FullReads

“Didn’t he know you?” I asked, thinking for the moment that there could be no duplicates of Emanuel Pyecroft in the Navy.

“What’s a torpedo-gunner more or less to a full lootenant commanding six thirty-knot destroyers for the first time? ‘E seemed to cherish the ‘ope that ‘e might use the Gnome for ‘is own ‘orrible purposes; but what I told him about Mr. Jones’s sad lack o’ nerve comin’ from Pompey, an’ going dead slow on account of the dark, short-circuited that connection. ‘M’rover,’ I says to him, ‘our orders is explicit; Stiletto’s reported broke down somewhere off the Start, an’ we’ve been tryin’ to coil down a new stiff wire hawser all the evenin’, so it looks like towin’ ‘er back, don’t it?’ I says. That more than ever jams his turrets, an’ makes him keen to get rid of us. ‘E even hinted that Mr. Carteret-Jones passin’ hawsers an’ assistin’ the impotent in a sea-way might come pretty expensive on the tax-payer. I agreed in a disciplined way. I ain’t proud. Gawd knows I ain’t proud! But when I’m really diggin’ out in the fancy line, I sometimes think that me in a copper punt, single-‘anded, ‘ud beat a cutter-full of De Rougemongs in a row round the fleet.”

At this point I reclined without shame on Mr. Pyecroft’s bosom, supported by his quivering arm.

“Well?” said Moorshed, scowling into the darkness, as 267’s bows snapped at the shore seas of the broader Channel, and we swayed together.

“‘You’d better go on,’ says Commander Fassett, ‘an’ do what you’re told to do. I don’t envy Hignett if he has to dry-nurse the Gnome’s commander. But what d’you want with signals?’ ‘e says. ‘It’s criminal lunacy to trust Mr. Jones with anything that steams.’

“‘May I make an observation, Sir?’ I says. ‘Suppose,’ I says, ‘you was torpedo-gunner on the Gnome, an’ Mr. Carteret-Jones was your commandin’ officer, an’ you had your reputation as a second in command for the first time,’ I says, well knowin’ it was his first command of a flotilla, ‘what ‘ud you do, Sir?’ That gouged ‘is unprotected ends open–clear back to the citadel.”

“What did he say?” Moorshed jerked over is shoulder.

“If you were Mr. Carteret-Jones, it might be disrespect for me to repeat it, Sir.”

“Go ahead,” I heard the boy chuckle.

“‘Do?’ ‘e says. ‘I’d rub the young blighter’s nose into it till I made a perishin’ man of him, or a perspirin’ pillow-case,’ ‘e says, ‘which,’ he adds, ‘is forty per cent, more than he is at present.’

“Whilst he’s gettin’ the private signals–they’re rather particular ones– I went forrard to see the Dirk’s gunner about borrowin’ a holdin’-down bolt for our twelve-pounder. My open ears, while I was rovin’ over his packet, got the followin’ authentic particulars.” I heard his voice change, and his feet shifted. “There’s been a last council o’ war of destroyer-captains at the flagship, an’ a lot of things ‘as come out. To begin with Cryptic and Devolution, Captain Panke and Captain Malan–“

“Cryptic and Devolution, first-class cruisers,” said Mr. Moorshed dreamily. “Go on, Pyecroft.”

“–bein’ delayed by minor defects in engine-room, did not, as we know, accompany Red Fleet’s first division of scouting cruisers, whose rendezvous is unknown, but presumed to be somewhere off the Lizard. Cryptic an’ Devolution left at 9:30 P.M. still reportin’ copious minor defects in engine-room. Admiral’s final instructions was they was to put into Torbay, an’ mend themselves there. If they can do it in twenty-four hours, they’re to come on and join the battle squadron at the first rendezvous, down Channel somewhere. (I couldn’t get that, Sir.) If they can’t, he’ll think about sendin’ them some destroyers for escort. But his present intention is to go ‘ammer and tongs down Channel, usin’ ‘is destroyers for all they’re worth, an’ thus keepin’ Blue Fleet too busy off the Irish coast to sniff into any eshtuaries.”

“But if those cruisers are crocks, why does the Admiral let ’em out of Weymouth at all?” I asked.