CHAPTER XXVI
THE HOMECOMING OF THE S.S. "MEROPE"
"Evenin' paper. British cruiser sunk."
The shrill cries of a very small youth blessed with a pair of powerful lungs greeted Doris Greenwood as the train in which she was travelling south from Scotland pulled up at Peterborough.
The majority of the passengers heard the announcement with hardly more than passing interest. This was one of the results of the greatest war the world has ever seen. In the early phases of the struggle the loss of a British warship, in spite of the fact that the Press took particular pains to explain that she was a semi-obsolete craft of no great fighting value, was a subject of great concern. On the principle that familiarity breeds contempt, the recurrence of for the most part unavoidable naval disasters was borne by the public with a fatalism bordering upon indifference, save by those whose kith and kin were fighting "somewhere in the North Sea," or were upholding the traditions of the Senior Service in the distant seas within the war zone.
The loss of the "Titanic" in the piping times of peace afforded columns of detailed copy in the Press. The torpedoing or mining of a battleship in the Great War was curtly dismissed in half a dozen lines.
Stepping into the corridor of the carriage, Doris called to the newsboy and bought a paper. An inexplicable kind of presentiment gripped the girl's mind as she unfolded the double sheet of paper, still moist from the printing-press.
The double-leaded headlines gave no information on the particular subject; nor did the rest of the ordinary headings. Sandwiched between reports of local markets and racing was a blurred "Stop Press" announcement:
"The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to report that the light cruiser 'Heracles' has been sunk. Feared loss of all hands."
How, when, or where was not stated, nor was any mention made of the engagement with the two German cruisers. The uncertainty of the whole business, save for the absolute statement that the "Heracles" was lost, rendered the blow even more stunning. For the rest of the journey to King's Cross Doris sat dry-eyed, hardly able to grasp the dread significance of the terrible news.
The girl had been somewhat unexpectedly given fourteen days' leave. She was on her way to her home in Devonshire, intent upon making the best of every moment of her hard-earned holiday. And now she was going to a house of gloom. Eric and Ronald—her brother and the young officer who day by day seemed more and more to her—were missing and presumably dead.
On arriving in London, Doris found people wildly excited over the destruction of the "Stoshfeld" and "Lemburg." The news had just been published, together with the additional information that the "Heracles" had been engaged with the former hostile vessel, and that after the "Castor" and "Pollux" had sunk the "Lemburg," they had gone in search of their consort and found unmistakable signs that she had been sunk. For the officers and crew of the lost cruiser no hope was now entertained.
It was late in the evening when the girl alighted at the country station of the little Devonshire town. News of the disaster had preceded her. Mr. Greenwood was trying to persuade himself that it was his privilege to be the father of one who had given his life for King and Country, but somehow the attempt was a dismal failure. Mrs. Greenwood was on the verge of collapse and required all the attention that could be given. The horrible uncertainty—the lack of definite evidence—was the hardest for her to bear.
Several days passed. Letters of condolence began to arrive, each missive driving another nail into the coffin of a dead hope. The official notification from the Admiralty of the presumed death of Assistant Paymaster Eric Greenwood, R.N.R., gave the coup de grâce to the long-drawn-out suspense.
On the seventh day after her return Doris felt that she must go for a long ramble. The call of the cliffs was irresistible. Accompanied by her dog, she set out in the direction of Prawle Point, a favourite walk in those long-ago pre-war days.
It was misty when the girl gained the edge of the red cliffs. A sea-fog had held for nearly forty-eight hours. The on-shore wind blew cold and clammy, although spring was well advanced and the trees and hedges were acquiring their new garb of verdure. Some distance away the fog signals from Start Point gave out its mournful wail—one blast of seven seconds every two minutes. It seemed in harmony with the times—a dirge over the ocean grave of many a brave seaman, lost in the service of his country. Doris wandered on till she came within a short distance of the signal station. Here she sat, watching the sullen rollers breaking into masses of foam against the jagged ledges of rock that jut out from the wild Prawle Point.
Along the narrow cliff path a sailor was tramping. As he approached, Doris recognised him as one of the coastguards from the neighbouring station. Owing to the importance of the station, the men had not been sent afloat on the outbreak of war, as was the case of hundreds of the detachments scattered around the coast; they did their duty well by remaining for signalling purposes, as several hostile submarines found to their cost.
The man knew Doris. Saluting, he stopped and chatted. Aware of the girl's loss, he tactfully made no reference to the sinking of the "Heracles," but confined his remarks to events in the district.
Presently the sun burst through the bank of mist. As if by magic the sea became visible for several miles. It was not deserted. A long way from shore two large transports escorted by destroyers were proceeding up-Channel. Considerably nearer was a small tramp, steaming in the direction of Prawle Point.
The coastguard paused in the midst of a detailed description of his garden and looked seaward.
"What is that vessel coming straight towards the shore for?" asked Doris.
"Dunno, miss; that is, unless she's been bamboozled by the fog and is coming in to make sure of her position. Maybe the coast appears a bit hazy from where she is. There, I thought so; she's porting her helm. She's off up-Channel."
As he spoke, the tramp hoisted her colours over a red and white pennant—signifying that she wished to communicate with the signal station. Slowing down, she exchanged signals for nearly a quarter of an hour, then proceeded with increased speed in an easterly direction.
"Quite a lot of signalling," remarked Doris.
"Yes, miss," agreed the man. "More'n usual. P'raps she's been chased by a German submarine, though there don't look much wrong with her. You'm curious, miss?"
"A little," admitted the girl. "At these times messages from passing ships may mean a lot."
"True, miss, true," agreed the coastguard as he prepared to resume his way. "I'll enquire, miss, an' if it ain't confidential, I'll nip back and tell 'ee."
The girl sat down again, and, almost unconsciously patting the dog, kept her eyes directed seawards. She had almost forgotten the coastguard's promise when she became aware that he was returning swiftly.
"Miss," he exclaimed excitedly, "'tes good news. Yon vessel is the 'Merope.' She's got on board a hundred an' eleven officers and men from the 'Heracles.' She's landing 'em at Dartmouth."
"Any names?" asked the girl.
"No, miss."
"Thank you," she said quietly, then she set off homewards.
One hundred and eleven survivors. Roughly one in every five of the "Heracles'" original complement. Was it too much to hope that the two in whom she was most concerned were amongst those who had escaped?
Gradually she formed her plans. Until more news was obtainable, she decided not to raise false hopes in her parents' minds. She would keep the tidings to herself until——
The hoot of a motor-car interrupted her train of thought. Bowling along the narrow, sunken lane was a six-seater owned by Dr. Cardyke, a retired practitioner who had been "dug out" of his retreat to act as surgeon to a military hospital.
Recognising the girl, the doctor slowed down.
"A lift, Miss Greenwood? I'm going close to your house?"
Doris accepted the invitation gratefully.
"I'm just off to Dartmouth and back," continued the doctor. "Wonderful things these cars after one has been used to a horse. Get there in no time, to use a common expression."
Dr. Cardyke spoke with all the enthusiasm of a keen motorist, in spite of his sixty-odd years. Had he been any one else but a well-known country practitioner, he might have been "run in" for furious driving times without number, but luck and a "benevolent neutrality" on the part of the police had hitherto steered him clear of the police-courts.
"Dartmouth?" repeated Doris. "Would you mind, doctor, if you—I mean, will you take me to Dartmouth with you?"
"Certainly, my dear young lady," replied the doctor gallantly. "But, pardon my curiosity, for why? It's too late to do any shopping, you know. Early closing day, you know."
"It's not that," said the girl, glad of the chance to confide her secret and her hopes to someone. "There are more than a hundred survivors of the 'Heracles' being landed at Dartmouth, and I——"
The sentence remained unfinished. Dr. Cardyke gave a grunt that betokened sympathy and encouragement.
"'Pon my word!" he exclaimed as he touched the accelerator. "'Pon my word! How very remarkable!"
The car simply bounded along. The straight level road by Slapton Sands it covered at a good fifty miles an hour; with hardly a perceptible effort, but with many a jolt, it breasted the steep ascent at Stoke Fleming and was soon careering madly down the almost precipitous slope to the valley of the Dart, never halting till it pulled up on the quay of old-world Dartmouth.
"There she is, sir," said a fisherman in answer to the doctor's enquiry. "Just a-comin' round Castle Ledge."
News of the impending arrival of the survivors of the "Heracles," had preceded the "Merope." Already Lloyd's staff at Prawle Point had telegraphed the glad tidings, and the report had been spread far and wide. Hundreds of Dartmouth townsfolk were gathered on the quays and on the high ground by the old castle. Half a dozen steamboats crammed with wildly excited naval cadets had left the College quay and were pelting down the harbour to greet the returning warriors. Dartmouth had not seen such a day since the last pre-war regatta.
Slowly the "Merope" approached the anchorage on the Kingswear side of the harbour. As she drew abreast of the quay Doris could see the comparatively limited expanse of deck crowded with men. Few of them wore naval uniforms. Here and there could be distinguished a seaman wearing a service jumper or a naval cap, but for the most part they were rigged out in canvas clothing. Some were actually wearing garments fashioned out of blankets.
"Hulloa there, Bill," shouted a Dartmouth waterman recognising an old friend on the tramp's deck. "You'm all right, us hopes?"
"Ay," was the reply, "but deuced hungry." The man voiced the sentiments of his comrades. They were in high spirits in spite of short rations.
An outward-bound Scandinavian steamer had effected the rescue of the survivors of the "Heracles," and not being equipped with wireless she was unable to send the reassuring news to any of the British cruisers which were searching fruitlessly over the spot where their consort had foundered five hours previously.
Twenty-four hours later the rescuing ship fell in with the "Merope," homeward bound, and in spite of limited accommodation and provisions her skipper gladly offered to tranship the hundred-odd officers and men of the "Heracles."
Strangely enough, the "Merope" gained the "Chops of the Channel" without getting within signalling distance of any other craft. Then a thick fog swept down, preventing her from communicating with either the Scillies or with the Lizard Station. Food was now running out. The tramp's exact position was unknown, until the sudden dispersal of the fog revealed the fact that she was within signalling distance of Prawle Point. Thus it was that her skipper judiciously decided to put in to Dartmouth, land her supernumeraries and revictual before resuming her voyage to London.
Amidst the scene of excitement Doris Greenwood remained perfectly calm—at least outwardly. Several times Dr. Cardyke glanced furtively at his companion's face.
"Plucky girl," he soliloquised. "Frightfully plucky. If her brother isn't on board, by Jove——"
A burst of cheering, louder than ever, interrupted his thoughts. The "Merope" had brought up. Her accommodation-ladder was already lowered; a small fleet of boats rubbed alongside her iron-rusted hull.
"They'm landing the whole of 'em at Kingswear side, I'll allow," declared an old salt. "Off to Plymouth 'tes for they—court-martial, or summat o' that sort."
The girl could stand the suspense no longer. Descending from the car, she called to an urchin who was about to put off in a flat-bottomed, leaky punt. It was the only available craft, for almost everything that would float was crowded with sightseers.
"Boy," she called, "will you take me off to that ship?"
The sight of a shilling decided the youngster to break faith with half a dozen of his pals, who were waiting until he had baled out his leaky argosy.
She was only just in time, for the old salt's surmise was correct. Officers and men were to be sent to the Devonport Naval Barracks to await a court of enquiry.
"Hulloa, Doris!"
It was Eric's voice. She hardly recognised in the speaker her brother. A week's growth upon his chin, his alert figure grotesquely hidden in a dungaree boiler-suit, a tarry canvas cap set jauntily on his head, and his arm in a sling.
The A.P. leant over the coaming of the picquet-boat and grasped his sister's outstretched hand.
"Bit of a surprise, eh?" he remarked. "How on earth did you get wind of it? And so jolly near home, too. If ever I felt like breaking ship it's now. Never mind, old girl! This will mean a week's leave very soon."
"And Ronald?" she asked.
"They took him ashore not two minutes ago," replied the A.P. "Cot case, you know——"
"Not seriously wounded?"
"No. Effects of exhaustion. We all had a pretty rough time, and old Tressidar was a brick... we're off. Push off, boy!"
The picquet-boat began to back away from the ladder, two of her crew using their boat-hooks to fend off the crowd of shore-craft.
"S'long, Doris," was her brother's farewell greeting. "No use coming across. They won't let you into the station. I'll give Tressidar the tip that I've seen you."
As the picquet-boat glided astern, Doris overheard a voice exclaim, "Tressidar's a lucky dog, dash it all!"
It was the engineer-sub-lieutenant who had vainly begged Tressidar for an introduction on the memorable day when the "Pompey" was sunk in Auldhaig Firth.
"Well," was Dr. Cardyke's comment as the girl ran lightly back to the car. "It's good news, I can see. No need to ask that. Now what's the programme?"
"You have business in Dartmouth," she reminded him.
"Done," rejoined the doctor laconically. "Done, while you were risking your life in that cockleshell. Suppose it's home to tell the good news?"
"Yes, if you please," replied the girl, and to her companion's mild astonishment he saw that she was crying. They were tears not of sorrow, but of joy and thankfulness—of relief that the sea had returned to her those she loved.