Part 18 (1/2)
”Big sc.r.a.p in the North Sea--it's on the placards,” replied his son,
”Heave-to, Crosthwaite!” exclaimed Admiral Sefton. ”Stop here!”
The driver, imagining that something was amiss, and that he had unknowingly run over something, applied his emergency brakes, bringing up his car all standing and at a grave risk to the tyres. Leslie, taken unawares, shot forward, ”ramming” his parent in the small of the back with his head and forcing the admiral against the dash-board.
”What the----!” began the astonished Crosthwaite Senior.
Almost unconscious of the rough treatment by his son, Admiral Sefton descended from the car. Already George had executed a flying leap, and was running towards the news-agent's shop.
Returning with a handful of papers he met the admiral half-way.
”It's 'The Day', sir!” he exclaimed, confident in the belief that the long-expected struggle for naval supremacy had been settled once and for all in Britain's favour.
Admiral Sefton grabbed the proffered paper with super-energy, almost tearing the flimsy fabric with his powerful fingers as he fumbled with the recalcitrant leaves.
Then the look of eager expectancy faded from his face, giving place to a dull, strained expression of incredulity.
”Come along, Sefton!” sang out Crosthwaite Senior. ”Don't be greedy with the good news. Why, man----”
”We've got it properly in the neck, Pater,” announced his son.
”Fourteen of ours, including the _Queen Mary_, sunk.”
”But the enemy--the German losses are heavier than ours?” enquired the general, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the paper George was holding.
The two officers scanned the official report. ”Owing to low visibility”--was ever an Admiralty dispatch issued with such halting excuses? A straightforward admission of our losses, it is true, but nothing to suggest that the Germans had incurred similar or heavier casualties, or even that the British navy had gained the day. And then there was the perplexing statement that the Germans had rescued a number of British seamen, and no corresponding report to the effect that we had saved any of theirs. Everything pointed to a running fight in which the Huns were the pursuers.
Admiral Sefton was dumbfounded. Had there been a convenient wall, he might have turned his face towards it and groaned in spirit. Instead he set his jaw tightly and thought hard.
”What do you make of it?” enquired the general. ”Looks bad on the face of it, eh?”
”We must wait for further details,” was his companion's guarded reply.
The journey was resumed, but all the joy had vanished from the minds of the party. No longer, the beautiful scenery appealed to them; the crisp, bracing air and brilliant suns.h.i.+ne called in vain.
Down the steep ”hairpin” road through Nailsworth, and along one of the prettiest valleys of the Cotswolds, the car literally crawled. General Crosthwaite, contrary to his usual practice, was driving slowly and listlessly. His keen zest had disappeared. As he gripped the steering-wheel he thought deeply, remembering that his son was somewhere out there in the trackless, mine-strewn North Sea.
The admiral, too, was meditating. He would dearly have liked to have paced to and fro, with his hands clasped behind his back in true quarter-deck style; but since the limits of the car made such a proceeding impossible, and it was equally difficult to alight unless the car stopped, he ”sat tight” and made a mental review of the battle, constructing his theories upon the slender foundations conveyed in the official report.
Gradually his perplexities vanished. The firm belief in the well-being of the navy that had gripped his mind ever since those long-past _Britannia_ days was not to be shattered by a disquieting and obviously incomplete report, even though it bore Admiralty endors.e.m.e.nt.
”Hang it all!” he exclaimed, startling his friend by bawling into Crosthwaite Senior's ear. ”Hanged if I'll go by that report. Just you wait, my dear fellow, until supplementary information is forthcoming.
It's my belief the Admiralty have something up their sleeve, and that we've won hands down.”
”You think so?” asked the general eagerly.
”Think so! I know it,” was the now decided reply. ”Carry on, Crosthwaite, full-speed ahead, and we'll see what news there is when we get to Gloucester.”
”Hope you're right,” thought the army officer. Visions of a previous naval disaster--that of the gallant Craddock's defeat off Coronel, the first news of which came from German sources--urged that such a thing as a naval defeat might be possible, especially in view of the great part played by chance. A misunderstood order might result in disaster. A chance shot or an accidental internal explosion might imperil the superiority of the British fleet.