CHAPTER XIX--The Smack "Fidelity"
"Be a sport, Jack!" exclaimed Leslie Sefton coaxingly.
"And take a sort of busman's holiday, eh?" rejoined the sub, regardinghis young brother with a tolerant smile. "Well--I'll see."
"Thanks awfully," was Leslie's comment. Experience had taught him thatJack's "I'll see" invariably ended in acquiescence.
Two months had elapsed since the eventful encounter on Blackstone Edge.August was well advanced, bringing with it a spell of gloriously fineweather; and, since the young people must needs have holidays, even inwar-time, and the Admiral felt in need of a rest after the strenuousshooting-match on the bleak Pennine Hills, the Sefton family had taken afurnished house overlooking Poole Harbour.
Sub-lieutenant Sefton had been temporarily appointed to the PortsmouthNaval Barracks, pending another term of service afloat. His fairlyfrequent periods of week-end leave, he invariably spent with hisparents, since Poole was within easy railway distance of the seniornaval port.
Young Leslie was in his element. Before he had been at Poole more thanthree hours he had already chummed up with the owners of severalpleasure craft. But a few days of sailing in a landlocked harbour soonwhetted his appetite for a trip beyond the bar, and for the present hiswishes in that direction were thwarted. Owing to the war-timeconditions, no pleasure-boat or yacht was permitted to leave thespacious inland cruising-ground.
Time after time, Leslie watched with yearning eyes the brown-sailedfishing-fleet steal past the patrol-boats guarding the entrance, andglide seaward to the fishing-ground off the Dolphin Bank. For the mostpart, the boats were manned by grey-bearded stalwarts and young boys,worthy descendants of Harry Page, Thompson, and other Poole fishermenwhose prowess against the French is still remembered by the inhabitantsof the Dorset seaport. Already the British navy had claimed almostevery able-bodied fisherman of fighting age, and nobly the men hadresponded to the call, leaving grandfathers and grandsons to work theboats in the open waters of the English Channel.
At last Leslie found an opportunity. Getting on the right side of old"Garge" Cottenham, owner and master of the five-ton smack _Fidelity_, heprevailed upon that worthy to allow him to make an all-night trip to thefishing-grounds.
Unfortunately the admiral did not see eye to eye with his energetic son.Even Leslie's declaration that he would be assisting in a work ofnational importance by helping to provide the nation's food left himunmoved. As a last resource the lad appealed to Jack, who had justarrived upon the scene for the week-end.
"Isn't the harbour good enough for him?" asked Admiral Sefton.
"You don't get the lift of the open sea, you know, Pater," replied thesub. "Leslie's got the old instinct, you see."
"S'pose so," admitted his parent. "A couple of centuries of sea life isbound to tell, eh? All the same, I don't like the idea of the boyknocking about in a smack. He'll get into a dozen scrapes, and end upby tumbling overboard and getting mixed up in the trawl. Now if I werethere to look after him----"
The admiral paused. Had old Garge Cottenham extended the invitation tohim, the bluff old sea-dog could not have resisted the call of thesea--e'en were it through the medium of a five-ton smack. Between theman who in the splendour of a gold-laced uniform had directed themovements of a fleet and the other who grasped the tiller of a grubbyfishing-boat existed a common tie--that mysterious and overpoweringfreemasonry of the sea.
On second thoughts, Admiral Sefton remembered his comfortable bed andwell-ordered repast, comparing them with the discomforts of a nightafloat and relatively hard fare.
Here Jack stepped nobly into the breach.
"Perhaps the kid wouldn't object if I went with him," he suggested."Not keen on it, you know, but----"
And so it came to pass that when Leslie coaxed his big brother thelatter capitulated.
"But what if your fisherman pal declined to ship me with him?" he added.
"No fear," replied Leslie. "I'll make that all right; only don't tellhim you're an officer."
"Oh, for why?" enquired the sub.
"I don't know exactly," was his brother's reply. "Somehow I fancy OldGarge doesn't like naval officers."
Wherein Leslie was correct. Years ago Skipper Cottenham had fallen foulof the lieutenant-in-charge of a revenue cutter, and the memory of themeeting still rankled.
After lunch Leslie made his way to the quay, returning in an hour's timewith the information that Old Garge didn't object (he was not overanxious to avail himself of a supposed amateur's offer of assistance),and that the _Fidelity_ would cast off at seven o'clock that evening.
Clad in an old pair of serge trousers and a brown sweater, and carryingan oilskin coat that, despite the maker's guarantee, stuck tenaciouslywherever it was folded, the sub accompanied his wildly-excited brotherto the steps, where a boat was in readiness to convey them to the smack.
In the boat was a freckled, chubby-faced, flaxen-haired youngster ofabout thirteen, whom Leslie introduced to his brother as Tim,great-grandson of the owner and master of the registered fishing-boat_Fidelity_.
"Where's the _Fidelity_ lying?" enquired the sub, after the youngsterhad sculled the heavy boat for nearly two hundred yards.
"Down Stakes," was the mysterious reply. "Us'll see her in a minute orso, when us gets round t'bend."
Working the long single oar vigorously, and aided by the strong ebbtide, Tim quickly urged the heavy boat along.
"There he be," he announced. "Third in the row from here."
Sefton looked in the direction indicated. The fishing-fleet was alreadymaking preparations for a start. Most of the boats had their mainsailsset. Two or three had already slipped moorings, and were gliding downthe main channel under the lee of the wooded Brownsea Island.
With the practised eye of a true seaman, the sub realized that, in spiteof her sombre garb of grey paint, mottled with tar marks, the _Fidelity_was "all a boat".
With a sharp entry and fine run aft, noticeable despite the squat sternand heavy transom, the smack showed every promise of speed combined withstiffness. Built with a view of encountering the short steep seas ofPoole Bar, she was typical of the weatherly boats that have justlyearned a splendid reputation for seaworthiness.
"Evenin'!" was Old Garge's greeting. "Come aboard. Look alive, Tim,an' make fast the boat's painter. Then do 'ee cast off. There's BillMoggridge an' Peter Wilson under way already. Us mustn't let 'em getacross t' Bar ahead of the _Fidelity_."
Quickly, as the result of much practice, young Tim cast off the heavymooring-chain from the bitts, and trimmed the head-sails. Heelingslightly to the light south-westerly breeze the smack gathered way,leaving hardly a ripple in her wake as she glided almost noiselesslythrough the calm water.
The sub revelled in the movement. Vividly it recalled long-past days inthe _Britannia's_ cutters, racing in the landlocked estuary of the Dart.Since then opportunities for fore-and-aft sailing had been few and farbetween. Contrasted with the terrific vibration of a swiftly movingdestroyer, the gentle movement was peaceful and soothing.
A short spell of close-hauled work, as the smack tacked towards theentrance, was followed by a run, full and by, down the buoyed channel tothe bar buoy. From the heights above Studland a stiff breeze sweptdown, causing the water to foam at the _Fidelity's_ sharp stem.
"That be good!" ejaculated Old Garge. "Us be overtakin' them," and henodded in the direction of the two boats that were still leading by lessthan a cable's length. "Wind'll drop afore long, I's afraid."
"It will go down with the sun," said Sefton. "But we'll get the first ofthe east-going tide outside."
The skipper of the _Fidelity_ stared at his guest. Already he had cometo the conclusion that the tall bronzed young fellow was no merelandlubber. The sub's deliberate pronunciation of the word "tackle"during a previous conversation had told him that.
"Patrol," announced the skipper laconically, indicating a steam trawleras she rounded the detached chalk pinnacle known as "Ol
d Harry". "She'sthere to keep Garmin submarines away, you know. Ever seen a Garminsubmarine, mister?"
"Have you?" enquired Sefton, countering the old fellow's curiosity.
"Only one, and 'er was no good to nobody," replied Old Garge. "Theysunk 'er away down Christchurch Bay. Seed the navy chaps a-getting herup, only the patrol boat ordered me away. That was away back lastsummer. Since then they submarines 'ave given this part a wide berth."
"I'd like to see one getting properly strafed," declared Leslie. "Whatwould you do, Jack, if one showed its nose up just now?"
"Chuck it," ejaculated the sub good-humouredly. "We're supposed to be onthe way to the fishing-ground, not chasing U boats. Hallo! There's TheNeedles Light."
By this time the sun had set in a haze of vivid crimson. Against thedark grey of the eastern sky, the coastwise lights of The Needles andSt. Catherine's were beginning to assert their presence in the rapidlywaning twilight. Contrary to expectation the breeze still held,although under the shadow of Hengistbury Head, bearing three miles tothe nor'ard, a number of fishing-craft lay completely becalmed.
"Evenin', Peter!" shouted Old Garge cordially, as the _Fidelity_ drewahead of the hitherto leading boat. Peter waved his arm in reply. Hisresponse was not so cordial, seeing that his boat had been outstripped,greatly to the glee of Leslie and young Tim.
For the next quarter of an hour all hands were busily engaged in payingout the nets. Then, under triced-up mainsail, the smack flounderedslowly through the water, towing the length of fishing-gear astern.
The first haul produced very indifferent results. Leslie began to thinkthat it was poor sport, since the catch consisted of less than a dozenmedium-sized whiting and a couple of small bass. Nor did the secondcast fare much better.
"'Tes this east'ly wind we've a-been havin' that's done the mischief,"explained the skipper of the _Fidelity_. "I thought when it veered we'dbe in luck. Howsomever, we'll have another shot."
Again the nets were paid out, and the smack, hampered with her tow,stood off in the direction of the distant St. Catherine's Light.
"Mighty slow, isn't it?" confided Leslie to his brother. "Wish OldGarge would up nets and make for home. Sailing's all right, but thisalmost bores me stiff."
"Patience!" rejoined Sefton. "This is your choice. How would you careto go fishing for months, blow high, blow low? No matter whether it besummer or winter, you've got to go on fishing--fishing for a brute thatwill bite you pretty hard at the first favourable opportunity."
"You mean submarines?" asked the lad. "I should like to see one. Itmust be fine sport."
"Not on board this hooker, though," added the sub. "Give me somethingthat can hit back."
Force of habit made the young officer glance to windward. He would nothave been altogether surprised had a pair of twin periscopes appearedabove the surface of the moonlit water. After all, he reflected, therewasn't much chance of that. The fishing-ground was well out of therecognized steamer tracks. A U boat, especially in the English Channel,where she ran an almost momentary risk of destruction, would not wastetime over the shallow Dolphin Bank to look for insignificantfishing-smacks. Still, Hun submarines did erratic things sometimes.
Then the sub laughed at his fancies. The possibility was so remote thathe ridiculed the suggestion.
Meanwhile Old Garge had disappeared under the half-deck. A wreath ofsmoke from the dilapidated iron chimney, and the banging of several ironutensils, announced the fact that he was preparing some sort of repast.Tim, mechanically sawing the tiller to and fro, kept the smack on hercourse.
The _Fidelity_ was now well to the east'ard of the rest of the fleet. Acouple of miles separated her from the nearmost of the brown-sailedboats, whose dark canvas showed up distinctly in the slanting rays ofthe moon.
"We're giving them the slip, aren't we?" enquired Leslie, indicating thestill busily engaged smacks.
Tim glanced over his shoulder.
"Granfer," he called out; "we'm a long way down t' east'ard. Shall usup nets?"
"No; you just carry on," replied Old Garge, his voice muffled in theconfined space. "I'll be with you in a minute. I'm fair busy justnow."
Another half-hour passed, but the skipper still remained out of sight.The wind had now dropped, and the smack, with her main-sheet slackedright off, floundered heavily, dipping her boom-end at every roll.Already the day was breaking beyond the chalk cliffs of the Isle ofWight. Momentarily, the search-lights from The Needles Channelbatteries were growing fainter in the grey dawn.
"Isn't it grand!" exclaimed Leslie, inspired by the sight of daybreak atsea.
The sub merely shrugged his shoulders. Untold spells of duty as officerof the watch had made him regard the spectacle with completeindifference.
But the next instant Jack Sefton's lassitude fell from him like adiscarded mask, for, at less than a hundred yards on the _Fidelity's_port quarter, appeared the pole-like periscopes of a submarine.