CHAPTER XXX
A NIGHT OF COINCIDENCES
It was late on the following day when Meredith and his companions, together with close on six hundred naval ratings and a corresponding quantity of kit and baggage, found themselves dumped down upon the platform at Thurso. The long Highland night had fallen, bringing with it wind and rain in plenty, and altogether things looked too desolate for words. It was bitterly cold, too, and occasionally drifting flakes of snow eddied in the howling wind.
"Cheerful sort of show, this!" exclaimed Wakefield, as he buttoned the storm-flap of his waterproof coat. "Can't say I like the idea of this part as a cruising-ground. Auldhaig was bad enough at times, but this!"
"Wonder our fellows could stick it, summer and winter, for over four, years," remarked Meredith. "Hark at the roar of the surf! And Thurso's in a bay, isn't it?"
For the most part the bluejackets were accepting the conditions with the same equanimity as when they fall in on the lower deck for dinner. Clad in glistening oilskins, and gripping their bundles, they formed up and marched off to a long shed to partake of refreshment, laughing and cutting jokes like overgrown schoolboys.
The officers, too, were sorting themselves out and drifting away in search of a repast. Their baggage was left to take care of itself. Far from the Metropolis, and free from the inconveniences of being at the mercy of opulent and independent porters, Thurso was run strictly on Service lines. There was no necessity on the part of the owners to worry about their luggage. Under the supervision of a "baggage officer" a crowd of bluejackets threw themselves upon the weird assortment of "officers' effects," and in due course the luggage, marshalled and sorted, would be transferred to various tenders for conveyance to the Fleet.
Presently the refreshment-rooms disgorged their temporary occupants. Voices in the night were heard shouting, "Men for Furious fall in." "Iron Dukes to the right." "Ninth Destroyer Flotilla men, this way"—until the hitherto jumbled crowd of humanity was formed up into a distinct semblance of order.
In fours the bluejackets marched along the pier to embark on various tugs and harbour craft that were to take them to their respective ships across the wild Pentland Firth, their movements regulated by a bull-throated piermaster, whose capacity for organisation alone, apart from the cap, greatcoat and sea-boots, would have proclaimed him to be a naval officer.
At frequent intervals he would be interrupted to answer questions by harassed officers and men, yet with the ease of a Cook's courier he would supply the necessary information and then revert to his main task of supervising the embarkation.
"M.L.'s?" he exclaimed, in answer to Wakefield's query. "Take passage in Growler. She's lying at No. 3 berth.... What's that? Beach-master at Skelda Holm? H'm! let me see. Yes! you'd better carry on with the M.L. party. You'll find a duty boat at Scapa."
"So we don't part company yet awhile," said Morpeth. "Lead on, Wakefield, and let's get out of the rain. I can stick plenty of salt spray, but I'm hanged if I like this."
They found the Growler, a tubby twin-screw tug, grinding against the pier, massive rope fenders notwithstanding. On board were half a dozen R.N.V.R. officers and about fifty men. The former eyed the newcomers keenly, as if expecting to find former acquaintances.
"Give us your paw, laddie. I am delighted to see you," exclaimed a hearty voice, as a big, muscular hand gripped Meredith's shoulder. "Bless me, and Wakefield too!"
"McIntosh!" ejaculated Meredith. "What are you doing here?"
"I'll tell ye all in guid time," replied the R.N.V.R. officer, whose shoulder-straps denoted that he was a Sub no longer but a full-blown lieutenant. "But just tell me: where's that golf club of mine I gave you to mend?"
"'Fraid it's at the bottom of the North Sea," replied Meredith. "'All goods left at owner's risk,' you know. But tell me when did you leave Auldhaig?"
"Last May," replied Jock gloomily. "After I lost that confounded lighter my name was Mud. They gave me an M.L., but she's a swine. She's known as the Scapa Misfit—an' she is," he added bitterly. "There's been three fires in the galley—petrol stoves are a curse—once I stove her bows in 'cause the rudder chains jammed, and now she's laid up with a fractured cylinder. Hope she is still!"
"Chuck it, you bloomin' pessimist!" exclaimed Wakefield boisterously. "Say you re glad to see us——"
"I did," declared McIntosh. "And my Sub! He's what you'd call a knock-out. I'll swop with you, Meredith. P'raps you could make something of him—give him poison, or muzzle him, or shanghai him."
"What's he done?" asked Kenneth.
Before Jock McIntosh could go very far into the reasons why Sub-lieutenant Jasper Clinch was the bane of his existence, the piermaster came hurrying along the jetty.
"Too bad outside," he yelled, addressing the skipper of the tug. "We've just got orders to transfer the men to Wick. It will be an easier passage."
The master of the Growler signified acquiescence. He gave a jerk at the engine-room telegraph, shouted "Finished with the engines, George!" and descended the bridge with the air of a man who has suddenly come into a small fortune. In his case it was a stroke of rattling good luck. Expecting a tempestuous trip across the swirling "Swilkie"—one of the most dangerous "tidal races" round the British Isles—he was greatly surprised and relieved to find that his orders had been countermanded.
One man's meat is another man's poison. This axiom was clearly demonstrated when the order came for all officers and men to disembark, entrain once more, and proceed to Wick—a railway journey of about twenty miles, tedious enough when tacked on to long hours of travelling.
Upon arrival at Wick another surprise awaited Wakefield and Meredith, for on the pier-head they encountered Jefferson and Pyecroft.
"Cheerio!" exclaimed Jefferson. "So we are to be shipmates again! Hope neither of us is a Jonah this trip. D'ye remember that old lighter?"
"Yes, rather," replied Meredith. "Coincidences are tumbling over one another tonight. McIntosh, let me introduce you to Jefferson and Pyecroft. They picked up the X-barge you lost."
"They were welcome to her," remarked McIntosh. "So you fellows saw the inside of a U-boat?"
"Yes," admitted Jefferson. "I did. Pyecroft, here, preferred a swim in the North Sea. By the by, Meredith, old Cumberleigh's knocking around somewhere. He was on the pier five minutes ago. We're off to Stenness Air Station—it's not far from Scapa—for aerial observation duties. Hello! This our boat?"
A large, two-funnelled vessel was approaching the jetty, her decks deserted save for a few muffled and greatcoated passengers. Usually she brought a full complement of liberty men from the Grand Fleet, but now, in anticipation of a move on the part of the Hun Navy, all leave had been stopped.
"Better than crossing in a tug," commented Wakefield. "And we'll be under the lee of the land till we clear Duncansbay Head. Hello! here's Cumberleigh. Cheerio!"
Greetings were exchanged between the R.A.F. captain and the R.N.V.R. officers, while Morpeth came in for a fair share of congratulations.
"Thank goodness I found my sea-legs aboard your old hooker, Morpeth," remarked Cumberleigh. "My word, there's a swell running!"
The steamer made fast. The wire hawsers were made fast and the gangways run out.
"Bless my soul," ejaculated McIntosh, pointing to a cloaked figure descending the gangway, "'if that isn't my Sub! Wonder what he's doing here?"
He detached himself from the crowd and confronted Sub-lieutenant Jasper Clinch.
"Hello, Sub!" he exclaimed. "Got leave?"
"No," was the reply. "No such luck. The S.N.O. ordered me to Auldhaig. There's a Court of Inquiry about something. Has the train left yet?"
Jefferson nudged Cumberleigh in the ribs.
"Good enough!" exclaimed the R.A.F. captain, and to the surprise of everyone standing around, the two officers literally leapt at the astounded Clinch.
Before the latter had time to consider the situation he was lying on his back on the wet and muddy jetty, with Cumberleigh sitting on his chest and Jefferson gripping his ankles.
"Find the A.P.M., somebody," exclaimed Cumberleigh in an exultant tone; "or a picquet will answer the purpose. Now then, Captain Fennelburt, or whatever you call yourself—no, don't wriggle, it's bad form—there's no need to worry about the Auldhaig train. You'll soon be in safe quarters, my festive!"