CHAPTER XXVI
THE HOMECOMING OF THE S.S. "MEROPE"
"EVENIN' paper. British cruiser sunk."
The shrill cries of a very small youth blessed with a pair ofpowerful lungs greeted Doris Greenwood as the train in which she wastravelling south from Scotland pulled up at Peterborough.
The majority of the passengers heard the announcement with hardlymore than passing interest. This was one of the results of thegreatest war the world has ever seen. In the early phases of thestruggle the loss of a British warship, in spite of the fact that thePress took particular pains to explain that she was a semi-obsoletecraft of no great fighting value, was a subject of great concern. Onthe principle that familiarity breeds contempt, the recurrence of forthe most part unavoidable naval disasters was borne by the publicwith a fatalism bordering upon indifference, save by those whose kithand kin were fighting "somewhere in the North Sea," or were upholdingthe traditions of the Senior Service in the distant seas within thewar zone.
The loss of the "Titanic" in the piping times of peace affordedcolumns of detailed copy in the Press. The torpedoing or mining of abattleship in the Great War was curtly dismissed in half a dozenlines.
Stepping into the corridor of the carriage, Doris called to thenewsboy and bought a paper. An inexplicable kind of presentimentgripped the girl's mind as she unfolded the double sheet of paper,still moist from the printing-press.
The double-leaded headlines gave no information on the particularsubject; nor did the rest of the ordinary headings. Sandwichedbetween reports of local markets and racing was a blurred "StopPress" announcement:
"The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to report that the lightcruiser 'Heracles' has been sunk. Feared loss of all hands."
How, when, or where was not stated, nor was any mention made of theengagement with the two German cruisers. The uncertainty of the wholebusiness, save for the absolute statement that the "Heracles" waslost, rendered the blow even more stunning. For the rest of thejourney to King's Cross Doris sat dry-eyed, hardly able to grasp thedread significance of the terrible news.
The girl had been somewhat unexpectedly given fourteen days' leave.She was on her way to her home in Devonshire, intent upon making thebest of every moment of her hard-earned holiday. And now she wasgoing to a house of gloom. Eric and Ronald--her brother and the youngofficer who day by day seemed more and more to her--were missing andpresumably dead.
On arriving in London, Doris found people wildly excited over thedestruction of the "Stoshfeld" and "Lemburg." The news had just beenpublished, together with the additional information that the"Heracles" had been engaged with the former hostile vessel, and thatafter the "Castor" and "Pollux" had sunk the "Lemburg," they had gonein search of their consort and found unmistakable signs that she hadbeen sunk. For the officers and crew of the lost cruiser no hope wasnow entertained.
It was late in the evening when the girl alighted at the countrystation of the little Devonshire town. News of the disaster hadpreceded her. Mr. Greenwood was trying to persuade himself that itwas his privilege to be the father of one who had given his life forKing and Country, but somehow the attempt was a dismal failure. Mrs.Greenwood was on the verge of collapse and required all the attentionthat could be given. The horrible uncertainty--the lack of definiteevidence--was the hardest for her to bear.
Several days passed. Letters of condolence began to arrive, eachmissive driving another nail into the coffin of a dead hope. Theofficial notification from the Admiralty of the presumed death ofAssistant Paymaster Eric Greenwood, R.N.R., gave the coup de gr?ceto the long-drawn-out suspense.
On the seventh day after her return Doris felt that she must go for along ramble. The call of the cliffs was irresistible. Accompanied byher dog, she set out in the direction of Prawle Point, a favouritewalk in those long-ago pre-war days.
It was misty when the girl gained the edge of the red cliffs. Asea-fog had held for nearly forty-eight hours. The on-shore wind blewcold and clammy, although spring was well advanced and the trees andhedges were acquiring their new garb of verdure. Some distance awaythe fog signals from Start Point gave out its mournful wail--oneblast of seven seconds every two minutes. It seemed in harmony withthe times--a dirge over the ocean grave of many a brave seaman, lostin the service of his country. Doris wandered on till she came withina short distance of the signal station. Here she sat, watching thesullen rollers breaking into masses of foam against the jagged ledgesof rock that jut out from the wild Prawle Point.
Along the narrow cliff path a sailor was tramping. As he approached,Doris recognised him as one of the coastguards from the neighbouringstation. Owing to the importance of the station, the men had not beensent afloat on the outbreak of war, as was the case of hundreds ofthe detachments scattered around the coast; they did their duty wellby remaining for signalling purposes, as several hostile submarinesfound to their cost.
The man knew Doris. Saluting, he stopped and chatted. Aware of thegirl's loss, he tactfully made no reference to the sinking of the"Heracles," but confined his remarks to events in the district.
Presently the sun burst through the bank of mist. As if by magic thesea became visible for several miles. It was not deserted. A long wayfrom shore two large transports escorted by destroyers wereproceeding up-Channel. Considerably nearer was a small tramp,steaming in the direction of Prawle Point.
The coastguard paused in the midst of a detailed description of hisgarden and looked seaward.
"What is that vessel coming straight towards the shore for?" askedDoris.
"Dunno, miss; that is, unless she's been bamboozled by the fog and iscoming in to make sure of her position. Maybe the coast appears a bithazy from where she is. There, I thought so; she's porting her helm.She's off up-Channel."
As he spoke, the tramp hoisted her colours over a red and whitepennant--signifying that she wished to communicate with the signalstation. Slowing down, she exchanged signals for nearly a quarter ofan hour, then proceeded with increased speed in an easterlydirection.
"Quite a lot of signalling," remarked Doris.
"Yes, miss," agreed the man. "More'n usual. P'raps she's been chasedby a German submarine, though there don't look much wrong with her.You'm curious, miss?"
"A little," admitted the girl. "At these times messages from passingships may mean a lot."
"True, miss, true," agreed the coastguard as he prepared to resumehis way. "I'll enquire, miss, an' if it ain't confidential, I'll nipback and tell 'ee."
The girl sat down again, and, almost unconsciously patting the dog,kept her eyes directed seawards. She had almost forgotten thecoastguard's promise when she became aware that he was returningswiftly.
"Miss," he exclaimed excitedly, "'tes good news. Yon vessel is the'Merope.' She's got on board a hundred an' eleven officers and menfrom the 'Heracles.' She's landing 'em at Dartmouth."
"Any names?" asked the girl.
"No, miss."
"Thank you," she said quietly, then she set off homewards.
One hundred and eleven survivors. Roughly one in every five of the"Heracles'" original complement. Was it too much to hope that the twoin whom she was most concerned were amongst those who had escaped?
Gradually she formed her plans. Until more news was obtainable, shedecided not to raise false hopes in her parents' minds. She wouldkeep the tidings to herself until----
The hoot of a motor-car interrupted her train of thought. Bowlingalong the narrow, sunken lane was a six-seater owned by Dr. Cardyke,a retired practitioner who had been "dug out" of his retreat to actas surgeon to a military hospital.
Recognising the girl, the doctor slowed down.
"A lift, Miss Greenwood? I'm going close to your house?"
Doris accepted the invitation gratefully.
"I'm just off to Dartmouth and back," continued the doctor."Wonderful things these cars after one has been used to a horse. Getthere in no time, to use a common expression."
Dr. Cardyke spoke with all the enthusias
m of a keen motorist, inspite of his sixty-odd years. Had he been any one else but awell-known country practitioner, he might have been "run in" forfurious driving times without number, but luck and a "benevolentneutrality" on the part of the police had hitherto steered him clearof the police-courts.
"Dartmouth?" repeated Doris. "Would you mind, doctor, if you--I mean,will you take me to Dartmouth with you?"
"Certainly, my dear young lady," replied the doctor gallantly. "But,pardon my curiosity, for why? It's too late to do any shopping, youknow. Early closing day, you know."
"It's not that," said the girl, glad of the chance to confide hersecret and her hopes to someone. "There are more than a hundredsurvivors of the 'Heracles' being landed at Dartmouth, and I----"
The sentence remained unfinished. Dr. Cardyke gave a grunt thatbetokened sympathy and encouragement.
"'Pon my word!" he exclaimed as he touched the accelerator. "'Pon myword! How very remarkable!"
The car simply bounded along. The straight level road by SlaptonSands it covered at a good fifty miles an hour; with hardly aperceptible effort, but with many a jolt, it breasted the steepascent at Stoke Fleming and was soon careering madly down the almostprecipitous slope to the valley of the Dart, never halting till itpulled up on the quay of old-world Dartmouth.
"There she is, sir," said a fisherman in answer to the doctor'senquiry. "Just a-comin' round Castle Ledge."
News of the impending arrival of the survivors of the "Heracles," hadpreceded the "Merope." Already Lloyd's staff at Prawle Point hadtelegraphed the glad tidings, and the report had been spread far andwide. Hundreds of Dartmouth townsfolk were gathered on the quays andon the high ground by the old castle. Half a dozen steamboats crammedwith wildly excited naval cadets had left the College quay and werepelting down the harbour to greet the returning warriors. Dartmouthhad not seen such a day since the last pre-war regatta.
Slowly the "Merope" approached the anchorage on the Kingswear side ofthe harbour. As she drew abreast of the quay Doris could see thecomparatively limited expanse of deck crowded with men. Few of themwore naval uniforms. Here and there could be distinguished a seamanwearing a service jumper or a naval cap, but for the most part theywere rigged out in canvas clothing. Some were actually wearinggarments fashioned out of blankets.
"Hulloa there, Bill," shouted a Dartmouth waterman recognising an oldfriend on the tramp's deck. "You'm all right, us hopes?"
"Ay," was the reply, "but deuced hungry." The man voiced thesentiments of his comrades. They were in high spirits in spite ofshort rations.
An outward-bound Scandinavian steamer had effected the rescue of thesurvivors of the "Heracles," and not being equipped with wireless shewas unable to send the reassuring news to any of the British cruiserswhich were searching fruitlessly over the spot where their consorthad foundered five hours previously.
Twenty-four hours later the rescuing ship fell in with the "Merope,"homeward bound, and in spite of limited accommodation and provisionsher skipper gladly offered to tranship the hundred-odd officers andmen of the "Heracles."
Strangely enough, the "Merope" gained the "Chops of the Channel"without getting within signalling distance of any other craft. Then athick fog swept down, preventing her from communicating with eitherthe Scillies or with the Lizard Station. Food was now running out.The tramp's exact position was unknown, until the sudden dispersal ofthe fog revealed the fact that she was within signalling distance ofPrawle Point. Thus it was that her skipper judiciously decided to putin to Dartmouth, land her supernumeraries and revictual beforeresuming her voyage to London.
Amidst the scene of excitement Doris Greenwood remained perfectlycalm--at least outwardly. Several times Dr. Cardyke glanced furtivelyat his companion's face.
"Plucky girl," he soliloquised. "Frightfully plucky. If her brotherisn't on board, by Jove----"
A burst of cheering, louder than ever, interrupted his thoughts. The"Merope" had brought up. Her accommodation-ladder was alreadylowered; a small fleet of boats rubbed alongside her iron-rustedhull.
"They'm landing the whole of 'em at Kingswear side, I'll allow,"declared an old salt. "Off to Plymouth 'tes for they--court-martial,or summat o' that sort."
The girl could stand the suspense no longer. Descending from the car,she called to an urchin who was about to put off in a flat-bottomed,leaky punt. It was the only available craft, for almost everythingthat would float was crowded with sightseers.
"Boy," she called, "will you take me off to that ship?"
The sight of a shilling decided the youngster to break faith withhalf a dozen of his pals, who were waiting until he had baled out hisleaky argosy.
She was only just in time, for the old salt's surmise was correct.Officers and men were to be sent to the Devonport Naval Barracks toawait a court of enquiry.
"Hulloa, Doris!"
It was Eric's voice. She hardly recognised in the speaker herbrother. A week's growth upon his chin, his alert figure grotesquelyhidden in a dungaree boiler-suit, a tarry canvas cap set jauntily onhis head, and his arm in a sling.
The A.P. leant over the coaming of the picquet-boat and grasped hissister's outstretched hand.
"Bit of a surprise, eh?" he remarked. "How on earth did you get windof it? And so jolly near home, too. If ever I felt like breaking shipit's now. Never mind, old girl! This will mean a week's leave verysoon."
"And Ronald?" she asked.
"They took him ashore not two minutes ago," replied the A.P. "Cotcase, you know----"
"Not seriously wounded?"
"No. Effects of exhaustion. We all had a pretty rough time, and oldTressidar was a brick... we're off. Push off, boy!"
The picquet-boat began to back away from the ladder, two of her crewusing their boat-hooks to fend off the crowd of shore-craft.
"S'long, Doris," was her brother's farewell greeting. "No use comingacross. They won't let you into the station. I'll give Tressidar thetip that I've seen you."
As the picquet-boat glided astern, Doris overheard a voice exclaim,"Tressidar's a lucky dog, dash it all!"
It was the engineer-sub-lieutenant who had vainly begged Tressidarfor an introduction on the memorable day when the "Pompey" was sunkin Auldhaig Firth.
"Well," was Dr. Cardyke's comment as the girl ran lightly back to thecar. "It's good news, I can see. No need to ask that. Now what's theprogramme?"
"You have business in Dartmouth," she reminded him.
"Done," rejoined the doctor laconically. "Done, while you wererisking your life in that cockleshell. Suppose it's home to tell thegood news?"
"Yes, if you please," replied the girl, and to her companion's mildastonishment he saw that she was crying. They were tears not ofsorrow, but of joy and thankfulness--of relief that the sea hadreturned to her those she loved.