CHAPTER XV--A Day of Suspense
"Confound the wretched thing, Sefton!" exclaimed Major-GeneralCrosthwaite explosively.
"I hereby confound it!" said his companion with grim solemnity. "I'lldo anything you like, provided you don't ask me to evacuate thisluxurious cushion and push."
"Now if I had my chauffeur here----" began the General, then, realizingthat his duty to his country had necessitated the release of the man formilitary service, he held his peace on that point, only to break out inanother direction.
"It's that horrible concoction that is sold as petrol," he remarked withan air of profound wisdom. "Sixty per cent paraffin and ten per centwater. Nine o'clock in the evening, miles from anywhere, and theidiotic car as obstinate as a mule."
Dick's father, enjoying a hard-earned fortnight's leave after astrenuous time at the front, had performed what he would have considereda desperate task in pre-war days. He had actually driven his ownmotor--a twenty-horse-power touring-car--from Shropshire to Southampton.Luck, in the shape of complete immunity from tyre troubles and the twothousand odd things that might go wrong with a car, had hithertofavoured him. Whereat he became conceited with his powers as amotorist; but it was pride before a fall, and Major-General Crosthwaitefound himself stranded with his three companions somewhere in thevicinity of the little Wiltshire town of Malmesbury.
The eldest of the three passengers was Admiral Trefusis Sefton, K.C.B.(retired), whose son Jack was at that very moment engaged upon hisdesperate venture of bringing the crippled _Calder_ across the NorthSea. Residing near Southampton, he had accepted Crosthwaite Senior'sinvitation to spend a long week-end at the latter's house nearBridgnorth, and the Major-General thought it was a good opportunity forhaving a motor-tour by fetching his guest from the south of England.
"I'll take young George with me," wrote the Major-General, "and therewill be room in the car for Leslie. They can't get into worse mischiefthan if they were left at home, and one will be company for the other."
So George Crosthwaite accompanied his father from Bridgnorth toSouthampton. Shrewdly the fifteen-year old lad suspected that theprimary object of his sire was to let his son see what an expert driverCrosthwaite Senior had become.
Leslie Sefton, also aged fifteen, jumped at the invitation, and, inspite of various and oft-repeated warnings from his parent not toskylark, his exuberant spirits formed a sympathetic counterpart to thoseof young George Crosthwaite.
Declining his son's offer of expert advice and assistance, the generaldivested himself of his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, inserted hismonocle in his eye, and spent four precious minutes in deepcontemplation of the stationary car. Then he applied rudimentary teststo half a dozen different parts without locating the trouble, while theadmiral placidly smoked a choice cigar and meditated upon the pleasingfact that he had never succumbed to the motor craze.
George and Leslie, seated on a bank by the roadside, were discussing themerits and demerits of various types of aeroplanes when the former'sparent interrupted the pleasant discussion.
"George."
"Sir?"
"I want you to go into Malmesbury and get them to send a car to tow usin."
Young Crosthwaite, unlike either of the two sons in the parable,prepared to obey. "Obey orders at the double" had been dinned into hishead from time immemorial. On one occasion when the colonel--as he wasthen--was entertaining a high War Office official, George, in hisalacrity to carry out his parent's behests, collided with the portlybutler bearing a heavily-laden tray. But the culprit's plea that he wasfulfilling the oft-reiterated order calmed the colonel's inward wrath(he dared not "let himself go" just then) and earned a substantial tipfrom the highly-amused guest.
"Coming?" asked George laconically, addressing his chum.
"Rather," was the reply.
George threw his greatcoat into the car. As he did so, his sharp eyescaught sight of a tap that was turned off when it should have beenturned on.
Deftly he depressed the little lever, and, somewhat to his parent'ssurprise, "tickled" the carburetter.
"It's no use doing that," said the discomfited motorist. "Hurry up andbe off. We'll be stranded here all night if you don't bestir yourself."
Crosthwaite Senior's astonishment increased when the dutiful Georgeclimbed into the car and released the self-starter. The motor firedwithout a hitch.
"By Jove!" ejaculated George's parent, too delighted to think ofthanking his son. "However did you manage it?"
"Only turned the petrol on," replied George calmly.
"Have you been playing any tricks----?" began the general, then resolvedto repeat the question at a more favourable private opportunity. "Jumpin, Sefton; we've wasted an hour already. Might have been in Gloucesterby this time. 'Fraid we'd better put up in Malmesbury to-night."
On the lowest gear, the car crawled slowly up the stiff gradient leadingto the little town, and pulled up outside an ivy-clad inn within astone's throw of the imposing ruins of the abbey.
"Any news to-night, I wonder?" enquired the general as the four sat downto a substantial supper. "Suppose there's no chance of a late paper inthis out-of-the-way spot?"
"'Fraid not," replied the admiral. "You see, it is on a branch line.Decent weather, eh?"
"Not so bad for our men in the North Sea," remarked Crosthwaitecomplacently. "They've had a long, rotten winter, although Dick nevercomplains on that score. Must be quite yachty weather, I shouldimagine," he added, with the memories of a certain pleasure cruise tothe Baltic in June flashing across his mind.
He picked up a morning paper from a settee and glanced at it. He hadread the selfsame news fourteen hours previously. Yet a paragraph hadhitherto escaped his notice.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed.
"What's that?" enquired the admiral.
"Suppose, after all, it's nothing much," observed General Crosthwaite."Masters of neutral steamers arriving at Danish ports state that theysighted numerous wrecks and hundreds of floating corpses. Another Reuteryarn, I take it."
"More U-boat frightfulness perhaps," hazarded Admiral Sefton.
And yet the report was a mild form of paving the way towards theannouncement of the Jutland battle. This was on Friday. AlreadyGermany had claimed a glorious and colossal naval victory, and thetardiness of the British Government in giving the lie direct to theboastful Hunnish claims gave, at least temporarily, a severe shock toneutrals' belief in the invincibility of Britain's sea power. AlreadyAmerican pro-German papers had appeared with highly coloured accounts ofGreat Britain's crushing naval disaster; cartoons depicting John Bull'sconsternation at the return of the battered British lion with a badlytwisted tail spoke volumes for the incontestable superiority of theGerman navy.
Happily ignorant of the disquieting rumours, and, indeed, of anyknowledge of the naval action, the motorists slept soundly until eighton the following morning.
"Another fine day," declared Crosthwaite Senior at breakfast. "We oughtto be home by three in the afternoon. Any papers yet?" he enquired ofthe waiter.
"No, sir, not until eleven," was the reply.
"Must wait until we get to Gloucester, I suppose," grunted the general."One of the penalties for stopping at a place on a branch line."
"A fine little place, Pater," remarked George. "Absolutely top-hole.Wish we were staying here. There's an awfully decent stream downthere--looks just the place for fishing."
"Can't beat the Severn for that, my boy," declared his father, loyal tohis native town and the river that flows past its site. "Buck up, myboy, and finish the packing. I want to see that that petrol-tank isproperly filled--no unsealed cans, remember."
George Crosthwaite was really a useful assistant to his parent.Crosthwaite Senior frankly recognized the fact, but forbore from givinghis son, personally, due credit, avowing that it was bad for disciplineto be lavish with praise.
"Smart youngster, Sefton, my boy," he declared in proud confidence tothe admiral. "He has his h
ead screwed on the right way, although Isuppose I ought not to brag about it. Have to be careful, though, thathe doesn't kick over the traces just yet."
It was nearly nine before the car was ready to resume its journey. Inhigh spirits, for the bracing air and bright sunshine made a perfectday, the party set off.
Major-General Crosthwaite started at a strictly moderate pace. Heinvariably did; but it was always noticeable that, before he had coveredmany miles, he accelerated the speed until it reached a reckless pacebordering on fifty miles an hour. Towards the end of his day's journey,he would develop a speed that caused his sedate passengers to quake withapprehension, and his youthful ones to revel in the terrific rushthrough the air.
Twenty minutes after leaving Malmesbury the car, now running splendidly,bounded up the steep ascent into old-world Tetbury. Here, taking awrong turning, the motorists had to retrace their way, CrosthwaiteSenior slowing down in order to avoid a similar mistake.
Presently Leslie caught sight of a placard displayed outside anews-agent's shop. In flaring red letters were the words: "Big NavalAction in the North Sea".
Leaning over the seat he gripped his father's arm. By this time the carwas well beyond the shop.
"What's wrong?" bawled the admiral, for the wind-screen had been loweredand the breeze was whistling past his ears.
"Big scrap in the North Sea--it's on the placards," replied his son,
"Heave-to, Crosthwaite!" exclaimed Admiral Sefton. "Stop here!"
The driver, imagining that something was amiss, and that he hadunknowingly run over something, applied his emergency brakes, bringingup his car all standing and at a grave risk to the tyres. Leslie, takenunawares, shot forward, "ramming" his parent in the small of the backwith his head and forcing the admiral against the dash-board.
"What the----!" began the astonished Crosthwaite Senior.
Almost unconscious of the rough treatment by his son, Admiral Seftondescended from the car. Already George had executed a flying leap, andwas running towards the news-agent's shop.
Returning with a handful of papers he met the admiral half-way.
"It's 'The Day', sir!" he exclaimed, confident in the belief that thelong-expected struggle for naval supremacy had been settled once and forall in Britain's favour.
Admiral Sefton grabbed the proffered paper with super-energy, almosttearing the flimsy fabric with his powerful fingers as he fumbled withthe recalcitrant leaves.
Then the look of eager expectancy faded from his face, giving place to adull, strained expression of incredulity.
"Come along, Sefton!" sang out Crosthwaite Senior. "Don't be greedywith the good news. Why, man----"
"We've got it properly in the neck, Pater," announced his son."Fourteen of ours, including the _Queen Mary_, sunk."
"But the enemy--the German losses are heavier than ours?" enquired thegeneral, snatching at the paper George was holding.
The two officers scanned the official report. "Owing to lowvisibility"--was ever an Admiralty dispatch issued with such haltingexcuses? A straightforward admission of our losses, it is true, butnothing to suggest that the Germans had incurred similar or heaviercasualties, or even that the British navy had gained the day. And thenthere was the perplexing statement that the Germans had rescued a numberof British seamen, and no corresponding report to the effect that we hadsaved any of theirs. Everything pointed to a running fight in which theHuns were the pursuers.
Admiral Sefton was dumbfounded. Had there been a convenient wall, hemight have turned his face towards it and groaned in spirit. Instead heset his jaw tightly and thought hard.
"What do you make of it?" enquired the general. "Looks bad on the faceof it, eh?"
"We must wait for further details," was his companion's guarded reply.The journey was resumed, but all the joy had vanished from the minds ofthe party. No longer, the beautiful scenery appealed to them; thecrisp, bracing air and brilliant sunshine called in vain.
Down the steep "hairpin" road through Nailsworth, and along one of theprettiest valleys of the Cotswolds, the car literally crawled. GeneralCrosthwaite, contrary to his usual practice, was driving slowly andlistlessly. His keen zest had disappeared. As he gripped thesteering-wheel he thought deeply, remembering that his son was somewhereout there in the trackless, mine-strewn North Sea.
The admiral, too, was meditating. He would dearly have liked to havepaced to and fro, with his hands clasped behind his back in truequarter-deck style; but since the limits of the car made such aproceeding impossible, and it was equally difficult to alight unless thecar stopped, he "sat tight" and made a mental review of the battle,constructing his theories upon the slender foundations conveyed in theofficial report.
Gradually his perplexities vanished. The firm belief in the well-beingof the navy that had gripped his mind ever since those long-past_Britannia_ days was not to be shattered by a disquieting and obviouslyincomplete report, even though it bore Admiralty endorsement.
"Hang it all!" he exclaimed, startling his friend by bawling intoCrosthwaite Senior's ear. "Hanged if I'll go by that report. Just youwait, my dear fellow, until supplementary information is forthcoming.It's my belief the Admiralty have something up their sleeve, and thatwe've won hands down."
"You think so?" asked the general eagerly.
"Think so! I know it," was the now decided reply. "Carry on,Crosthwaite, full-speed ahead, and we'll see what news there is when weget to Gloucester."
"Hope you're right," thought the army officer. Visions of a previousnaval disaster--that of the gallant Craddock's defeat off Coronel, thefirst news of which came from German sources--urged that such a thing asa naval defeat might be possible, especially in view of the great partplayed by chance. A misunderstood order might result in disaster. Achance shot or an accidental internal explosion might imperil thesuperiority of the British fleet.
But there was always the dominating factor--men, not ships, win battles.The British seaman, with the glorious traditions of centuries behindhim, is in every way superior to the brute who mans the fleet of theBlack Cross Ensign.
Then the general found himself mentally kicking himself for not sharingin the admiral's optimism.
"Sefton's right," he concluded. "When we get more news we'll find thatall's well."
At Gloucester the admiral sent off a telegram, bought four differentpapers, scanned the bulletins in the windows of the publishing offices,and found himself little wiser than before; but at Worcester, where themotorists stopped for lunch, they found the outlook much brighter.
Steps had already been taken to counteract the depressing effects of thepreliminary official announcement of the Battle of Jutland. The loss ofthe _Warspite_ and _Marlborough_, both ships having been claimed as sunkby the Germans, was categorically denied, and a statement of the Britishvessels, known to be sunk, given. Enemy ships, aggregating in tonnagemore than that of our losses, were claimed only when definite reports oftheir fate were received, from which it was now evident that, far frombeing a German victory, the honours rested with the fleet underJellicoe's command.
At the post office Admiral Sefton obtained a wire, sent in reply to histelegram from Gloucester. It was from an old shipmate, now holding anappointment at Whitehall, and was as follows:--
"Vessel in question has not returned to base."
Without a word the admiral handed the buff paper to his friend. Hardlya muscle of Crosthwaite Senior's weather-beaten face moved as he readthe momentous but indefinite news, although the "vessel in question" wasthe T.B.D. _Calder_, and both men had similar personal interests in thematter.
For the moment private considerations held supreme sway. The two menmutually extended their right hands and exchanged sympathetic grips.
"If they are knocked out, it was in the thick of the scrap," declaredGeneral Crosthwaite. "I'll stake my all upon that."
"_Dulce et_----" began the admiral, then, coming to the conclusion thathe was a trifle premature, he exclaimed: "Dash it all, Cr
osthwaite,strange things happen at sea! They may turn up after all."
"It's the suspense," added Crosthwaite. "Look here, I'll take the carright slap on to Edinburgh, and go on to Rosyth. Are you game?"
"Carry on," said Admiral Sefton. "I'm with you."