"Commander wishes to see you, sir!" Sub-lieutenant Havelock de Vere Cavendish—affectionately known to his brother-officers as "Weeds" and known to have answered readily to the sobriquet "Plug"—acknowledged the marine orderly's announcement.
Cavendish was in a shore-billet—the Royal Naval Barracks at Portsmouth—having just completed a gunnery course at Whale Island. He was speculating upon what manner of craft his next ship would be. He rather fancied a destroyer, but would have been in no way surprised or disappointed if he were appointed to a light cruiser. He was not particularly keen on a battleship. That meant a two-years commission either in home waters or in the Mediterranean—and already, in his comparatively brief career, he had seen enough of Malta and Gib. to express a wish never to see either place again.
Life on a battleship in peace-time, he reflected, was apt to savour of boredom; on a destroyer there were discomforts, but on the wholethere were compensations. It gave a fellow a chance to do something that would be impossible on a capital ship. A sub on a destroyer was a responsible person; on a battleship, he was one of a crowd.
For another reason, he was not altogether certain that he had done well in the gunnery course; but hedidknow that he had obtained a "first" in the torpedo course.
Cavendish unshipped his legs from the messroom fender, threw the morning's paper on the settee, and, after exchanging a jest with some of the other occupants, made his way to the commander's office.
The marine orderly had given no indication of the reason for the interview. It was more than likely that he did not know. That left Cavendish speculating as to the possible reason for the "Bloke's" wish to see him. As far as he knew, there was nothing "up against" him.
Discreetly he knocked at the door of the commander's private room.
Commander Broadstairs was a typical officer of the present-day navy—clean-shaven, alert both physically and mentally, and with a certain brusqueness of manner that at times might be mistaken for churlishness. On the quarter-deck, he would reduce a truculent defaulter to a state of panic by a mere look. On duty he was a living example of discipline and order, both spelt with a capital letter. He knew by heart the whole of the "Sailors' Bible"—the AdmiraltyInstructions. It was said that the men feared him more than they did the Commodore.
But when off duty, Commander Broadstairs' mantle of routine was shed. He was just an ordinary, jovial fellow—a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. His popularity was not of his own seeking; it was acquired simply by his personality.
"Come in!" he shouted breezily. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Cavendish. Take a seat."
He waved his hand in the direction of an arm-chair by the side of his large knee-hole desk.
The Sub sat down promptly enough. The fact that he, a very junior officer, had not been kept standing at attention, indicated the nature of the forthcoming interview. Probably it concerned the garrison sports, or the united services boxing tournament.
But Cavendish was well out of his reckoning.
"The Commodore has asked me to select a certain number of officers for a particular service," began the Commander. "It occurred to me that for various reasons you would be a suitable candidate. It is, of course, optional whether you accept or otherwise, since it is a matter requiring great discretion and involving a certain amount of risk, not to say danger."
The "Bloke" paused and fixed his eyes upon the young officer.
"Near East, for a dead cert," thought Cavendish, then aloud he said, "I'm quite ready, sir."
"You'd better wait until you've learnt more of the nature of the operations," resumed the Commander,with a wry smile. "Let me see; you served a commission in the South American station, I believe?"
"Yes, sir; midshipman on theCyclexin 1921-2."
"You know the approaches to Bahia? And San Luiz? And Macapa? Good. Now, describe the anchorage off Port of Spain."
"Weeds" did so, evidently to the Commander's satisfaction.
"Do you know anything of the Rio Guaya?" continued his inquirer.
"No, sir," replied Cavendish promptly. "We never put in there during the whole of the commission. But——"
He paused, thinking that what he was about to say was irrelevant.
"But what?"
"I know a fellow living out in Rioguay, sir. An old shipmate of mine. He went on the beach from theBaffin."
"Name?"
"Peter Corbold, sir."
"H'm; name's familiar. Do you ever hear from him?"
"I had one letter, sir. I answered it—but I haven't heard since."
"What's he doing out there?"
"Mining engineering, I think, sir. He mentioned an uncle in the same profession who had been in Rioguay for some time."
The Commander started on another tack.
"The Admiralty have issued orders for theCynesephonto be brought forward for commissioning," he announced.
Cavendish sat bolt upright in the chair. Now he was beginning to grasp the drift of things. Hitherto, he had been groping blindly, trying to piece together the baffling questions which the Commander had put to him, in a vain endeavour to discover the nature of the hazardous duty hinted at.
He knew theCynesephon. She was one of the "P" boats that in 1918 had been converted into a "Q" ship and altered to resemble a South American freighter. She was supposed to be the last word in mystery ships, but an opportunity to use her never arrived, owing to the Armistice.
For certain reasons she had not been scrapped. She was now lying in one of the basins at Portsmouth Dockyard, snugly moored between two battleships of theThundererclass, which were permanently out of commission.
And now theCynesephonwas to be rescued from the scrap heap and reconditioned—why?
Putting two and two together—the commissioning of theCynesephonand the Commander's inquiries about Cavendish's service on the South American station—the Sub made a shrewd guess.
For several days there had been reports of British ships bound to and from Brazilian and Argentine ports being overdue. Several of them had been posted at Lloyd's as missing. At first, the general public hardlynoticed the information, and until the Press gave prominence to the matter, few people outside the shipping circles had any idea of the persistent increase of the list of vessels overdue.
Then sprang up the usual crop of rumours—a pirate in the South Atlantic providing the favourite topic. Vessels of all nationalities had cleared South American ports and had made their various destinations. None of the masters had reported falling in with a suspicious craft; but it was an ominous fact that, without exception, the overdue vessels had sailed under the Red Ensign.
A question was raised in the House concerning the mysterious disappearance of so many ships, to which the First Lord made a reply that the Admiralty were considering the matter, but did not feel justified in sending H.M. ships, which were urgently required elsewhere, to investigate.
That reply was a "blind". Already orders had been issued for the secret commissioning of theCynesephonand the dispatch of the light cruiserBasilikonand the 35-knot destroyersMessinesandArmentièresto the West Indies.
"It is in connection with the missing merchantmen, sir?" asked Cavendish.
"You are right on the target, Mr. Cavendish," said the Commander. "It is. TheCynesephonis to be fully manned by naval ratings, but the crew have to be disguised as merchant seamen. I need not emphasize the fact that this information is absolutelyconfidential. She will be detailed to cruise between Rio and Port of Spain in the hope that she will be mistaken for a cargo-boat. That is acting upon the supposition that there is a piratical vessel out. Personally, I think that some obscure South American republic has runamok. A light cruiser and a couple of destroyers will be within a hundred miles of the decoy ship, but you will understand that they will only be called to theCynesephon'sassistance if she is in immediate danger of foundering. There is a great chance of her being sunk with all hands before the supporting vessels can arrive on the spot. Now, I think I've hinted enough for you to realize the nature of the operations. Are you a volunteer?"
"I am, sir," was the ready response.
"I thought so," rejoined the Commander. "Here are the names of your new skipper and the officers who have already volunteered. You know most of them, I believe. Well, that's that. Use the greatest discretion. Remember, a chance word may wreck the whole business. And I don't think I'd write to Corbold again if I were you—at least, until you return."
The Commander held out his hand. Fifteen seconds later Sub-lieutenant Cavendish stood in the corridor, hardly able to realize his good fortune.
That same afternoon, Sub-lieutenant Cavendish went on leave. That was the official version given out to his messmates. They saw him depart in a taxi, rigged out in mufti and with a prodigious amount of "kit" that suggested a "tidy drop o' leaf". Cavendish's home was in the Midlands, within a few miles of Grantham—but that was not his objective. Two hours later, he put up at a modest hotel in Southampton, patronized almost exclusively by Master Mariners of the Mercantile Marine.
The next day he joined the S.S.Complexat Southampton Docks as Third Officer.
TheComplexwas a tramp of 570 tons displacement, belonging to the port of Grimsby, if the information painted on her stern were correct. She was 230 feet in length. She had the usual raised fo'c'sle and poop, with deckhouses and bridge amidships just for'ard of her solitary funnel. Her fore- and mainmasts were of the "pole" type, with the customary appendages in the shape of derricks.
She was under orders for Buenos Ayres with a cargo consisting principally of cork.
The tramp resembled her kind in the matter of paint. Her sides were supposed to be black, but there were several irregular patches of red-lead, and broad streaks of iron rust. Her crew, rigged out in nondescript garments, were still stowing cargo. She had raised steam and the Blue Peter fluttered from the foremast head.
But, although her topsides were disreputable, the same could not be said of her hull below the waterline. The bottom had recently been coated with dull-grey anti-fouling composition, her owners being evidently of the opinion that it was false economy to pay for extra fuel simply to drive a barnacle-encrusted hull through the water.
Checking an almost irresistible impulse to salute the quarter-deck as he came over the gangway, Cavendish went aft to report to the "Old Man", who was standing at the head of the poop-ladder, rigged out in blue cloth trousers, waistcoat with tarnished brass buttons, and a cap bearing a salt-stained badge of a well-known shipping firm, perched awry on his close-cropped head. He was in his shirt sleeves. A very seasoned black briar pipe was between his strong, even teeth.
"Hello, Weeds!" exclaimed the Old Man; "so you fetched here all right? You'll find Seton and Carr down below. They'll tell you where your cabin is. 'Fraid you won't find it very ship-shape, old thing."
A sailor came slouching aft.
"Beg pardon, sir!" he announced with a pukkanaval salute. "There's a Board of Trade chap come to see you."
Captain Meredith gave a gesture of annoyance. It was decidedly unhealthy to have too many officious shore-people on board.
"All right," he replied. "And look here, Johnson, can't you remember not to give salutes? Or must I send you back to the Depot?"
The man grinned and went off.
"That's one of my hardest jobs," commented the Old Man. "Trying to make an A.B. forget what has been drilled into him from the first day he joined at Shotley. And look here, Weeds, you're not a credit to the ship. Your rig-out is just a trifle too smart and too new. Try toning it down with a little tar."
Captain Meredith hurried off to interview the Board of Trade Inspector, leaving Cavendish to his own resources on the deck of the S.S.Complex.
Only the previous day theComplexhad come out of Portsmouth Harbour as theCynesepion. She had been hurriedly docked, her bottom cleaned and coated in less than six hours. Her armament, consisting of one 4.7, four 12-pounders, and a couple of 3-pounder high-angle guns, had in the dead of night been placed in their elaborately concealed mountings. Her holds and double-bottoms were packed tightly with cork; ammunition, stores, and oil fuel were placed on board, and with a naval crew, she was taken out of Portsmouth to the Motherbank, off Ryde.
Here the uniformed crew were taken off by a Government tug—leaving only twenty "hands" under a couple of officers to take the ship round to Southampton.
Almost their first act was to paint out the nameCynesephonand substitute that ofComplex.
Cavendish went below. In the alley-way he encountered Robin Seton, whom, until that moment, Cavendish had imagined to be undergoing a course at "Whaley"—a "two and a half striper", now posing as the first officer of the tramp.
"Cheerio, George!" was Seton's greetings. "Now our little band of merry wreckers is complete. Seen Carr and Warrender? They're sculling around somewhere. My word!"
He stepped back and critically looked Cavendish up and down.
"My word!" he continued. "I've never seen such a smart-looking Third Mate before."
"So the Old Man remarked—or words to that effect," rejoined Cavendish, with a laugh. "No matter. Live and learn. Where did you pick up your rig-out?"
Seton held open his coat for inspection.
"Got kitted out in the Ditches for something like half a dozen Bradburys," he replied proudly. "Sent the gunner's mate along to make a deal. And he did. He knows the ropes."
Cavendish wished that he had known of the gunner's mate's capabilities in the wardrobe department. He had laid out over twenty-five pounds in an outfit thathad already been twice remarked upon as being out of place. He quite agreed that the hardest part of the job was not to be smart, and to forget that he was an officer of the Royal Navy.
The Sub was shown his cabin. He reappeared twenty minutes later looking more his part.
TheComplexwas under way. She had just parted company with a fussy little tug that had coaxed, cajoled, pulled, and pushed her out of the Empress Dock. Southampton lay astern, the Weston Shelf buoy was broad on the port-beam, while ahead lay the wide stretch of Southampton Water, until it merged into the Solent beyond the airship sheds at Calshot Castle.
There was plenty of traffic, from gigantic ocean liners to steam-lighters and "spreeties"—low-lying barges with a generous spread of tanned canvas. Tramp steamers, topsail schooners, steam, motor, and sailing yachts, tugs, "hoppers", and fishing-smacks passed in endless procession, little knowing the venomous nature of the littleComplexas she ploughed her way through the calm water at a modest nine knots.
It was Alec Carr, the navigator, who showed Cavendish round the ship. Carr, a burly, six feet two inch giant, hailing from North Berwick, was the man for that job. He, like the Captain, knew the ship from end to end, since both had served in a similar craft during the later stages of the Great War.
The transformation had been an astounding one. From a long, low-lying "P" boat, she had beenaltered into a very presentable tramp, looking at least of 1500 tons, although her actual displacement was little more than one-third of that tonnage. Yet she retained the speed and high manoeuvring qualities of her original role. She could work up to 23 knots when required, could turn almost in her own length and with the minimum of "tactical advance". She could go astern at 18 knots, while her nominal fuel capacity of 93 tons could be augmented sufficiently to give her a cruising distance of 4000 miles without replenishing her oil tanks.
For armament, she was adequately provided with weapons calculated to deal with anything short of a cruiser. The 4.7-inch gun was housed in the fore-hold, the gun and its mounting being raised when required by hydraulic pressure. On either side of the deck-house under the bridge was a 12-pounder, each concealed by a section of the dummy bulwarks, while by lowering two of the wings of the deck-house an arc of fire of 160° could be obtained. Two more were as skilfully concealed aft, while the 6-pounders were mounted in boats stowed on top of the deck-house abaft the mainmast. The boats were dummies, constructed to fall apart by means of hinges and quick-release gear.
In addition she carried four 14-inch torpedo tubes of the "submerged" type, and a couple of mortars for discharging depth charges at a range of two hundred yards.
The "P-boat's" original conning-tower was stillin existence, although, owing to the new superstructure, its sphere of usefulness was considerably curtailed. Another had been built for'ard.
Cavendish walked right round the latter and never spotted it. Outwardly, nothing was to be seen but a big reel of wire hawser. The reel was a dummy, being actually the hood of the armoured conning-tower.
"See the idea?" inquired Carr. "If, by a bit of luck, we do fall in with a pirate, he'll start shelling the bridge. We found that with Fritz. Let him shell. There'll be no one there, and from this little box of tricks our skipper can keep an eye on him until he decides it's time to put him in his place—to wit, Davy Jones his locker."
"What's your opinion about the loss of these merchant vessels?" asked Cavendish.
Carr shook his head.
"Ask me another," he replied. "That's what we're sent to find out."
TheComplexwas now well down the Solent. Yarmouth(1)was on the port bow, Lymington to starboard, and the high light of Hurst right ahead, rising like a needle out of the sun-flecked water.
A light cruiser, with her distinguishing signals displayed and a commodore's broad pennant flying from the masthead, came pelting along, passing the decoy ship a cable's length to port. TheComplexdipped her ragged, smoke-begrimed Red Ensign. Carr and Cavendish exchanged glances.
"I was expecting the 'Still' to sound," declared the former. "Wonder what Old Man Meredith thought of it all?"
As a matter of fact, Captain Meredith, D.S.O. (with bar), had almost given himself away, and his vessel as well, by ordering the strangely-garbed crew to attention. To deliberately ignore a commodore's broad pennant was the most trying experience he had had that day, which was saying a lot.
"Think we'll have any luck?" asked Cavendish, reverting to the burning topic of the hour—the hoped-for meeting with an as yet mythical pirate.
"Goodness knows," replied Carr. "I trust so. 'Tany rate, whether we're up against a submarine or a commerce destroyer, we'll give 'em a thundering good run for their money."
For the next few days, all hands were busily engaged in rehearsing for the forthcoming show. Every member of the crew took up his cue with zest, confident that should occasion arise they would play their part to the utmost satisfaction of the navy generally, and themselves in particular, and to the complete discomfiture of the enemy—whoever or whatever he might be.
The drills took two distinct forms. The first was that of countering an attack by a surface ship. In this case, with the exception of a few hands leaning idly over the bulwarks and a couple of officers on the bridge, the crew were at action stations and carefully hidden from external observation. Right aft, crouching in a steelshelter made to resemble a skylight, was a seaman holding the uncleated halliards of the ensign staff. It was his duty, on hearing the "action" gong, to strike the Red Ensign and substitute the White. Simultaneously, all gun-screens were to be lowered and every gun that could be trained on the target was to open fire, while below the waterline the L.T.O.'s stood by the torpedo tubes ready to launch the deadly missiles on an invisible objective; the direction of the "run" being governed by controls from the conning-tower.
Should the piratical craft turn out to be a submarine, the procedure was of an entirely different nature. The enemy might approach submerged and torpedo her prey. In that event, the "panic-party" would make a wild rush for the boats. One of the boats would be purposely lowered by one of the falls only, so that it would tumble bows on into the water. The "abandon ship" stunt would then be carried out, the men in the boats rowing desperately from the sinking ship.
"'Ere you—bow an' number three," bellowed the coxswain. "Stop grinnin'. You ain't a bloomin' picnic party. Look as if you was scared stiff. No! Don't for goodness' sake pull together. You ain't pullin' for the Squadron Cup. You're supposed to be goin' for dear life. Pull any'ow, as if Old Nick were in the perishin' boat."
The rest of the decoy ship's crew were at action stations, supposedly on a foundering vessel, although it was to be expected that even if torpedoed theComplexwould keep afloat by reason of the "cargo" of cork.There, prone in their places of concealment, unable to see what was going on, they had to wait until the submarine appeared awash and on a suitable bearing for the guns to be brought into action.
If the submarine declined to investigate and theComplexwas really sinking, there was nothing for the crew of the latter to do but to abandon ship in earnest and trust that a wireless message to the destroyers perhaps a hundred miles away would bring succour and perhaps retribution, should the lurking enemy be located by aerial observation from co-operating seaplanes.
Then, again, there was the chance of the submarine coming to the surface and shelling theComplexat long range. That was the most trying situation of all. The supposed tramp had to withhold her fire and take her gruelling without replying. The only thing to be done was to stop engines, start a fire on board, and, by flooding the for'ard water-tight compartments, give the impression that she was sinking by the bows. Then arose the question: would the submarine close sufficiently for the decoy ship's guns to bear and fire with fatal consequence to her foe? For theComplexto reveal herself as a formidably armed warship and at the same time to allow the submarine to get away, was the worst thing that could happen. To destroy was theComplex'smission; anything short of that meant failure—glorious failure, perhaps, but none the less futile.
Sub-lieutenant Cavendish's action station was bythe two after 12-pounders, his duty being to keep the enemy under observation through a periscope. The latter was cleverly disguised as a galley-funnel. The post was a hazardous one—rather more than the rest. Since theComplex, if shelled by a submarine, had to simulate flight, the after part of the ship would bear the brunt of things. Then it was quite possible that the depth-charges might be exploded by shell-fire and blow the poop and everyone near it to smithereens. Cavendish had to admit, with a shivering sensation in the region of his spine, that Commander Broadstairs' hint of the dangerous nature of the mission for which the Sub had volunteered was by no means an exaggeration.
1) In the Isle of Wight.
Once clear of the "chops of the Channel" theComplexhad increased her pace to a good eighteen knots. In due course, she arrived at the Bermudas and replenished her fuel tanks at the Admiralty yard—taking advantage of a privilege accorded to merchant vessels seeking assistance from Government resources.
The light cruiserBasilikonand her attendant destroyersMessinesandArmentièreshad preceded her, and were lying off the town of Hamilton. They knew what she was, she knew what they were there for, but no sign of recognition passed between the rusty-sided tramp and her spick-and-span consorts.
Continuing her voyage, theComplexsighted nothing conspicuous. Without incident, she arrived at Bahia, where she received telegraphic orders from her imaginary owners to proceed to Savannah to unload.
Accordingly, she turned her head to the nor'ard, and, at a modest eight knots, proceeded to invite the as yet mythical pirate to "tread on the tail of her coat".
Several days passed. No calls from distressed vessels were received. Ships of all nations werepassing on their lawful occasions without let or hindrance. Cape St. Roque, the north-easternmost point of Brazil, had been passed on the port hand, and a course shaped north-west by west to enable the decoy ship to keep within a hundred miles of the coast.
At one bell in the first Dog-watch on the day following, Cavendish, who was on duty as officer of the watch, heard the look-out report "vessel on the port bow, sir."
The Sub brought his binoculars to bear upon the vessel in question. She was quite five miles off and apparently on a course practically the same as that of theComplex.
In spite of the purposely slow speed of the latter, theComplexgained rapidly on the stranger, and presently Cavendish saw that she was not making way and that she was flying the N.C.—the international signal requesting immediate assistance. The glasses also revealed the information that the vessel was a tramp, flying the Red Ensign and bearing the nameHolton Heath—Londonon her counter.
In response to a message from the officer of the watch, Captain Meredith was quickly on the bridge.
"No wireless from her?" inquired the owner.
"No, sir."
"H'm, that's remarkable, very. Action stations. We can't afford to take risks of this description.... Signalman?"
"Sir?"
"Stand by with the International Code flags,"continued the Skipper. "Don't be too smart in making the hoists. Ask 'em what's wrong."
Stealthily the crew went to action stations, allowing no chance of their presence being visible to anyone on board theHolton Heath. Leaving Carr and Cavendish on the bridge, Meredith went below, made his way for'ard by means of the specially provided armoured alley-way, and gained the fo'c'sle conning-tower.
Meanwhile, theHolton Heathhad made her number correctly and had given the information that her main-shaft had been broken. Could she be taken in tow?
Carr reported the request from voice tube to Captain Meredith.
"Round-to under her stern," ordered the Captain. "Don't hurry, I want to have a good look at her. Reply, 'I will take you in tow '."
TheComplexwas manoeuvred according to orders. Half a dozen hands went aft, ready to receive and secure the hawser to the towing-bitts. The Captain of theHolton Heathstepped to the starboard side of the bridge and waved an acknowledgment.
Presently Captain Meredith's voice-pipe whistle sounded.
"Ay, ay, sir," replied Cavendish.
"She seems jonnick," said the Skipper, in a somewhat disappointed tone. "We'll take her hawser. Pass the word for a hand to stand by the Senhouse slip, in case we want to cast off in a hurry."
The Sub leant over the bridge-rail to give the orderto one of the deck-hands, when his eye caught sight of the wake of a torpedo rapidly approaching the now almost stationaryComplex. It was coming, not from theHolton Heath, but from a submerged source broad on theComplex'sbeam.
Cavendish watched it like one in a trance. His parched throat refused to utter a warning. For days he had expected this to happen. He had hoped it would, and now, this being the first time that he had experienced the sight of a live torpedo approaching, he found that it was a totally different experience from watching a "tinfish" being dischargedfromthe ship, and he was dumbfounded.
Too late he recalled the special orders given in anticipation of such an occurrence—orders which he and every other executive officer in the ship had countersigned—that in the event of a torpedo being sighted as fired from a submerged submarine, no effort was to be made toavoidthe impact. On the other hand, the ship must be brought to meet it, so that the torpedo would strike anywhere except in the vicinity of the engine-room. In brief, the decoy ship was to sacrifice herself in the almost certain hope that, before she sank, the enemy would reveal himself and fall a victim to her guns.
Tardily, Cavendish jumped to the engine-room telegraph and rang for "easy astern". Before the order could be acted upon, the torpedo hit theComplextwenty feet abaft the bridge, against the starboard engine-room. There was a terrific report. A columnof water was thrown violently into the air to a height of nearly two hundred feet, mingled with smoke, oil, and pieces of cork and shattered timber. TheComplexheeled rapidly to port, then, recovering slightly, lay well over on her starboard side, and the engine- and boiler-rooms were flooded by the irresistible inrush of water.
In view of the suddenness of the attack, coming from a totally unexpected quarter, it would not have been surprising had theComplexunmasked her guns and thus revealed her identity.
But nothing of the sort happened. Not a man of the concealed crew started to his feet. Discipline—perfect order—prevailed; all on board, with the exception of three victims of the explosion who had already "slipped their cables", remaining alert, awaiting their Captain's orders.
Undoubtedly, it was a complex situation, and one for which no adequate provision had been made.
Cavendish, now that the explosion had taken place, was wondering what he ought to do. Should he order away the panic-party? If he did, they would be obliged, for appearance's sake, to make for theHolton Heath. But was she what she purported to be? Or was she acting in consort with the still unseen submarine?
"If," reasoned the Sub, "if she's a British merchantman, why did the submarine waste a torpedo on us when she had an easy victim of about three times our tonnage?"
[Illustration: THE "PANIC PARTY"(missing from book)Page184]
[Illustration: THE "PANIC PARTY"(missing from book)Page184]
Similar thoughts were flashing across the mind of the imperturbable Captain Meredith.
"Order away the panic party, officer of the watch," he shouted per voice-tube. For the present he would ignore the submarine and keep theHolton Heathunder observation, he decided.
The latter vessel had swung round slightly, so that her starboard beam was exposed to the sinkingComplex. On the bridge of the former, her captain was bellowing incoherent cries. A few hands were preparing to lower the quarter-boats.
Cavendish gave the order verbally. It would not do to trust to the prearranged system of gongs.
Instantly, there was a well-simulated panic-stricken rush for theComplex'sboats, men falling over each other in their efforts to swing clear and lower away. Carrying out the lesson learnt at their rehearsals, they let one of the boats down by the head, staving in her gunwale against the listing side of the ship.
Suddenly, the supposed disabledHolton Heathunderwent a transformation. Portions of her bulwarks dropped, revealing the muzzles of half a dozen quick-firers. Simultaneously, swarms of men appeared on deck to gloat over the anticipated spectacle, while several machine-guns were being placed in position with a view to mowing down the survivors of the helpless and foundering British ship.
There was now no doubt in the minds of the officers and men of theComplexwho were in a position to see what was going on, of the manner in which so manycraft flying the Red Ensign had vanished without a trace.
The Rioguayan crew were in no hurry. They prepared to prolong the business, before commencing a general and cold-blooded massacre. But on this occasion, the already sinking victim was to prove a very unpleasant surprise-packet.
Captain Meredith was quick to act. Alarm gongs rang out in all parts of the stricken ship. The panic-party, abandoning their role, threw themselves prone and began to wriggle their way to their appointed battle stations. The Red Ensign was hurriedly lowered, to be replaced by the emblem of British naval power.
Down clattered the gun-screens. Before the astonished and terrified Rioguayans could realize their mistake, the vengeful quick-firers took a heavy toll, receiving but one shell in reply—a 4-inch missile that whizzed harmlessly between the rigging.
The British gun-layers made one mistake. In their anxiety to settle with their treacherous foes, they aimed, not at the enemy's waterline, but at the dense mob on deck. There the havoc was beyond description.
Before the error could be corrected, thesoi-disantS.S.Holton Heathhad forged ahead, until she was end on to the bows of theComplex. The latter, stopped dead and unable to gather way, was sorely handicapped, for her 4.7-inch was masked by the rise of the fo'c'sle and the explosion of the torpedo had disarranged the training gear of the for'ard 12-pounder—the only gunthat in ordinary circumstances could be brought to bear upon the fleeing vessel.
A triple-screwed cruiser disguised as a tramp, theCerro Algarrobo—alias Holton Heath—was "legging it" at twenty-two knots, yet it was evident that, apart from the raking she had received, she had been hulled aft, since she was yawing badly. A 12-pounder shell had penetrated the submerged steering flat and had put the rudder out of action.
All need for concealment now at an end, Captain Meredith emerged from the fo'c'sle conning-tower and climbed the bridge-ladder.
By this time, theComplexhad settled well down aft. Fumes and steam were still issuing from her engine-rooms. The acrid smell of burnt cordite still wafted from the unsecured guns.
The skipper had to make up his mind quickly—whether it were worth while pretending to abandon ship again and thus lure the submarine into rising to the surface, or to wireless for assistance.
He decided on the latter course. It might not be too late for theMessinesandArmentièresto stand in pursuit of the somewhat damagedCerro Algarrobo. The seaplanes from theBasilikonmight be able to spot the lurking submarine, if, as was likely, she continued to remain in the vicinity to make sure of the sinking of theComplex.
Accordingly, the wireless telegraphist began sending out an urgent signal to theBasilikon. The reply was prompt and to the point. The cruiser and herattendant destroyers were roughly seventy miles off. TheMessinesandArmentièreswere detached to proceed at full speed to the foundering decoy ship.
TheComplexwas in no immediate hurry to make her acquaintance with the bed of the Atlantic. Her cargo of cork and her elaborate system of water-tight bulkheads were playing their parts well. Those of the crew who were not at the guns were busily engaged in shoring up the bulkheads and endeavouring to pass a collision-mat over the gaping rent caused by the torpedo. The flooding of the boiler-rooms had automatically put out of action the mechanical bilge-pumps, but the hand-pumps, manned by the stokers of both watches, helped to delay the inevitable.
Meanwhile, the boats were lowered, each armed with a Lewis gun in the likely event of the submarine attempting to massacre the survivors. The wounded were transferred to one of the boats, the medical officer and sick-berth staff being in attendance.
Having taken all precautions, Captain Meredith and his crew could but await the end, whatever way it might turn out.
"Periscope right astern, sir," reported the Gunner. Hardly able to credit the good news, the skipper crossed to the port side of the bridge and looked. To his surprise and satisfaction, the submarine was within eighty yards of her victim. Her commander, judging that, as the stern of theComplexwas almost awash, it was safe to make a periscopic view of the foundering vessel at short range, was in completeignorance of the fact that the decoy ship still carried a most formidable sting in her tail. It might be that through inexperience he had misjudged his distance and had brought the submarine closer to theComplexthan he thought.
Dead astern of the decoy-ship, he imagined himself to be safe. A Rioguayan invariably plays for "safety first". The two after 12-pounders could not be brought to bear astern. Even if they could, they could achieve nothing beyond demolishing one of the three periscopes with which the submarine was equipped. Twenty feet of water between the surface of the sea and the armoured back of the submarine would deflect any shell striking the water obliquely.
"Mr. Jones!" sang out Captain Meredith, "let her have it in the neck."
The warrant-officer signed to a couple of hands. Deftly and cautiously, the howitzers were loaded with their deadly depth-charges and trained to extreme elevations.
Both weapons were discharged simultaneously. The missiles rose with apparent slowness. Viewed from the bridge, they looked like enormous cricket-balls being lobbed by a titanic hand. Describing parabolic curves, they struck the water almost vertically—one on either side and about ten yards from the periscope. There was a double splash. The tip of the periscope was hidden in spray, but still there was no explosion. The depth-charges had to sink to a distance of thirty feet before they were automatically detonated.
Right aft, the Gunner was standing knee-deep in water, with a hand over his eyes as he watched. In vain the Skipper shouted to him to take cover. His interest in what was about to take place had rendered him deaf to every other sound.
Suddenly there was a stupendous upheaval. Almost the entire length of the submarine was lifted clear of the agitated sea, but only for a few brief moments. Completely torn asunder, the doomed craft disappeared from view, amidst a pall of smoke and under a rapidly increasing circle of oil and charred débris.
A wave of foaming water swept over the now submerged stern of the decoy-ship, hurling the zealous Gunner Jones against the dummy steering wheel.
TheComplex'sstem rose sullenly, until the whole of her forefoot showed clear. She was making her last plunge. The concussion of the exploding depth-charges, while they had sent her foe to her doom, had also hastened her parting.
"Abandon ship—all hands!" shouted the Old Man.
It was the work of a few moments for the rest of the highly-disciplined crew to take to the boats that, regardless of the danger, had closed to rescue their comrades.
Captain Meredith was the last to leave. True to the traditions of the British navy, he stood on the bridge until not another soul remained on board. Then, with the confidential code-book under his arm, he leapt nimbly into the stern-sheets of the cutter.
A couple of cables' lengths from the doomed vessel, the crews of the various boats lay on their oars and awaited the end. There was almost dead silence. Although the men were elated at having scored heavily off their treacherous foes, the sight of their erstwhile floating home disappearing for ever from mortal eyes was a sad one. Now and then some of the wounded groaned involuntarily. Those whose hurts were light insisted upon sitting up and watching the awe-inspiring sight.
TheComplexwent quietly. There was very little commotion in the water, no rush of compressed air.With the White Ensign streaming proudly in the light breeze, she slipped slowly beneath the surface and disappeared from view.
"The seaplanes, my hearties!" shouted a bull voice, and a horny hand was raised with the finger pointed at an angle of about forty-five.
"Smart work, by Jove," commented Cavendish, glancing at his wristlet watch.
Barely fifty minutes had elapsed from the time of sending out the first wireless call, and already the two seaplanes attached to theBasilikonwere in sight.
They were manned by officers and petty-officers of the newly reconstituted Royal Naval Air Service. The Royal Air Force, although admirable in its conception, had failed in actual practice. The fusion of the Naval and Military branches had left much to be desired. Apart from mutual jealousy—a very different thing from healthy rivalry—the two branches were not readily interchangeable. It was soon realized that an airman working with a fleet must not only be an aviator—he must have had a naval training. It could not reasonably be expected that a man with little knowledge of ships and the sea could be of much use in an air squadron operating under the orders of an admiral. He might be, and possibly was, an excellent airman, but something more was required. Hence, after prolonged and heated arguments, the Admiralty got their way, and the purely naval airman again came into his own, unhampered by well-meaning but blundering Air Ministry officials.The two seaplanes, flying at two thousand feet, passed almost immediately above the bunch of motionless boats. From each a hand waved over the coaming of the cockpit a distant tribute to the cheers of the late crew of theComplex.
A few minutes later, the seaplanes were lost to view. Already they had received a report of the course taken by the fleeingCerro Algarrobo, for that information had been embodied in theComplex'swireless for aid. Like vengeful wraiths they were hard in pursuit, with the object of bombing the pirate vessel and crippling her sufficiently to allow the destroyers either to capture or destroy the mysterious cause of the disappearance of so many British merchantmen.
Alone on the deep, the boats' crews became boisterous. They sang, cheered, and yelled, confident in the assurance that they would shortly find themselves on board a British warship. Their Old Man allowed them to "work off steam". It was a natural outlet for their pent-up feelings, after days and nights of ceaseless watch and ward, followed by a glorious climax of self-sacrifice.
It was not long before two trailing clouds of smoke appeared over the eastern horizon.
"Hurrah! here come the destroyers, lads," exclaimed Captain Meredith. "Give them a cheer as they pass and then sit tight for the oldBasilikonto roll up. You'll be sleeping in hammocks to-night all right."
Quickly the approaching vessels materialized intotwo very business-looking destroyers, each armed with five guns—four 4.7-inch, one 3-inch—and six 21-inch torpedo tubes, and credited with a speed of 35 knots. At the present moment they were doing a good 5 knots more than their designed speed, flinging showers of spray on both sides of their pronounced flare and emitting flame-tinged smoke from their glowing funnels.
Then an unexpected manoeuvre took place. The men in the boats, fully prepared to have a terrific dusting from the swell of the swiftly-moving destroyers, had resumed their oars and were heading so as to meet the curling bow waves end on.
Instead of holding on their course, which would have taken them not less than half a mile from the nearest boat, the destroyers altered helm, one passing on either side of the little flotilla. Losing way under the reverse action of their quadruple propellers, the destroyers came to a standstill.
"On board, every mother's son of you!" shouted an officer from the bridge of theMessines.
The survivors of theComplexcould hardly realize their good fortune. They were to be in at the death after all. They were to witness, and perhaps take an active part in, the smashing up of the so-calledHolton Heath, otherwise the Rioguayan light cruiserCerro Algarrobo.
Quickly the work of taking off the boats' crews was accomplished, the majority finding a temporary home on board theArmentières, the rest on theMessines.
Sub-lieutenant Cavendish was amongst the latter. He had barely time to exchange greetings with a short, bull-necked brother-officer—one Slade, who was on the same term with him at Dartmouth—when theMessinesforged ahead again, leaving three deserted boats bobbing forlornly in her foaming wake.
"How goes it, old thing?" inquired Cavendish.
"Not so dusty," admitted Sub-lieutenant Slade. "We're hoping to finish the job before dark. We've a couple of hours yet.... You've been having a bit of a jamboree, eh what? See anything of the submarine?"
"I did," replied Cavendish grimly. "Both ends with nothing between 'em."
"Are you trying to pull my leg, Weeds?" inquired Slade earnestly.
"No—fact," was the reply. "We did her in with an ash-can—a couple, in point of fact. Couldn't let you know before. Dynamos were flooded and emergency wireless was out of action."
"You must tell our owner that," continued Slade. "He's on the bridge."
Lieutenant-Commander Trehallow received the information with marked enthusiasm and not a little relief. Hitherto, he was hampered by the knowledge that there was a mysterious submarine acting as consort to the pirate surface-craft. The submarine accounted for, left him and his "opposite number" on theArmentièreswith relatively free hands. They could concentrate all their energies upon the pursuit of thesoi-disant Holton Heathwithout the chance of becoming targets to an invisible foe—unless there were other submarines out.
"It puzzles me," remarked Trehallow to Cavendish as they stood under the lee of the chart-room, the only possible spot on the otherwise exposed bridge where they could converse without having to shout in a howling wind, "it puzzles me to know where these blighters hail from. You can't hide even a disguised cruiser and a submarine in your coat pocket. They must have a base somewhere—but where? There's no port on this part of the coast that isn't under the control and jurisdiction of one or other of the South American republics. It's fishy—very. There's something pretty big behind this. Only the other day——"
The appearance of the yeoman of signals, with a signed pad in his hand, interrupted the Lieutenant-Commander's words.
"By smoke!" he ejaculated. "Here, Carfax!"
The officer thus addressed laid down his telescope and joined his chief behind the chart-house.
"Look here, Carfax," continued the Lieutenant-Commander, "what do you make of this?"
"This" was a crudely pencilled report, almost obliterated in places where the flying spray had played havoc with indelible pencil.
It was to the effect that both seaplanes had been compelled to alight on the surface for the second time in half an hour. On each occasion they had got well to the west'ard of their quarry, hoping to keep in theeyes of the setting sun and thus approach without being observed. They had succeeded in getting within three miles of the fugitive, when unaccountably their engines "konked".
"Alighted and made examination," proceeded the report. "Everything O.K. Restarted; came down again. Are now up again. Will——"
Here the message ended.
"Why didn't the silly owl finish?" inquired Trehallow testily.
"'Cause, sir, he's probably had to come down again," hazarded Carfax. "Can't wireless with the aerial trailing in the water and all hands trying to find out what's wrong with the old 'bus. 'Tany rate, we're only fifteen miles astern."
"And a stern chase is a long one," commented the Lieutenant-Commander, glancing at a western sky.
"Where is the pirate making for, I wonder?" inquired Cavendish, turning to Carfax, when the skipper had gone into the chart-room.
"According to what I've heard, he's making for the estuary of the Rio Guaya," replied the Sub of theMessines. "Goodness only knows what for. There are three potty little republics somewhere there, and they wouldn't dare to give shelter to a filibustering blighter like that. But what is puzzling me is, why do our seaplanes keep failing? We've had 'em up for eight hours on a stretch many a time and they've never had any trouble up to now. And when they're most wanted they're broken reeds. Give me something thatfloats, any old time," he added, with sublime youthful confidence in the omnipotence of sea power.
Twenty minutes later, another wireless report came through from the seaplanes. It was to the effect that neither was able to approach the fugitive pirate. If they attempted to do so their engines failed, but as soon as the pirate craft drew away there was no further trouble until they again overhauled their quarry.
Lieutenant-Commander Trehallow was obviously perplexed. At first inclined to imagine that the series of forced descents was due to accident, he had at last to admit that on the face of things the seaplanes were under some unknown adverse influence.
He therefore gave the airmen instructions to keep the pirate craft within sight, but not to close, until the destroyers came within visual distance of their foe. Then, rather than risk having to stop and pick up a couple of disabled aircraft, he would order them to return to their parent ship, the light cruiserBasilikon.
At length the masts and funnel of the fugitive ship appeared over the horizon. The destroyers, hard on her track, were now rapidly overhauling her, It was a question whether they would get within striking distance before dark. The odds were against that, for the sun was now only a few degrees above the horizon.
Meanwhile, all preparations were being made for a night encounter. Battle lanterns were provided in the event of the electric lamps being put out of action; night sights were attached to the guns; the parachutestar-shells were taken from the magazine and the searchlights prepared for use.
The sun dipped. The short tropical twilight gave place to intense darkness. The moon was not due to appear for another couple of hours, and in that time the pirate vessel might have found an opportunity to evade pursuit.
There was no doubt that she was attempting to do so; but she had overlooked one important circumstance—her phosphorescent wake. Miles astern, clearly defined on the surface of the dark water, was a faint luminous trail and to this the avenging destroyers kept, like bloodhounds to a strong scent.
Suddenly a vivid flash of reddish light sprang out of the darkness ahead. A shell whined through the air, throwing up a column of spray two hundred yards on theMessines' port quarter.
"Six-inch, by the sound of it," commented Lieutenant-Commander Trehallow. "We've found her this time. On searchlights!"