Part 10 (2/2)
”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 d.i.c.kens 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-c.o.xswain, 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 s.h.i.+p 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 sh.o.r.e,” 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' to 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 insh.o.r.e. 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!”
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