The Lost Sheep

The glass had gone down with a thump during the afternoon, and all

through the night the destroyer had been steaming home against a

rapidly rising gale.

Of how she came to be alone and parted from her flotilla the less said

the better. It was due to a variety of circumstances, among them being

a blinding rain squall after dark the evening before, in which the

officer of the watch was unable to see more than twenty yards, and some

temporary trouble with an air pump which necessitated stopping to put

it right.

The sea, as is usual with the wind from the south-west, had risen fast,

and by midnight it was heavy and steep, while the little ship, punching

against it, had pitched, rolled, thumped and thudded as only a

destroyer can. The motion was dizzy and maddening--a combined pitch

and heavy roll which was the very acme of discomfort. Sometimes the

bows fell into the heart of an advancing, white-topped hillock of grey

water with a sickening downward plunge, and the breaking sea came

surging and crashing over the forecastle to dash itself against the

chart-house and bridge with a shock which made the whole ship quiver

and tremble. Then, with

[Transcriber's note: pages 41 and 42 missing from source book.]

edged volumes with unerring accuracy on to his long-suffering head.

The only person who really did not mind the motion at all was the

wireless operator in his little cubby-bole abaft the chart-house. He,

with a pair of telephone receivers clipped on over his ears ready to

catch stray snatches of conversation from invisible ships and distant

shore stations, sat enthroned in a chair bolted to the deck. His den

was hermetically sealed to keep out the water. The smell and the heat

were indescribable; but he was reading a week-old periodical with every

symptom of enjoyment and calmly smoked a foul and very wheezy pipe

filled with the strongest and most evil-smelling ship's tobacco. But

"Buzzer," as he was known to his friends, had the constitution of an ox

and an interior like the exterior of an armadillo. He could stand


* * * * *

An oil-skinned apparition, dripping with wet, appeared at the

chart-house door. "The orficer of the watch says it's daylight, sir,"

it reported. "There's nothin' in sight, but 'e thinks as 'ow the sea's

goin' down a bit."

The skipper, who had actually been asleep for forty consecutive

minutes, sat up with a grunt, rubbed his eyes, and yawned. Then, in

the dull grey light of the dawn, he surveyed the unsavoury mixture on

the floor with his nose wrinkled and an expression of intense disgust

on his face. But the sight of the broken cup reminded him of

something, and reaching his hand underneath the cushion he extracted a

vacuum flask, applied it to his lips, and swallowed what remained of

the cocoa inside it. He was hungry, poor wight, for his dinner the

night before had consisted of two corned-beef sandwiches and a biscuit.

Next, with a little sigh of satisfaction, he produced a pipe, tobacco,

and matches from an inner pocket and lit up, examined the chart with

the ship's track marked upon it, and glanced at the aneroid on the

bulkhead and noticed it was rising slowly.

Two minutes later, with his pipe bowl carefully inverted, he clambered

up the iron ladder to the bridge.

"Hail, smiling morn!" he remarked sarcastically, ducking his head as a

sheet of spray came driving over the forecastle and across the bridge.

"Well, 'Sub,' how goes it?"

"Pretty rotten, sir," answered the sub-lieutenant, whose watch it was.

"The wind shows no signs of going down, but I think the sea's a little

less than it was. We're not bumping quite so badly as we were."

* * * * *

The motion certainly was less violent, and after looking for a moment

at the angry sea and the grey, cloud-wrapped sky streaked with its

wisps of flying white scud, the skipper nodded slowly. "You're right,"

he said. "It has gone down a bit. We're beginning to feel the lee of

the land. Work her up gradually to twelve knots and see how she takes


The "Sub" did so, and though the increase in speed brought heavier

spray and more of it, the movement of the ship no longer synchronised

with the period of the waves, and she became steadier.

Before long the sea had gone down even more and the speed was increased

to twenty knots. Then, on the grey horizon ahead, appeared the smoke

of many steamers, and a quarter of an hour later the destroyer was

threading her way through a sea-lane so densely populated with shipping

that it reminded one of dodging the traffic in Piccadilly.

The next thing which hove in sight was a red-painted lightship, and

half an hour later the destroyer, her funnels white with dried salt,

was steaming into the harbour where the remainder of the flotilla were

lying. They, having escaped the really bad weather, had arrived the

evening before, and one of them made a facetious signal to this effect

as the destroyer secured to the tank steamer to replenish her supply of


The lost sheep had returned to its fold.

The Loss Of The Vixen The Man And The Cannon facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail