I
Dusk and a fine driving rain were sweeping up harbour from the sea. The shadows that had gathered in the folds of the hills ashore swiftly overflowed and settled down over the muddy town and wharves, engulfing the straggling dockyard. As night fell, lights glimmered here and there on the hill-side and were obliterated; across the swift-running ebb-tide the irritable chatter of pneumatic riveters drifted in gusts; and in the direction from which the sound came a few shaded arc-lights shone upon the half-discerned ribs of craft on the building slips.
Something beside the night was coming in from the sea: a ship with a heavy list, labouring in with a tug on either side of her and another fretting at the end of the tow. They passed, a mere smear of uncertain outlines, through the outer defences, and a couple of long black shadows that were the escorting destroyers wheeled again to seaward and were blotted from view.
A number of small craft were afloat in the lower reaches of the harbour. A hospital launch, with the Geneva cross visible through the dusk against her white upper-works, lay rolling gently by the berth towards which the tow was heading. Another steam launch circled impatiently round, and in her stern-sheets a group of armed marines stood watching the approaching vessels above the upturned collars of their greatcoats. The steaming-light of the hospital boat glimmered momentarily on the barrels of their rifles.
“’Ullo?” said a sick-berth attendant in the hospital boat, “guard o’ marines—eh?”
The sternsheets-man nodded towards the approaching tow-lights. “Prisoners,” he said sententiously, and was silent, watching the shadowy ship looming towards them out of the murk. The tug on the tow slipped the hawser with a blast on her syren and turned shoreward; the splash of an anchor let go and the rattle of cable followed. The coxswain of the hospital boat, as if awaiting a signal, put out his hand toward the telegraph and rang slow speed ahead. A light appeared at the gangway of the shadowy ship.
One of the tugs alongside had cast off and was backing astern into the darkness: as she cleared the ship’s side a steam-boat, with her bow lights gleaming through the drizzle like red and green jewels, crossed the bows, swept round in a graceful circle, and ran alongside. A rope ladder dropped from the upper deck of the ship, and a figure in oil-skins, which had been standing in the stern-sheets of the steam-boat, caught it as it swayed.
“Lay off,” he said curtly to the coxswain, and climbed inboard.
A seaman stood at the gangway holding a lantern above his head, and as the new-comer stepped inboard another figure came forward into the light to greet him. He was a loose-limbed, youngish man, wearing the cap and monkey jacket of a commander. Leather sea-boots reached to his knees, and he dragged his feet as he walked, as if oppressed with a great weariness. He peered at the new-comer through the drizzle for an instant, and then saluted. A grave smile flitted across his face, lit for a moment by the lantern-light.
“Congratulate you!” said the visitor in quick incisive tones. “Are you all right—wounded?”
“No, sir, not a scratch. Ship’s badly knocked about, but she’ll float. Dynamo’s gone, and we’ve only got lanterns, but you can see....” He nodded forward.
The visitor came a pace or two inboard and stood looking about the upper-deck in silence. Figures were moving to and fro with lanterns, and the uncertain light flickered on splintered planking and upper-works shattered and distorted by shell-fire. The air was pungent with the sour odour of wet charred woodwork.
“Yes....” said the new-comer, in a low voice, as if speaking to himself. “Yes....” He stared at the riven funnel overhead and thence to the rents in the bulwarks. “Where are your dead?”
“Aft, sir.” The Commander led the way past piles of crumpled wreckage, down a ladder, and across an open space. A sentry leaning on his rifle at a doorway jerked to attention. “Here are the dead, sir,” said the Commander. He stepped through the door and indicated in the flickering lantern-light a row of motionless figures resting beneath a White Ensign.
The other halted and stood in silent contemplation of the shrouded forms outlined dimly amongst the shadows. His chin had sunk on his breast, and for a minute he remained thus, motionless. Then slowly he turned away.
“The men were absolutely splendid, sir,” said the Commander, as he led the way forward again. “I—I don’t know how to express what I feel about them. This was out and away the worst show we’ve had, and they were”—the speaker broke off and seemed to swallow something—“magnificent.” The inadequacy of the English language appeared to embarrass him. He made a little gesture: “Surgeon was killed, an’ I did what I could, but I’m afraid I hurt some of them shockingly. They never winced. It’s so hard to find words——”
“There are no words,” said the other, “that meet the case.” He paused to measure a shell-hole in the engine-room casing; the clang of metal on metal and the throb of pumps came up from the silent depths of the ship. “What about your prisoners?’
“The captain’s in my harbour cabin—what’s left of it. Pretty sulky customer. The rest are forward under guard. They’re more communicative than the last lot and jolly glad to get out of submarines for the rest of the war.”
A gust of laughter floated aft from the forecastle and the sound of men’s voices singing. A door opened somewhere, and the words of the song came plain through the night:
“When you come to the end of a perfect day!”
The Commander smiled as a father smiles on the threshold of his children’s nursery. “That’s the wounded, sir. First lieutenant’s got the rest forward, working cables.” A figure came towards them out of the darkness with bandages glimmering white about his head. He was humming the refrain of the forecastle song, and broke off abruptly as he recognised the two figures by the casing.
“The hospital boat is coming alongside now,” said the stranger. “I’d like to speak to the wounded before they leave the ship.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The other led the way forward, and as they stepped into the dimly-lighted forecastle the singing wavered and died away to a sudden silence. The narrow space was partly blocked by hammocks slung from the beams overhead, and illumined by a few swinging lanterns and candles guttering on the broken mess tables. Evidences of the ordeal the ship had undergone were apparent on all sides in blackened paint-work and ragged shell-holes in the deck and ship’s side. Men sat about smoking and nursing bandaged limbs, or lay motionless with their eyes full of suffering turned towards the new-comers; a few rose unsteadily to their feet, and the stranger motioned them with a gesture to sit down again.
“If England knew,” he said, in his clear, deliberate tones, “England could tell you men what she thinks of you. Unfortunately, I am the only person at present that knows”—he paused and surveyed them in the uncertain light, which, nevertheless, served to illumine the consciousness of victory in each drawn face. “And I’m—proud of you.” They cheered the spare, upright figure as he stood amid the wreckage and pools of water as only men can cheer who have fought a good fight to a clean finish; as the last gust died away feet shuffled on the iron plating behind the speaker, and the stretcher-bearers entered. From farther aft along the upper deck came a hoarse word of command, and the clatter of steel as the unseen prisoners’ escort fixed bayonets. The visitor turned to the Commander and walked slowly aft.
“Now,” he said, “I’ll have your report.”
. . . . .
Half an hour later the visitor departed. At the gangway he paused. “I’ll send my barge back for you,” he said. “You’ll want to get ashore. I sent to tell your wife you were coming in.” He smiled his dour smile. “When did you get your last sleep?”
The younger man thought gravely for a moment. “I don’t remember, sir. What’s to-day?... Thursday?” He smiled. “Monday, sir, I think it was.... Thanks awfully for the barge, sir. I’ll go ashore when I’ve seen the ship all right for the night.”