Chapter XII: Mystery

I

Dusk and a fine driving rain were sweeping up harbour from the sea. The shadows that had gathered in the folds of the hills ashore swiftly overflowed and settled down over the muddy town and wharves, engulfing the straggling dockyard. As night fell, lights glimmered here and there on the hill-side and were obliterated; across the swift-running ebb-tide the irritable chatter of pneumatic riveters drifted in gusts; and in the direction from which the sound came a few shaded arc-lights shone upon the half-discerned ribs of craft on the building slips.

Something beside the night was coming in from the sea: a ship with a heavy list, labouring in with a tug on either side of her and another fretting at the end of the tow. They passed, a mere smear of uncertain outlines, through the outer defences, and a couple of long black shadows that were the escorting destroyers wheeled again to seaward and were blotted from view.

A number of small craft were afloat in the lower reaches of the harbour. A hospital launch, with the Geneva cross visible through the dusk against her white upper-works, lay rolling gently by the berth towards which the tow was heading. Another steam launch circled impatiently round, and in her stern-sheets a group of armed marines stood watching the approaching vessels above the upturned collars of their greatcoats. The steaming-light of the hospital boat glimmered momentarily on the barrels of their rifles.

“’Ullo?” said a sick-berth attendant in the hospital boat, “guard o’ marines--eh?”

The sternsheets-man nodded towards the approaching tow-lights. “Prisoners,” he said sententiously, and was silent, watching the shadowy ship looming towards them out of the murk. The tug on the tow slipped the hawser with a blast on her syren and turned shoreward; the splash of an anchor let go and the rattle of cable followed. The coxswain of the hospital boat, as if awaiting a signal, put out his hand toward the telegraph and rang slow speed ahead. A light appeared at the gangway of the shadowy ship.

One of the tugs alongside had cast off and was backing astern into the darkness: as she cleared the ship’s side a steam-boat, with her bow lights gleaming through the drizzle like red and green jewels, crossed the bows, swept round in a graceful circle, and ran alongside. A rope ladder dropped from the upper deck of the ship, and a figure in oil-skins, which had been standing in the stern-sheets of the steam-boat, caught it as it swayed.

“Lay off,” he said curtly to the coxswain, and climbed inboard.

A seaman stood at the gangway holding a lantern above his head, and as the new-comer stepped inboard another figure came forward into the light to greet him. He was a loose-limbed, youngish man, wearing the cap and monkey jacket of a commander. Leather sea-boots reached to his knees, and he dragged his feet as he walked, as if oppressed with a great weariness. He peered at the new-comer through the drizzle for an instant, and then saluted. A grave smile flitted across his face, lit for a moment by the lantern-light.

“Congratulate you!” said the visitor in quick incisive tones. “Are you all right--wounded?”

“No, sir, not a scratch. Ship’s badly knocked about, but she’ll float. Dynamo’s gone, and we’ve only got lanterns, but you can see....” He nodded forward.

The visitor came a pace or two inboard and stood looking about the upper-deck in silence. Figures were moving to and fro with lanterns, and the uncertain light flickered on splintered planking and upper-works shattered and distorted by shell-fire. The air was pungent with the sour odour of wet charred woodwork.

“Yes....” said the new-comer, in a low voice, as if speaking to himself. “Yes....” He stared at the riven funnel overhead and thence to the rents in the bulwarks. “Where are your dead?”

“Aft, sir.” The Commander led the way past piles of crumpled wreckage, down a ladder, and across an open space. A sentry leaning on his rifle at a doorway jerked to attention. “Here are the dead, sir,” said the Commander. He stepped through the door and indicated in the flickering lantern-light a row of motionless figures resting beneath a White Ensign.

The other halted and stood in silent contemplation of the shrouded forms outlined dimly amongst the shadows. His chin had sunk on his breast, and for a minute he remained thus, motionless. Then slowly he turned away.

“The men were absolutely splendid, sir,” said the Commander, as he led the way forward again. “I--I don’t know how to express what I feel about them. This was out and away the worst show we’ve had, and they were”--the speaker broke off and seemed to swallow something--“magnificent.” The inadequacy of the English language appeared to embarrass him. He made a little gesture: “Surgeon was killed, an’ I did what I could, but I’m afraid I hurt some of them shockingly. They never winced. It’s so hard to find words----”

“There are no words,” said the other, “that meet the case.” He paused to measure a shell-hole in the engine-room casing; the clang of metal on metal and the throb of pumps came up from the silent depths of the ship. “What about your prisoners?’

“The captain’s in my harbour cabin--what’s left of it. Pretty sulky customer. The rest are forward under guard. They’re more communicative than the last lot and jolly glad to get out of submarines for the rest of the war.”

A gust of laughter floated aft from the forecastle and the sound of men’s voices singing. A door opened somewhere, and the words of the song came plain through the night:

“_When you come to the end of a perfect day!_”

The Commander smiled as a father smiles on the threshold of his children’s nursery. “That’s the wounded, sir. First lieutenant’s got the rest forward, working cables.” A figure came towards them out of the darkness with bandages glimmering white about his head. He was humming the refrain of the forecastle song, and broke off abruptly as he recognised the two figures by the casing.

“The hospital boat is coming alongside now,” said the stranger. “I’d like to speak to the wounded before they leave the ship.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The other led the way forward, and as they stepped into the dimly-lighted forecastle the singing wavered and died away to a sudden silence. The narrow space was partly blocked by hammocks slung from the beams overhead, and illumined by a few swinging lanterns and candles guttering on the broken mess tables. Evidences of the ordeal the ship had undergone were apparent on all sides in blackened paint-work and ragged shell-holes in the deck and ship’s side. Men sat about smoking and nursing bandaged limbs, or lay motionless with their eyes full of suffering turned towards the new-comers; a few rose unsteadily to their feet, and the stranger motioned them with a gesture to sit down again.

“If England knew,” he said, in his clear, deliberate tones, “England could tell you men what she thinks of you. Unfortunately, I am the only person at present that knows”--he paused and surveyed them in the uncertain light, which, nevertheless, served to illumine the consciousness of victory in each drawn face. “And I’m--proud of you.” They cheered the spare, upright figure as he stood amid the wreckage and pools of water as only men can cheer who have fought a good fight to a clean finish; as the last gust died away feet shuffled on the iron plating behind the speaker, and the stretcher-bearers entered. From farther aft along the upper deck came a hoarse word of command, and the clatter of steel as the unseen prisoners’ escort fixed bayonets. The visitor turned to the Commander and walked slowly aft.

“Now,” he said, “I’ll have your report.”

* * * * *

Half an hour later the visitor departed. At the gangway he paused. “I’ll send my barge back for you,” he said. “You’ll want to get ashore. I sent to tell your wife you were coming in.” He smiled his dour smile. “When did you get your last sleep?”

The younger man thought gravely for a moment. “I don’t remember, sir. What’s to-day?... Thursday?” He smiled. “Monday, sir, I think it was.... Thanks awfully for the barge, sir. I’ll go ashore when I’ve seen the ship all right for the night.”

II

The tiny cottage parlour was flooded with sunshine: through the open window the throaty bubbling song of a thrush poured like a cascade from among the blossoms of an apple-tree that came near to thrusting inquisitive lower branches into the room. The Commander sat at the breakfast-table chipping the top off an egg; opposite him stood a girl, her brows knitted in the preoccupation of coffee-making. At his left hand, perched in a high chair, sat a smaller edition of himself with a bib under his chin, watching the decapitation of the egg with intent solemnity.

“What did the White Queen say?” asked the Commander.

“Off wiv his ’ead,” came the reply promptly, in rich tones of anticipation.

“’Head,’ darling,” protested the coffeemaker without raising her eyes from her task.

“Never mind, John Willie,” said his father. “Let’s cut the cackle and get to the ’osses.” He extended the top of the brown egg to his son and heir, who gravely accepted it, and delved into its white and gold with an unwieldy egg-spoon.

“Well?” said his father.

“Fank you,” said John Willie absent-mindedly. He finished the egg’s head and passed on to the more serious business of porridge in a blue-and-white bowl. “Can I go to see daddy’s ship ’smorning?” he queried presently. A tiny shadow passed across his mother’s eyes and was gone again. For nearly a week she had been able to forget that ship.

She looked at her first-born across the table and smiled. “What d’you want to see?” she asked.

“Blug,” said John Willie calmly.

His father raised his eyebrows. “The deuce you do. How d’you know there’s blood there?”

“Cook told Nannie,” said the child. “She said ve scuppers must have been full wiv it. What’s scuppers?”

“Eat your porridge,” retorted his father. “Once upon a time there was a little boy who played with his breakfast----”

“I’ll speak to cook,” said the mother in a low voice.

“An’ cook said----”

“Never mind what cook said. Just you listen to my story. The little boy’s mummie took him to see the White Queen--know what _she_ said?”

“Off wiv----”

A shadow darkened the sunlight and the head and shoulders of the post-girl passed the open window.

“Hi! Here you are, Janet!” shouted the Commander. He leaned back in his chair, thrusting a long arm out of the window, and took the orange-hued envelope from the girl’s hand. Slowly and deliberately he selected a knife and slit the envelope; there was silence in the little room, and the clock on the mantelpiece punctuated it with even, unhurried ticks. “No answer,” he called over his shoulder, refolded the message and put it in his pocket; then he held out his cup to be replenished.

His wife filled the cup and looked at him across the flowers and china. But her husband had slipped into one of his musing silences and sat with knitted brows, drumming his fingers on the white cloth. She knew only too well those imperturbable abstractions, and the futility of asking questions. She was one of those women who have learned to wait as men rarely learn any lesson.

The meal finished and the Commander rose, filling a pipe. “Lemme strike your match,” said his son.

“He’ll burn his fingers,” said his mother.

“Yes,” said the man. “That’s the only way he’ll ever learn to respect matches.” He held out the box: the match was duly struck and the pipe lit without catastrophe. When the pipe was drawing properly he turned and watched his wife’s profile as she moved about the homely disorder of the breakfast-table. His eyes were full of a great tenderness.

“Like to run up to town to-morrow?” he said casually.

She turned swiftly. “London!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Bill! Rather extravagant, isn’t it?”

“Um.... No. I don’t think so. I’ve got to go--on duty. You’d better come too. It’s only for the day. We might lunch somewhere where there’s a band ... buy a hat, p’r’aps....”

“Me too!” said John Willie.

“Once upon a time,” said his father, “I was in a ship where there was a man who said ‘Me too’ every time any one ordered a drink.”

“Was he a firsty man?”

“Very. There were twenty-three people in the mess, consequently he drank twenty-three times more than he ought to.”

“_Ven_ what happened?”

“He was attacked by pink rats and blue spiders and piebald snakes.”

“Did vey bite him?”

“Something frightful. He never said ‘Me too’ again.”

The girl turned from contemplation of the sunlit garden, the tip of her slim forefinger between her teeth as was her habit when deep in thought.

“Bill! Don’t be awful.... Do you think that grey dress looks nice enough ...? We needn’t go anywhere _really_ smart, need we ...?”

The man put his pipe down on the mantelpiece, and crossing the little room took her face between his hard hands. Three times he kissed her: once on the forehead, once on the mouth, and once on the tip of her pretty nose. “Anything’s good enough,” he said, and his voice vibrated on a note she rarely heard. Then abruptly he released her and turned to his son.

“Now then, John Willie, come on outside! I’m going to bowl to you, and if you don’t keep a straight bat you shall never come on board daddy’s ship again.”

* * * * *

III

The taxi jolted up the cobbled gradient that led out of the gloom of the great terminus, and slipped into the traffic that flowed east and west along the sunlit thoroughfare.

“Oh, look at it all,” said the Commander’s wife. “What fun, what fun! Why does everybody look as if they were having a holiday too? Look at the rosettes on the horses’ blinkers ... _and_ the flowers--Bill, look at the flowers....” she sighed luxuriously. “Oh, how nice all these commonplace things are!” Her hand stole inside her husband’s. “Can they see us, d’you think ...?”

“They never used to,” replied the man. He watched her animated smiling face as she glanced delightedly about her at the familiar shops and women’s frocks and all the gay tide of London setting to and fro. Her eyes softened.

“It’s like old times, isn’t it?” she said. “The pair of us philandering in a taxi.... And the tuppences ticking up.... Are we really going to buy a hat?”

“Not yet.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “No time now, I’ve got an appointment at twelve.”

She gave his hand a little squeeze. “Tell me where we’re going.”

“I told you. My outfitter.”

“I know: but after that?”

“Then I’ve got to--to pay a call. You’ll have to wait. Then----”

“Who are you going to call on?”

“A man.”

“Any one I know?”

“Well”--her husband threw back his head and chuckled delightedly--“not to speak to.”

She shook him by the sleeve. “Don’t be silly and mysterious. Is he a naval officer?”

“Er, yes.”

“At the Admiralty?”

“Down in that direction.” The cab slowed and pulled up. “Wait,” he said, and jumping out vanished between the swinging glass doors of the outfitter. A couple of minutes later he returned, carrying a sword and belt, resplendent in gilt and tassle. He stopped on the kerb, gave a low-voiced direction to the driver, and resumed his seat beside her.

“You haven’t bought another sword!” she gasped. “You’ve got one already.”

“Olo-piecee--too shabby. I’ve only borrowed this for the forenoon. You have to wear a sword to pay certain duty calls.”

Her ignorance of Service matters was profound, and he had always been content that it should be so. She gave a little sigh, like a child abandoning a puzzle. The car turned into the Mall, and the Commander leaned back in his seat adjusting the belt about his lean middle. The girl glanced over her shoulder.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “he’s going away from the Admiralty! Tell him, Bill, he’s going wrong----”

“No, he isn’t,” said the man. He glanced again at his watch. “Pam,” he said, and for the second time in her life she thought she detected a note of nervousness in his voice--“Pam, you’ll have to sit in the taxi and wait. I shall only be about twenty minutes----”

“Twenty minutes!” she echoed in dismay, and glanced at the taximeter. “But can’t I----?” Then the truth suddenly dawned upon her. The broad façade of Buckingham Palace loomed up before them and the car slowed.

“Oh!” she gasped. “You _might_ have told me.... And one of your cuffs is frayed.... That policeman is saluting you, Bill! Oh, my dear, my dear, I think I want to cry....”

“You mustn’t cry here,” said her husband fiercely. They had passed into the vast courtyard and had a glimpse of scarlet-coated footmen behind the glass panels of a door. The Commander’s wife gulped. “No,” she said, “of course not. But I wish I could come with you.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze and jumped out: as he turned to close the door their eyes met.

“Wait,” he said and passed from her ken.

Outside the railings, drawn up in an inconspicuous spot by the curb, oblivious to the inexorable ticking of the tuppences, she waited. Nearly half an hour had elapsed before she saw him coming towards her, walking very quickly, holding his head high, rather pale under his sunburn. He gave the driver directions and jumped in beside her. She took a deep breath.

“Oh, my dear--_what?_”

Her husband made no reply, but laid a little morocco leather case on her trembling knees. For a moment she fumbled at if blindly, her head bent low. Then she turned to him, smiling tremulously through a mist of tears, the little bronze Symbol lying in the palm of her hand.

“My Man!” she whispered. “My _Man_!”