"Big sc.r.a.p 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 had unknowingly run over something, applied his emergency brakes, bringing up his car all standing and at a grave risk to the tyres. Leslie, taken unawares, shot forward, "ramming" his parent in the small of the back with 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 Sefton descended from the car. Already George had executed a flying leap, and was 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 the long-expected struggle for naval supremacy had been settled once and for all in Britain"s favour.
Admiral Sefton grabbed the proffered paper with super-energy, almost tearing the flimsy fabric with his powerful fingers as he fumbled with the recalcitrant leaves.
Then the look of eager expectancy faded from his face, giving place to a dull, strained expression of incredulity.
"Come along, Sefton!" sang out Crosthwaite Senior. "Don"t be greedy with 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 the general, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the paper George was holding.
The two officers scanned the official report. "Owing to low visibility"--was ever an Admiralty dispatch issued with such halting excuses? A straightforward admission of our losses, it is true, but nothing to suggest that the Germans had incurred similar or heavier casualties, or even that the British navy had gained the day. And then there was the perplexing statement that the Germans had rescued a number of British seamen, and no corresponding report to the effect that we had saved any of theirs. Everything pointed to a running fight in which the Huns were the pursuers.
Admiral Sefton was dumbfounded. Had there been a convenient wall, he might have turned his face towards it and groaned in spirit. Instead he set his jaw tightly and thought hard.
"What do you make of it?" enquired the general. "Looks bad on the face of 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 of the party. No longer, the beautiful scenery appealed to them; the crisp, bracing air and brilliant sunshine called in vain.
Down the steep "hairpin" road through Nailsworth, and along one of the prettiest valleys of the Cotswolds, the car literally crawled. General Crosthwaite, contrary to his usual practice, was driving slowly and listlessly. His keen zest had disappeared. As he gripped the steering-wheel he thought deeply, remembering that his son was somewhere out there in the trackless, mine-strewn North Sea.
The admiral, too, was meditating. He would dearly have liked to have paced to and fro, with his hands clasped behind his back in true quarter-deck style; but since the limits of the car made such a proceeding impossible, and it was equally difficult to alight unless the car stopped, he "sat tight" and made a mental review of the battle, constructing his theories upon the slender foundations conveyed in the official report.
Gradually his perplexities vanished. The firm belief in the well-being of the navy that had gripped his mind ever since those long-past _Britannia_ days was not to be shattered by a disquieting and obviously incomplete report, even though it bore Admiralty endors.e.m.e.nt.
"Hang it all!" he exclaimed, startling his friend by bawling into Crosthwaite Senior"s ear. "Hanged if I"ll go by that report. Just you wait, my dear fellow, until supplementary information is forthcoming.
It"s my belief the Admiralty have something up their sleeve, and that we"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 we get to Gloucester."
"Hope you"re right," thought the army officer. Visions of a previous naval disaster--that of the gallant Craddock"s defeat off Coronel, the first news of which came from German sources--urged that such a thing as a naval defeat might be possible, especially in view of the great part played by chance. A misunderstood order might result in disaster. A chance shot or an accidental internal explosion might imperil the superiority 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 behind him, is in every way superior to the brute who mans the fleet of the Black Cross Ensign.
Then the general found himself mentally kicking himself for not sharing in the admiral"s optimism.
"Sefton"s right," he concluded. "When we get more news we"ll find that all"s well."
At Gloucester the admiral sent off a telegram, bought four different papers, scanned the bulletins in the windows of the publishing offices, and found himself little wiser than before; but at Worcester, where the motorists stopped for lunch, they found the outlook much brighter.
Steps had already been taken to counteract the depressing effects of the preliminary official announcement of the Battle of Jutland. The loss of the _Warspite_ and _Marlborough_, both ships having been claimed as sunk by the Germans, was categorically denied, and a statement of the British vessels, known to be sunk, given. Enemy ships, aggregating in tonnage more than that of our losses, were claimed only when definite reports of their fate were received, from which it was now evident that, far from being a German victory, the honours rested with the fleet under Jellicoe"s command.
At the post office Admiral Sefton obtained a wire, sent in reply to his telegram from Gloucester. It was from an old shipmate, now holding an appointment 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. Hardly a muscle of Crosthwaite Senior"s weather-beaten face moved as he read the momentous but indefinite news, although the "vessel in question" was the T.B.D. _Calder_, and both men had similar personal interests in the matter.
For the moment private considerations held supreme sway. The two men mutually extended their right hands and exchanged sympathetic grips.
"If they are knocked out, it was in the thick of the sc.r.a.p," declared General Crosthwaite. "I"ll stake my all upon that."
"_Dulce et_----" began the admiral, then, coming to the conclusion that he was a trifle premature, he exclaimed: "Dash it all, Crosthwaite, strange things happen at sea! They may turn up after all."
"It"s the suspense," added Crosthwaite. "Look here, I"ll take the car right slap on to Edinburgh, and go on to Rosyth. Are you game?"
"Carry on," said Admiral Sefton. "I"m with you."
CHAPTER XVI--The Struggle in the Mountain Pa.s.s
Near the summit of Blackstone Edge, an unfrequented road running at a height of between 1200 and 1300 feet over the serrated Pennine Hills, five men were lying upon the short, dark-green gra.s.s in a slight hollow within ten yards of the highway. There was little about their appearance that demanded attention. A casual observer might in pardonable error have taken them for a party of Lancashire mill operatives out for a day"s enjoyment.
At intervals one of the party would roll over on his side, produce a pair of prismatic gla.s.ses from his pocket, and peer with considerable caution over the ridge of the hollow, focusing the binoculars upon the winding ribbon-like "slag" road that ascended steeply from the town of Rochdale, the factory chimneys of which were just discernible through the murky Lancashire atmosphere. Then, with a guttural grunt that betokened disappointment, he would replace the gla.s.ses and relapse into a stolid contemplation of his silent comrades. The hot sun pouring pitilessly upon the heavily-clad men did not tend to improve their physical comfort. Several times they cursed the tormenting flies, expressing their murmured epithets in the German tongue.
At last one of the men spoke.
"Are you sure that he is coming this way, Hans?" he asked, addressing the man with the binoculars. "Perhaps he has taken it into his head to take the other road--the Stanedge Pa.s.s, it is called."
"These Englishmen are so pig-headed that they rarely change their minds," replied Hans. "It is often as well that they do not. I have it on excellent authority that he leaves Liverpool at nine, addresses a conference at Bolton at eleven, and receives a deputation at Rochdale at two. Now, is it conceivable that he would go a roundabout way to Halifax when this is the shortest and easiest route?"
"He may take the railway train," suggested another of the band, as he shifted an automatic pistol from his hip pocket, where it seriously interfered with his ease, to his breast coat pocket.
"Knowing our man as I do," declared Hans, "I do not think it likely, unless his motor breaks down over these atrocious cobbled roads. No, I think we are soon to meet our expected visitor. Now, are you all thoroughly acquainted with your duties? There must be no failure. Even partial success is not sufficient. Complete obliteration of the man, a final disappearance, is what is required, and what must be accomplished."
A resolute chorus of a.s.sent rose from the four subordinates. Their leader, levelling his binoculars, studied the road for the twentieth time.
The five were members of a German Secret Service agency. Provided with registration cards, obtained with the greatest ease, since no attempt had been made to verify the particulars demanded by law; speaking English with a flawless Lancashire accent, members of a trade union, and fully conversant with the peculiarities of industrial life, the men were able to carry on their nefarious scheme with little risk of detection.