"Who's L.L.P.?" enquired Entwistle.
His host laughed.
"Merely the help," he replied. "Carter's her name. I call her Little Liver Pill—she reminds me of one. L.L.P, for short, you know."
"Might be your friend Andrew Norton," suggested the other.
"By Jove, yes! I hadn't thought of that," was the reply. "All the same, I don't think he would touch my desk. It's just likely that in a preoccupied moment (although as a rule he isn't given that way) he may have gone home and left the lights switched on and the door open. Hulloa, this looks queer! I wonder if Norton got into a funk over the Zep.?"
Barcroft pointed to a pipe lying on the mantelpiece. It was freshly filled and the tobacco was slightly charred, indicating that the owner had been interrupted in the act of lighting up.
"His pipe," he continued. "And he seems a fairly methodical fellow, not likely to leave anything behind. Hope he's all right. If it wasn't for the fact that I've had a long tramp and it's close on one thirty I'd run across to his place."
"What sort of a man is he?" enquired Entwistle.
"Decent—quite. Nothing of the bore about him, or I would have choked him off very quickly," replied Barcroft grimly. "Quite informal, and different from the ordinary type of caller when a fellow comes into a fresh district. You know the sort—stiff-necked blighters of both sexes who pay formal calls for the sole purpose of finding out who you are, what you are and what you've got. In my case, I suppose, they expect to find a sort of untamed curiosity: that's how they regard literary men, I believe. But my time is too precious to waste in that way, so I let them know it pretty quickly. Ah, there are the trains running again," he added as a dull rumble was borne to their ears. "Zep. show's over for to-night. Keen on bed?"
"Not very," replied Entwistle. "Are you?"
"I'm going to wait up for Billy," said the fond parent. "Wonder what the young bounder is doing now?"
As he spoke came the sounds of quick, firm footsteps up the cobbled path. Before Peter could get across the room the door was thrown open and Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft, his face blackened with smoke and dust and his great-coat bearing signs of rough usage, burst into the room.
"Cheer-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "Sorry I'm late. Some night, eh, what?"
IT will now be necessary to set back the hands of the clock to the hour of ten on the evening of the Zeppelin's visit to Barborough.
At that hour Mr. Andrew Norton was knocking on the door of Ladybird Fold, and vainly endeavouring to restrain the boisterous attentions of Ponto and Nan.
"Good evening, Mrs. Carter," he said as the door was opened revealing the domestic stopgap with her head covered by a shawl—the recognised head-dress of the working-class women of industrial Lancashire. "Any one at home?"
"Only mysen, master," was the reply. "An' in another minute you would be findin' me gone. Mr. Barcroft he's out, but he'll not be long, I'm thinkin'. An' young Mr. Barcroft—'im as is in the Navy—is expected home to-night. But come in, you're kindly welcome."
"And at what time is young Mr. Barcroft expected?" he asked in a tone that implied mild curiosity, as he stepped over the threshold.
"I'm not for sayin' for certain. Master had a telegram. You'll not be wantin' anythin', sir?"
Norton shook his head. Accompanied by the two dogs he entered the study and switched on the lights. As he did so he heard the door slam and Mrs. Carter's retreating footsteps on the hard path.
He knew how to make himself at home during his friend's absence. He was one of those men who have the happy knack of forming quick friendships, and the somewhat easy-going Peter was a good subject in that respect.
Andrew Norton was a man of forty-five, although he looked considerably younger. He was of medium height, full-featured and inclined to stoutness. A keen motorist, he had attracted Barcroft's attention on the very first day of his taking possession of "The Croft," when he was endeavouring to take a large car up the difficult lane beyond Ladybird Fold. Since there was plenty of accommodation in the outbuilding utilised as a garage at Barcroft's house Peter's suggestion that it would be easier for the newcomer to The Croft to keep his car there and thus save a steep and loose ascent was accepted with profuse gratitude.
From that moment the friendship ripened. Almost every evening after the literary man's strenuous labours were completed for the day Andrew Norton would drop in for a smoke and a yarn.
"Rotten nuisance!" mused the hostless guest as he settled himself in an easy chair. "If only I knew what time he was returning. The uncertainty will probably make a regular mess of present arrangements."
It might have been idle curiosity that prompted him to cross over to the desk and examine Peter's uncompleted work; sheer anxiety that led him to the open window to listen intently for the sound of his absent friend's footsteps.
Through the uncurtained window three shafts of brilliant light were flung upon the closely-cropped lawn, the limit of the rays being defined by a thick hedge dividing the lawn from the rose-garden.
"No signs yet," he muttered, as he glanced at the clock for the twentieth time. "Friend Barcroft's regrettable absence is spoiling my evening. I'll get back to The Croft."
He drew the curtains with deliberate care, so that no stray ray of light should escape. Lighting restrictions were lax in that part of Lancashire, as the twinkling glimmers from the houses in the valley testified; for in the district where he had previously lived for two years there were drastic observances on that score, and now the habit of conforming to the requirements of the authorities was not lightly to be dropped.
"I'll give him five minutes more," he soliloquised as he drew a pipe from his pocket and charged it with great deliberation. This he proceeded to light, making use of a paper spill. Here he showed a marked contrast to the easygoing methods of the occupier of Ladybird Fold. In spite of their high price, Peter invariably used matches—and plenty of them. Usually the hearth was littered with the burnt-out stumps, for Barcroft always had a pipe in his mouth when he was writing. It might go out twenty times before the tobacco was expended, but every time a fresh match was struck and flung away to augment the already numerous accumulation in the fireplace.
Just then the two dogs sat up and barked. Norton started nervously. He was only just beginning to get used to the sturdy, shaggy animals.
"Quiet!" he shouted.
A peremptory knock sounded on the door. The still burning spill fell from the man's fingers. He made his way into the hall, shutting the study door upon the dogs. Vainly he groped for the switch operating the front door light.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"Telegram for Mr. Barcroft," replied a deep voice.
Had Norton paused to consider the likelihood of a telegram being delivered at a very late hour in a remote country district he might have saved himself from a great deal of personal inconvenience. But he did not.
He threw open the door. His eyes, still dazzled by the quick transition from the brilliant light within to the intense darkness without, stared vacantly into the night, while his right hand groped furtively for the expected orange coloured envelope.
As he did so a pair of powerful hands grasped his ankles. His involuntary exclamation of mingled astonishment and indignation was stifled by a thick cloth twisted over his mouth and round his head, while simultaneously his arms were pinioned to his sides.
Unable to move a limb, much less to struggle, he found himself lifted from the ground and borne away as helpless as an infant.
"Fools!" he spluttered. "Fools! You'll be sorry for this."
Whether his captors heard his muffled protests or not they paid no heed save to give the cloth that encircled his head an extra twist. The pressure upon his nose was painful. He had difficulty in breathing, so, realising that his stifled exclamations were futile, he wisely held his peace from a vocal point of view, although inwardly he was raging furiously.
He could hear the boots of his captors clattering on the cobbles until the crisp-sounding footfalls told him that the men had gained the cinder path on the east side of the house. Then, with considerable effort on the part of his bearers, he was lifted up a flight of four stone steps, beyond which, he knew, was an extensive grassfield that rose gradually for the next half mile.
Grunting and obviously short of breath the men trudged stolidly onwards for perhaps nearly two hundred yards. Once Norton thought fit to make a sudden effort and wriggle from his captors' grasp, but the attempt ended disastrously to himself. Brutally they bumped him upon the ground. The shock to the spinal system was excruciating, but it had the desired effect. The prisoner's spirit of resistance was broken; even the stern mandate, "Quiet, or you are a dead man," was unnecessary.
The scarf or cloth that enveloped his head had slipped during the struggle. He could now see. Either his kidnappers had not noticed the fact or else they regarded it as of no consequence.
He could discern the faces and upper portions of the bodies of the two men. They were tall burly fellows dressed in black oilskins. In spite of their powerful physique they were breathing stertorously; they reeked of petrol.
Another fifty yards and they came to a halt. Norton turned his head and saw what appeared at first sight to be the dark grey body of a motorcar. It was quivering under the application of some unseen influence, yet there was no purr of internal mechanism to justify the belief that it possessed self-contained machinery.
"Lash that schweinhund's ankles, Pfeil," ordered one of the fellows in German. "That is right; now do you enter first and I'll heave the English fool up so that you can get him inside."
"Now is the dangerous time," commented his companion as he scrambled through a narrow aperture.
"It is ever a dangerous time with us," rejoined the other gloomily.
"Ah, yes; but now? Supposing the wire is insufficient to take the strain?"
"It will bear thrice our total weight," replied the first speaker, "frail though it looks. No fear of that breaking. It is that highly-charged electric cable that worries me. We must have landed nearer to it than we should have done, yet it looks further away on the map."
The fellow completed his difficult task of lifting Norton into the interior of the covered-in car—the observation room of a Zeppelin floating motionless five hundred feet or so overhead.
The commander of the giant aircraft had successfully carried out a daring manoeuvre with the ultimate object of taking prisoner the man on whom his imperial master the "All-Highest" had set a price for his capture. Taking advantage of an almost imperceptible breeze and knowing his position to an almost dead certainty by means of exact cross-bearings afforded by three reservoirs, conspicuous even in the darkness, he had caused to be lowered the aluminium observation car.
In flight this contrivance is slung close under the after part of the Zeppelin, but when necessary it can be lowered by means of a fine but enormously strong flexible steel wire to a maximum distance of two thousand feet beneath the giant envelope. Thus it is possible for a Zeppelin to remain hidden in a bank of clouds and lower the observation car to within a few hundred feet of the ground. Its comparatively small size and inconspicuous colour would render it invisible even at that short distance, and give the observer an uninterrupted view of the country. By means of a telephone he could then communicate with the commander of the airship and indicate the objects singled out for attack.
On this occasion the aluminium box was lowered till it touched the ground. The two men purposely told off for the work in hand had anchored the car, thereby keeping the Zeppelin stationary also. In the event of a surprise the airship's crew would unhesitatingly sever the wire and leave the car and their two comrades to their fate.
And now most of this particular enterprise had been carried out. The supposed object of their attentions lay gagged and bound within the aluminium cage. All that remained to be done was to break out the grapnel and signal to the men in the Zeppelin to wind in the steel cable.
"All ready?" enquired Pfeil through the telephone. "Good! When I give the signal will you forge ahead to the north-east? Why? Because we are much too close to the high tension cable which Herr Leutnant knows of."
He leant through an aperture in the side of the cradle and listened intently. At the first sound of the airship's propellers he jerked a tripping-line smartly. The fluke of the grapnel folded as he did so, and the car, no longer held captive, slid jerkily over the grass.
"Up!" telephoned the German.
The next instant Norton felt himself being lifted through the air as the car ascended swiftly at a rate of five feet a second. In less than two minutes the cradle's supplementary movement ceased. It was hauled hard up against the immense bulk of the Zeppelin and secured with additional lashings.
The wind was now shrieking through the lattice work of the airship, as gathering speed she flew through the still air at a rate of nearly fifty miles an hour, or a little more than half her maximum speed.
It was cold—horribly cold. Lightly clad and coming from a warm room the prisoner felt the change acutely. He shivered in spite of his efforts to the contrary.
Gripped by the ankles he found himself being dragged like a sack of flour from the detachable car to the V-shaped gangway connecting two of the fixed gondolas. The lashings securing his lower limbs were cast off, and, thrust forward by the powerful Pfeil, he was made to walk along the narrow corridor.
"Here is the Englishman, Herr Leutnant," announced the German addressing a short, corpulent officer who stood by the bomb-dropping apparatus in the centre of the gondola.
"Good!" was the appreciative reply. Ober-leutnant Julius von Loringhoven squirmed in anticipation of winning more than a half of the promised guerdon. A share—a considerable share unfortunately—was owing to a certain individual who, acting as an agent of the German Government, had given valuable aid in snaring the proscribed Englishman. His assistance was necessary, of course, but that meant a sensible reduction of the sum of paper money with which von Loringhoven hoped to restore the fortunes of his impoverished house.
"Good!" he repeated. "Remove that covering and let me look at the pig."
Pfeil obeyed smartly. With a savage jerk he exposed the face of his captive.
"Utter idiot!" shouted Andrew Norton in German. "Imbecile! You've blundered and spoilt everything."
OBER-LEUTNANT JULIUS VON LORINGHOVEN recoiled a couple of paces in sheer amazement. The compartment in which he stood was strictly limited in point of size, or he might have stepped back even more, so great was his consternation. For some seconds he stood with his shoulders against the aluminium bulkhead, his small eyes protruding to their utmost capacity.
"Von Eitelwurmer!" he gurgled at last. "What does this mean?"
"It means," retorted Andrew Norton furiously, "that your men have wrecked everything. It is their duty to wreck everything English, I admit, but they have overreached themselves."
"I am sorry," said the ober-leutnant humbly, though the apology needed an effort. "The culprits will be duly punished."
"And serve them right," interrupted the kidnapped man. "But that will not mend matters. Our plans are completely upset; Barcroft will take warning; there will be no plausible excuse for my sudden departure—Ach, it is intolerable. Is it possible to set me down?"
Von Loringhoven shook his head.
"Impossible," he replied. "You must return with us to the Fatherland. Meanwhile I must take steps to justify the presence of this war-machine over the hated country."
Siegfried von Eitelwurmer was one of the German super-spies—a class far and above the host of ordinary spies that, in spite of the utmost vigilance on the part of the British government, still continue their activities although in a restricted form. To all outward appearance he was English born and bred. His mannerisms were entirely so. Even in his most excitable moods, for Teutonic stolidity was almost a stranger to him, he would never betray by word or gesture the fact that he was of Hunnish birth and sympathies. When he spoke in English his inflexion was as pure as a typical Midlander; his knowledge of British habits and customs was profound. In short, he was one of the most dangerous type of German agents that ever set foot on British soil.
It will be unnecessary to detail his past activities, which almost invariably he carried out successfully and without giving rise to suspicion, even at times when the espionage mania was at its height, and Britons were being arrested and detained on suspicion for various slight acts of indiscretion that they had committed in pure ignorance. A man might in all good faith take photographs of a place of national interest; an artist might make a sketch in the grounds of his own house—and be promptly haled before the magistrates and fined. The "powers-that-be" seem to be blind to the fact that a trained spy would not attempt to use a conspicuous camera. An instrument of the vest-pocket type would serve his purpose equally well and with little chance of detection.
It was the Kaiser's manifesto relating to the capture of the "dangerous" Peter Barcroft that turned the course of von Eitelwurmer's activities in the direction of Ladybird Fold—not wholly for the sake of the pecuniary reward, but with the idea of gaining additional kudos at the hands of his Imperial master.
The spy had little difficulty in tracing Barcroft's movements from the time he vacated Riversdale House in the village of Alderdene. The information that his quarry had removed to Tarleigh in Lancashire he had communicated to Berlin, but owing to a delay the news was not in time to prevent the Hun airman, von Bülow und Helferich, making his ill-fated flight to the south-eastern part of England.
Von Eitelwurmer's method of communicating with Berlin was simplicity itself, and as such ran less chance of detection than if he had resorted to elaborate and intricate means.
He would obtain catalogues from manufacturers living in the same town in which he had taken up his temporary abode. On the pages he would write with invisible ink—or even milk or lemon, both of which when dried naturally show no trace of their presence—his reports, taking the additional precaution of using a cipher which he could retain mentally and thus do away with the risk of incriminating documents.
The next step was to get possession of a printed wrapper bearing the name and address of the firm in question. The catalogue, enclosed in the wrapper, was then sent to a pseudo Englishman living in Holland, who, almost needless to say, was a German agent.
These reports were then sent in duplicate, one preceding the other in the space of three days. Fortunately or otherwise—according to the standpoint taken by interested parties—the first secret dispatch related to the movements of Peter Barcroft was lost in a Dutch mail-boat that a German submarine had sent to the bottom. The second resulted in Ober-leutnant von Loringhoven being dispatched on a Zeppelin raid with the primary intention of kidnapping the proscribed Englishman.
Julius von Loringhoven was an officer of the Imperial German Navy. In his youth he had served before the mast on board several British coasters with the idea of gaining intimate local knowledge of the harbours of the land that in due course would be an integral part of the vast and unassailable German Empire; for, like thousands of Germans he held the firm belief that the Emperor Wilhelm II was the rightful heir to the British throne by virtue of his descent through the eldest child of the late Queen Victoria.
It was on one of these coasting trips that von Loringhoven then a stripling of seventeen—was within an ace of losing his life. Ordered aloft on a winter's night to furl the topsail of the schooner "Pride o' Salcombe," he was benumbed with the piercing cold as he lay along the lee yard-arm. A burly British seaman saved him just as he was on the point of relaxing his hold. Gathering him in his arms the man brought him down on deck, little knowing what manner of young reptile he was nursing in his bosom. If von Loringhoven had had any spark of gratitude it had been smothered by the passion of "frightfulness" as expressed by dropping powerful explosives upon the defenceless civil population of the country to one of whose sons he owed his life.
A brief training at Friedrichshaven was followed by an exacting period at Borkum which qualified von Loringhoven for a series of flights across the North Sea to the East Coast of England. As yet he was merely a tyro, gaining practical experience under a veteran Zeppelin commander. But at last the day came when he was given sole charge of one of the Kaiser's giant gas-bags.
"Go and raid the counties of Yorkshire and Lincolnshire," were his superior officer's instructions. "That's a fairly safe game. You'll find little more than dummy guns against you. Acquit yourself well and you will be given an opportunity to take part in the forthcoming gigantic raid upon London."
This was before the time when, as the Huns knew to their cost, the "swarm of hornets" promised by a former First Lord of the Admiralty proved their existence.
And now, after twelve months of active Zeppelin service von Loringhoven was over Lancashire. One part of his mission foiled he had yet to exhibit Teutonic frightfulness to the dwellers of the large manufacturing town of Barborough.
The second in command of the Zeppelin was an unter-leutnant of the name of Klick. It was one of his triumphs to announce that he had been arrested in England as a spy. That was in those distant pre-war times. He had been "spotted" by a sentry while in the act of sketching a fortification in the neighbourhood of an important naval station, arrested and charged at a police-court. Committed to the County Assizes he was politely told by the judge that espionage was dishonourable. Klick smiled inwardly. To him spying was part of an important German military training—an organised procedure. Nevertheless he was agreeably surprised when he was allowed to go with the admonition, "Don't do it again."
Fortunately for Great Britain such misplaced leniency is a thing of the past. On Unter-leutnant Klick it was entirely thrown away. His typically German mind read the clemency as a sign of weakness. He came from a country where the only strength is "force majeur."
"Well, Herr von Eitelwurmer," exclaimed the ober-leutnant after he had recovered from his surprise. "If you wish to see how our in comparable Zeppelins set to work you had better station yourself at this observation scuttle. I will lend you a fur coat."
"Pity you hadn't lent me one long before," growled the spy, as one of the crew helped him into the warm garment. "Yours is a cold business, von Loringhoven."
"Not when we get to work," corrected the other with a grim laugh. "Excitement stirs our blood to boiling point."
A telephone bell tinkled softly. The commander took up the receiver.
"Ach!" he replied. "That is good."
The message was from Unter-leutnant Klick, announcing that the airship was immediately over the large town of Barborough. Von Loringhoven glanced at the altitude indicator. It registered 2,000 metres—too great for practical purposes where no danger was to be anticipated from anti-aircraft guns. The speed of the Zeppelin was now less than ten miles an hour, just sufficient to keep her stationary over her objective.
The commander gave an order. A man on duty in the gondola thrust down a lever, Instantly the gas in several of the ballonets was withdrawn and forced under great pressure into a strong metal tank. This answered to the old-fashioned method of releasing gas from a balloon by means of an escape valve, but with a vast difference. The hydrogen was not wasted; it was merely stored for further service.
Down dropped the airship to less than a thousand feet. Von Eitelwurmer, leaning over the sill of the large scuttle, peered downwards. By means of a pair of powerful night-glasses he could locate his position with great accuracy. He recognised most of the conspicuous land marks of Barborough, in spite of their unfamiliar appearance when viewed from a height. There was the town-hall—a pile of smoke blackened stonework. The railway station with its web of steel lines radiating in four different directions; the huge factories, working day and night at high pressure; the main thoroughfares, rendered even more pronounced by the blue flashes of the electric tram-cars. The Zeppelin had the town at its mercy.
Ober-leutnant von Loringhoven was also examining the scene beneath him. He had no occasion to consult the spy. He knew quite as much as von Eitelwurmer of the topography of the district; thanks to the accurate air-maps supplied by the German government.
"Now, watch!" he exclaimed, at the same time holding up four fingers as a sign to the airman at the firing apparatus to release the missiles of destruction.
Von Eitelwurmer held his breath. He clearly heard the four metallic clicks as the man released the bombs at quick intervals. Seven seconds after the first had left the dropping apparatus a lurid flash threw the underside of the enormous envelope into an expanse of reflected light. A roar like the concentration of half a dozen thunder peals tore the air, followed by the rumbling of falling masonry. The other explosions took place in rapid succession, causing the Zeppelin to sway and rock in the violently disturbed atmosphere.
The place where the bombs had burst was hidden in a thick pall of smoke and dust. Tongues of red and yellow flames flickered through the vapour.
"Two more," ordered von Loringhoven.
By this time the Zeppelin, forging ahead, was nearly a quarter of a mile from the scene of her first attempt. The objective was a purely conjectural one, for the missiles burst in a street in one of the poorer quarters of the town.
"Two more!"
The two bombs were released, but only one exploded. The other failed to detonate, but the raid was over. In a little over a minute and a half death had been poured upon the unprepared town.
"I can claim the big munitions factory," remarked the ober-leutnant as he telephoned to the navigating gondola for full speed. "Those first four had it to a nicety. The others—well, they did some damage."
The spy smiled.
"Yes; it all helps," he said. "Frightfulness always scores,"
"Realising, as we do, that every English baby is a potential enemy to Germany," added von Loringhoven. "Not necessarily in a military sense, but in the forthcoming commercial war."
Von Eitelwurmer glanced at his companion,
"The forthcoming commercial war," he repeated. "Our Emperor will see to it that there will be no British Empire to threaten our mercantile supremacy."
The commander of the Zeppelin shrugged his shoulders.
"I trust you are right," he rejoined, "but you do not realise the big task in front of us. These Englishmen are only just beginning to bestir themselves. We hoped to have beaten them long ago. Time is no longer on our side, and——"
Then, realising that his digression was bordering upon dangerous lines, he broke off.
"And now, von Eitelwurmer, we are homeward bound. In four hours I hope to shake hands with you on German soil."
The spy merely grunted. He was thinking regretfully of his lost chance in the share of the twenty thousand marks.
FIVE minutes before the fall of the first bomb, Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft alighted from a tram-car in the market square of Barborough.
The stopping of the railway service had upset his calculations, for instead of the train running into Barborough Station it had come to a stand still at Wolderton, a little town five miles from his destination.
"Can't go no further yet awhile, sir," replied a porter in answer to the flight-sub's enquiry. "They say as 'ow Zeps is about, though I fancy they won't come to Lancashire, sir. Don't hold wi' these silly scares mysen."
"Where are we?" asked Barcroft, striving vainly to read the name of the unlighted station. "Wolderton, sir; if you're for Barborough you can get a car just outside. They are runnin', Zep, or no Zep."
The young officer alighted, made his way out of the station and boarded the first northbound car, which in due course deposited him at Barborough—a stranger in a strange land.
"For Tarleigh, sir?" rejoined a policeman to his question. "Matter o' four or six miles. No, sir, you'll not be findin' a taxi to-night, I fancy. Just you go along yon road, take first on your right then straight on till you come to Chumley Old Road. There you'll find a car that'll take you as far as Black Pit Brow, and it'll be forty minutes sharp walking to Tarleigh."
Somewhat bewildered Barcroft set out to follow the constable's directions. He found himself slipping on the rough and greasy setts, jostling people in the darkened streets, and barking his shins against obtrusive door steps. The road was a mean and narrow one—a short cut to a main thoroughfare. A dank unwholesome smell permeated the misty air. It struck the young officer as being worse than the atmosphere of the lower deck of a battleship battened down during a three-days' gale.
Suddenly the darkness was rent by a terrific flash. The light was so dazzling that Barcroft was under the impression that it came from the centre of the street. Stunned by the deafening crash he felt himself lurching against a wall, amidst a shower of broken glass.
Another explosion followed and then two more. The flight-sub felt the wall of the house rock with the concussions. He was quite prepared to see the building collapse under the impact of the displaced air. Fragments of slates and tiles, mingled with shattered woodwork, hurtled overhead. Glass tinkled upon the setts. The rumble of falling masonry was added to the uproar, while flames shot up from a mound of debris that a brief instant earlier had been the homes of three English families, and threw a fitful glare upon the scene of destruction.
"Factory explosion, I suppose," thought Barcroft. "Can't be a Zep., or I should have heard her engines."
He put his hand to his cheek. It was warm and moist. Blood was welling from a deep gash. He hardly noticed it. His attention was attracted by the shouts and screams of the terrified inhabitants of the neighbourhood—those whose houses having escaped annihilation but were within the danger zone, had fled pell-mell into the streets.
Other crashes followed, but at a greater distance.
"Then it is a Zep., by Jove!" declared the young officer. For the first time he realised his helplessness. He was virtually one of the thousands of civilians unable to raise a hand in self-defence against the cowardly night-raider. A Tommy in a trench with only a rifle—an almost useless weapon against an aircraft of any description—has the satisfaction that he is armed. He is willing to take his chance. But here the townsfolk were utterly at a loss to defend themselves, and it was sorry consolation to be told by the authorities that the inhabitants of raided districts are only sharing the dangers to which the troops in the trenches are exposed.
"If only I were up aloft with young Kirkwood," thought Barcroft. "We'd make the beggars skip out of that gas-bag. Perhaps some day—"
A woman, with her shawl wrapped tightly round her head, came hurrying in the opposite direction to which the stream of terrified people forced its way.
"Eh!" she exclaimed. "An' I left t'owld mon's supper on t' stove. I'll be fair angry if 'tis spoilt."
It was genuine anxiety. Even in the midst of the scene of destruction her thoughts dwelt upon the little cares of everyday domesticity.
With the sailor's typical eagerness to render aid Barcroft hurried down the street. Already the ebb-tide of fugitives was thinning and giving place to the flood-tide of willing helpers. Here and there men staggered and groaned, bleeding from serious wounds caused by the flying fragments of the deadly missiles. Here and there came others supporting or carrying victims unable to help themselves—stalwart men, frail women and puny children reduced in the fraction of a second to mangled wrecks.
Pungent, asphyxiating fumes drifted slowly down the narrow thoroughfare, while the glare of the burning buildings threw an eerie light upon the surroundings.
In the street not one panel of glass remained intact. Cast-iron stack-pipes were riddled with holes cut as cleanly as with a drill. Brick walls were perforated like paper; stone-steps—the "scouring" of which is a solemn rite with Lancashire folk—were chipped and splintered like glass. Doors were burst open as if with a sledge-hammer. And this was fifty yards or more from the scene of the actual explosion.
Where the first bomb had fallen nothing remained of the house except a mound of smoking rubbish. The two adjoining buildings were cut away from top to bottom almost as evenly as if severed by a saw. In one the roof was exposed on the underside. The slates were still in position but riddled like a sieve. So violent was the force with which the flying fragments were projected upwards that the fragile slates were perforated before they had time to crack or be dislodged from the rafters.
In the house on the other adjoining side the parting wall had vanished, leaving the remaining walls and flooring practically intact. A fire was still burning in the kitchen grate, and on it an iron pot was simmering. In front of the fire were three pairs of "clogs" of varying sizes—the footgear of a family that was no longer in existence.
It was the same story. The raid from a military point of view was of no consequence. The munitions factory, in spite of von Loringhoven's assurances, had been missed—missed handsomely.
The flight-sub did not linger at this particular spot. Human aid was unavailing as far as those ruined houses were concerned, but on the other side of the street groans and cries of pain told him that here at least there was work to be done.
Through an open doorway Barcroft dashed. The woodwork of the door was in splinters. Part of the floor had vanished. The place was full of smoke, while gas from a severed pipe was burning furiously.
Grasping a large fragment of paving-stone the flight-sub battered the pipe.
"Iron, worse luck," he exclaimed. "Wonder where the meter is?"
He discovered it just above the door. In the absence of a key to turn off the inflammable gas he knocked the lead pipe flat. The flame began to die down until it gave a fairly safe illumination.
Up the rickety stairs the young officer made his way. With smarting eyes and irritating throat he groped through the stifling smoke, guided by the cries of the injured victims. The room was feebly lighted by a nightlight set in a basin of water. The light flickered in the breeze that swept in through the glazeless window, while its intensity was even more diminished by the eddying smoke. Yet it was sufficient to enable Barcroft to take in his surroundings.
The ceiling had fallen. Plaster and broken glass littered the floor, and every object presented a flat, face-upward surface. On the walls were crude prints hanging at grotesque angles and ripped by flying fragments. Pieces of broken furniture were everywhere in evidence.
In one corner of the room was a bed. One leg had been torn off, causing it to touch the floor. On the bed was a grey-haired woman, groaning feebly and with her forehead dabbled in blood.
She opened her eyes as Barcroft approached, then raising one hand pointed to the side of the bed. There was a cradle that had hitherto escaped his notice, and in it was a baby of but a few months old. Although the old woman could not speak she made it known that the rescuer should first save her grandchild.
Even in that scene of desolation Barcroft could not bring himself to lift the baby from its cot. Dimly he fancied that he might harm it. He hadn't the faintest notion how to hold an infant of tender years.
Lifting the cot bodily he bore it with its contents down the stairs and out into the night. By this time other rescuers were hard at work. Two of them seeing the flight-sub issuing from the house came up to him.
"D'ye want a hand, sir?" they asked.
The uniform imparted an air of authority, and instinctively the men realised the fact. True the naval rig was foreign to them. For all they knew Barcroft might be a sanitary inspector or a school-attendance officer, but his peaked cap and naval blue coat denoted an official of some sort, and, in cases of this description, the distinction carries weight.
"Yes, there's a woman injured in that house," replied the flight-sub, setting down his burden. One of the men bent over the cradle and drew back the covering. Then he hastily replaced it.
"Might have saved yourself the trouble, sir," he gulped. "Those baby-killing swine! If that cursed Zep, should happen to fall anywhere round about and any of the devils are left alive, I bet my last shilling the women-folk o' Barborough 'ud tear 'em limb from limb. An' serve 'em right. Lead on, sir."
Not until the last of the living victims of the outrage had been removed from this section of the bombed district did Barcroft and his willing helpers desist from their arduous labours. Nothing more could be done until daybreak. Police guarded the approaches to the devastated street, while firemen stood by, ready at the first sign to tackle a fresh outburst from the still smouldering ruins.
"Suppose I ought to try for an hotel," soliloquised the flight-sub. "I don't know. I'm in a horrible mess. Feel like a dustman or a scavenger. Perhaps I'd better carry on. The governor might be a bit anxious if I don't."
Receiving fresh directions Barcroft stepped out briskly. Taxis and even tramcars were now out of the question.
"Most confusing place I've struck for many a day," he muttered. "I feel completely out of my bearings. I'm supposed to be going north; it's my belief I'm making in a southerly direction."
Vainly he looked aloft to "verify his position by stellar observation." Not a star was visible. He was now clear of the town. The road ran steeply up a bleak hillside and was bounded by rough stone walls. Doubtless there were plenty of houses scattered about in the surrounding valleys, but these were not in evidence. Every light still burning had been carefully screened. It was a case of shutting the stable door after the horse had been stolen.
Presently he reached the junction of two fork roads, either of which might lead to Tarleigh. A tantalising sign-post afforded no information, for upon swarming up the post the flight-sub was unable to read the weather-beaten directions.
"What on earth possessed the pater to hang out in this benighted spot I cannot imagine!" exclaimed Barcroft disgustedly. "Suppose I must wait here in the hope that some one will be passing this way. It seems the safest chance."
"THAT'S more hopeful," ejaculated Flight sub-lieutenant Barcroft. "I hear footsteps."
For perhaps half a minute he listened intently. He was not mistaken in his surmise, but there was still the haunting doubt that the benighted wayfarer might be proceeding in a different direction. But no; the footsteps came nearer and nearer. It was not the firm tread of a man, nor the clatter of a pair of Lancashire clogs.
"A woman, by Jove!" muttered Billy. "I'll have to be jolly careful not to give her a fright. Rummy idea having to hail a craft of that sort at this time of the morning. Wonder what brings her out in this isolated spot?"
In his anxiety not to unduly alarm the approaching woman, the flight-sub began to walk in her direction. It was, he decided, a better course than to stand back until she passed.
"Excuse me," he said touching his cap, "but can you direct me to Tarleigh?"
"Yes, I am going part of the way," was the reply in a decidedly clear and pleasant voice, which spoke with perfect composure. "If you like I'll go with you as far as Two Elms. It is then a straight road."
"Thank you," said Barcroft, falling into step with his unknown benefactor. "You see, I'm quite a stranger here."
"Hang it all!" he mused. "That voice seems familiar. A trim little craft, too, I should imagine, although I can't see her face. Wonder who she is?"
"You are a naval officer, I see," remarked the girl.
"Yes," admitted Billy. "On leave and going to a home I've never seen. This raid affair made me late."
"And so it did me," added his companion. "By the bye, where was your home before?"
"At Alderdene in Kent," replied Barcroft, somewhat taken aback at the question. "Why do you ask?"
"I thought so," was the composed reply. "And your name is Barcroft—Billy Barcroft."
"By Jove!" exclaimed the young officer. "How on earth do you know that? I'm afraid I don't recognise you."
"You always had a bad memory for certain things, Mr. Barcroft," the girl laughingly reminded him. "I felt almost positive it was you directly you spoke. You see, the uniform and you have a most characteristic helped me, manner of speaking."
"Have I?" asked Billy, still mystified. "And you have a good memory, I presume?"
"Fairly reliable," admitted the girl.
"Then let us hope that your recollections of me are of a favourable character," continued the flight-sub. "Now, tell me; what is your name?"
"There is no immediate hurry for that," she protested. "Before I reveal my identity suppose I remind you of some of your girl friends at Alderdene—Ada Forrester, for instance."
Yes, Billy remembered Ada Forrester very well—a short, podgy kid, he reflected, who by no possible chance could have developed into the tall, graceful girl by his side.
"And Betty Deringhame," continued his inquisitor. "One of the noble army of flappers. Rather a shallow-headed kid and a bit of a tomboy, wasn't she?"
"A tomboy—yes," agreed the flight-sub, "but I cannot admit the other. We used to be good pals, but that was three years ago. I was in my Third Term at Dartmouth when her people left Alderdene."
"You taught her to signal in Morse, I think," pursued the girl. "You used to exchange messages until that little pig, Pat o'Hara, the vicar's son, learnt it too and told tales to her mother."
They walked in silence for some moments. Barcroft had almost forgotten his surroundings. His thoughts had taken him back to those far off, pre-war days in sunny Kent.
"Yes," he said at length in his deep manly voice. "It is absolutely great to be with Betty Deringhame again."
"So you've guessed at last," said Betty. "It's a strange world, isn't it?"
"And a mighty pleasant one, barring the Huns and others of that crowd," added Billy. "Now, tell me, what are you doing here?"
"Walking with an old acquaintance upon a long road that leads to Two Elms and Tarleigh."
"Obvious—we will not dispute the fact," rejoined the young officer. "To put the question in more exact terms: where are you living, and what brought you to this part of England?"
"I think I said I was living at Two Elms. To be more precise, at Mill View. That doesn't sound particularly cheerful, does it? We came here to live after we left Alderdene, shortly after war broke out. I am now employed in a munitions works."
"Munitions works! Whatever are you doing that for?" asked Billy surprised beyond measure. It seemed incredible that the slim, light-hearted girl of his boyhood days should be toiling in this manner.
"Because I had to do something," replied Betty simply. "We lost almost everything. Besides, it was an opportunity to do something practical for the war. People of all social grades do, you know."
"I'm sorry about your financial misfortune," said Barcroft sympathetically.
"And so am I—very," added the girl frankly. "But it is unnecessary to enter into details. This is my home."
They came to a standstill in front of a row of two-storeyed houses. Owing to the darkness it was impossible for the flight-sub to form an accurate idea of the pretensions of the place; but at any rate it was a pitiful contrast to "The Old Rectory," the Deringhames' house at Alderdene.
"The works were nearly hit by the bombs," continued Betty. "We had just started the night-shifts, but the girls were sent off after the raid was over. One of them was so frightened that I had to take her home. That's why I was late."
"Fortunately for me," declared Billy earnestly.
"Yes, a stranger would have some difficulty to find his way on a night like this," said Betty inconsequently. "You are on a straight road now, until you come to a railway arch. Just beyond you'll notice a line of overhead wires if you keep your eyes open. Just beyond is a path on the left. That will take you past Ladybird Fold."
"I'll call in the morning," said Barcroft.
"We—that is, mother and I, will be pleased to see you," replied the girl. "Goodnight—Billy."
For the rest of the distance the flight-sub trod literally on air until he reached the path that Betty had mentioned. Tripping over a slab of stone he came to earth in a double sense.
"Dash it all!" he exclaimed as he picked himself up. "Has the governor defended Lady bird Fold with entanglements and pitfalls? By Jove, this is a night!"
Groping his way Billy ascended the steeply sloping cinder path across the meadow. Another stile and a broad stretch of rugged ground had to be negotiated before he saw a dark mass looming up in front. By this time he was feeling particularly stiff, hungry and cold. The keen air of the hillside made him regret the absence of his airman's leather coat.
"Wonder if this is the show?" he mused as he surveyed the isolated and apparently deserted building.
He stopped and listened intently. Voices were heard within, behind the thickly-curtained window. He recognised one of the speakers.
"That's the governor, right enough," he exclaimed, all traces of annoyance vanishing at the pleasurable discovery.
The outer door was unlocked. Billy threw it open and burst into the well-lighted study.
"Cheer-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "Sorry I'm late. Some night, eh, what?"
"S' LONG, you festive blighters! Good luck!"
With this typically airman's farewell ringing in his ears Flight-lieutenant John Fuller, D.S.O., clambered lightly into the pilot's seat of Seaplane 445B.
Owing to Billy Barcroft's absence on leave a change round had been effected in the composition of the crews of the seaplane carrier "Hippodrome's" little nest of hornets, and as a result Fuller found himself in company with Bobby Kirkwood as his observer.
It was the night of the Barborough raid. The "Hippodrome," bound for the Firth of Forth, had picked up a wireless when some where off the Yorkshire coast, reporting the presence of four Zeppelins. Aeroplanes and seaplanes attached to the north-eastern bases had already ascended in the hope of cutting off the returning air-pirates, and in conjunction with these operations the "Hippodrome" was about to send out her airmen to grapple with the enemy in the darkness.
It was indeed a formidable and hazardous undertaking. The returning Zeppelins would certainly take advantage of the stiff westerly breeze. By keeping to a great altitude and shutting off their engines they drift, silent and unseen, over the East Coast, until it is deemed advisable to restart the motors. Even the disadvantage caused by the immense bulk of the vulnerable envelope would be discounted by its invisibility in the darkness of the night.
The Zeppelins could keep "afloat" by the buoyancy of their hydrogen-charged ballonets; the aeroplanes, being heavier than air, could not, except for a comparatively brief vol-plane, without the aid of their propellers, The roar of the latter would betray their presence to the watchers on the silent airship.
Altogether the seaplane's task savoured of a wild goose chase, only by a pure fluke might one of the aeroplanes "spot" one of the returning raiders, but on the remote chance of being able to do so the "Hippodrome's" aerial flotilla set out on its hazardous flight.
For three-quarters of an hour No 445B flew to and fro parallel to the coast. It was bitterly cold. At a minimum height of five thousand feet was a vast bank of clouds that drifted steadily eastwards.
Occasionally Kirkwood took down a wireless report from the parent ship and handed it to the pilot. Hardly a word was spoken. The voice tube was resorted to only once in that forty-five minutes.
"I'm going further out," announced Fuller. "We'll clear that patch of clouds."
With her motors purring rhythmically and the pistons throbbing in perfect tune the seaplane swung round and settled in an easterly direction, the while climbing steadily. Behind her was the tail end of a nimbus; above, through a vast rift the stars twinkled in the cold sky; beneath, thousands of feet down, was the sea, its vicious, steep waves invisible in the kindly darkness.
Suddenly, from the enshrouding masses of cloud, a dark, symmetrically elongated shape shot rapidly into the starlight. It was a Zeppelin in full flight. Columns of smoke were issuing from her exhausts, but the throb of the seaplane's motors drowned the drone of her powerful engines.
"Good!" ejaculated Fuller, actuating the rudder bar with his feet and elevating the ailerons. "That's our bird. If they don't spot us before they gain that bank of clouds, she's ours."
Eagerly yet methodically Kirkwood brought the Lewis gun ready for action. It was to be the last resource in attack, to be used only if the seaplane failed to gain the aerial "weathergage"—a superior altitude to that of her bulky antagonist.
For the present the odds were level as regards speed. The seaplane's greater rate of flight was counterbalanced by the fact that she had to climb in order to get above her intended prey and drop a bomb upon the immense and fragile bulk of the Zeppelin's envelope.
And Fuller was achieving his object. Already Seaplane 445B was passing diagonally upwards through the raider's smoking trail, the oil tinged vapour from her exhaust pipes. Every moment tended to bring the protruding stern portion of the Zep, betwixt her crew and the steadily climbing aeroplane, thus diminishing the risk of detection.
Fuller was about to check the upward climb and overhaul his antagonist when the Zeppelin appeared almost to stand on end. The whole of her upper surface was exposed to the British airmen's view. Then, almost simultaneously the seaplane seemed to be following.
It was a form of optical delusion. She was still climbing steadily. The Zeppelin had spotted her small and dangerous foe. Dropping a quantity of ballasten blocthe airship shot vertically upward to a terrific height. It was this motion that had given Fuller the impression that the seaplane was dropping.
"She's twigged us!" he shouted through the voice tube. "Let her have it."
The A.P. promptly began to let loose a whole drum of ammunition. The Zeppelin was instantly enveloped in a cloud of smoke. Into the pall of vapour the Lewis gun pumped its nickel missiles, yet no crippled flaming fabric crashed helplessly to the surface of the sea.
The smoke was a "blind." Fuller realised that. Screening herself by the dense vapour the Zeppelin had ascended almost vertically until safe from observation in the dense clouds overhead.
"Missed her, by Jove!" ejaculated the flight-lieutenant.
"More than she did us," replied Kirkwood coolly, in spite of his keen disappointment, for a small-calibre bullet had ripped the ear-pad of his airman's helmet. Whether his ear was hit he knew not. The intense cold had numbed all sense of feeling. The shot was evidently from a Maxim and one of many, but in the darkness it was impossible to see whether the seaplane had sustained any damage. Judging by her behaviour Kirkwood thought not.
Yet Fuller was loath to discontinue the chase. On and on he flew, further and further away from the "Hippodrome" and the shores of Britain, vainly hoping to pick up his quarry when the Zeppelin again emerged from the cloud banks.
"I'll swear she's shut off power and is floating somewhere in that cloud," he soliloquised. "Well, I'll have a shot at it, even if we charge smack into the brute."
With this desperate yet praiseworthy resolution the flight-lieutenant swung his frail command about and began to climb steadily towards the mass of dark clouds. Ten minutes later the seaplane entered the lower edge of the nimbus. It was like tearing through a dense fog. All sense of direction was lost. Whether the machine was climbing, banking or descending was a matter of conjecture, since the darkness and the moisture made it impossible to consult the aeronautical instrument. Ahead was nothing but an opaque curtain of mist. On either side the tips of the planes merged into invisibility. Only astern were there any light-sparks from the hot exhaust throwing a faint, ruddy glare upon the wisps of trailing vapour that followed, circling and writhing, in the wake of the swiftly-moving machine.
"If the Huns are anywhere in this stuff they'll get in a rare funk even if we don't run across them," thought Fuller, Unmindful of the danger of his own seeking he mentally pictured the panic-stricken condition of the raider, as hearing the roar of the seaplane's motors and unable to locate its position, they were in momentary peril of being rammed by an object tearing at ninety miles an hour through an optically impenetrable darkness.
Kirkwood, too, realised the risk. With nerves a-tingle he awaited developments. Faith in Fuller's prowess gave him confidence. With one hand resting lightly on the lever operating the bomb-dropping gear he waited, ready at the first signal to release the missiles of annihilation.
Suddenly the muffled roar of the exhaust gave place to a series of rapid explosions. Instinctively Kirkwood likened it to a boy rasping a stick along a row of iron palings. At the same time a succession of spurts of flame streaked overhead. The seaplane had only just scraped the underside of her antagonist. The upper planes had missed the Zeppelin's 'midship gondola by inches, and the flashes he had seen were from the airship's machine-gun as the Huns blazed furiously and erratically at their unseen but unpleasantly audible foe.
Up spun 445B, until she seemed to stand almost on her tail. Then tilting until she was in imminent danger of side-slipping, she sought to make good her discovery. Vainly Fuller circled and circled, striving to pierce the vault of inky blackness. The Zeppelin was no longer there. Whether she had thrown out some more ballast or had trusted to her motors to bear her away from the unseen terror he knew not.
He was not a man to admit defeat readily.
"I'll make 'em have cold feet in any case," he decided, as he removed his mist-dimmed goggles and peered into the luminous compass bowl. "Due east till we get out of this cloud, and then I'll wait for the brute."
Unfortunately, as far as he was concerned, Fuller's decision could not be carried out, for from no apparent cause the motors raced at unprecedented speed for a brief instant and then stopped.
The contrast from the noise of the engine to the stillness of the upper regions was the feature that impressed him most. The seaplane, at a height of ten thousand feet, and in the midst of a dense cloud, was beginning to fall. Vainly the pilot strove to avoid the nerve-racking "tail-spin." His sense of direction gone he could only jiggle the joy-stick in the hope that the terrific headlong, erratic downward rush might be checked.
Kirkwood, secured by the broad leather safety strap, also realised the danger. He was conscious of being whirled round and round with his body in a horizontal position. He could feel the rush of air as the seaplane dropped, otherwise silently, towards the sea. Unless the machine could be got under control their fate was sealed. The frail floats would be pulverised and splintered with the terrific impact, and the wreckage, weighted down by the heavy motor, would sink like a stone.
For sixty seconds—it seemed like sixty hours—the uncontrollable plunge continued, then like a flash the tail-spinning machine emerged from the under side of the cloud into the comparatively clear atmosphere. With an almost superhuman effort Fuller readjusted the sorely tried ailerons. The resistance on the planes was tremendous, but the fabric and the tension wires were British made, with a sickening jerk the seaplane described a complete loop. In the nick of time the resourceful pilot caught her on the "swing" and flattened out.
Once the motion was sufficiently retarded he commenced a vol-plane. It was, perhaps, prolonging the agony, since there could be little hope of rescue on a dark night, even if the waves did not overwhelm the frail craft.
"Stand by!" shouted Fuller. "Look down—on your right."
The A.P., well nigh breathless through the pressure of the belt upon his ribs, leant over the side of the chassis. Two thousand feet below, with her drawn-out shape glittering dully in the starlight, was another Zeppelin. The first, silhouetted against the faint light, had presented a black shape; this one showed up clearly in her aluminium garb against the darkness. She was proceeding rapidly at a height of about three thousand feet, and now less than a thousand beneath the vol-planing British craft.
"Our luck's in!" exclaimed the flight-lieutenant, his thoughts only for the immediate present. It would be sufficient to consider the end of that terrific vol-plane when the moment arrived. For the present it was not even a secondary matter—it did not enter into the intrepid airman's calculation.
"Stand by!" roared Fuller again. "For Heaven's sake don't miss."
Down swept the noiseless biplane upon its unsuspecting prey. According to Fuller's plans he would approach the Zeppelin in the same vertical plane but at an acute angle—both aircraft proceeding in the same direction. This would give the bombs a better target than if the seaplane was cutting across the path of the airship.
So swift was the descent that the Zeppelin appeared to be rising in the air to meet her opponent. Her huge, long-drawn-out mass grew bigger and bigger until it seemed as if a miss would be an impossibility.
"Now!" shouted the flight-lieutenant.
With a swift, decided movement Kirkwood thrust over the releasing-gear lever. There was no resistance. Unaccountably the flexible wire operating the release catch had been detached. Without a moment's hesitation the A.P. unbuckled his belt and, bending, groped on the floor of the fuselage for the business-end of the wire. Just then the Zep, opened fire with her machine-gun.
Fuller, leaning over the side waited in eager expectation of the anticipated explosion, quite prepared to find the seaplane capsized under the blast of the terrific detonation. But there was none, and already the vol-planing machine was beyond and on a level with the Zeppelin. Without the aid of the motor it was impossible to return to the attack.
Savagely Fuller swung round with the intention of demanding the reason of his observer's blunder. To his surprise the A.P., was not to be seen.
"Plugged!" ejaculated the pilot. "Well, here goes; another two minutes will decide."
The Zeppelin was now out of his mind. His whole attention was devoted to the impending impact with the surface of the water. Every thing depended upon his skill and judgment, with a fair element of luck thrown in. In the darkness it was impossible to gauge with any degree of certainty the height of the descending machine above the sea. If the pilot "flattened out" too soon the seaplane would fall like a stone; if, on the other hand the vol-plane were maintained the fraction of a minute too long the impact would either result in the shattering of the floats or in the machine describing a somersault—possibly both.
With a double plash the flat-bottomed floats smacked the waves. The "landing" was successfully accomplished, but the unpleasant fact remained that Fuller and Kirkwood were afloat in a frail cockleshell in a fairly "jumpy" sea and on a pitch-dark night. Without water and provisions and with no aid in sight and already sixty miles or more from land they were rapidly drifting out to sea nearer and nearer the hostile shores of Germany.
SIEGFRIED VON EITELWURMER, the German Secret Service Agent, sat and shivered in the after-gondola of the returning Zeppelin. He was not feeling at all happy. Apart from the physical discomfort—for in addition to the effect of the cold he was under the influence of air-sickness—his mind was harassed by wellfounded thoughts that something might happen to the gigantic but obviously frail gas-bag.
Like most Germans his faith in Count Zeppelin's cowardly and diabolical invention was unshaken—so long as he could remain on terra-firma. But whereas the stay-at-home Hun satisfied himself by reading of the colossal achievements of the German aerial fleet, von Eitelwurmer knew by actual observation that the raids failed to justify one-tenth, nay, one-thousandth part of the claims put forward by the authorities at Berlin.
In pre-war days he had seen experimental Zeppelins dashed to pieces in a vain attempt to regain the shed. He had seen others destroyed by fire. He remembered seeing a "leader" in a British newspaper in which it was solemnly declared that the sympathies of the civilised world will go out to the aged Count in the hour of his grief at the failure of his life's work.
And now, in addition to the ordinary risks of aviation the returning airship was liable at any moment to the attack of the "hornets" that were known to be on the look-out for the raiders. Here he was, carried off against his will, suspended like Mahomet's tomb 'twixt heaven and earth, and faced with the prospect of a swift journey to a place not included in the above category.
Ober-leutnant von Loringhoven left his passenger severely alone. For one thing the commander's attention was almost entirely taken up with the work of navigating his cumbersome craft back to the Fatherland; for another he mistrusted spies, even when they were Germans and notwithstanding the fact that he himself had indulged in that dangerous pastime. But there was this difference. Von Loringhoven was a naval officer while von Eitelwurmer was a civilian. He had heard of German spies renouncing their allegiance and acting for the country in which they were to be working on behalf of the authorities at Berlin.
The spy had been accommodated with a camp-stool. On either side of the narrow compartment was a window fitted with double plate-glass windows. The for'ard bulkhead was pierced by a door leading to the cat-walk or suspended bridge communicating with both the 'midships and for'ard gondolas. Aft was another bulkhead separating a portion of the compartment from that containing the motors actuating the two rearmost propellers. The floor was in a state of continual tremor under the pulsations of the engines and the rattle of the two endless chains that transmitted the power to the two outboard propellers.
The limited space was still further taken up by two machine-guns mounted on aluminium alloy pedestals and capable of being trained through a fairly broad arc. By these stood four of the crew, ready at the first alarm to lower the glass panes and bring the weapons into action. The men were taciturn and obviously nervous. When flying over the unprotected towns and dropping their murderous cargoes they could be boisterous enough, but now, knowing that they had to run the gauntlet, they were feeling particularly cowed. The fear of being paid back in their own coin—a possibility that alone makes the Hun howl—gripped them, and held them in a state of prolonged mental torture.
Presently at an order communicated by telephone from the foremost gondola, the machine-gunners lowered the sashes of the windows. The temperature, already -2 °C. fell rapidly to -10 °C. Warm air-currents from the motor-room drifted through gaps in the partition and condensing fell upon the floor in the form of globules of ice.
Up and up climbed the Zeppelin. She was approaching the East Coast.
Von Eitelwurmer, overcoming his torpor, went to the window. One of the men was about to motion him to his seat, when another touched him on the shoulder and pointed.
Far below the whole country was in darkness. The spy could not tell whether it was land or water. Away to the southward a group of searchlights swept the sky, the beams impinging upon a bank of clouds that floated at a height of nearly a mile. Still further away more electric rays swayed slowly to and fro. At intervals the searchlights of the nearmost station crossed those of the one more remote, while in turn these effected a luminous exchange with rays still further away. As far as the eye could see there appeared to be a continuous barrage of light through which the returning raider must pass before gaining her base.
At an order the motors were switched off. Almost absolute silence succeeded the noisy roar of the seven 240-horse-power engines. The airship, at the mercy of the winds, began to turn broadside on to the aerial drift, yet the while, by means of ballast thrown overboard and the release of more compressed hydrogen from the cylinders into the ballonets, was steadily climbing.
It was von Loringhoven's aim to ascend until the Zeppelin was above the clouds. Screened from those dangerous searchlights the airship would then drift over the coast-line until such times as it would be deemed safe to restart the motors.
With the altitude gauge hovering at 4,000 metres the raider found herself just above the natural screen. The belt of clouds was not more than three hundred feet in height—sufficient to hide her from the earth, yet transparent enough to allow the rays of the searchlight to penetrate the vapour.
To the spy the outlook resembled the view from a railway carriage when dense clouds of steam waft past the windows. So powerful were the rays of the searchlights that the stratum of the vapour was flooded with silvery luminosity, while—ominous sign—the beams no longer swayed to and fro as previously, but hung with sinister persistence upon the bank of clouds with which the airship hoped to screen herself from observation.
Even as von Eitelwurmer looked a huge dark shadow eclipsed the concentrated beams. It was moving slowly at a rate hardly exceeding that of the airship. For that reason the object could not be an aeroplane. Perhaps it was some deadly invention that the English had brought into action against the Zeppelins—a sort of aerial torpedo steered by wireless electric waves?
The machine-gunners saw it too. The last atom of courage literally oozed out of their boots, yet almost automatically they gripped the handle that would liberate shots at the rate of 500 a minute if to the voidless night.
It was fortunate for them that they did not open fire. The shadow was that of another Zeppelin that at less than a hundred feet below was slowly forging ahead in a southerly direction under the action of her throttled-down motors, and with her exhausts carefully muffled.
In five minutes the novel Zeppelin eclipse was over, although at no time was the actual airship to be seen. She had previously been fired upon by the anti-aircraft guns on the coast and was now cautiously smelling her way through the clouds in order to find an undefended gap in the defences.