To Number Three again, last of the line and out of her station, the convoy officer seeks to return. The fog is denser than ever, and the echoes of the bay, now transferred to seaward, augment the uneasy short-blast mutterings where the ships, closed up at the narrow 'gateway,' are slowing and backing to drop their pilots. In his traverse of the anchorage the coxswain has lost bearing of the Cinderella and steers a zigzag course through the murk. The sun has risen, brightening the overhead but proving (in sea glare and misty daze) an ally to the veil. No sound of heaving cable or thunder of escaping steam that would mark a vessel hurrying to get her anchor and make up for time lost is to be heard. Frankly puzzled, the coxswain stops his engines. "Must 'a sailed, sir," he says at length. "There ain't nothin' movin' this end o' th' bay."
The convoy officer nods. "Mmm! She may have gone on, while we were dragging Marmion clear of th' stern of that 'blue funnel' boat. A good job. Well, carry on! Head in—think that was th' pier-head bell we heard abeam!"
At easy speed the launch turns and coxswain bends to peer at the swinging compass-card. As one who has held out to a job o' work completed, the P.C.O. stretches his arms and yawns audibly and whole-hearted. "A good bath now and a bite o' breakfast and— Oh, hell! What's that astern?"
The turn in the wake has drawn his eye to a grey blur in the glare of the mist. An anchored ship!
Keeping the helm over, the coxswain swings a wide circle and steadies on the mark. "Damn if it ain't her!" he says, as the launch draws on.
The Cinderella lies quiet with easy harbour smoke rising straight up from her funnel and no windlass party grouped on the forecastle-head; quiet, as if fog and convoy and the distant reverberations of her sister ships held no concern for her. To the P.C.O.'s surprised and somewhat indignant hail there is returned a short-phrased assurance that the ruddy anchor is down—and is going to remain down! "Think I'm going out in this to hunt my place in the pack? No damn fear!" says the captain. "Why, I can scarce see who's hailing me, less a line o' ships barging along!"
The pilot, in a tone that suggests he has already 'put out an oar'—with little effect—joins in to reassure. "Clearin' outside now, captain. I haven't heard th' lighthouse syren for twenty minutes or more! The fog'll be hangin' here in harbour a bit."
"Aye, aye! But it's here we are, pilot—not outside yet. A clearing out there doesn't show us th' leading marks, and I'll not risk it. I've no fancy for nosing into th' nets and booms. I know where I am here, and I won't stir a turn—unless"—bending over the light screen towards the launch—"unless you lead ahead!"
The convoy officer is somewhat embarrassed. Certainly the weather is as thick as a hedge; there is no 'drill' of convoy practice that empowers him to order risks to be taken—navigation of the ships is not his province. It is enough for him to arrange and advise and assist. If he leads out and anything does happen?
Still, it is maddening to think of one hitch in a good programme—'almost a record, too!' He looks at his watch and notes that only fifty minutes have elapsed since British Standard weighed.