sub was a good swimmer. At Dartmouth he had been ”runner-up” for the 440 yards champions.h.i.+p, but now he realized the vast difference between swimming that length in regulation costume and an equal distance almost fully clothed in the choppy North Sea.

By the time the sub came within hailing distance of the seaman his limbs felt as heavy as lead, while, do what he would, he was unable to raise his voice above a whisper, much less ”a.s.sure the drowning man in a loud, firm voice that he is safe”, according to the official regulations.

Sefton was by no means certain that he himself was in anything but a most precarious position.

Sefton found that the man he had risked his life to save was not half so exhausted as he was. The seaman had come off lightly in his fall, and he had had no occasion to tire himself with a long swim to the lifebuoy, since the crew of the pa.s.sing destroyer had all but brained him with the cork ”Kisbie”.

The A.B. regarded his rescuer with a look that betokened pained disapproval. He was one of those men who are ever ”up against discipline”. To him the gold band and curl on a uniform meant something more than authority: it roused a spirit of sullen aggression.

And yet Thomas Brown had joined the Royal Navy with the best intentions.

Fate, in the shape of a short-tempered recruiting-officer, had marred his career from the very start; for, on joining the training-school at Shotley, one of the questions asked of him was the name of his birthplace.

”Ashby-de-la-Zouch, sir,” replied young Brown, giving the name with the accepted Leicesters.h.i.+re accent.