The Sub-Lieutenant ceased baling for a moment and looked into his senior's face, dimly lit by the reflection from the torch overhead.

"Do you know, sir," he said, "I don't feel as bucked as I did? I believe I've got half-way to cold feet about the show."

"Do you know, Sub"--Mottin copied the hesitating voice--"I've had cold feet the whole blinkin' time? If it wasn't for one thing I keep thinking of, I'd be properly howling about it."

"And what's that, sir?"

"D'you remember a line of Kipling's in that 'Widow of sleepy Chester'

poem? It's about 'Fifty file of Burmans to open him Heaven's gate.'

Well, that's keeping me cheered up."

"'Mm--that's true. How many do you think that boat carried?"

"Round about forty--she was a big packet."

"Only twenty file--still, that's good enough. Besides, they'd have done damage to-morrow if we hadn't got them."

"True for you, Sub--and they might have killed women on that trip. Now they won't get the chance."

"Twenty file. Ugh! I'll make 'em salute when I see them. Hullo! See that, sir?" The two men rose to their knees and stared out to the west. A bright glow showed beyond the horizon, and through it ran a flicker of pulsating flashes of vivid orange light. The glow broke out again a point to the northward, and the unmistakable beam of a searchlight swung to the clouds and down again. As they looked, the glow spread, and the rippling flashes as gun answered gun came into view over their horizon. Mottin fumbled for the gla.s.ses, but found them wet through and useless. The action was evidently coming their way, and was growing into a pyrotechnic display such as few are fortunate enough to see.

"Destroyers--coming right over us--Very's pistol, quick! We may get a chance here. Don't let the cartridges get wet, man--put 'em in your coat." The guns began to bark clearly above the straining and b.u.mping noise of the crumbling seaplane, and a wildly-aimed sh.e.l.l burst on the water half a mile to windward. Both men were standing up now, staring at the extraordinary scene. A flotilla of destroyers pa.s.sed each side of them, one leading the other by nearly a mile. The searchlights and gun-flashes lit the sea between the opposing lines, and the vicious sh.e.l.ls sent columns of shining water up around the rapt spectators, or whipped overhead in a continued stuttering shriek.

A big destroyer pa.s.sed at half a cable's length in a quivering halo of light of her own making. The short choppy beam sea sent a steady sheet of spray across her forecastle, a sheet that showed red in the light of the guns. As she pa.s.sed the Sub-Lieutenant raised his hand above his head, and a Very's light sailed up into the air, showing every detail of the battered seaplane with startling clearness for a few seconds. A searchlight whirled round from the destroyer, steadied blindingly on their faces a moment, and was switched off on the instant. As swiftly as it had approached, the fight flickered away to the eastward, till the last gleam was out of sight, and the two wet and aching men crouched back into the slopping water to continue their baling.

"If they _do_ find us, it'll be rather luck, sir," said the younger man. "She isn't going to last much longer."

"Long enough, I reckon. But they may go donkey's miles in a running fight like that. Is that petrol tank free?"

"Yes, I couldn't get the union-nut off--it was burred; so I broke the pipe and bent it back on itself. It'll hold all right, I think--at least it will only leak slowly. Hullo, she's going, sir."

"Not quite. Pa.s.s that tank aft and we'll crawl out on the tail.

That'll be the last bit under, and we may as well use her all we can."

With gasps and strainings they half-lifted, half-floated the big tank along till they had it jammed on end between the rudder and the control-wires. They straddled the sloping tail, crouching low to avoid the smack of the breaking seas, their legs trailing in the icy water.

With frozen fingers the Sub-Lieutenant removed two Very's cartridges from his breast-pocket and tucked them inside his leather waistcoat.

A flurry of snow came down wind. The two were too wet already to notice it, but as it grew heavier the increased darkness made Mottin lift his head and look round. At that moment a gleam of brightness showed through to windward; as he looked it faded and vanished. He leaned aft and shouted weakly--

"Come on, man--wake up! Fire another one. They're here!"

It seemed an age to him before the pistol was loaded, and his heart sank as a dull click indicated an unmistakable misfire. He watched the last cartridge inserted with dispa.s.sionate interest. If one was wet, the other was almost certain to be, and--Bang! The coloured ball of fire soared up into the driving snow, and the pistol slipped from the startled Sub-Lieutenant's hand and shot overboard. The searchlight came on again and grew stronger and nearer, and as the glare of it became intolerable, a tall black bow came dipping and swaying past at a few yards' range. Mottin almost let his will-power go at that point--the relief was too great. He had a confused memory afterwards of crashing wood as the tailplane ground against a steel side, and of barking his shins as he was hauled across a wire guard-rail and dropped on a very nubbly deck. The wardroom seemed a blaze of intense light after the darkness outside, and the temporary surgeon who took charge of him the most sensible and charming person in the Service.

"Sit down--take your coat off--lap this down. That's right. Now, I have two duties in this ship--I'm doctor and I'm the wine caterer.

They are not incompatible. You will therefore go to bed now in the Captain's cabin, and you'll have a hot toddy as soon as you're there; come along now and get your clothes off. Your mate is in the First Lieutenant's cabin, and he won't wake up till morning."

Twenty minutes later Mottin, from beneath a pile of blankets, heard a tinkle of curtain rings and looked out. A m.u.f.fled, snow-covered figure entered quietly and began to peel off a lammy coat. Mottin coughed.

"Hullo! How are you feeling? I've just come for a change of clothes. I won't be long--I'm Sangatte. No, that's all right. I won't be turning in to-night; we're going right up harbour, and I'll be busy till daylight."

He bustled round the chest of drawers, pulling out woollen scarves, stockings, &c., and talking rapidly. "Lucky touch our finding you. I noted position when your first light went up, but as the chase looked like running on ninety mile yet, I didn't expect to find you. Your joss was in, because the snow came down and they put up a smoke-screen and ceased fire, so we lost touch, and I hadn't far to come back to look for you. Got a Fritz, did you? Good man! We'll have a bottle on your decoration when we get in. The Huns? Yes, they lost their rear ship right off, and the others were plastered good and plenty. We lost one on a mine, but we took the crew off and sank her. I sank your 'plane just now--tied a pig of ballast to her and chucked it over. I thought you might have left some papers--oh! you've got 'em, have you? That's good."

"Yes, they're in my coat pocket. I say, haven't I seen you before? I seem to remember you. Do you hunt?" Mottin stretched his legs out sleepily as he spoke.

"Yes--met you with the Hambledon or Cattistock, I expect. Haven't been on a horse for all of three years, though; and I don't suppose there'll be much doing that way for a long time, now they're putting half the country under plough. S'long. I'm for the bridge; ring that bell if you want anything. The Doc.'s got one or two wounded forrard, so he'll be busy, but my servant'll look out for you." The curtain clashed back, and Mottin, turning over, slid instantly into a log-like sleep.

A TRINITY.

The way of a ship at racing speed In a bit of a rising gale, The way of a horse of the only breed At a Droxford post-and-rail, The way of a brand-new aeroplane On a frosty winter dawn.

You'll come back to those again; Wheel or cloche or slender rein Will keep you young and clean and sane, And glad that you were born.

The power and drive beneath me now are above the power of kings, It's mine the word that lets her loose and in my ear she sings-- "Mark now the way I sport and play with the rising hunted sea, Across my grain in cold disdain their ranks are hurled at me.

But down my wake is a foam-white lake, the remnant of their line, That broke and died beneath my pride--your foemen, man, and mine."

The perfect tapered hull below is a dream of line and curve, An artist's vision in steel and bronze for G.o.ds and men to serve.

If ever a statue came to life, you quivering slender thing, It ought to be you--my racing girl--as the Amazon song you sing.

Down the valley and up the slope we run from scent to view.

"Steady, you villain--you know too much--I'm not so wild as you; You'll get me cursed if you catch him first--there's at least a mile to go, So swallow your pride and ease your stride, and take your fences slow.

Your high-p.r.i.c.ked ears as the jump appears are comforting things to see; Your easy gallop and bending neck are signals flying to me.

You wouldn't refuse if it was wire with calthrops down in front, And there we are with a foot to spare--you best of all the Hunt!"

Great sloping shoulders galloping strong, and a yard of floating tail, A fine old Irish gentleman, and a Hampshire post-and-rail.

The sun on the fields a mile below is glinting off the gra.s.s That slides along like a rolling map as under the clouds I pa.s.s.

The early shadows of byre and hedge are dwindling dark below As up the stair of the morning air on my idle wheels I go,-- Nothing to do but let her alone--she's flying herself to-day, Unless I chuck her about a bit--there isn't a b.u.mp or sway.

So _there's_ a bank at ninety-five--and here's a spin and a spiral dive, And here we are again.

And _that's_ a roll and twist around, and that's the sky and there's the ground, And I and the aeroplane Are doing a glide, but upside-down, and that's a village and that's a town-- And now we're rolling back.

And _this_ is the way we climb and stall and sit up and beg on nothing at all, The wires and strainers slack, And now we'll try and be good some more, and open the throttle and hear her roar And steer for London Town.

For there never a pilot yet was born who flew a machine on a frosty morn But started stunting soon, To feel if his wires were really there, or whether he flew on ice or air, Or whether his hands were gloved or bare, Or he sat in a free balloon.

IN THE MORNING.

Back from the battle, torn and rent, Listing bridge and stanchions bent By the angry sea.