Before the naval officer could thrust his hand through the narrow opening of the window, and level his pistol, the rascal, desperate in his courage, leapt from his precarious foothold.
It was not a great distance for a man to jump—six or seven feet at the outside; but the fugitive had not taken into consideration the ice-rimmed stonework.
Even as he leapt, Klostivitch's feet slipped from under him. With a shriek of horror he grasped vainly at the thin air, then, turning a complete somersault, crashed upon the paving-stones sixty feet below.
"There's someone coming, sir!" whispered Chalmers, raising his revolver. "Stand by, sir!"
Both men waited in eager silence as the sound of bolts being withdrawn was borne to their ears.
A voice hailed in Russian. Fordyce lowered his pistol.
"It's all right, Chalmers," he said quietly, as Captain-Lieutenant Orloff entered the cellar.
"We have made a clean sweep of this little nest, Monsieur Fordyce!" declared the Russian. "Klostivitch will not trouble you or anyone else in the future, as far as this world is concerned. The other man you mentioned is a prisoner. We also found a third—Platoff by name. Do you know anything of him?"
No, Fordyce did not. He would have been considerably surprised if he had known that Platoff was in Mindiggle's house at Otherport on that momentous day when the Sub strove to placate the irate victim of Flirt's attack.
"It does not matter overmuch," continued Orloff. "The fellow asked for trouble—and received it. He had to be knocked over the head, otherwise he would have strangled one of my men. Sovensky struck a little too hard, and——"
The big Russian shrugged his shoulders. Fordyce understood.
"You are hungry?" asked Orloff. "Fortunately Comrade Klostivitch was well provided against possible famine. One of my men will get you both a meal, for it is a long, cold journey to Cronstadt. Meanwhile, if you will excuse me, I will make a search for incriminating documents."
Fordyce and the petty officer made their way to the room in which Mindiggle had been arrested. The spy was no longer there, having been removed to another part of the house for safe custody. The Sub was glad of that. Much as he had cause to detest the villain, he was not at all anxious to crow over his discomfiture.
Presently Orloff hurried into the room with a bundle of papers in his hands.
"Will you kindly read these, Monsieur Fordyce?" he asked. "They are in English, and, as you know, I am ignorant of the language of our brave allies. Glance through them hurriedly, please, for time is a consideration."
The Sub took the documents. The first was seemingly of no importance, but the second gave a formula for the manufacture of nitro-talcite, a recipe for which the leading scientists of Great Britain had sought in vain.
Other papers gave details of the extremist movement in London and elsewhere, including the names of several Russian residents within the limits of the British Isles.
"Take charge of these documents," continued Orloff. "They will be safer on a British submarine than in my possession, or even if they were left at your embassy. Now, are you ready, Monsieur? It is time to evacuate our position."
Through the still-silent streets the rescuing-party made their way, two of the seamen labouring under the weight of what appeared to be a well-filled sack carried between two poles. At the quay the tolerant sentry was rewarded according to previous agreement, and, shouting a tipsy farewell, he permitted his "comrades of the navy" to embark with their burden of "fresh beef".
It was now beginning to snow heavily. The bizarre towers of the Kazan Cathedral and the battlements of the fortress of Peter and Paul were invisible in the drifting flakes. Even the opposite bank of the Neva was fast being blotted into a state of unrecognizability.
"Do you think that we can manage it, my children?" asked Orloof, as the men took to their oars.
"Certainly, Excellency," was the chorused reply that evidenced no doubt as to the ability of the hardy Russian seamen to find their way across the bleak expanse of water.
Steering the boat on a compass course, Orloff devoted his whole attention to his task. The men relapsed into silence, pulling with steady strokes. Fordyce, glad of the comfort of a boat-cloak, was too elated at his release and the prospect of finding himself once more on board R19 to feel the biting cold. Occasionally the sack-enclosed bundle lying in the stern-sheet grating writhed and kicked, but little attention was paid to the unhappy captive.
Suddenly the falling snow was tinted a vivid orange hue, while the sky in the direction of the city was rent with lurid light. Then came an ear-splitting roar, while the ice-encumbered waters rose and fell under the influence of a powerful displacement of air. Green seas poured over both gunwales of the boat, and only the resourcefulness of the helmsman kept the frail craft from foundering.
"We are indeed fortunate," exclaimed Orloff, when the angry tumult of water had subsided and the men set to work to bale out the cutter. "All is not well with Petrograd, I fear."
The seamen hazarded various opinions as to the locality of the explosion, but it was not until the following day that they heard the facts of the case.
When Orloff pursued the luckless Klostivitch it must be remembered that he left the attic window open. In the room was stored a small quantity of the powerful nitro-talcite, the temperature of the house being kept up by means of the central heating-stove. Upon the house being abandoned the neglected fires soon dwindled, while the temperature of the attic fell so steadily that within half an hour of the time of leaving the house the nitro-talcite automatically exploded. Most of the buildings in the Bobbinsky Prospekt were blown to atoms and considerable damage done to the adjoining property; but, as "it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good", the Extremist leaders came to the conclusion that their energetic assistant, Vladimir Klostivitch, had perished by means of the explosive he had meant to employ against others.
For two more hours the cutter's crew pulled steadily. At intervals the braying of fog-horns and the shrill blast of sirens told them that other water-borne traffic was under way; yet, without sighting any other craft, they held steadily on, following the edge of the ice in the still-free Morskoi Canal.
Presently Captain-Lieutenant Orloff jerked the port-hand yoke-line. His keen eyes had discerned the outlines of the lighthouse on the eastern extremity of the island fortress.
It was now an easy matter for the cutter to pick her way past the line of anchored destroyers. Hailed she was repeatedly; but there was no cause for alarm, since boats of the flotilla were constantly passing.
Almost before Fordyce was aware of the fact the cutter was rubbing sides with R19, while leaning over the guard-rail of the submarine were the Hon. Derek and Mr. Macquare.
"No, I will not stay, Monsieur le Capitan," replied Orloff in reply to Stockdale's invitation. "Later on, perhaps—who knows? Meanwhile, pray accept this gift. It is not the same as I intended to hand you, nevertheless it may be acceptable."
And he indicated the enshrouded figure of the spy, Mindiggle.
"Come aboard, sir," reported Fordyce as he made his way up the side.
"Quite about time, Mr. Fordyce," replied the Hon. Derek, grasping his subordinate's hand. "Another hour and we should have left you behind. Confound it, what's that?"
"That" was Flirt. The delighted animal, hearing her master's voice, had escaped from below, and, nearly capsizing the astonished Lieutenant-Commander, had literally bounded into the Sub's arms.
"What do you propose to do with this, sir?" enquired Mr. Macquare, indicating the sack-enclosed form of the spy.
"Goodness knows!" replied the Hon. Derek. "What is it?"
"Only Mindiggle, sir," announced the Sub.
"Explain yourself, Mr. Fordyce," ordered the Lieutenant-Commander.
"I can explain but very little, sir," said Fordyce. "It was an absolute surprise to find him at the house in Bobbinsky Prospekt. I hadn't the faintest idea he was in Russia. Klostivitch is dead, and another of the gang. I have a number of documents for your perusal, sir. Captain Orloff handed them to me. I think you will find them interesting."
"His Majesty's submarines were never intended as receptacles for spies," grumbled Stockdale. "Pass the fellow below. Hallo! the weather's clearing. That's good. Directly theZabiyakasignals us inform me, Mr. Macquare."
Already the ice-breakers had cleared a path through the frozen water. In the outer road-stead theZabiyakawas lying at moorings with steam raised ready to slip and proceed. Apparently she was awaiting the return of the cutter with her disguised skipper.
Soon after Captain-Lieutenant Orloff boarded his vessel he reappeared on deck rigged out in correct uniform. A hoist of bunting fluttered from the destroyer's signal yard-arm. It was an intimation, in International Code, that R19's escort was ready to proceed.
Amidst the cheers of a crowd of Russian bluejackets and marines the British submarine cast off. Under the action of her petrol-driven engines she slipped away from the quay-side and felt her way cautiously down the narrow waterway. Then, taking station a cable-length astern of the now-moving destroyer, R19 began her long and hazardous voyage to Old England's shores.
Once clear of the Gulf of Finland mine-fields theZabiyakaflung about and bade the submarinebon voyage. From that moment Stockdale's command was alone in an inland sea where German warships held almost undisputed sway and German mines closed every exit. More than likely the departure of R19 had been communicated to Berlin, and the Huns would be keeping special watch for the returning British craft.
lee
lee
[Illustration: "PASS UNDER MY LEE!"]
[Illustration: "PASS UNDER MY LEE!"]
Yet, with one exception, not a man on board was the least dismayed. Confident in the skill and daring of their gallant skipper, and with the knowledge that every revolution of the propellers was taking the submarine nearer home, the men were in high spirits. The exception was the spy Mindiggle. Not only was he viewing with the deepest apprehension the prospect of being handed over to justice, but the dread of being imprisoned in the hull of a submarine, in the midst of countless dangers, reduced him almost to the verge of panic.
At the first possible opportunity the Hon. Derek ordered the crew to diving stations. With the exception of the lost portion of false keel, R19 was restored to her normal state, but it was highly desirable that the vessel's capabilities after refit should be severely tested. In order to compensate for the loss of several tons of outside dead weight a corresponding amount of pig-iron ballast had been taken on board and securely wedged to prevent shifting under diving conditions.
The test gave admirable results. The intricate mechanism worked without a hitch, the submarine descending without difficulty to a depth of 20 fathoms. The only disconcerting part of the evolution was the behaviour of the prisoner. The moment the vessel slid beneath the waves he began shouting and screaming hysterically, keeping up the performance during the whole period of submergence.
Almost without incident R19 came within sight of the Swedish coast. It was the Hon. Derek's intention to make a landfall in the vicinity of Braviken Bay, and thence, keeping just within Swedish territorial water, skirt the long chain of small islands as far as Oland.
Just before sunset on the second day after leaving Cronstadt, R19 sighted seven small merchantmen steering due south at a distance of about eleven miles from the coast. They were German vessels laden with iron-ore. Deeming the Baltic to be now free from the attentions of Russian destroyers, the hitherto idle shipping of Memel and Dantzic had put to sea. They were without escort, and steaming in single line at varying intervals behind one another.
"We'll have that lot, Mr. Macquare," decided the Lieutenant-Commander. "Fortunately the moon is almost full. We'll show Fritz our version ofspurlos versenkt."
Altering helm, R19 steered athwart the course of the oncoming merchantmen. With her guns manned and trained, and the White Ensign floating proudly in the rays of the setting sun, she made no secret of her intentions.
Stockdale had them entirely at his mercy. Between the merchantmen and the shore he could have easily headed them off and destroyed them by gun-fire or torpedo. Had he been a German, and these vessels unarmed British ships, the latter would have been sent to the bottom, and their crews fired upon with machine-guns; but as the Hon. Derek was a member of a time-honoured and unsullied profession, and not a pirate, he acted otherwise.
At the peremptory signal: "Heave-to or I will fire into you!" the leading German ship reversed engines. Others followed her example, until the seven were bunched together within a radius of two cables'-lengths.
"They are taking matters for granted," observed Mr. Macquare as the crews began to lower away the boats. So anxious were they to leave that in their haste two of the boats capsized before the falls could be disengaged.
"I'll give you fifteen minutes!" shouted the Hon. Derek through his megaphone in German. "Pass under my lee. Each master will hand over his papers, and you can then make for the shore."
These orders were promptly executed, and, having seen the flotilla of boats well on its way, R19's crew set to work to destroy the prizes.
The whaler, under the charge of Sub-Lieutenant Fordyce, went from vessel to vessel, the work of destruction being silently and expeditiously performed by opening the sea-cocks.
Just as the Sub boarded the seventh ship the first flung her stern high in the air and disappeared from view. Others were on the point of making their last plunge. It was not a pleasant sight nor a congenial duty, but stern necessity demanded the sacrifice of those seven ships to the exigencies of war; and Fordyce, remembering the fate of many a helpless British merchantman, torpedoed without mercy in the midst of an angry sea and far from land, steeled his heart.
Suddenly the coxswain of the whaler gave a warning shout and pointed in the direction of a trail of flame-tinged smoke showing faintly against the warm afterglow.
There could be very little doubt concerning the approaching vessel. A German destroyer, too late to save the convoy, was doing her best to avenge its loss.
Rushing upon the bridge of the foundering vessel, Fordyce looked around for signs of R19. The submarine, giving the sinking craft a wide berth, was slowly forging ahead to stand by to pick up her boat. At the present moment the intercepting hull of the largest tramp hid her from view.
"Ahoy!" shouted the Sub the moment R19's bows drew clear. "Enemy destroyer bearing east by south, distance two miles."
"Aye, aye," roared Mr. Macquare in reply. "Stand by; we'll pick you up later."
Keenly Fordyce watched the visible evolutions of the submarine as, cleared away for diving, she sped through the waves without attempting to submerge. To do otherwise would be running the risk of fouling some of the wreckage from the sunken merchantmen. Stockdale was making sure of his "ground" before seeking cover.
Up pelted the German torpedo-craft, the spray flying from her bows and sizzling in clouds of steam against her red-hot funnels. Sighting the submarine just as the latter was gliding beneath the waves, the hostile vessel altered helm and bore down upon the spot where R19 had disappeared, firing ineffectually with every gun that could be brought to bear ahead.
To Fordyce it seemed as if the destroyer shuddered under a terrific impact. He was more than half afraid that her sharp stem had sent R19 to her doom. Then came the splash of the mark-buoy being hurled overboard to indicate the supposed position of the submarine, followed by the detonation of a "depth-charge".
"Best hook it, sir," suggested Chalmers. "This old tub won't keep afloat much longer."
So engrossed was the Sub in the spectacle of the German destroyer searching for her prey that he had entirely overlooked his own peril. Already the tramp's taffrail was level with the water, while her deck betwixt the poop and the rise amidships was flooded.
Alongside the entry-port the whaler's crew were "fending off" to prevent the boat being pinned against the side by the inrush of water.
"Give way, lads!" ordered Fordyce as he sprang into the waiting boat.
Before the whaler had been rowed a distance of fifty yards a portion of the tramp's deck blew up under the irresistible pressure of compressed air. A rush of steam and smoke followed, and the doomed vessel, her last reserve of buoyancy gone, sank like a stone.
It was now moonlight. A mile or so to the east'ard could be discerned the misty shape of the grey-painted destroyer. She was turning to starboard, with the intention of retracing her course in order to observe traces of her presumably shattered foe.
"Keep down, all hands," cautioned Fordyce.
The men, boating their oars, crouched on the bottom boards. There was just a chance that the Huns would overlook an apparently empty boat adrift in the midst of a medley of flotsam, for the sea all around was covered with woodwork of various shapes and sizes.
A minute passed in long-drawn suspense. There were audible indications that the German destroyer was bearing down. Then the tension was broken by a terrific roar, the rush of water being hurled violently into the air and falling again.
Raising his head above the gunwale, Fordyce gave vent to a shout of surprised gratification. A slowly-dispersing cloud of smoke marked the spot where the enemy craft had been. Broken asunder by the explosion of a torpedo, she was now lying on the bed of the Baltic.
"One more feather in the Old Man's cap," exclaimed a bluejacket, his enthusiasm outweighing his sense of respect in thus referring to his skipper.
"Give way!" ordered the Sub, as he grasped the yoke-lines. "There's someone in the ditch."
The men bent to their oars with a will. At the prospect of saving life their resentment for the Hun and all his works vanished.
They had not far to row before they entered the zone of acrid fumes, for at the moment of the torpedo's impact the destroyer had lessened the distance to about a quarter of a mile of the then motionless whaler.
The moonbeams, penetrating the thinning veil of vapour, were scintillating upon the still-agitated waves, while silhouetted against the pale-yellow light were the outlines of the head and shoulders of a swimmer.
"In bow!"
The bowman boated his oar, and, grasping the gunwale, leant overboard with his right hand outstretched.
With the assistance of a comrade the bowman hiked the rescued German into the boat. He was capless, his face was black with burnt powder. He seemed dazed and incapable of speech.
"There's another 'Un!" shouted the bowman. "On your port bow, sir; a-hangin' on to that bit o' wreckage."
The second swimmer was in a desperate state. He was almost destitute of clothing, while his flesh was badly charred by the blast of the explosion. As he was being lifted into the boat it was noticed that his left leg was hanging limply, being all but severed above the knee by a sliver of metal.
Skilfully the British tars proceeded to place a rough-and-ready tourniquet round the injured limb, while, fortunately for himself, the wounded man lost consciousness directly he was hauled into the boat.
"There she is, sir," announced Chalmers, as the twin periscopes of R19, throwing up feathers of spray, emerged from beneath the surface. Followed the conning-tower, the bow portion of the deck, and then, like a huge porpoise, the rest of the hull until the submarine was awash.
"Look alive, Mr. Fordyce!" shouted the Lieutenant-Commander, as he emerged through the conning-tower hatchway. "There may be some other Hun craft knocking around. What's that—survivors?"
"Two, sir; one badly wounded."
The rescued men were lifted on board and passed below. Then, after cruising round and making sure that there were no more of the destroyer's men alive, the humane Stockdale gave orders for the submarine to submerge once more.
"You bagged her all right, sir," remarked the Sub.
"Yes, the silly ass played into our hands, absolutely," replied the Hon. Derek. "It was the result of taking too much for granted, I suppose. Have you found out the number of the boat?"
"No, sir; but I will ascertain."
Fordyce made his way to the place where the survivors were being tended by their late antagonists. The German with the broken limb looked on the point of death, while the other, who had lost consciousness upon being carried below, was found to be suffering from several contusions to the back and ribs.
"'E's an officer, sir," reported one of the men, pointing to the discarded uniform of the Imperial German Navy.
Fordyce examined the sleeve of the coat. By the distinctive rings he knew that the prisoner was the skipper of the torpedoed destroyer—a kapitan-leutnant, whose rank corresponded with that of lieutenant-commander of the British navy.
"Wonder what he's done to get this?" mused the Sub, holding up the decoration known as the "Ordre pour le Mérite". "Rum-looking josser, too," he continued, studying the coarse features of the man; "brutal even while unconscious. Hallo! Now what's wrong?"
From for'ard came a succession of violent crashes, mingled with blood-curdling shrieks and unmistakably strong British epithets. Quick to act, Fordyce rushed from the compartment and hurried towards the scene of disorder.
"It's that spy bloke, sir," reported one of the petty officers. "Cassidy and Jones are tackling him all right."
By the time Fordyce arrived upon the scene the worst of the tumult had passed. Mindiggle, foaming at the mouth, was lying on his back, with Cassidy planted firmly on his chest, and the other A.B. pinning his arms to the floor. Other would-be quellers of the disturbance were awaiting an opportunity to secure the spy's legs. He was kicking right and left, almost capsizing the bulky form of his captor, the while yelling and shouting in a blood-curdling manner.
At length Mindiggle was handcuffed and gagged, and the Sub was then told of what had occurred. It appeared that one of the seamen, going into the spy's temporary cell, had been suddenly and violently attacked by the demented man. There could be no doubt about it; Mindiggle's brain had turned under the mental strain. He was nothing less than a homicidal maniac.
About five minutes later Fordyce was called to the cabin occupied by the two survivors of the torpedoed German destroyer. The Lieutenant-Commander had recovered consciousness, and almost his first act was to demand the reason why he, an officer of the Imperial German Navy, should be sharing the same cabin with a common sailor?
"I will convey your request to my commanding officer," replied the Sub, although he was inwardly raging at the attitude taken up by the arrogant Hun, who, but for Fordyce's promptitude, might have been lying fathoms deep in the Baltic. "Not knowing your name (the Sub was too truthful to deny all knowledge of the prisoner's rank) we were naturally at a loss."
"My name, Herr Unter-leutnant, is Ludwig von Hoppner," replied the Hun pompously. "My rank, Kapitan-Leutnant of H.I.M. torpedo-boat V201, as you English have already learnt to your cost."
"Indeed!" remarked Fordyce. "Then apparently we are quits, since V201 has been destroyed. Might I enquire particulars of the circumstances to which you refer? Surely this Ordre pour le Mérite must have had something to do with it?"
The Sub hardly expected that von Hoppner would give the information, but the Hun, unable to refrain from boasting, swallowed the bait.
"It has," replied von Hoppner. "If you wish to know, Englishman, it was for destroying one of your submarine-cruisers at the southern entrance to the Sound."
"Then, I suppose," resumed Fordyce, "that the incident occurred about two years ago, when one of our submarines went aground in neutral waters, and your destroyers shelled the stranded vessel until a Danish cruiser intervened. To the best of my recollection, the officer directing the German operations received the Iron Cross only, and not l'Ordre pour le Mérite."
"You are mistaken," said von Hoppner petulantly. "It was not that occasion to which I refer. It was on the 9th of —— of the present year."
"Thank you!" replied the Sub quietly. "That is all I wish to know for the present. I will convey your request to Lieutenant-Commander the Hon. Derek Stockdale."
Chuckling to himself, Fordyce returned to the skipper's cabin to make the report. He found the Hon. Derek conferring with Mr. Macquare as to what was to be done with the lunatic, for Mindiggle's case was hopeless.
"He's cheated a firing-party, Macquare," remarked the Lieutenant-Commander. "The sooner we get him off this craft the better. And the wounded German bluejacket too. At daybreak I'll speak the first merchantman or fishing-boat we sight and put them both on board. Well, Mr. Fordyce? You look mighty pleased with yourself."
"I have found out the name and rank of the prisoner, sir. He is Kapitan-Leutnant Ludwig von Hoppner, late of V201, and the possessor of l'Ordre pour le Mérite, bestowed, I have good reason to believe, for assisting us in our passage through the German mine-field at the southern entrance to the Sound."
"Eh, what's that?" enquired the Hon. Derek. "Explain yourself, please."
"Might I have the log-book, sir?" asked Fordyce.
Receiving the manuscript volume, the Sub turned over the pages until he came to the entry under the date given by the German officer.
"There you are, sir!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "That was the night when we were held up by the nets, and a Hun torpedo-craft opened a way for us by destroying that sunken merchantman by means of depth charges."
"By Jove, yes!" ejaculated the Lieutenant-Commander. "Carry on, Mr. Fordyce."
"So there's hardly a doubt that this von Hoppner was the officer commanding the torpedo-boat. When he blew up the submerged vessel he was under the impression that he had strafed us, and so his Emperor gave him that potty decoration."
"What sort of fellow is he?" asked the Hon. Derek.
"A regular cad, sir, I should imagine," replied Fordyce. "His first words to me were of the nature of a complaint that we had shoved him into the same cabin as the bluejacket with the broken leg."
"Oh, is he?" rejoined the Lieutenant-Commander grimly. "In that case I won't spare his feelings over his tin-pot decoration. Had he been a decent sort of man I would have left him in blissful ignorance on that point. Well, I think it is about time we got a move on, Mr. Macquare."
R19, after a fairly long interval of submergence, was cautiously brought to the surface. An examination of the moon-lit sea gave no signs of the presence of hostile or other craft. Overhead nothing in the nature of an air-craft could be discerned.
Running awash, yet ready to dive at a few seconds' notice, the submarine held on her way, reeling off mile after mile, until the first blush of dawn revealed the presence of a Zeppelin bearing down wind at a great speed.
The Lieutenant-Commander promptly gave orders to dive, and once again R19 sank and rested upon the sea bed. Whether the German air-ship had "spotted" her was a matter for speculation. The crew would have preferred to take their chances in an encounter with the giant gas-bag, but their skipper thought otherwise. Until the Baltic was left astern, cautious tactics were to be the order of the day. Sounding meant long and tedious delays, but, as the Hon. Derek remarked, "None but a fool would cut capers in the open jaw of a man-trap."
It was approaching midday when R19 left her enforced resting-place. The Zeppelin had vanished from sight, having failed in her quest to locate the task she had been called upon to perform; but less than a mile away on the port bow was a fishing-boat of about forty tons, moving slowly through the water with fathoms of nets towing astern.
"That's what we've been wanting to fall in with," observed the Hon. Derek. "Starboard a little, Quartermaster. Lay me alongside that vessel."
The fishing-boat, according to the name painted on her stern, was theStor Afan, of Carlscrona. The only member of her crew visible was a fair-haired youth of about fourteen, who was listlessly standing by the wheel. She was making a bare two knots under scandalized mainsail and jib. The rest of her canvas was stowed.
The youthful helmsman, happening to glance astern, caught sight of the approaching submarine. His lethargy vanished, and at his shout of alarm the rest of the crew came hurriedly on deck—a weather-beaten old man and a tall stripling of about twenty years of age.
With her pair of for'ard guns manned and trained, for even the most harmless-looking smack might prove to be a potential enemy, R19, taking care to avoid the line of nets, ran within hailing distance of the Swede.
"Stor Afanahoy! I want you to take two men aboard you," hailed the Hon. Derek in German.
The skipper of the boat shouted something unintelligible in reply, and shook his head in a way that suggested helpless ignorance.
Stockdale repeated his request with a like result. The second hand, however, held up a basket of fish.
"Evidently a bribe," remarked Mr. Macquare. "They don't understand Hun lingo, sir."
"So much the better for us, then," rejoined the Hon. Derek. "It's a good thing we are not displaying our ensign; they'll take us for a strafed U-boat, and when they make harbour they'll report to that effect. It will help to throw the Huns off the scent."
Greatly to the consternation of the Swedes, R19 was adroitly manoeuvred alongside theStor Afan, the crew of the latter making fast the ropes thrown them with the utmost alacrity. It was not until they saw the still-unconscious form of the German bluejacket being hoisted through the torpedo hatchway that anxiety gave place to sympathetic attention.
As carefully as possible the Hun was transhipped to the deck of the fishing-boat and taken thence to the little cabin. The spy, Mindiggle, was next handed over. His appearance was greeted with renewed apprehension on the part of the Swedes, which was not to be wondered at, for he presented a gruesome spectacle, notwithstanding the Hon. Derek's precaution of keeping him under the influence of morphia.
Gibbering and foaming at the mouth, Mindiggle was led to the forepeak, and, with the battening down of the hatchway, the spy passed from Fordyce's view for the last time.
"I don't know whether we are acting up to the principles of the kultured Hun," remarked the Hon. Derek as he gave the old skipper a handful of silver roubles.
The Swede took them with obvious hesitation, and pointed towards the invisible German shore.
"No, no!" exclaimed the Lieutenant-Commander, shaking his head. "Not Deutschland—Sverige. That's one result of being a philatelist, Macquare," he added parenthetically.
"The old boy evidently understands you, sir," remarked the Lieutenant. "He didn't seem at all chirpy at the prospect of being ordered to Germany."
Casting off, the submarine passed across the bows of theStor Afan, and, steadying on her helm, resumed her former course, while the fishing-boat, when last seen, was observed to be hauling in her nets and standing towards the Swedish shore.
Lieutenant-Commander Stockdale had barely finished his belated lunch when it was reported to him that Kapitan-Leutnant von Hoppner urgently desired an interview.
"Does he, by Jove!" exclaimed the Hon. Derek. "'Urgently desires'—I like that. I'll send for him when I'm ready."
It was the Sub's trick with Mr. Macquare, but the Lieutenant-Commander sent a message requesting Fordyce to come to his cabin. Then, having set the log-book within hand's reach, and slipped a marker between the pages relating to R19's passage through the Sound, the Hon. Derek signified that he was agreeable to receive Kapitan-Leutnant von Hoppner in his cabin.
The prisoner appeared under the charge of two petty officers. He was in uniform, his saturated clothes having been dried; he had carefully upturned the ends of his bristling moustache and brushed back his yellow hair from his beetling forehead.
The Hon. Derek rose to meet his involuntary guest, taking no notice of the fact that von Hoppner bore himself more like victor than vanquished.
"Well, Kapitan-Leutnant, for what do you wish to see me?" asked Stockdale, courteously offering the Hun the best chair in the sparely-furnished cabin.
"I wish to know," replied von Hoppner, "what you have done with the man who was brought on board this vessel with me?"
"Quite a thoughtful request," commented the Hon. Derek. "Naturally any officer worthy of the name would be anxious concerning the welfare of his subordinates. (And you kicked up a shindy because the poor blighter was told off in your precious company," mentally added Stockdale.)
The German inclined his head. He was too thick-skinned and puffed up with arrogance to detect the faint tinge of caustic wit in the British officer's words.
"As a matter of fact," continued the Lieutenant-Commander, "the man was seriously wounded, as you are doubtless aware. Without proper medical attention his life would be threatened by remaining in the closed compartment of a submarine, so I took what I consider to be the most humane course possible and set him on board a Swedish craft."
"You set him on board a Swedish craft!" repeated von Hoppner. "I do not understand."
"I made a plain statement," said the Hon. Derek. "If I can elucidate matters——"
"I thought you were bound either for Stockholm or Carlscrona," interrupted the German.
It was the Hon. Derek's turn to express astonishment.
"What made you think so?" he asked.
"Because," replied von Hoppner insolently, "you have shot your bolt, Englishman. You are trapped. All the entrances to the Baltic are closely guarded. Escape that way is impossible. Nor can you hope to find shelter in Russian ports, for Russia is now under the heel of Germany. Therefore, no other course remains for you but to be interned in a Swedish port until Germany wins the war and decides what is to be done with you."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed the Hon. Derek, his brows clouding ominously. Fordyce had seen his superior officer look like that once before. Von Hoppner, too, noticed the change. He felt sorry he had spoken. "Oh, indeed;youare mistaken, Herr Kapitan-Leutnant. This vessel came through your mine-fields and she'll make her way out—or bust. Do you understand that?"
"Then I demand to be set on shore on parole in a neutral country," protested the Hun vehemently.
"You may demand," retorted Stockdale composedly. "That is as far as it gets. What will happen is that you will be taken through your precious mine-field—recollect, Germany mined Danish territorial waters in flagrant defiance of international law—in His Majesty's Submarine R19. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"
Von Hoppner's arrogance dropped from him like a cloak. He implored, raved, whined, and attempted to browbeat his captor, finally cowering with his face hidden in his hands. Fordyce felt almost certain that the fellow was sobbing in an agony of terror.
"This display of feelings will not help matters," continued the Hon. Derek sternly. "I can admire a brave man even if he be an enemy. Your anxiety on the part of your wounded seaman is, I know, merely a subterfuge, else for what reason did you object to his presence? One other point, Herr von Hoppner. I see that you are the possessor of l'Ordre pour le Mérite. Was that for services rendered whilst you were acting commandant of the prison-camp at Neu Strelitz?"
"What do you know of Neu Strelitz?" enquired the Hun falteringly.
"Enough," replied the Hon. Derek briefly. "Under your orders British bluejackets, prisoners of war, were vilely treated. However, you have not answered my question concerning your decoration. You refuse to answer? Perhaps, as you have already told my Sub-Lieutenant here, you object to tedious repetition. Let me inform you, sir, that you took too much for granted when you claimed the destruction of a British submersible cruiser on the night of the 9th of ——. Be pleased to listen while I read you an extract from the log. I will afterwards let you inspect the writing in case you have any suspicion that the log has been 'cooked'. That's not done in the British navy, you know."
Slowly and distinctly Stockdale translated the passages relating to R19's escape from the toil of nets. The Hun's face grew grey from horrified amazement. The thought of the ridicule that the revelation would produce should the true facts become known in Germany appalled him.
"You will not destroy my reputation, Herr Kapitan Stockdale?" he asked brokenly.
The Hon. Derek shut his log-book with a snap. "The British navy is based upon long and honourable traditions. One of them, by no means the least, is that its officers arebothofficersandgentlemen!"
Four days later R19 drew within sight of the heavily-mined Sound. Judging by the demeanour of the ship's company, the possibility of facing immediate danger left them remarkably apathetic.
"Reminds me of a pack of youngsters robbing an orchard, knowing that the farmer and his bull-dog are somewhere on the look-out," observed Mr. Macquare. "They've had a rousing time while it lasted, and now they've made up their minds to take what comes, only they'd rather not meet the farmer if it could be avoided."
"How's von Hoppner taking it?" enquired the Hon. Derek.
"Badly," replied the Lieutenant. "If ever a man had the 'jumps' 'tis he. Should we make a home port, sir, we'll have a lunatic with us, despite your efforts to get rid of one. He even offered to impart information concerning the mine-field."
"And what did you say to that?" asked the Lieutenant-Commander.
"I couldn't choke him off on my own responsibility," answered Mr. Macquare.
The Hon. Derek pondered for a few moments. In the interests of all on board the recreant's information might be of enormous value. Then he shook his head.
"I'll turn it down, Macquare. If we are to win through it will be off our own bat. Unless the steamer track has been altered recently we stand a fighting chance. Tonight's the night, Mr. Macquare."
Taking elaborate cross-bearings while daylight lasted, R19 sounded, remaining at the bottom until midnight. On reappearing on the surface the submarine, ready for diving at ten seconds' notice, forged softly ahead, conned by the Lieutenant-Commander and Fordyce from the platform without the conning-tower.
It was hardly an ideal night for the undertaking. A thick haze enveloped everything beyond a radius of fifty yards. Even the bows of the vessel were indistinguishable from the mingling blur of the sea and fog. A slightly longer range of visibility would have been better, as the submarine would have been able to spot and avoid the more conspicuous outlines of a patrol-boat or destroyer before the latter could sight the low-lying hull of her foe.
It was an intricate piece of navigation by dead reckoning and of the "hit or miss" order. From the after-end of the navigation platform trailed a log-line, the movements of the luminous hand on the dial being carefully watched by Petty Officer Chalmers. As an additional precaution, the striking-gong of the recording mechanism had been silenced.
The log gave the "distance run", the reading being checked by independent calculations based upon the revolutions of the propellers. For directing, R19 had to depend solely upon a compass course, since the mist made it impossible to pick up shore bearings, even if these were visible at night.
After an hour of high-tensioned suspense the Sub made his way aft to the Petty Officer at the log indicator.
"How goes it?" he whispered.
"Close on, sir," was the equally cautious reply.
"I thought so," agreed Fordyce. "Good enough."
"We're over Position A, sir," he reported.
"Or thereabouts," added the Hon. Derek under his breath. "Starboard eight, Quartermaster."
Round swung the deeply-submersed hull of the submarine to settle on her new course—the awkward turn in the channel through the mine-field. Already the netted area that had all but finished R19's career on her outward voyage was left astern.
After a comparatively short run the order was given to port helm. R19 had negotiated the awkward bend in the cleared channel, and a straight run northwards would see her beyond the limits of the mine-field.
Suddenly, at a distance of about forty fathoms astern, and slightly on the starboard quarter, a column of water leapt two hundred feet or more into the misty air, accompanied by a roar like the concentrated peals of a dozen thunderclaps. The next instant Fordyce, almost capsized by the rush of displaced air, was knee-deep in water.
Rolling sluggishly, R19 shook herself clear of the turbulent swirl while the Quartermaster promptly steadied her on her helm.
The Lieutenant-Commander glanced at his subordinate officer.
"Narrow squeak that, Fordyce," he remarked. "What's Chalmers doing? By Jove, we cut that corner pretty closely!"
The Sub made his way to the after-end of the raised platform, where the petty officer was standing as rigidly as a statue.
"All right there, Chalmers?"
"All right, sir," replied the imperturbable petty officer. "Only that blessed log's gone to blazes."
He held up a coiled length of log-line as a visible corroboration to his statement. The cause of the explosion was now revealed. In turning, R19 had passed perilously close to an anchored mine, while the log, towing astern, described a wider arc than that of the submarine, and also caused a reduction of speed of the revolving metal cylinder. The depth to which the log sinks varies inversely with the speed of the towing vessel. So in "cutting the corner" the trailing log descended sufficiently to come in contact with one of the horns of the submerged mine.
It was a blessing in disguise, for the explosion gave the Hon. Derek a clue as to his position, and a slight alteration of helm was sufficient to bring R19 approximately in the centre of the channel. Owing to the fog, none of the hostile patrol-boats risked making a dash between the mines, although away to the south'ard there were audible evidences of activity.
Another hour passed; then, with a partial lifting of the fog, the loom of the land could be discerned on either hand.
"White and red group flashes on the starboard beam, sir," reported the look-out, then: "Red and green occulting flashes on port bow, sir."
Raising his night-glasses, the Hon. Derek focused them first to starboard and then to port. Then he turned to the Sub.
"We're through, Mr. Fordyce," he remarked. "Those are the Malmo lights to starboard. Telegraph for full speed ahead, if you please. Good-bye to the Baltic!"
It was fifteen miles to the nor'ard of the Skaw in broad daylight. R19 was running awash in a perfectly calm sea. Sub-Lieutenant Fordyce, keeping a tramp under observation, turned to the Quartermaster.
"Starboard a couple of points, Quartermaster," he ordered. "I want to have a closer look at that ship. Dash it all," he soliloquized, "the old tub seems strangely familiar!"
Evidently the vessel in question did not evince any desire to accept the submarine's advances, for she, too, altered helm.
"What is it?" enquired the Lieutenant-Commander, who at that moment emerged from the conning-tower.
"A tramp under Swedish colours, sir," reported the Sub. "Strange thing, she has a gun mounted for'ard. Unless I'm much mistaken we've met her before to-day."
An order from the Lieutenant-Commander brought the guns' crews on deck. The for'ard quick-firers were raised from their "houses" and manned, while, increasing speed, R19 was soon within hailing distance.
"What ship is that?" enquired the Hon. Derek in English.
"Ryan-Berg, of Malmo," was the reply. "You our colour painted on side see."
"I'm not blind—only sceptical," retorted the Lieutenant-Commander. "Heave-to; I'll send a boat."
While the tramp was losing way the submarine flung about, taking up a position on the vessel's starboard quarter, and on a parallel course.
On the bluff counter of the tramp appeared the words: "Ryan-Berg—Malmo", but at a short distance it was quite evident that the name was painted on a strip of canvas.
"That's good enough, Mr. Fordyce," remarked the Hon. Derek grimly.
"And what's more, sir," added the Sub, "she's an old friend, theTalisman, of Goole. She missed us at point-blank range on one occasion."
"I recollect," agreed the Lieutenant-Commander, "and we pumped out a gallon of lubricating-oil just to encourage her misguided but praiseworthy skipper. Carry on, Mr. Fordyce."
Quickly the boarding-party tumbled into the boat and rowed off to the tramp. Revolver in hand, Fordyce gained her deck, to be greeted by half a dozen Teutons in very motley garb.
"The game's up," exclaimed Fordyce. "We are not bluffed by fresh paint and a canvas name-board."
The prize crew were ordered below, while the former master and a dozen hands were released from captivity.
"You never know your luck," exclaimed the rightful skipper of theTalisman, a bluff, grey-haired salt of the burly, breezy type. "I expected to find myself in a German prison-camp within the next thirty-six hours. A light cruiser nabbed us four miles outside Christiansand harbour. They clapped us under hatches and put a prize crew on board, and a rascally set they are."
"They treated you decently?"
"Not so bad," replied the "old man", "until they found I had an Admiralty certificate for sinking a U-boat. Blew her to bits at fifty yards. Not a doubt about it; there was oil enough to spread over a couple of hundred yards."
"And when did that occur?" asked Fordyce.
The master of theTalismangave the date.
"The swine tore up my certificate," he added bitterly. "I suppose the Admiralty will give me a duplicate?"
"I should imagine so," replied Fordyce. "Excuse me, but time is precious. I must ask instructions from my commanding officer."
The Hon. Derek, upon being informed of the state of affairs, ordered Fordyce and four seaman to remain on board the prize.
"We'll stand by you," he added. "I suppose there's enough coal left in her bunkers to carry her home?"
"I'll enquire, sir. By the by, her master has or had a certificate presented him by the Admiralty for having fired at us. Luckily he missed."
"You didn't enlighten him, I hope?" asked the Hon. Derek anxiously.
"Oh no, sir!"
"That's good. Carry on—yes, certainly, take Flirt with you. And good luck!"