A Watch-dog of the North Sea: A Naval Story of the Great War Read online

  CHAPTER II

  THE RESULT OF THE LEADING STOKER'S CURIOSITY

  "CLEAR lower deck. Hands fall in to coal ship."

  The hoarse orders following the shrill trills of the bos'n's mates'pipes rang from end to end of H.M.S. "Pompey". In the stokers' messesmen arrayed in motley garbs, for the most part consisting of oldcanvas suits and coloured handkerchiefs tied tightly over theirforeheads, cleared out at the double to fall in on the quarter-deck.

  Stoker James Jorkler, otherwise known as Rhino Jorkler, heard theorder not without emotion. He was a tall, sparely-built man of abouttwenty-four years of age. At first sight he lacked physique, untilone noticed the ripple of supple muscles on his partly-bared arms.His face was long and pointed, his eyes blue and deeply setunderneath a pair of thick and overhanging brows. His hair closelycropped, tended to exaggerate the elongation of his head. Hisfeatures betrayed neither signs of good humour nor bad temper, butrather an intelligence bordering upon cunning.

  Three months previously the Royal Navy in a somewhat excusable hastehad accepted the services of James Jorkler. In war time, with a heavydrain upon personnel the authorities had to be a trifle lessparticular as to whom they enlisted for temporary service, andamongst a batch of stoker recruits was Jorkler.

  His answers upon enlistment evidently satisfied the petty officerresponsible for obtaining the necessary particulars. He was aCanadian, he declared, born at Woodstock, New Brunswick. Formeroccupation? Trimmer on board a White Star liner. His discharge papersconfirmed that statement. Next of kin? James Jorkler rubbed his chinthoughtfully. He was on the point of replying that he did not possesssuch a luxury, but upon consideration he gave the name of JonasBrocklebunk, his half-brother, of Leith.

  Promptly the newly entered stoker was fired off to the R.N. Barracksat Portsmouth. His cap-ribbon, like those of the rest of the menborne on the books of that establishment, was embellished with thewords "H.M.S. Victory," although his acquaintance with thetime-honoured three-decker was limited to a distant glimpse of theship as she swung to her moorings in Portsmouth Harbour.

  The rest of the stokers' mess could not come to a unanimous decisionconcerning the tall recruit. His reserve puzzled them. Although hemade no attempt to "choke off" any questions, he kept much tohimself. He had no bosom pal. He showed no inclination to "splitbrass rags" with any of his messmates, who, for some unexplainedreason, nicknamed him "Rhino."

  When in due time he emerged from his course of preliminary trainingand was drafted to H.M.S. "Pompey," the name stuck. He showed neitherappreciation nor resentment at it; it would have been useless to havedone either. So he accepted the sobriquet without any outward andvisible sign of interest in his messmates' solicitude for his need ofa nickname.

  The mess-deck was all but cleared. Jorkler, usually amongst the firstto respond to orders, lingered until he was almost the last. Then,kneeling over his ditty-box, he unlocked and threw back the lid,delving amongst his belongings until he found what he required. "Wotthe 'Ades 'ave you got there, mate?" broke in a deep voice.

  Jorkler turned with a start to find that a leading stoker wasstanding behind him.

  "Kind of souvenir," he replied weakly. "I guess is isn't of any interestto you."

  "Thought as it might be a plug o' 'bacca," continued the man. "Factis, I believes it is. 'Ow about it?"

  "Reckon you're wrong," snapped Jorkler with returning confidence ashe slammed and locked the box.

  "Too jolly fishy to my liking," rejoined the petty officer bluntly."You just wait till we've done coaling and I'll see for myself wotyour little game is. Strikes me it ain't all jonnick."

  At this threat Jorkler started to his feet Fortunately for theleading stoker there were others still in the mess, otherwise----

  Jorkler set his jaw tightly and followed his inquisitor on deck. Atthe first opportunity he would nip below and throw the object ofdiscussion overboard rather than let the leading stoker see it.

  It was still night, with a cold, drizzling rain. Overhead arc-lampsthrew a pale gleam upon the serried lines of men--seamen, stokers,and marines--on the quarter-deck. Everything liable to be affected bycoal-dust had been covered up. The huge 9.2-in. guns were swathed insacking; canvas covers encased the closed hatchways; whips forhoisting inboard the sacks of coal, trollies for bearing them to thenearest shoots, and a medley of other gear were in readiness, whilesteam was already raised to operate the winches.

  Skilfully a large "haulabout"--a hulk converted into a floatingcoal-dep?t--was manoeuvred alongside to starboard. To port a coupleof deeply laden lighters had already been made fast.

  "Commence--carry on!" shouted the commander from the after-bridge.

  Instantly it seemed as if pandemonium had broken loose. With a rushthe men set to work, for, if possible, H.M.S. "Pompey" was to breakher own record.

  Winches clattered. Jets of steam drifted across the slippery deck.Men shouted, knocked one another and each other, and worked till, inspite of the chilliness of the morning, their faces, quickly blackedwith coal-dust, ran with perspiration.

  Most of the junior officers joined in the actual labour. They foundthat even handling sacks of coal was preferable to standing by andshivering in the damp air. Clad in garments that outvied the bizarrerig of the hands, sub-lieutenants and midshipmen were soon toilinglike Trojans.

  With an almost reckless disregard for life and limb, sacks in batchesof half a dozen at the time were hoisted from the coaling craft anddumped with a dull crash upon the cruiser's deck. Woe-betide theluckless wight who failed to heed the warning cry of "Stand by,there!" Like a pack of wolves the energetic men threw themselves uponthe bags and dragged them to the shoots, until the ship vibrated withthe clatter of coal descending to the bunkers.

  At eight bells the word was passed to "Stand easy." A hastybreakfast, consisting largely of coal-dust washed down with ship'scocoa, was served out. The mess-decks were seething with human beingsresembling imps and satyrs in their grimy garbs and blackened faces.

  Reluctantly Stoker Jorkler came to the conclusion that this was notime to go to his ditty-box. Up to the present no opportunity hadoccurred.

  Again the ship's company resumed their labours. It was now daybreak.The rain still fell, unheeded by the enthusiastic toilers. The onlypeople who minded the horrible climatic conditions were the band,who, to keep up the spirits of the coaling party, were discussinglively airs in which rag-time predominated.

  Suddenly an engine-room artificer working the main derrick hoist gavevent to an oath. "Here, one of you; bear a hand," he claimed. "I'venipped my fingers."

  Without a word Stoker Jorkler relieved the luckless man at the steamwinch. The E.R.A., with two fingers crushed to a pulp, hurried awayto the sick-bay; while Jorkler, whose knowledge of machinery and ofwinches in particular was far from perfect, remained in control ofthe hoisting gear. He, of the whole of the ship's company, didn'texactly see why he should break his back over sacks of coal when hecould take on the comparatively light job of running the steam hoist.

  "Avast heaving there on the main derrick!" shouted Sub-lieutenantTressidar, whose quick eye had noticed that something had gone wrongaloft.

  Jorkler obeyed promptly, shutting off steam and applying theband-brake. A hundred pairs of eyes followed the direction of thesub's outstretched hand. The wire hawser had "jumped" the sheave atthe end of the derrick that, projecting at an angle of forty-fivedegrees, terminated fifty feet or more above the deck of the lighter.

  "Up aloft, one of you," continued Tressidar, addressing the men whoseoperations had perforce to be suspended.

  But before the order could be carried out a man working in thelighter gripped the wire rope, shouting for the winch to be put inmotion.

  Dangling at the end of the rope as he rose swiftly into the air was aburly figure rigged out in grimy canvas. With his teeth gleaming incontrast to his black face and with a dash of colour imparted by thescarlet handkerchief bound round his head, the volunteer for thedangerous service cut a picturesque
figure.

  Stoker Jorkler gave an involuntary start. He recognised the man asLeading Stoker Smith, the petty officer whose insistence had givenhim such a bad turn. For a few seconds he thought--and thought hard.

  The winch was still in motion. Higher and higher rose the pettyofficer until his head was almost level with the huge metal block atthe end of the derrick.

  Sub-lieutenant Tressidar raised his hand as a signal for the winch tobe stopped. Jorkler, his eyes fixed upon the man who had aroused hisenmity, made no effort to obey.

  Leading Stoker Smith realised his peril. The wire rope which he wasgrasping was being drawn completely through the sheave. He changedhis grip from the rope to the metal block, but the latter afforded noadequate hold.

  "Stop winding, you blithering idiot!" roared the commander, who fromthe after-bridge was a witness of all that occurred.

  Still Jorkler, ostentatiously fumbling with the mechanism, allowedthe winch to revolve. The end of the rope, including the eye-splice,pulled through the sheave and fell with a thud upon the deck, the menscattering right and left to avoid it in its descent.

  In the midst of his peril Smith espied a short length of rope bent tothe end of the derrick. Again he shifted his hold, and, grasping therope's-end, strove to fling his legs athwart the steeply slopingspar.

  As he did so the rope parted like pack-thread. Groans escaped theon-lookers as the doomed man, with arms and legs outstretched,hurtled through the air. To the spectators he seemed to fall slowly,but with a sickening crash his back came into contact with a beam inthe hold of the lighter.

  A dozen of his shipmates rushed to his assistance, but the man wasbeyond mortal aid.

  "What the deuce have you been up to?" inquired theengineer-lieutenant of the man at the winch.

  "Sorry, sir," replied Jorkler with well-feigned grief. "The enginegot out of gear. Is he dead, sir?"

  "As if he could be anything else!" retorted the irate officer. "Standaside, you blithering idiot! There'll be something for you toanswer." Five minutes later the interrupted work was resumed. Thelifeless victim had been removed; only sheer hard work could dispelthe gloom that had fallen on the ship's company.

  Beneath the mask of regret Jorkler was smiling to himself; from whichit was evident that the mysterious "thing" that had excited hisvictim's curiosity was something of great importance, since Jorklerput its value above that of the life of a shipmate.

  He was a firm believer in the adage, "Dead men tell no tales."

  On the following day the county coroner and twelve good men and trueassembled, as the law directs, to inquire into the manner of LeadingStoker Smith's death.

  Although not knowing the difference between a derrick and a handspike, a whip or a tackle, they listened with an air of profoundwisdom to the engineer-lieutenant's technical explanations. Theyheard Stoker Jorkler's account, although most of his sentences wereDutch to the Highlanders who formed the jury. They accepted thecommander's statement that everything had been done to safeguard theinterests of the crew, and, satisfied, returned a verdict ofAccidental Death.

  Leading Stoker Smith received the only salute to which a lower deckman is entitled--three volleys over his grave; and the "thing" stillremained locked away in Rhino Jorkler's ditty-box.