“TUPPENCE APIECE” 83 THE NAVY-THAT-FLIES 89 THE DOVER PATROL 143 THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN 163 GIPSIES OF THE SEA 164 THE PORT LOOK-OUT 213 THE SURVIVOR 220 THE Nᵀᴴ BATTLE SQUADRON 237 THE SPIRIT OF THE FLEET--“GATE, THERE! GATE!” 273 THE EPIC OF ST. GEORGE’S DAY, 1918 289 EPILOGUE 308 FINIS 331 PROLOGUE Anyone familiar with the River Dart knows the Mill Creek. The hills on either side slope steeply down to the edge of the water, oak and beech and elm clustering thick on the one hand, red plough, green shoots, and golden corn-fields alternating on the other through all the changing seasons. The creek is tidal, transformed at half-flood into a fair expanse of shimmering water; at low tide, however, it dwindles to a score of meagre channels winding tortuously through whale-backed mudbanks, the haunt of scurrying crabs and meditative heron. Here, one afternoon in midsummer some dozen years ago, came a gig (or, in local parlance, a “blue-boat”) manned by seven flannel-clad cadets from the Naval College. Six sat on the thwarts pulling lazily against the last of the ebb. The seventh sat in the stern, with the yoke-lines over his shoulders, refreshing himself with cherries out of a bag. As they approached the shelving mudbanks, purple in the afternoon sunlight, the figure in the bows boated his oar and began to sound cautiously with his boathook. The remaining five oarsmen glanced back over their shoulders and continued paddling. The helmsman smiled tolerantly, as a man might smile at the conceits of childhood, but refrained from speech. They all knew the weakness of the bowman for dabbling in mud. “Half a point to port!” said the slim form wielding the dripping boathook. “I can see the channel now.... Steady as you go!” A minute later the boat slid into the main channel and the crew drew in their oars, punting their narrow craft between the banks of ooze. None of them spoke, save the bowman, and he only at rare intervals, flinging back a curt direction to the helmsman over his shoulder.