With Beatty off Jutland Part 23

Here Jack stepped n.o.bly 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 pa.s.s that when Leslie coaxed his big brother the latter 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 tell him you're an officer."

"Oh, for why?" enquired the sub.

"I don't know exactly," was his brother's reply. "Somehow I fancy Old Garge doesn't like naval officers."

Wherein Leslie was correct. Years ago Skipper Cottenham had fallen foul of the lieutenant-in-charge of a revenue cutter, and the memory of the meeting still rankled.

After lunch Leslie made his way to the quay, returning in an hour's time with the information that Old Garge didn't object (he was not over anxious to avail himself of a supposed amateur's offer of a.s.sistance), 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 carrying an oilskin coat that, despite the maker's guarantee, stuck tenaciously wherever it was folded, the sub accompanied his wildly-excited brother to 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 of about 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 youngster had sculled the heavy boat for nearly two hundred yards.

"Down Stakes," was the mysterious reply. "Us'll see her in a minute or so, when us gets round t'bend."

Working the long single oar vigorously, and aided by the strong ebb tide, 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 already making preparations for a start. Most of the boats had their mainsails set. Two or three had already slipped moorings, and were gliding down the main channel under the lee of the wooded Brownsea Island.

With the practised eye of a true seaman, the sub realized that, in spite of 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 stern and heavy transom, the smack showed every promise of speed combined with stiffness. Built with a view of encountering the short steep seas of Poole Bar, she was typical of the weatherly boats that have justly earned 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 Bill Moggridge an' Peter Wilson under way already. Us mustn't let 'em get across t' Bar ahead of the _Fidelity_."

Quickly, as the result of much practice, young Tim cast off the heavy mooring-chain from the bitts, and trimmed the head-sails. Heeling slightly to the light south-westerly breeze the smack gathered way, leaving hardly a ripple in her wake as she glided almost noiselessly through the calm water.

The sub revelled in the movement. Vividly it recalled long-past days in the _Britannia's_ cutters, racing in the landlocked estuary of the Dart.

Since then opportunities for fore-and-aft sailing had been few and far between. Contrasted with the terrific vibration of a swiftly moving destroyer, the gentle movement was peaceful and soothing.

A short spell of close-hauled work, as the smack tacked towards the entrance, was followed by a run, full and by, down the buoyed channel to the bar buoy. From the heights above Studland a stiff breeze swept down, causing the water to foam at the _Fidelity's_ sharp stem.

"That be good!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Old Garge. "Us be overtakin' them," and he nodded in the direction of the two boats that were still leading by less than 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 of the east-going tide outside."

The skipper of the _Fidelity_ stared at his guest. Already he had come to the conclusion that the tall bronzed young fellow was no mere landlubber. The sub's deliberate p.r.o.nunciation of the word "tackle"

during a previous conversation had told him that.

"Patrol," announced the skipper laconically, indicating a steam trawler as she rounded the detached chalk pinnacle known as "Old Harry". "She's there to keep Garmin submarines away, you know. Ever seen a Garmin submarine, mister?"

"Have you?" enquired Sefton, countering the old fellow's curiosity.

"Only one, and 'er was no good to n.o.body," replied Old Garge. "They sunk 'er away down Christchurch Bay. Seed the navy chaps a-getting her up, only the patrol boat ordered me away. That was away back last summer. Since then they submarines 'ave given this part a wide berth."

"I'd like to see one getting properly strafed," declared Leslie. "What would you do, Jack, if one showed its nose up just now?"

"Chuck it," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the sub good-humouredly. "We're supposed to be on the way to the fishing-ground, not chasing U boats. Hallo! There's The Needles Light."

By this time the sun had set in a haze of vivid crimson. Against the dark grey of the eastern sky, the coastwise lights of The Needles and St. Catherine's were beginning to a.s.sert their presence in the rapidly waning twilight. Contrary to expectation the breeze still held, although under the shadow of Hengistbury Head, bearing three miles to the nor'ard, a number of fishing-craft lay completely becalmed.

"Evenin', Peter!" shouted Old Garge cordially, as the _Fidelity_ drew ahead of the hitherto leading boat. Peter waved his arm in reply. His response 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 paying out the nets. Then, under triced-up mainsail, the smack floundered slowly through the water, towing the length of fishing-gear astern.

The first haul produced very indifferent results. Leslie began to think that it was poor sport, since the catch consisted of less than a dozen medium-sized whiting and a couple of small ba.s.s. Nor did the second cast 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'd be 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 Old Garge would up nets and make for home. Sailing's all right, but this almost bores me stiff."

"Patience!" rejoined Sefton. "This is your choice. How would you care to go fishing for months, blow high, blow low? No matter whether it be summer or winter, you've got to go on fishing--fishing for a brute that will bite you pretty hard at the first favourable opportunity."

"You mean submarines?" asked the lad. "I should like to see one. It must be fine sport."

"Not on board this hooker, though," added the sub. "Give me something that can hit back."

Force of habit made the young officer glance to windward. He would not have been altogether surprised had a pair of twin periscopes appeared above the surface of the moonlit water. After all, he reflected, there wasn't much chance of that. The fishing-ground was well out of the recognized steamer tracks. A U boat, especially in the English Channel, where she ran an almost momentary risk of destruction, would not waste time over the shallow Dolphin Bank to look for insignificant fishing-smacks. Still, Hun submarines did erratic things sometimes.

Then the sub laughed at his fancies. The possibility was so remote that he ridiculed the suggestion.

Meanwhile Old Garge had disappeared under the half-deck. A wreath of smoke from the dilapidated iron chimney, and the banging of several iron utensils, announced the fact that he was preparing some sort of repast.

Tim, mechanically sawing the tiller to and fro, kept the smack on her course.

The _Fidelity_ was now well to the east'ard of the rest of the fleet. A couple of miles separated her from the nearmost of the brown-sailed boats, whose dark canvas showed up distinctly in the slanting rays of the moon.

"We're giving them the slip, aren't we?" enquired Leslie, indicating the still busily engaged smacks.

Tim glanced over his shoulder.

"Granfer," he called out; "we'm a long way down t' east'ard. Shall us up nets?"

"No; you just carry on," replied Old Garge, his voice m.u.f.fled in the confined s.p.a.ce. "I'll be with you in a minute. I'm fair busy just now."