ERNST VON GOBENDORFF was up betimes. A forty or fifty miles' railway journey was before him. Until he was within a short distance of Poldene Station he did not consider it prudent to assume his disguise.
He knew that the great Poldene Bridge was closely guarded both by land and water. To attempt to approach would be courting suspicion, even if he appeared in a military officer's uniform. He knew that he could board a "Service" train at Poldene, but here again the difficulty arose as to how he could obtain the privacy necessary for the ultimate attainment of his designs.
The spy alighted at a small station midway between the town and the bridge. He had had a first-class carriage to himself, and the fact that he had entered it as a well-groomed civilian and had left the train dressed in the uniform of a major of the Intelligence Staff passed unnoticed.
His next step was to make for an isolated cottage standing on high ground overlookingthe river. Three small boys, sauntering along the leafy lane, turned and gazed at the khaki-clad man. It was mere curiosity. They would have stared at any stranger, whether in uniform or otherwise, but von Gobendorff's lowering brows betokened intense annoyance. It meant that he had to walk past his immediate objective and return when the youngsters were at a safe distance.
A little farther down the lane a middle-aged man in worn fustian clothes was ambling along. Seeing the supposed major approach the fellow stopped, and, pulling out a clasp knife, began to cut hazel switches from the hedge. By this time von Gobendorff was within ten paces of him, and the man resumed his walk with three wands in his hand.
Von Gobendorff seemingly paid little or no attention, but, shifting his suit-case from his right hand to his left, he struck his heel lightly with his malacca cane—thrice, in a most casual way.
"Have you been to the cottage, Herr von Gobendorff?" asked the man in German. "I had to go down to the river, but I hoped to be back before you arrived."
"It matters little," replied the spy. "Have you arranged about a dog?"
"A huge beast," was the reply. "Terrifying in appearance, but he's muzzled and chained."
"It is well," rejoined von Gobendorff. "Nowlisten carefully. I don't want this business bungled. You say you can get across to the signal-post without being seen from the signal-box, and you know what to do?"
"Yes," was the reply. "All that is necessary is to remove a bolt from the rod, and the signal-arm, being weighted, will rise to the danger position."
"Quite so," agreed von Gobendorff; "but the point is this: can you lower the arm again? The train must be delayed for not longer than five minutes—less if possible. I will place the explosive between the rails. It has a six-minute fuse, so there is little margin. I don't want to be blown up with a crowd of Englishmen."
"I understand," replied the other. "But will six minutes be enough?"
"Enough and no more," rejoined the spy. "The moment the down train crosses the bridge and gains the double-track the American troop train, which will have to wait for it, will start again. Once over the bridge it will not matter whether the engine is over the point of detonation, for the whole structure will collapse and the train with it. Now, fetch me the dog."
The huge St. Bernard showed neither enthusiasm nor mistrust at the sight of its new master. It suffered itself to be taken away on the lead, and, as previously related, the pseudo major and his canine companion contrived to boardthe guard's van of the Service down train to Trecurnow.
In spite of his steady nerves von Gobendorff's pulse quickened as the train came to a standstill on the centre of the lofty bridge. As he expected, the guard's attention was directed towards the signal set at danger. What was better still, the man alighted and walked along the permanent way.
The spy waited until he saw the guard returning. Five minutes had almost elapsed, but the signal had not dropped. Von Gobendorff was confronted by two alternatives: either to set the fuse in action and drop the explosive under the carriage before the guard returned, or else wait until the line was reported clear. He chose the former, relying implicitly upon his assistant's ability to lower the signal-arm.
Therein he made a grievous error, for the bolt, in being released from the operating rods of the signal, took it into its head to jerk itself out of the man's grasp, rolling down the embankment and choosing a secure retreat under the roots of a thick thorn-bush. The wrench which von Gobendorff's accomplice employed was too massive to be used as a temporary bolt, and in the absence of anything suitable it was impossible to pull down the arm to the safety position. The train beginning to move towards the fellow's scene of action warned him that it was unhealthy to linger longer, so taking to his heels he bolted.
Meanwhile the spy cautiously lowered the explosive out of the window, intending to swing it under the carriage, but forgetting that the dog's chain was padlocked round his own wrist von Gobendorff was unpleasantly surprised when the St. Bernard shook his massive head. The sudden jolt had the result of jerking the cord out of the spy's hand, and the leather case dropped upon the permanent way in full view of the occupants of the two adjoining carriages.
Von Gobendorff made no effort to retrieve his dangerous property. It was high time that he put a safe distance between him and the explosive, for the fuse had now been active for two minutes and the signal-arm still remained at danger.
Uttering maledictions upon himself for not having unlocked the dog's chain from his wrist the spy drew the key from his pocket. To his dismay the key failed to open the padlock, while an attempt to unfasten the rusty spring-hook that fastened the chain to the animal's collar was equally fruitless.
Once again the Teutonic love of detail had over-reached itself. Von Gobendorff had arranged everything to the minutest point, but there was a slight flaw in the operations and it led to failure.
Followed by the St. Bernard the spy leapt from the van and, taking advantage of the fact that the attention of the spectators at thewindow was centred upon the still obstinately fixed signal, was soon lost in the drifting mist that, fortunately for him, was rising over the eastern end of the bridge.
Knowing that there was a sentry posted on the embankment von Gobendorff advanced boldly, trusting to his disguise to enable him to pass. In this he was quite successful, for the man, on seeing the "Brass Hat" approach, stood still to the salute, the pseudo major returning the compliment in correct military style.
Once clear of the sentry von Gobendorff scrambled down the embankment and made towards the well-wooded country at high speed. With luck he hoped to cover half a mile before the expected explosion occurred; even then his margin of safety was perilously small.
Suddenly the deep boom of a heavy explosion rent the air. Instinctively the spy stopped and listened intently; but no crash of falling girders and masonry, nor the cries of hundreds of men hurtling to their doom, followed the initial roar.
Conscious of failure von Gobendorff broke into a string of oaths as he resumed his flight. The dog was beginning to become a hindrance, for hitherto it had followed well; but now it showed a strong disinclination to be urged at a rapid pace at the end of a chain.
Pulling out a revolver the spy eyed the animal with the intention of trusting to a bullet tosever the recalcitrant chain. At the sight of the weapon the St. Bernard's misgivings were roused, for with a deep growl the powerful brute backed, tugging viciously at the restraining links. Too late the spy thought of unbuckling the massive metal collar, for a warning growl from the muzzled brute let him know very effectively that the St. Bernard's motto was "Noli me tangere." One of the links snapped, and the dog sat down on its haunches while the spy retreated for several feet before subsiding upon the gnarled, and exposed root of a large tree.
Regaining his feet von Gobendorff took to his heels, wrapping the severed portion of the padlocked chain round his wrist as he ran. Before he had gone very far the St. Bernard came bounding to his side.
"Go back, you brute!" exclaimed the spy apprehensively. "Go home!"
Somewhat to his surprise the animal turned tail and ambled off. Just then came the sound of voices. Already his pursuers were on his trail.
Then the unpleasant thought occurred to him that perhaps the dog might be pressed into the service of the men on his track. He wished that he had risked the sound of a revolver shot and had put a bullet through the creature's brain. He had no love for man's best friend; in his youth he had been systematically cruel to animals, and the instinct still lingered. At thebest he regarded a dog simply as a slave—an instrument: When no longer of use to him he would not have the slightest compunction in taking its life. It was only fear of discovery that stayed his hand.
Von Gobendorff was a fair athlete. He was especially good at long-distance running, and as he ran with his elbows pressed to his sides his footsteps made hardly any noise. He recognised the fact that it was necessary to avoid stepping on the dried twigs that lay athwart the path or to plunge recklessly through the brushwood.
Presently he came to a fairly wide brook. He hailed the sight with delight. For one thing the water would slake his thirst; for another he could throw the dog off the scent (supposing the animal turned against its temporary master) by wading up-stream.
Before he had waded ten yards he heard sounds of his pursuers coming straight ahead as well as on his left. It was an ominous sign, for they had evidently made their way through the wood on a broad front, and some had out-distanced the rest.
Ahead was a thick clump of willows, the thickly leafed branches trailing in the limpid water. For this cover the spy made, bending low to avoid the trailing boughs. Suddenly he stepped into a deep hole. Immersed to his neck he regained his footing; steadying himselfagainst the force of the stream by grasping a bough.
image: 04_undergrowth.jpg{Illustration: "A COUPLE OF BLUEJACKETS BURST THROUGH THE UNDERGROWTH." [p.53.}
Nearer and nearer came the sound of his pursuers' footsteps, till a couple of bluejackets burst through the undergrowth and pulled up on the bank within twenty feet of the fugitive.
"S'elp me!" exclaimed one, pointing straight in the direction of the immersed spy. "If that ain't just the bloomin' place for that cove to hide. Come on, mate, let's see what's doin'."
"TALLY-HO!" shouted Sub-Lieutenant Farrar, as the party of bluejackets, headed by the four officers, raced along the permanent way, followed by a running fire of chaff and caustic comment from their envious fellow-passengers. It would have wanted but half a word from the gunnery-lieutenant to have emptied the train, for, with inexplicable intuition, every man knew that the fortunate party was in pursuit of some desperado who had done his level best to blow up the bridge.
"A sovereign for the man who captures the fellow," announced the gunnery-lieutenant; then, remembering that he had not so much as set eyes on a coin of that denomination for the last three years, he modified his offer. "Dash it all, a pound note I mean!"
The astonished sentry at the approach to the bridge could only volunteer the information that a Staff major, accompanied by a large dog, had passed by a short time before. Alarmed at the explosion the rest of the guard had turned out,and upon a description of the suspect being given, then they, too, joined in the pursuit.
"He's made for that wood for a dead cert., sir," remarked Holcombe, as a partial lifting of the mist revealed the nearmost trees of a dense plantation.
"More'n likely," agreed the gunnery-lieutenant. "Three of you men make your way round to the right, and three to the left. You'll be on the other side before we can push our way through. The others extend in open order, and keep your weather eye lifting."
"These trees could give shelter to a full company," observed Holcombe, as the two subs found themselves in the dense undergrowth. "There's one thing—that dog can't climb a tree."
"He'd probably cast off the tow-line and abandon the brute," said Farrar. "If I had the ordering of the business I'd make for the nearest telegraph office and wire instructions for every Brass Hat within ten miles to be arrested on suspicion."
"Just the sort of thing you would do, Slogger, my festive bird," replied Holcombe. "Imagine twenty or thirty Staff officers being laid by the heels until they could establish their identity."
"It would be drastic but efficacious," grunted Farrar, as he pushed aside a sapling that had just hit him in the face.
"Unless the fellow's shed his gorgeous khakiand red plumage," added his companion. "Look out! don't lose touch with those bluejackets on your right."
He indicated two able seamen who, country born and bred before they elected to serve His Majesty upon the high seas, were entering upon the pursuit with the eagerness of a couple of trained pointers; while the additional inducement of "arf a quid apiece"—they had struck a bargain to share the proceeds, if won—had whetted their zeal to the uttermost.
"We're on his track, sir," declared one of the men, stooping and picking up a polished bit of metal. "'E's dropped a link of that dawg's chain. An' see, sir, 'ere's footprints, quite new-like."
For fifty yards the marks of the fugitive's boots were followed. From the fact that they were the imprints of the toes only, it showed that the man had been running. Then the trail was lost on hard ground.
"We'll pick them up again up-along," declared the second bluejacket optimistically, as he gave a quick glance at the bark of every tree he passed to detect, if possible, the abrasions caused by the foot gear of a climbing man.
A thick clump of prickly undergrowth offered no serious obstacle to the two A.B.'s. Farrar and Holcombe thought better of it, considering the present-day prices of uniform, and made a detour. By the time they resumed theirformer direction the bluejackets were fifty yards ahead.
Presently the men came to a dead stop on the edge of a brook.
"S'elp me!" exclaimed one. "If that ain't just the bloomin' place for that cove to hide. Come on, mate, let's see what's doin'."
"Right-o," assented the other. "But look out for holes. There usually are some under willows such as that. Let's get up-stream a bit afore we cross. 'Tain't no use getting wet up to your neck when you need only wet your beetle-crushers."
Before these good intentions could be carried out the shrill blast of a whistle echoed through the wood, while the gunnery-lieutenant's voice gave the order, "Retire on your supports."
"Guess Gunnery Jack imagines we're on a bloomin' field day," grumbled one of the bluejackets, and, although he wistfully eyed the suspicious willow, he hastened to obey orders.
A petty officer hurried between the undergrowth, hot and panting with his exertions.
"He's collared," he announced. "They're bringing him to the guard-room up on the bridge."
"Who's the lucky blighter?" inquired one of the disappointed twain.
"Mike O' Milligan," was the reply. "He put the kybosh on the Tin Hat before he had time to look round."
"Then the spy is feeling sorry for himself," remarked Farrar, who had overheard the conversation. "O' Milligan is the champion heavyweight boxer of the old 'Tantalus,' and there are a few nimble lads with the gloves in our ship's company."
"The blighter gets no pity from me," declared Holcombe. "I remember a yarn my skipper told—— Hullo! here's the dog."
The St. Bernard, with a couple of feet of chain trailing from its collar, bolted straight up to the two subs. Giving Holcombe a preliminary sniff the animal turned its attention to Farrar, thrusting its muzzled head against his hands.
"The poor beast is horribly thirsty," he remarked. "I'll take his muzzle off."
"Better be careful," cautioned Holcombe. "Hanged if I'd like to feel those teeth."
"You see," rejoined Farrar, and bending over the animal he unloosened the tightly fitting strap that secured the muzzle.
The dog barked joyously and, wagging his tail, followed his benefactor to the stream, where it drank "enough water to float a t.b.d.," according to Holcombe.
Suddenly the dog stood with its body quivering with excitement and its eyes fixed upon some object on the opposite bank. Then it gave vent to a low, deep growl as the willow branches rustled audibly.
"What's up, old boy?" asked Farrar. "He's spotted something," he added, addressing his companion.
"A water rat, most likely," rejoined Holcombe casually. "Come on; if we want to see anything of the prisoner we'd better crowd on all sail."
"And the dog?"
"Bring him along, too; he's apparently taken a fancy to you, Slogger. Keep him as a mascot. We have a bulldog, a Persian kitten, and a mongoose already given us for the 'Antipas.' 'Sides, there's heaps of room on board your packet."
The St. Bernard offered no objection to the decision; in fact, he signified his approbation by means of a succession of deep-throated barks when Farrar called him to heel. Then as docilely as a pet lamb the newly acquired mascot followed the two subs out of the wood.
Already the captive had been carried to the guard-room. The gunnery-lieutenant and Engineer-Commander Curtis were within, while the bluejackets, drawn up a short distance from the entrance, were standing at ease.
"Well done, O' Milligan!" exclaimed Farrar, for the pugilistic A.B. was in the sub's watch-bill. "How did you manage to nab the fellow?"
"Sure, sorr," said the Irishman, "Oi saw him trapesin' along the path, so Oi goes up tohim. 'Now, be jabbers,' sez Oi, 'are you for comin' aisy an' quiet, or am Oi to dot you one?' 'The divil!' sez he. 'Sure,' sez Oi. 'There's nothin' loike bein' straightforward. Between you an' me an' gatepost, the Huns an' the Ould Gintleman are loike Murphy's pigs you can't tell any difference.' Wid that he tries the high hand—sort o' 'Haw-haw, d'ye know who Oi am, my man?' As if by bein' consaited he hoped to get to wind'ard of Mike Milligan. 'Come on, you Hun,' sez Oi, an' makes to grab his arm. Arrah! He swore loike a haythen an' tried to break away, so Oi just hit 'im on the point of his chin an' down he wint."
"And he hasn't recovered yet, sir," added another bluejacket. "O' Milligan did his job properly."
At that moment the gunnery-lieutenant, accompanied by the engineer-commander and the sergeant of the guard, came out of the building.
"Party—'shun!" ordered the former. "By the right—double."
The engine was whistling peremptorily. Disregarding the eager inquiries of his brother officers in the carriage the gunnery-lieutenant ordered his men to board the train, which, during the pursuit of the miscreant, had moved on sufficiently to enable the American troop train to pass.
As Farrar and Holcombe, accompanied bythe St. Bernard, were about to enter the carriage the gunnery-lieutenant called them aside.
"Don't say too much about the business," he cautioned them. "We've made a deuce of a blunder, and I expect there'll be a holy terror of a row up-topsides. The unlucky bounder laid out by one of the bluejackets was a genuine major; both the sergeant and the corporal of the guard were certain on that point. It is an unfortunate coincidence, and what is worse the fellow we went after has got away. Whether they catch him or not rests with the military and the civil police. We did what we could, and did it jolly badly."
"After all," remarked Farrar when the two chums were once more seated in the compartment, "my way, although drastic, would have been better than this fiasco; and I guess that poor blighter of a major would think so too if he had the choice between a punch on the jaw from a champion boxer or spending a couple of hours under escort with a dozen other Brass Hats to keep him company."
"It was a bit of excitement, if nothing else," said Holcombe.
"And I've found a jolly fine dog," added the R.N.V.R. sub, patting the huge animal's head. "I'll call him Bruno... and I don't think we'll need this again."
And he hurled the dog's muzzle out of the window.
AT a quarter to six Ober-Leutnant Otto von Loringhoven strolled into the lounge of the Imperial Hotel and, ringing for the waiter, booked two seats at a table for dinner. This done he carefully selected a choice cigar and ensconced himself in a large easy-chair. Ostensibly interested in the pages of a newspaper he was furtively taking stock of the other occupants of the lounge.
Von Loringhoven had had a really enjoyable day. He had done his level best to banish from his mind all thoughts of his dangerous and degraded profession. He appreciated the short respite from the mental and physical strain of commanding a U-boat. Until the evening he would take a well-earned holiday.
Accordingly he had made a few purchases in the little town of articles that were not readily obtainable by the simple expedient of looting a captured merchantman. Then, in possession of a small flask and a packet of sandwiches, he struck inland towards the wild and unfrequented moors.
Once or twice during the day he thought of von Gobendorff, and wondered whether his attempt had met with success. Not that he evinced any great concern over the business. The spy had not taken him into his confidence sufficiently to explain the details of his proposed attempt upon the troop train. There was once the haunting suspicion that should von Gobendorff be caught the consequences might be rather awkward for the ober-leutnant. Von Loringhoven had little faith in his fellow-countrymen; he would not be greatly surprised if the spy, in an endeavour to mitigate his deserved punishment, would give information to the British authorities to the effect that a German submarine commander was at large on Cornish soil.
Early in the afternoon von Loringhoven began to make his way back to the town. Taking a footpath he passed close to half a dozen German prisoners-of-war engaged in agricultural work.
In broken German he addressed one of them, inquiring whether the fellow would take the opportunity of escaping should such a chance occur. The broad-shouldered Bavarian shook his head emphatically. "No," he replied. "Why should I? We are well fed. After eighteen months on scanty rations in the hell of Ypres a man would be a fool to wish to go back over there."
The ober-leutnant resumed his walk, pondering over his compatriot's words. There were evidences in plenty that the German theory, that six months of unrestricted U-boat warfare would bring England to the verge of starvation, was very wide of the mark; and the prisoner's tacit assertion that he preferred to live and eat in England to fighting and semi-starvation for the sake of the Fatherland was striking evidence that the German submarine campaign was a failure in spite of its unprecedented savagery and frightfulness.
Before proceeding to the hotel von Loringhoven bought a paper. If he bought it with the idea of gleaning any important information he was grievously mistaken. The war news was confined to a few brief communiqués. The rest of the columns were taken up with local and county topics unconnected with the war, a number of advertisements, and a few carefully worded announcements of deaths in action of Cornishmen.
Long before the ober-leutnant had finished his cigar a fresh-complexioned, round-faced subaltern entered the room and, spotting a brother officer, began a conversation in tones loud enough to enable von Loringhoven to follow every word.
"I say," he remarked. "Have you heard anything about the attempt to blow up Poldene Bridge?"
"My sergeant said something to me about it," replied the other. "I didn't pay much attention to him, as he's a regular old woman for getting hold of cock-and-bull yarns."
"It's right enough," persisted the first speaker. "There was an explosion while the Navy Special was hung up on the bridge. Signals tampered with, I understand. No damage done, but evidently the fellow or fellows on the job knew what they were about, for a troop train filled with Yankees was due to cross almost at the same time. It's a mystery to me how these Huns get to know of the movements of transport and troop trains. All the week American transports are to be diverted from Liverpool to Trecurnow, as those rotten U-boats have been reported in force off the Antrim coast."
After talking on several other subjects one of the subalterns inquired, "Heard anything of your young brother recently? Dick, I mean. He was in the 'Calyranda' when she struck a mine, I believe?"
"Yes, he's appointed to the 'Tantalus.' She's leaving Trecurnow on Thursday for Hampton Roads."
"Escorting duties?"
"On the return voyage—yes. Outward bound they're taking a number of big pots to attend an Allied conference at Washington, I understand. At any rate, young Dick has toget a new mess-jacket. Thought he'd be able to do without that luxury until after the war. ...Oh, by the way, here's news. I was lunching yesterday with my cousin—you know, the lieutenant-colonel who won the D.S.O.—and he happened to mention——"
Von Loringhoven listened intently, smiling grimly behind his newspaper. From the tittle-tattle of a raw subaltern he was gleaning more intelligence than he could from a dozen journals, for the youngster seemed to take a special delight in letting the other guests know that he was in close touch with the Powers that Be.
From time to time the ober-leutnant glanced at the clock. It was now twenty minutes to seven. Von Gobendorff was considerably overdue, and von Loringhoven was feeling hungry.
"My friend is apparently unable to be present," he said to the head waiter. "You can serve me now. I suppose as a dinner for two has been ordered I must pay for both?"
"That is the rule of the hotel, sir," replied the man.
"And in that case I presume I can have a double allowance?"
The waiter shook his head and winked solemnly.
"Can't be done, sir," he replied. "'Gainst regulations. You'll pay for two dinners, I admit, sir; that's your misfortune."
"Then I suppose the extra meal will be wasted?"
"A drop in the ocean of waste, sir, I assure you," said the man confidentially. "Tons of waste down this part of the country. Take petrol, for example. I've a motor-bike of my own and can't use it, although half a gallon of petrol a week would be as much as I want. And yet the coastguards, when hundreds of cans were washed ashore along the coast, were told to wrench off the brass caps of the tins—useful for munitions, I suppose, sir—and chuck petrol and cans back into the sea. And I paid my licence to the end of the year."
"Hard lines," remarked the ober-leutnant. "But the nation's at war, you know."
"Quite true, sir," replied the man. "I wouldn't mind making sacrifices if I knew all the petrol was going to naval and military use—tanks and patrol boats and the like—but waste like I've been telling you makes me a bit up the pole. Ah, sir, you needn't worry about that second dinner, for here's Mr. Middlecrease."
The waiter hurried off, while von Gobendorff, well-groomed and debonair, greeted the ober-leutnant.
"Sorry I'm so infernally late, Smith," he exclaimed. "Must blame the trains. Missed my connection at Okehampton, don't you know."
The two Germans sat down to their belatedmeal, talking the while on commonplace topics.
They certainly made afaux pasin the way they gulped down their soup, but the rest of the diners, although they exchanged sympathetic glances, had never had the misfortune to visit German "bads" in pre-war days; otherwise they might have "smelt a rat."
Von Loringhoven paid the bill and carefully placed the receipt in his pocket-book. "It will be a souvenir of a pleasant evening," he remarked to his companion. "A certificate to the effect that I have invaded England,hein?"
It was close on nine o'clock when von Loringhoven accompanied the spy to his home. Once in von Gobendorff's study, with a thick curtain drawn over the door, the latter unburdened himself.
"Ach!" he exclaimed, stretching his limbs and yawning prodigiously; "I have had a nasty time, Otto. Often I thought I would have to forego this pleasurable evening in exchange for a prison cell."
"You bungled, then?"
"Perhaps. It was hardly my fault. I am inclined to blame Schranz. I deposited the explosive all right, but the signal did not fall within the prearranged limit. Consequently I had either to make a bolt for safety or stay where I was and get blown up. I chose the first alternative."
"And the explosion?"
"It came off," replied the spy. "Somehow the bridge was not destroyed. Why I know not. Then I was hotly pursued. That fool of a dog—I had taken the precaution of having one sent from London—nearly put me away, but just as I had given myself up as lost the men in pursuit were recalled. Then at the first opportunity I discarded my disguise—I was wearing two suits of clothes: a good tip, Otto, unless you happen to be wearing a military or naval uniform under your civilian's dress.Himmel!it was decidedly unpleasant in those saturated clothes, for I had been standing up to my neck in water for nearly twenty minutes."
"It was a wonder that your wet clothes did not give you away," remarked von Loringhoven.
"They certainly gave me a cold," admitted the spy, suppressing a sneeze. "You should have seen me, Otto, stripped to the skin in a secluded hollow, and wringing out my garments one by one. It was a chilly business donning the damp things, but I walked briskly over the moors until the wind dried them to a state of comparative respectability. Then I struck the high road towards Poldene station. There were patrols and police out, but they never suspected me, as I was proceedingtowardsthe scene of my frustrated attempt. And here I am. Well, have you picked up any information?"
The ober-leutnant shook his head. He was too wily a bird to impart an important piece ofnews even to a compatriot, so the matter of the date of departure of the "Tantalus" was withheld.
"No," he replied. "I have been having a rest, that is all. I go back to my work with renewed zest. I drink, von Gobendorff, to the confusion of England.Hoch, hoch, hoch!"
At half-past ten the ober-leutnant left the house, declining the spy's offer to accompany him part of the way. Without encountering a single person, for he knew the actual times at which the cliff patrol passed, he gained the little cove. By the luminous hands of his watch he had nearly an hour to wait, and waiting in the darkness, with only the sullen thresh of the surf and the eerie cries of innumerable seabirds to break the silence, was tedious, especially as he dared not smoke.
Presently, above the noise of nature's handiwork, came the bass hum of an aerial propeller. The ober-leutnant gazed upwards between the narrow walls of the rocky inlet.
"Too slow for a seaplane or a flying-boat," he muttered. "It must be one of those infernal coastal airships.Himmel!I hope she hasn't any suspicions of U 254 lying off the shore. I've waited quite long enough to my liking.Ach, there she is. I thought so."
At an altitude of less than two hundred feet above the summit of the cliffs the "Blimp" glided serenely, the suspended chassis beinginvisible against the greater bulk of the grey envelope that showed darkly against the starlit sky.
The airship was flying against the wind, and was proceeding at a rate not exceeding fifteen miles an hour "over the ground"—the ground in this instance being the sea. At that comparatively slow speed she appeared to the watcher in the depths of the cove to be almost stationary, and the sight filled him with misgivings.
Suddenly a searchlight flashed from the vigilant guardian of the coast, stabbing the darkness with a broad blade of silvery radiance. Instinctively von Loringhoven averted his face. He could see the grotesquely foreshortened shadow of himself cast upon the rocks. He wondered whether an alert observer had him "fixed" with his powerful night-glasses. He was afraid to move lest his action would satisfy any lurking doubt in the mind of the watchers above. Supposing the Blimp sent a signal to the nearest coastguard station, reporting a suspicious character in the cove?
All these thoughts flashed through the ober-leutnant's brain in less than twenty seconds. Then the penetrating beam swung like a giant pendulum, sweeping every square yard of sea within an arc of two miles' radius.
The ray ceased its movements and was directed upon a dark object lying at a distanceof less than five cables' lengths from the shore. Von Loringhoven's breath came in short gasps. Momentarily he expected to see the flash of a gun or hear the sharp explosion of compressed air that would send an aerial torpedo on its death-dealing errand.
By degrees the ober-leutnant's eyes grew accustomed to the glare, and he made the discovery that the object was a two-masted fishingboat that, having been unable to reach harbour before "official sunset," was endeavouring to make port and risk divers pains and penalties for being under way during prohibited hours.
Down swept the airship, her searchlight relentlessly focussed upon the delinquent, until the officer in charge of the Blimp was able to discover the registered number of the boat and shout by means of a megaphone a promise that the master of the fishing-boat would be "hauled over the coals" at no very distant date.
This duty performed the airship rose and, turning, travelled "down wind" at high speed, whereat von Loringhoven heaved a deep sigh of genuine relief.
The hour of midnight passed and the ober-leutnant still waited. He was beginning to think that he was marooned on hostile ground and that the submarine had met with misfortune, when a dark shape glided round the rocks at the entrance to the cove.
"You are late!" exclaimed von Loringhoven hastily, as the coxswain of U 254's canvas boat brought the frail cockleshell alongside the rough jetty.
"It was a cursed English airship that detained us, Herr Kapitan," replied the man. "We had to submerge. We thought we were detected; only, it seems, it was a fishing craft that occupied the airship's attention."
Not another word did von Loringhoven speak until he gained the U-boat's deck.
"How stand the accumulators, Herr Kuhlberg; and what petrol have we on board?"
The unter-leutnant gave the required information.
"Just enough to take us home, Herr Kapitan," he added tentatively, for the prolonged cruise—already U 254's time limit was exceeded—was jarring his nerves very badly.
"Perhaps," rejoined von Loringhoven, with a sneer. "Meanwhile we are going to lie off the Scillies until the end of the week, so reconcile yourself to that, my friend."
"You have heard something, then, Herr Kapitan?" asked the unter-leutnant eagerly, his despondency departing at the prospect of doing a great deed—torpedoing a huge unarmed liner, perhaps.
"I have," replied von Loringhoven. "The English cruiser 'Tantalus' leaves Trecurnow on Thursday with a number of delegates for a conference at New York. The 'Tantalus'is, of course, armed, and, as you know, English gunners shoot straight. How does that suit you?"
Hans Kuhlberg's attempt to put a brave face upon the matter was a failure. His superior officer smiled disdainfully, for there was no love lost between the two.
"I am going to turn in now," he added. "You know the course; keep her at that until you sight Godrevy Light and then inform me."
AT eight o'clock on the following Thursday morning H.M.S. "Tantalus" cast off from her moorings in Trecurnow Roads and stood down Channel.
She was an armoured cruiser of an obsolescent type, and although not powerful enough to be of material use to the Grand Fleet, was admirably adapted to the work allotted to her—ocean patrolling and escorting transports to and from overseas. Since the outbreak of war her steaming mileage worked out at a little over 200,000 miles, or roughly eight times the circumference of the earth. During this stupendous task her engines had given hardly any trouble, and never once had had a serious breakdown—a feat that was rendered possible solely to the unremitting care and attention of her engineering officers and ratings. Sixteen years previously her contract speed was twenty-five knots; and when occasion required her "black squad" could whack her up to her original form.
On either side of the cruiser a long, leandestroyer kept station, for the "Tantalus" was to be escorted through the danger zone. Waspish little motor patrol boats, too, were dashing and circling around her, their task being to put the wind up any lurking U-boat that was bold enough to risk being rammed or blown up by depth charges by the attendant destroyers.
"Mornin', Slogger, old bird," exclaimed a voice. "Looking for your friend, Holcombe?"
Farrar, whose turn it was to be Duty Sub of the Watch, was levelling his glass at one of the destroyers. Upon hearing himself familiarly addressed—for the nickname of schooldays still stuck—he turned and placed the telescope under his arm.
"Mornin', Banger," he replied. "No; I knew it was no use looking for Holcombe on that packet. The 'Antipas' is of a later type; besides, she's not completed commissioning yet. How's that dog of mine behaving?"
Dick Sefton was another of the "Tantalus's" sub-lieutenants, a short and heavily built fellow whose full face was brimming over with good-humour. He was an R.N.R. man, called up for duty as a midshipman on the outbreak of hostilities. For some obscure reason his messmates had nicknamed him Banger, although there was a suspicion that those tinned delicacies, otherwise known as "Zeppelins in the Clouds," had something to do with it. Sefton had already had a fair share of adventure. He had beentorpedoed twice—once in the AEgean Sea, and again somewhere within the Arctic Circle; he had been in a tough engagement between two armed merchantmen, and had taken part in a hand-to-hand struggle between the crews of a U-boat and a possible victim that proved to be a veritable Tartar. He had braved the rigours of two winters in the North Sea on Examination Service, and had spent four days without food and a very little water in an open boat under the blazing sun in the Eastern Mediterranean. Yet in spite of hardships and perils his cherubic smile still clung to his homely features. Not a soul of the "Tantalus's" ship's company could truthfully say that he had seen Banger in a bad temper.
"Bruno is in great form, absolutely," replied Sefton. "During the absence of his worthy master, namely yourself, he has been improving his acquaintance with the rest of the mess—and their effects."
"Eh?" exclaimed Farrar. "Been in mischief?"
"The casualties to date are—killed: one pot of honey belonging to little Tinribs, two gramophone records, the property of the mess, and Johnson's pneumatic waistcoat; wounded: the messman and one of the marine servants while attempting to rescue the before-mentioned waistcoat under a heavy fire; missing: the contents of a tin of condensed milk and aplate of curried fowl. The messman and the marine contemplating reprisals, Bruno merely beat a strategic retreat to the padre's cabin. Latest reports state that the animal, possibly owing to a surfeit of condensed milk and curried fowl, combined with the unaccustomed motion of the ship, strongly resembles the present state of Russia; to wit, violent internal disorder. So, my festive Slogger, you'll have something to answer for."
"By Jove!" ejaculated Farrar. "I hope the padre won't complain to the commander. I can square the messman and make it all right with the rest of the mess, but the chaplain——"
"Plenty of time for that," resumed Sefton. "There are indications that the padre is in a state of siege. Bruno is lying on the floor of the cabin and against the door. The padre is sitting on his bunk and cuddling his knees. Every time he tries to get out Bruno growls, although I fancy that the animal's malady is responsible for that. The awkward part of the business is that the padre is mortally afraid of dogs. They are his pet antipathies. A yapping little terrier would give him cold feet, so you can imagine what effect Bruno would have on him."
"For goodness' sake, Banger, hike the animal out of it," replied Farrar. "I can't leave the deck, you know."
"I'll do my best," replied Sefton. "It isindeed fortunate that our Fleet Surgeon underwent a course in the Pasteur Institute. Do you happen to know whether a fat fellow is more susceptible to hydrophobia than a thin one? If so, I'll shunt Jenkyns on to the job."
Sefton departed upon his errand, while Farrar, wondering what the outcome of Bruno's escapade would be, made his way to the weather side of the navigation bridge.
The "Tantalus" was now well on her way down Channel. The Wolf Lighthouse, rising like a slender shaft from the sea, lay broad on the starboard beam. The motor patrol boats, having reached the limit of their station, were hoisting the affirmative pennant in answer to a signal for the cruiser to part company. From the as yet invisible Scillies another flotilla of patrol boats was approaching to take over escorting duties until the cruiser with her cargo of important civil personages was beyond the dangerous "chops of the Channel."
On board the "Tantalus" the utmost vigilance was maintained, the escorting destroyers notwithstanding. The six-inch and light quick-firers on the upper deck were manned ready to open fire at a moment's notice, should the sinister, pole-like periscopes of a U-boat show above the surface.
Every possible precaution had been taken to safeguard His Majesty's ship, and the party of civilians who, under Providence, wereentrusted to the care of one of the units of the Great Silent Navy. The members of the deputation were standing on the after bridge, watching with absorbed interest the stately progress of a huge flying-boat that was making her way back to Trecurnow. Already that morning the sea had been explored for miles on either side of the cruiser's course, and the aerial scout had wirelessed to the effect that no hostile submarine had been sighted.
Within the microphone room on the fore bridge an alert petty officer stood with the receivers clipped to his ears, listening for any suspicious sound that might emanate from the churning of a U-boats propeller; but beyond the rhythmic purr of the engines of the two destroyers not a sound of machinery in motion in the vicinity of the cruiser was audible.
In less than ten minutes Sefton returned.
"A proper lash up, Slogger," he announced. "Bruno's gone and done it this time."
He paused to note the effect of his words.
"Out with it, man!" exclaimed Farrar. "Don't say he's put the padre out of action."
"He has," said Banger, with an extra special grin.
"Bitten him?"
"I don't think so," replied Sefton. "In default of definite evidence the answer is in the negative."
"Then what has the dog done?"
"Well, to express the matter in a delicate way," continued Sefton slowly and deliberately, "Bruno has been taken violently ill in the padre's sanctum."
"Did you hike him out?"
"Who—the padre or the dog?"
"Either—or both."
"Couldn't," was the exasperating reply.
"Why not, dash it all?"
"Simply because I wasn't equal to the job. Neither are all the marine servants nor the best part of the carpenter's crew. The Bloke's (commander) gone to inspect the place, so all the fat's in the fire."
"Is Bruno showing temper, then?" asked his master anxiously.
"No; he's as quiet as the proverbial lamb."
"Look here, Banger!" exclaimed Farrar. "Can't you pitch a straightforward yarn without my having to drag it all from you in bits?"
"All right," replied Sefton. "It's like this. By some means—possibly Bruno rubbed against the door—the door's bolted on the inside. The padre won't muster up courage to let himself out, and the mob outside can't get in. The carpenter's mate is going to take out the jalousie—and the door's made of steel, remember. I have an idea—— Hullo, here's the Owner. I'm off."
Catching sight of the oak-leaved cap as the captain ascended the starboard ladder, Seftonpromptly dived down the ladder on the port side, while Farrar, smartly saluting, awaited the approach of the controller of the destinies of nine hundred officers and men forming the "Tantalus's" ship's company.
"Where's the officer of the watch, Mr. Farrar?" asked the skipper. "In the chartroom, eh? Very good, carry on. Inform Mr. Sitwell that a wireless has just come through from the Admiral, Trecurnow Base. The escorting destroyers are to return; we are to shape a course for Queenstown and await further orders. What are we making?"
"Eighteen knots, sir."
"Increase to twenty-two, then.... What's that—signalling?"
"Destroyers request permission to part company, sir."
"Hoist the affirmative. All right, Mr. Farrar. Keep me well posted should anything untoward occur."
The captain left the bridge and the sub communicated his instructions to the lieutenant on duty as Officer of the Watch.
"Jolly rummy," commented Mr. Sitwell. "Did the Owner look at all surprised?"
"Not so far as I could see," replied the sub.
"Then I expect the Commander-in-Chief has had warning that there's a swarm of U-boats off the Irish coast.... Starboard four, quartermaster."
The destroyers had flung about and were tearing off in the direction of Trecurnow Harbour; the Scilly patrol had been left astern, and the "Tantalus" was alone in the midst of a waste of white-topped waves. She was now beginning to follow a zigzag course—a precaution invariably taken when within the U-boat zone.
Nigel Farrar felt convinced that the captain was uneasy in his mind on the subject of the wireless orders. In view of the presence of diplomats and other Government Civil Officials on board, the peremptory removal of the destroyer escort seemed very bad policy. But the orders had been given in secret code, and had to be obeyed without demur.
"Now, then, old bird, foot it!" exclaimed Sefton, as he reappeared on the bridge. "Anything to report?"
Farrar glanced at his watch. To his surprise he found that the last hour had passed with great rapidity. His work was now at an end; his relief had arrived to take on the duties of Sub of the Watch, while the Officer of the Watch had also turned over his responsibilities to another lieutenant.
At the first opportunity the sub hastened to the half-deck, where, outside the padre's cabin, a number of perspiring men were still busily engaged in removing the steel lattice work, known as a jalousie, from that officer's cabindoor. Standing in a semicircle around them were all the midshipmen not on duty, taking no pains to conceal their amusement at the naval instructor's discomfiture. On the fringe of the ring stood the commander and three or four other wardroom officers, the former eyeing with grim displeasure the disfigurement of this part of the "internal fittings" of one of His Majesty's cruisers.
Through the slits of the jalousie came sounds of the padre, breathing stertorously, and the deep snores of the dog, who, having "mustered his bag," was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
"Can't you unbolt the infernal door, padre?" shouted the commander impatiently. He had asked the same question half a dozen times already, and the monotony of the request was beginning to jar the already overstrung nerves of the chaplain.
"Heaven forbid," he muttered. "My calling urges me to do the very opposite."
"It strikes me, sir," remarked the first lieutenant, addressing the commander, "that we have here an example of the lion and the lamb lying down together."
The pun—for the padre's name was Lamb—fell upon deaf ears as far as the commander was concerned, although the midshipmen smiled broadly at the popular Number One's wit.
"Look alive, there, men!" the commanderexclaimed impatiently. "Don't waste the whole day getting that frame unstowed."
The carpenter's crew "bucked up" at these words. Truth to tell they had been proceeding leisurely at their work. The last bolt was removed and the jalousie fell away from the surrounding steel frame. One of the men, thrusting his arm through the aperture, shot back the catch of the door.
"Call the brute away, Mr. Farrar," said the commander.
Before the sub could approach the door to secure his troublesome pet, a violent concussion shook the ship from stem to stern. The electric lights on the half-deck went out, plunging the enclosed space into semi-darkness, while the sudden upheaval of some 14,000 tons of deadweight resulted in capsising almost every member of the party outside the padre's cabin.
"They've got us this time!" ejaculated the first lieutenant dispassionately.
And less than eight hundred yards away Ober-Leutnant Otto von Loringhoven was expressing similar views concerning the expected result of the impact of two Schwartz-Kopff torpedoes against the side of H.M.S. "Tantalus."