To the accompaniment of the shrill trill of the bos'n's mates' pipes, the working parties surged hither and thither in apparently utter confusion; then almost imperceptibly, as the powerful tug in attendance began to pull the ship's bows clear of the jetty, the Hammerer started on her voyage into the great unknown.
A bugle-call—and every officer and man stood to attention, the marines presenting arms as the battleship glided past the old Victory. Another call, and the men relaxed their attitude of rigidity. The last compliment had been paid to the authorities of the home port—the Hammerer was outward bound.
"Any idea of the rendezvous?" asked Jack Sefton, one of the midshipmen, as the lads forgathered in the gun-room to "stand easy", almost for the first time since commissioning.
"Rather," announced another, Trevor Maynebrace, who, having an uncle an admiral, professed somewhat loftily to be "in the know". "Rather—Rosyth: that's where we are bound, my dear Sefton; there to swing at moorings till the ship's bottom is smothered in barnacles. They'll keep us in reserve to fill up gaps caused by casualties, and, judging by recent events, we'll have to cool our heels a thundering long time."
"You're quite sure, Maynebrace?" asked the Sub.
"Quite—well, nearly so," admitted the midshipman.
"Then what do you make of that?" continued Dick, pointing through the open scuttle.
Broad on the starboard beam rose the frowning cliffs of Dunnose. The land was that of the Isle of Wight, so that the Hammerer's course was approximately south-west.
She was not alone. On either side, at ten cables' distance, were two long, lean destroyers of the River class, their mission being to safeguard the ship from the attack of a lurking German submarine.
"H'm!" muttered the discomfited middy. "P'r'aps there's been an alteration of plans. Looks as if we're bound for Plymouth."