“What did he say?” inquired Whitwell, the midshipman struggling with the time-table.
“Leave jammed,” replied Kenneth laconically.
“Hard lines!” rejoined both snotties sympathetically.
“And he chucked my seamanship in my teeth,” continued Kenneth bitterly. “Said it was the most lubberly bit of work he’d ever seen. I told him that the steering-gear had jammed and he went for a look-see.”
“And then?” prompted Stamford, who was still heaving personal gear from the sea-chest.
“He said that the gear was all O.K.,” replied Raxworthy. “Mind you, I don’t say that it isn’t now, but I can swear it did jam as I came alongside. Well, that’s torn it, Jimmy, absolutely,” he continued, addressing Whitwell. “I’d better write to your people and tell them that I cannot accept their invitation.”
Kenneth’s people were in India, and as the midshipman had no relations at home where he could spend Christmas, his chum Whitwell had asked his parents to invite him for the festive season.
The invitation had been sent to include Midshipman Welburn, and the three chums were looking forward to a topping time at Kindersley Manor. Whitwell’s people’s hospitality was well known to the gun-room of H.M.S. Kirkham, and even though the remaining members had their own homes in which to spend Christmas, most of them rather envied the good luck of Kenneth Raxworthy and Jimmy Whitwell.
The Whitwells did things on somewhat a lavish scale, but without ostentation. Usually, just before Christmas leave started, their car was sent to whatever home port in which Kirkham chanced to be, and Jimmy and his chums were conveyed to Kindersley Manor with the least trouble to themselves, and without any drain upon their limited exchequer. The Manor was Liberty Hall as far as the young guests were concerned. There were shooting-parties, plenty of outdoor sports and indoor amusements while—no small attraction this—Jimmy Whitwell had several decidedly pretty sisters who—to quote the verdict of those midshipmen who knew—were “sports without being sidey”.
And now, almost at the eleventh hour, the Bloke’s decree had fallen almost as swiftly and effectually as the knife of a guillotine.
There was not the faintest hope of the commander relenting. He prided himself upon his cast-iron discipline, and had never been known to countermand an order.
“Hard lines, old son,” remarked Whitwell sympathetically, adding: “We’ll think of you when you’re standing middle watch on Christmas morn, my lad!”
“Don’t rub it in,” rejoined Kenneth gloomily, as he sat down to write the letter announcing his regrets at being unable to spend Christmas at Kindersley Manor.
Contrary to usual custom the light cruiser Kirkham had not been ordered to return to her home port for the purpose of giving Christmas leave. The fishery protection cruiser Gannet, having developed engine defects, had been sent south for repairs and in consequence Kirkham was under orders to remain on the east coast pending the former’s return to her station.
Junk Harbour is never a particularly inviting spot even in summer. During the winter, conditions are simply appalling. The outer roadstead, in which the light cruiser rode to her own anchors, was practically open to gales between nor’-east through east to sou’-east, and these are the prevailing ones between September and March. Slight protection is afforded by the Mutches, a cluster of rocky islets, a few of which are inhabited by hardy fisherfolk whose daring in wresting a livelihood from the treacherous sea is equalled by their disregard for law and order as laid down by the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries.
On the outermost rock comprising the Mutches a lofty lighthouse serves as a guide to mariners making for Junk Harbour, but so exposed is this beacon that often the three light-keepers have to wait a week or more before their reliefs can come off from the little town of Mautby.
Of Mautby itself there is little to be said. It is the terminus of a branch line from which two trains depart and two arrive every weekday—unless the line is blocked by snow. On Sundays communication by rail ceases. There are two very indifferent inns, no cinema, and hardly any amusements for the men of His Majesty’s ships who happen to be lying in Junk Harbour.
It was three miles from this back-of-beyond town and in the centre of Junk Harbour outer roadstead that Mr. Midshipman Raxworthy was to spend his Christmas!
“Fall in, liberty men!”
The hoarse order, followed by the shrill trill of the bo’sun’s mate’s pipes brought the hands of the watch detailed for leave tumbling up pell-mell through the hatchways. At the double they ran aft to form up in two ranks upon the quarter-deck, where they stood shivering in the chilly on-shore wind in spite of great-coats, jerseys, and mufflers.
“Liberty men—‘shun!”
The ranks stiffened, each man staring fixedly into space while the inspecting officer, accompanied by a midshipman and the master-at-arms, passed slowly up and down, keenly on the look-out for any glaring departure from regulations in the men’s “rig”.
“Carry on!”
The ranks broke, each man, holding his suitcase and making sure that his liberty ticket and travelling warrant were still in his possession, making for one of two pinnaces lying alongside.
In a few moments both boats were filled to their utmost capacity, while the duty steam-boat, with Midshipman Raxworthy in charge, backed and then went slowly ahead preparatory to taking the two liberty boats in tow.
The Owner had left the ship on the previous day, and in consequence the commander was virtually captain of the Kirkham. The Bloke evidently meant to give Raxworthy more than his fair share of duty, if the commander’s night-order book was any criterion. And the commander was pacing the starboard side of the quarter-deck, apparently oblivious to the biting wind and stinging sleet, with the evident intention of seeing how smartly the midshipman got away with his tow.
It was by no means a simple manœuvre. There was quite a nasty sea running, and since the light cruiser was lying head on to both wind and tide there was little lee to be obtained from her lofty hull. The steam-boat had not only to sheer off from the ship’s side, but she had to get the two heavily laden pinnaces clear. Too much way might result in the towing hawsers parting; too little and the steam-boat would probably foul the slack hawser with her propeller—and then all the fat would be in the fire, even if the liberty men didn’t find themselves in the ditch!
But Raxworthy’s luck was in this time. The steam-boat gathered way, taking it green as her bows plunged into the short, steep seas. Then, once she and her double tow were well clear of the ship, the midshipman put his helm down and described a sixteen-point turn. Not until wind and sea were astern and the two pinnaces rolling sluggishly in her wake did Kenneth heave a sigh of relief.
“The Bloke can’t have me on that, anyway!” he soliloquized.
Just as the steam-boat was entering the inner harbour the motor-picket-boat—the reason for Midshipman Raxworthy’s present duty—came pelting seaward with a whaler in tow. In the stern sheets of the latter sat a petty officer coxswain, almost hidden by a mass of evergreens and holly.
As the whaler drew abeam the coxswain stood up and saluted the midshipman; then as the two pinnaces in tow glided past, the liberty men greeted the cargo of evergreens with ironical cheers. It mattered not to them that those evergreens were going to be used to decorate Kirkham’s mess-decks. They would not be there, but would be enjoying their Christmas leave ashore.
The midshipman gave a quick glance astern at the rapidly receding motor-picket-boat and her tow. How he loathed that motor-picket-boat, the cause of his present disappointment. She had let him down through no fault of his own, and in consequence he was fated to spend the “festive season”—which promised to be anything but that as far as he was concerned—in a half-empty ship. Most of the officers were already on leave; practically all his messmates of the gun-room would be “going on the beach” that afternoon. On Christmas Day he would have the doubtful pleasure of accompanying the commander and the few officers who remained on a semi-ceremonial tour of the evergreen-decorated mess-deck. That was all the Christmas spirit he was likely to enter upon. The odds were that even the Christmas mail would be late—trust the Mautby branch line for that!—and that there would be neither presents nor letters to cheer him up.