It was here that the little M.-L.'s were again to prove their worth. On a given signal they were to dash into the harbour, range alongside the sinking block-ships, and dash out again with the rescued crews—provided the boats survived the maelstrom of fire that was sure to greet them.
"We're up against a tough proposition, my lad," remarked Farnborough, as he cut a chunk of navy plug and shredded it between his horny palms. Four years ago horny hands and plug tobacco were ill acquainted with Frank Farnborough, but a man's manners and customs undergo a considerable change in four years of war. Now he prided himself on the toughness of his palms and thoroughly enjoyed the tobacco.
"We are," assented Branscombe; then, after a pause, he added: "but I wouldn't miss it for anything."
"Nor I," added the Lieutenant. "If there's to be another blessed medical examination, I'll thug, poison, or bluff the whole of the medical branch of the navy. I'll go somehow, this idiotic sprain notwithstanding."
Branscombe made no remark. Much as he admired the grit and tenacity of his chief, he knew that at a time when every ounce of strength, both mental and bodily, were required, a man, handicapped by a stiff back, would not only be a trouble to himself but to the crew. Under the most favourable conditions the Lieutenant would not be fit in less than a week—and that with constant rest. He was too energetic to rest, and the stunt was timed to take place on the forthcoming Thursday.
The eventful day came at last. The sea was calm, the wind light. Gleefully, almost boisterously, the major portion of the storming-party boarded the Vindictive. The rest were told off to two Mersey ferry-boats—the Iris and Daffodil. Monitors were making ready to proceed at slow speed; destroyers and M.-L.'s were fussing noisily around, awaiting the Admiral's order to carry on.
Farnborough, dissembling his hurt, was in the wheel-house, with Branscombe close at hand. Anxiously they watched the aneroid. For days it had been remarkably steady, but now, just after noon, it commenced to fall. Weather was a tremendous factor. With anything like a sea it would be practically impossible to lay the ships with the landing-parties alongside the Mole, while the chance of being able to set in position even a single gangway was out of the question.
There might be time before the weather broke, but the prospect was disquieting. Uneasily, men scanned sea and sky. Everyone hoped that the approaching storm would be deferred until the morrow.
Overhead, "Blimps" and sea-planes buzzed like wasps round a jam-jar. Ill betide the Hun who dared to make a cut-and-run raid upon Dover. Not a German airman must have an inkling of the assembly of the strange, ill-assorted armada in Dover Harbour.
With the dipping of the sun beneath the western horizon the flotilla put to sea. Meteorological reports from Zeebrugge and Ostend—obtained in some mysterious manner by the British Admiralty—reported slight fog and a faint ground-swell. That ground-swell presaged a storm—it was a race between armed might and Nature.