CHAPTER I

It is cold, very cold, up on the bridge of the solitary cruiser.

The chilling mist which has been gathering over the face of the still waters all the afternoon now thickens and banks up into a dense white fog as the short October evening closes swiftly in.

An anxious time indeed for those on the bridge; a fog is more to be dreaded than the heaviest gale. Not half so dangerous is the sea when its lashing waves sweep the ship's decks as when it lies treacherously calm, leaden and lifeless, beneath the impenetrable shroud of the white sea-mist.

Yet the grim irony of War can make even this axiom suffer a sea-change: if any testimony were needed to the stern reality of naval life in war time it could be found in this, that even the hated sea-fog may have its welcome side.

One danger drives out another. If the fog blinds the eyes of the look-out men, it also blankets the periscope of any lurking hostile submarine.

So the _Marathon_ slows down to ten knots: and presently to seven. The escorting destroyers, one on either bow, can no longer be seen; they can only be heard by the mournful ringing of the fog-bell at one minute intervals, the sound coming muffled and diminished across the veiled waters.

The navigating bridge, which is the highest platform of a complex structure built around the foremast, forms a little world of its own, poised between sea and sky and isolated from that other little world of the ship far beneath.

The occupants of this island in mid-air are few--to be exact, just four men; two bluejacket look-out men, the officer of the watch, and the navigator.

Of these, the look-out men have nothing to do just at present, for the simple reason that they cannot see even as far as the bows; the officer of the watch also finds his position a sinecure, since the ship is on a steady course and he has not even an order to call down the voice-pipe to the bridge beneath, where the quartermaster stands by the side of the able seaman at the wheel.

The navigating officer alone of the four finds something to occupy his time. He is standing at a tiny chart table with a hinged glass cover which, when raised, acts as a wind screen. Here he bends over his chart and makes many calculations in silence, as he has in fact been doing for the past half-hour.

Stapleton, the officer of the watch, finds the proceedings distinctly uninteresting. He has had no one to speak to and practically nothing to do ever since he came on watch. The cold strikes through his thick duffel coat, and even his heavy sea-boots and the woollen stockings drawn well up over his knees outside his trousers are a poor protection in this raw weather.

Pulling down the wrist of his gauntlet he glances at his watch in the fading light, and notes with satisfaction that it is close on six o'clock. In a very few minutes he will be able to leave the bridge and go below.

But in reality he does not mind either the cold or the tedium of watch-keeping. He is far too keen for that. Every line of his tall, strong-knit figure and of his somewhat hatchet-like face spells keenness. And if proof of this were wanted, there is the fact that there is no need at all for him to be keeping watch; as first lieutenant and executive officer of the ship watch-keeping forms no part of his regular duties; yet he has undertaken to keep a standing first dog, to relieve the other watchkeepers and to keep things in this department up to the high-water mark of smartness and efficiency.

That is his way.

Now that his self-imposed task is nearly over he steps forward to the navigating officer at the chart table, and says:

"I'm away below in a moment, Navvy. What about it? It's beastly thick--do you think we ought to give the Owner a call?"

The navigator looks up from his work and peers into the fog-bank. "Well, I shouldn't--not yet," he answers. "The old man is having a doss in his sea-cabin--he'll be up all through the night, probably. I shall be here for a bit myself, and I'll call him if necessary. But I think the fog may lift presently. It seems to me to be more patchy than it was. Shouldn't be surprised if it were only local, and if so we may run out of it before long."

"All right, old man, if you think so." And with a nod he turns away, as Morley, the lieutenant who is to keep the last dog, appears coming up the ladder on the very stroke of four bells. Relieving the bridge strictly up to time is a virtue of the _Marathon_, thanks to the first lieutenant, who won't countenance any slackness in this respect, and sets a good example himself. With a few rapid words technical phrases and seaman's language he "turns over" to Morley; and then, relapsing into everyday phraseology, he callously bids that young officer "Don't let yourself get over-heated--and beware of being led away into idle gossiping by that garrulous navigator." And with a laugh he rattles down the ladder and makes his way to the wardroom.

The half dozen officers whom he finds assembled in that very warm and cosy room he greets with:

"Phew, what a cheery old fug!" and it certainly is a very different atmosphere from that of the navigating bridge. As for being cheery, the blazing fire and the glow of the electric lights beneath their shades of yellow silk make the wardroom a very pleasant place indeed.

Stapleton peels off his thick duffel coat and sheds some of his other trappings, then flings himself into a comfortable arm-chair near the fire and announces to the mess in general that he is not too proud to accept a drink from anyone. As, however, this hint meets with no acceptance, he is constrained to summon the waiter himself and to make the necessary arrangements.

"What's it like up topside?" queries Dale, the surgeon, looking up from the card-table where he is playing bridge with the fleet-paymaster, the senior engineer-lieutenant, and one of the watchkeepers.

"Pretty thick. But I think it's beginning to clear a little."

"Well," remarks the engineer-lieutenant. "I hope so, anyway. I don't much care for crawling along at this speed. Hallo! what's that?"--his attentive ear has caught the sound of a bell in the engine-room ringing a quick succession of sharp strokes. "Slowing down again? What's that for, I wonder?"

He looks puzzled; and with a brief excuse to the others at the card table makes off to go below, where he feels he may be wanted.

But the reason for slackening speed is not for long a mystery. A messenger from the bridge, a smart young signalman, enters and approaches the recumbent first lieutenant, and presents a signal-pad. The first lieutenant takes it carelessly and reads aloud:

"_Floating object, apparently mine, on surface bearing right ahead of you_. Hm, cheerful prospect, isn't it?"

"Who's that from, Number One?" enquires the fleet-paymaster.

"From one of our destroyers. I suppose we are slowing down to touch it off. Well, it isn't in my line. Someone else can attend to that business, I'm not going to disturb myself for that--all right, signalman. Guns, this seems to be more in your line than mine."

The gunnery-lieutenant who has been, chuckling quietly to himself over a novel, has in fact already pricked up his ears at the mention of something relating to his own beloved artillery; and elated at the prospect of firing one of his guns, if only at a floating mine, he flings down his novel and strides off to make for the upper deck.

There is a mild excitement amongst those in the wardroom who have not followed him up on deck to watch the proceedings. Someone remarks with contemptuous disgust on the flagrant disregard for the ways of civilisation which has prompted the Hun to scatter his floating mines broadcast on the ocean in defiance of all international law. But the remark is made with little fervour and scarcely any bitterness--the Hun has multiplied his diabolical deeds in so many other undreamt of directions that such a trifle as this has long ago ceased to seem a thing to be wondered at.

The young watchkeeper at the bridge-table treats the matter facetiously. "Dashed bad luck, I call it," he grumbles; "if only those silly signalmen weren't so darned officious, we might have had the joss to bump the thing! A nice little hole in the for'ard compartments or a broken stem-piece ought to be good for a couple of months in dock, and then we might all of us have wangled a nice drop of leave!"

Stapleton rounds upon him in a tone of affected horror, "_What!_ you mutinous, unpatriotic, selfish young anarchist! The _Marathon_ is to get blown up just to give you a month's holiday? Well I'm ... no, words fail me!"

He laughs, but there is a certain seriousness in his voice which is not all affected. The very idea of any disaster happening to the _Marathon_--except in battle with the enemy, which would be the fortune of war and a very different matter altogether--is something which he does not care to contemplate. Not without the envy of half the other two-and-a-half stripers of his seniority did he achieve the coveted appointment of first lieutenant to the _Marathon_, the very latest thing in light cruisers. Only two sister-ships, the _Salamis_ and the _Thermopylæ_, were in commission at the time when Stapleton was appointed; and there was more competition to go to one of this _Greeko_ class, as the Navy affectionately termed them, than there was for ships of the most powerful battle-squadron; such was the reputation of these marvellous little cruisers, in which speed, armament and armour combined to form something nearly approaching a naval constructor's dream.

Surgeon Dale looks up presently from the table where he has been holding a post-mortem on the last hand in the temporary absence of his partner.

"Guns is a long time downing that mine," he remarks; "What's the delay, I wonder?"

Stapleton awakens at this remark to the realisation that he has been lost in a reverie about his beloved ship, and that the double explosion of gun and mine which might reasonably have been expected for some minutes past has, as a matter of fact, not been heard at all.

He too looks up wonderingly. And, as if in answer to his unspoken query, the skylight overhead is at that moment lifted and the face appears of an excited officer who calls down into the wardroom.

"I say, it isn't a mine at all--it's a boat! A drifting boat. With people in it. Shipwrecked. We're stopping to pick them up!"

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