"Hopethe brutes won't konk," thought Sub-lieutenant Jock McIntosh, R.N.V.R., as he dispassionately surveyed the unlovely outlines of X-lighters 5 and 6.
After being second-in-command of a crack M.L., McIntosh felt no violent enthusiasm over his job—to take the two cumbersome craft to a strange port eighty odd miles along the coast. At a maximum speed of five knots, it meant a sixteen hours' run; but McIntosh, knowing the vagaries of the X-lighters' motors, refrained from being sanguine on the matter.
It was one of the jobs that fall to all branches of the Navy. With a strange crew, and not having navigated a lighter before, McIntosh was taking on "some stunt." He had charts and navigating instruments, but he would have felt easier in his mind had he possessed "local knowledge" of this part of the coast. On an M.L., where he was under a competent officer, navigation was fairly simple as far as the Sub was concerned; but now the whole responsibility of getting his charges safely into port rested on his shoulders.
It was the morning of von Preussen's visit to Auldhaig. The fog had dispersed. In its wake had sprung up a fresh southerly breeze, which in turn gave indications of decreasing in velocity before noon.
Stopping to give his final instructions to the coxwain of No. 6, and impressing upon him to follow at a cable's length in her consort's wake, McIntosh boarded the lighter which for the nonce was to be the leading craft. Already the twin heavy oil engines were "warming up," making the decks quiver, and filling the air with oil-laden smoke.
Making his way aft to the rough wooden hut that served as a wheel-house, the Sub gave the signal to the engine-room staff to "stand by."
"Rummiest packets that ever sailed under the White Ensign," he soliloquised, as his eye caught sight of the dingy bunting floating from the yard-arm of the lighters' stumpy masts. "Ah, well; it's all in a day's work."
He gave the telegraph lever another jerk.
"Cast off!" he shouted.
Sluggishly the deeply-laden barge gathered way. She had a freeboard of barely ten inches—a fact that portended wet decks before long.
Having satisfied himself that No. 6 was following, McIntosh devoted his attention to shaping a course out of harbour, undergoing a dozen mental thrills as his unwieldy packet scraped past buoys and showed a decided tendency to commit suicide across the steel stems of a couple of anchored cruisers.
Once clear of the harbour, the Sub called to a seaman.
"Take her," he ordered, handing over the wheel. "Keep her as she is: south a half west."
"South a half west it is, sir," replied the man in the time-honoured formula of the sea.
Free to devote his attention to other things, McIntosh secured the storm-flap of his oilskin coat and, leaving the shelter of the wheel-house, looked towards the following boat.
No. 6 was coming along well. The "bone in her teeth" glistened white as she pushed her snub nose through the waves. Both craft were "taking it green" as the water flowed over the tarpaulined hatches and surged along the broad waterways.
"We'll carry our tide for another hour," he said to himself. "Then it'll be a slow job. One thing, we can't have every blessed thing in life, but I hope to goodness nothing goes wrong."
He glanced ahead. In an incredibly short space of time, the bold outlines of Dunkennet Head had vanished. Dead to windward haze, possibly fog, was bearing down. It was something that McIntosh had not bargained for. The glass had shown indications of fine weather, but unfortunately it was not capable of indicating the approach of mist.
"Hazy ahead," he remarked to the petty officer.
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "Will you be altering course a point or so, sir? There's a nasty set of the tide inshore about these parts."
"Yes," decided the Sub, and gave the necessary instructions to the helmsman.
"Get a nun-buoy ready to veer astern," he continued, "and signal to No. 6 to keep the thing dose under her bows. If she doesn't, we'll be losing each other."
While the men were making these preparations the hideous clamour of No. 6's foghorn attracted their attention. The lighters had increased their distance to nearly a quarter of a mile, and No. 6 was still dropping astern.
"Ask 'em what's wrong," ordered McIntosh.
A signalman, steadying himself with feet planted widely apart on the plunging deck, semaphored the message. From No. 6 two red and yellow hand-flags replied. McIntosh, unable to follow the swift movements of the flags, was obliged to await the signalman's report:
"Says, sir, she's overheated her bearings. She'll have to stop or her engines'll seize up."
It was exactly what the Sub was anticipating, and now trouble had come he met it promptly and resolutely.
"Tell them to stand by and receive a hawser," he ordered, at the same time ringing down for "Slow." "Look alive, there, with that six-inch rope."
While the men were engaged in bringing one end of the hawser to the after "towing-bitts," McIntosh took the helm and began to run to starboard in order to close with the disabled lighter. He was working against time, for already the mist was upon them—the outflung tentacles of a bank of fog. With a range of visibility of three or four hundred yards, matters were somewhat complicated, but the manoeuvre of establishing communication with the helpless craft would be rendered fourfold difficult, should the baffling fog envelop the two boats.
"All ready with the heaving-line?" shouted the Sub.
"All ready, sir."
Slowly, even for the low-speed lighter, McIntosh, made for the disabled vessel, which was now lying broadside on to the fairly confused sea. The Sub was cautious. Strange to the boat, he knew that there was a vast difference between the manoeuvring capabilities of an M.L. and a lighter, and with that fact in mind he displayed an excess of caution.
Almost before he realised the danger, disaster came. Answering too slowly to her helm, No. 5 crashed heavily against the bluff steel bows of No. 6. Amidst the hiss of inrushing water, the two engineers scrambled through the smoke-laden atmosphere of the motor-room and gained the deck with the tidings that the sea was pouring in like a mill-race. And to add to the peril the fog was then enveloping the colliding craft.
There seemed no doubt about it: No. 5 was sinking. Had she been struck anywhere but right aft, her heavy rubbing-strake would have saved her. As it was she had been hit in a vital spot—her engine-room.
As luck would have it, both lighters drifted together, their metal-bound sides grinding and bumping in the agitated waves. Since No. 5 was evidently sinking, the only refuge for her crew was the deck of disabled No. 6.
"Jump for it!" shouted McIntosh. "Every man for himself."
Waiting till the last, the Sub snatched up his confidential papers, thrust them into the pocket of his oilskins, and, as the two lighters rolled heavily together, he made a flying leap for the deck of No. 6.
He was not a moment too soon. At the next roll there was a gap of five or six yards between the two vessels. Separated by a freak eddy of the tidal stream, they increased their distance more and more, until the holed lighter, with her stern level with the water, was lost to sight in the fog.
"What'syour little game, Cumberleigh?" demanded the major. "Hanged if I can see what you are driving at."
Lunch was over at Auldhaig Air Station. Most of the officers had drifted in twos and threes into the ante-room to seize the opportunity of enjoying a smoke before falling in on parade. The second-in-command and Captain Cumberleigh found themselves alone.
"I may be mistaken, sir," replied Cumberleigh, "but I'm not at all sure about that fellow Fennelburt."
"What d'ye mean, old thing? asked the major.
"It's a rotten business to explain," replied the captain. "I hope I don't do the fellow an injustice, but I believe he's a spy."
Major Sparrowhawk raised his eyebrows in a manner that indicated incredulous objection.
"Goodness gracious, Cumberleigh!" he exclaimed. "What are you driving at? The idea's preposterous. There are limits to the imagination, and I think you're exceeding them."
"I have reasons, sir,"
"Well, what are they?"
"You remember I asked him about Smithers and Tomlinson? I know for a fact that they were both at Sheerness a week ago."
"Yes, and Captain Fennelburt said he knew them."
"He did—but I deliberately gave him a totally wrong description of them. Smithers is fat, but he's short—about five six, I should think—and he certainly hasn't a mole under his eye. Tomlinson is fair, not dark, and I've never known him to touch a card either in the mess or out of it."
"There are some very queer cusses in the Service, I'll admit," remarked Major Sparrowhawk thoughtfully. "Getting a commission in war time isn't the same as in normal times. The chap may be pulling your leg, Cumberleigh. But why did you pal up to him and promise to take him to the theatre and all that?"
"Just to gain time, sir," answered Captain Cumberleigh. "I thought I'd ask your permission to telegraph to Sheerness Air Station. The inquiry could be worded discreetly, and if the reply's satisfactory there's no harm done. If it isn't, then we can take action."
"But what aroused your suspicions in the first instance?" asked the second-in-command.
Cumberleigh shrugged his shoulders.
"Just a little mannerism of his, sir," he replied. "I've never before tumbled across it on this side of the Rhine. Spent part of my far distant youth at Heidelburg, and one notices certain things. So I've practically put the fellow under arrest, only he doesn't know it. Young Jefferson'll take him fishing this afternoon, and in the meanwhile the wires can be getting busy."
"Bet you a double whisky you're wrong, Cumberleigh," offered Major Sparrowhawk.
"Done, sir," was the prompt reply.
Meanwhile Lieutenant Jefferson, assisted by a couple of air-mechanics, was getting his boat ready for the fishing expedition. One of the advantages of being in the Service in war time is that the uniformed owner of a private boat has a "pull" over his civilian confrère. The one can make use of his craft almost without restraint the other is hedged in by a formidable and galling array of restrictions that are none the less necessary for the well-being of the State.
ThePip-squeak, Jefferson's boat, was about fifteen feet in length and provided with a standing lug-sail and centre-board. Formerly she belonged to an Auldhaig waterman, who on being mobilised for the R.N.R. sold her for £3. Her new owner, who contrived to escape the irregular meshes of the Recruiting Officer's net, had palmed thePip-squeakoff on Jefferson for six times the amount he had paid, or, roughly, the same sum that the boat had cost to build twenty years ago.
ThePip-squeakwas no chicken, nor did she lay claim to beauty. Bluff-bowed, and with an almost entire lack of sheer, she had one compensating quality: she was as stiff as a house.
At the edge of the jetty gathered most of the crew—Cumberleigh, Jefferson, a "second loot" named Pyecroft, and von Preussen.
"An' what are we waitin' for?" demanded Pyecroft, clapping his hands and stamping his feet. "When I go sailing I like to get on with it. What are we waitin' for?"
"Bait," replied Jefferson laconically.
"Asine quâ nonfor a fishing expedition," added the major, who, though not one of the party, had strolled down to the jetty ostensibly to see the start but in reality to observe "Captain Fennelburt" more closely. The seeds of suspicion are apt to shoot rapidly.
"Here's Blenkinson with the bait," announced Cumberleigh, as another khaki-clad individual, a first lieutenant, appeared carrying a rusty tin in one hand and a mud-covered spade in the other.
"Here are your precious rag-worms, Jeff," he remarked bitterly. "Next time you get me on that job I'll borrow your rubber boots. The mud's stiff with broken glass, and I've cut mine through—look."
To prove his words, Blenkinson adroitly balanced himself on one foot and kicked off a rubber boot. As the foot-gear fell upon the wooden staging of the jetty a quart of black sea-water poured out.
Jefferson sniffed judiciously at the tin.
"Fresh enough," he observed, "but, old son, pity you didn't devote your energies to the worms instead of wasting your time pulling bits of glass out of your boots. These won't last any time."
"No more will my boots, you slave-driving blighter," rejoined the worm-digger. "I'll swear I shifted a ton of mud without finding a single worm."
"Don't stop there arguing all the blessed afternoon!" exclaimed Cumberleigh. "If we can't fish we can sail. 'Once aboard the lugger,' my hearties."
The party embarked awkwardly after the fashion of men wearing breeches, puttees or leggings, and heavy boots. With the exception of Jefferson and von Preussen, they were raw amateurs in the art of sailing save on board a coastal airship. On those occasions they shone. In the present instance they did not.
The spy was on his best behaviour. Although he kept his eyes and ears open, he purposely avoided asking any questions relating to naval or military affairs at Auldhaig. Once, when Cumberleigh tried to "draw" him by pointing out the scene of the disaster to thePompey, von Preussen adroitly changed the subject by a reference to the forthcoming performance of "The Maid of the Mountains."
For an hour or more thePip-squeakmade steady progress under a stiffish breeze. She was by no means a flyer, but on the other hand she sailed well with the wind broad on the beam. Beyond a few slaps of spray she proved herself a dry boat, so that the crew, with the exception of Jefferson, who was at the helm, were able to sit on the bottom boards and smoke to their heart's content.
"Get a move on, you lazy hogs!" exclaimed Jefferson. "We're close on the right spot. Down with the canvas! Blenkinson, stand by to let go the anchor."
With a splash the anchor was lowered to obtain a grip in ten fathoms of water. Riding head to wind and tide, the boat brought up, pitching sharply in the short crested waves.
As long as the supply of bait lasted, sport was good. So engrossed were the sportsmen that they failed to notice that the wind was rising, and with the turn of the tide the waves were growing decidedly vicious.
"Hadn't we better be getting a move on?" suddenly inquired Cumberleigh, as he realised that the motion was causing an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Remember, some of us are going to the theatre to-night."
"What's the hurry, old bean?" inquired the enthusiastic boat-sailer, Jefferson. "If it comes to that, you can see the 'Mountains' from here, although there's no 'Maid'—not even a mermaid. But, I say, what's that?"
He pointed seawards. At about a mile distant was a long, low-lying black hull, apparently drifting broadside on to the waves.
"Boche submarine, perhaps," ventured the facetious Pyecroft. "She's coming to give us a tow back to Auldhaig. Did anyone remember to bring a Lewis gun in his trouser pocket?"
With the others, von Preussen looked in the direction of the mysterious craft. He had no pressing desire to renew acquaintance with one of His Imperial Majesty'sunterseebooten, although the consequences would be far less awkward for him than it would be for his present companions. But a brief glance assured him on that point. The craft, whatever it might be, was certainly not a U-boat. No amount of camouflage could alter that.
"She's a derelict," exclaimed Jefferson. "Get up the anchor, you fellows. We'll run alongside and have a look at her."
Quickly the anchor was broken out and the sail hoisted. Cumberleigh, who had been silently keeping the derelict under observation, suddenly turned and thumped von Preussen on the shoulder.
"Fennelburt," he vociferated, "Providence has played into your hands! You came here to inspect X-barges. Lo and behold, one of them obligingly drifts down to greet you!"
"You're right, Cumberleigh," said Pyecroft. "It's one of those that left Auldhaig this morning. I saw them go out. That red-haired Scot chap—McIntosh, you know him—was in charge."
"Hanged if he is now, at any rate," added Jefferson. "An' the old thing is well down by the stern. I believe she's sinking."
It took ten minutes for thePip-squeakto close with X-lighter No. 5. Running up into the wind on the lee side, Jefferson got way off the boat.
"How about it, you fellows?" he inquired. "Think it's safe to run alongside?"
"Might have a shot at it, old thing," replied Cumberleigh. "She hasn't altered her trim during the last five or ten minutes. I say, do we get salvage on a job like this, or is there some rotten regulation debarring underpaid officers from making a bit? What do you make of her, Fennelburt? You are a marine expert."
Von Preussen, who had been maintaining a discreet silence, ventured an opinion that it might be safe to board her provided the sailing-boat were kept alongside.
"Good enough," replied Cumberleigh. "You, Blenkinson and I will comprise the boarding-party; the others stand by in the boat.En avant, mes braves!Over the top you go, and the best of luck."
Fending off thePip-squeaklest her planks should be stove in against the massive rubbing-strake of the lighter, the three men contrived to effect a safe transhipment. A brief examination revealed the fact that the derelict had been in collision and that she had been badly holed right aft. The engine-room was flooded, and only the iron bulkhead between it and the hold had kept the craft from foundering.
"Now what's to be done?" inquired Blenkinson. "We can't tow her in. That's a moral cert."
"No, but we can send for a tug," said Cumberleigh. "Jefferson can sail back to Auldhaig in about an hour even if he doesn't fall in with a tug or even an M.L. on the way."
"What about 'The Maid of the Mountains'?" asked Blenkinson.
"We'll cut the appointment," replied the captain, with a laugh. "Excuse—the exigencies of the Service."
"But," protested von Preussen, "the lighter might founder. We should be in an awkward predicament if she did, the boat having left us. I would suggest that we all go back in thePip-squeakand report the matter."
"I agree," added Blenkinson. "After all's said and done, we don't stand a chance of getting anything out of the deal. And what matters if the old tub does sink? Her value is but a mere fleabite out of six millions a day."
But Captain Cumberleigh was made of sterner stuff. Once having set his hand to this maritime plough, he was loth to turn back.
"We'll stick it," he decided resolutely. "Jefferson will cruise around in case of an accident. If we find we are drifting on shore we can let go that anchor. I don't see there's much to get the wind up about."
"Cheers for the R.A.F. Salvage Syndicate," exclaimed Blenkinson, fired by his companion's enthusiasm, but von Preussen merely shrugged his shoulders. He hadn't risked the perils of the North Sea in order to protect the property of His Majesty the King of England.
"Donnerwetter!I am utterly sick of this business, Kaspar," whispered Seaman Furst. "It is the life of a dog, or worse. If this war is not over by the beginning of the winter there will be trouble amongst theunterseebootencrews."
"S'sh, not so loud," cautioned his companion, as the grumbler raised his voice towards the end of his tirade. "I agree with you, Hans. This game does not pay. We were told that we should save the Fatherland and bring England to her knees by our submarines. But have we? Just look! Here we are hungry, wet and unhappy, yet in England there is, they say, plenty. Just before we left Cuxhaven my wife had a letter from her brother who is a prisoner in England. He wrote and said that even our men who are held in captivity receive three good meals a day."
"That is what I do not understand," remarked Hans Furst. "If we are winning, as our officers tell us we are, how comes it that we cannot get eatable food? Of course, at the beginning of the war we were lucky. All we had to do was to run alongside an English merchantman, take what we wanted in the way of food and tobacco, and then sink her; but now——"
"But now," continued Kaspar Krauss, taking up the parable, "every strafed English ship has a gun, and one never knows but that a coasting vessel is not a death-trap for us. You remember that fishing-smack off Flamborough?"
Furst shuddered.
"Will I ever forget it?" he answered. "'Tis marvellous that we live to tell the tale. What would I not give for a life ashore with a tankard of Munich beer, a loaf of good bread and cheese? And tobacco—what is tobacco? I have almost forgotten."
"There was some in that Dutch vessel we burnt a week ago," said Krauss.
Furst clenched his fists.
"And where did it go?" he demanded. "Thatschweinhundour kapitan put it under lock and key. He and the pig-faced von Loringhoven smoke every night when we rise to recharge batteries, but never a cigar or a pipeful comes our way."
"We'll be back again on Friday if all goes well," said the other. "Then we can enjoy ourselves."
"Enjoy ourselves!" echoed Furst contemptuously. "How? I've got a bundle of notes in my belt, but precious little use are they. In the good old days a mark was a mark, but now——"
"Yes, I know," snarled Krauss. "Just before the war I came back from America on theGeorge Washingtonwith eight hundred and fifty marks to my name. I was going to buy a small business in Bremen and settle down to a life ashore. I should have done well. Then came the war. The rascally swindlers told us that if we lent our money to the State it would be repaid with twenty-five per cent. when peace was proclaimed. Just imagine! I handed over my eight hundred marks in silver, fool that I was! Even supposing the government does pay me back a thousand marks, it will be in rotten paper money, and I know that five thousand now will not buy the place I had offered to me for eight hundred and fifty four years ago."
"There will be trouble," agreed Furst. "Do you know that there is a movement amongst the men of the U-boats' crews to hoist the Red Flag?"
"Have I not heard of it!" exclaimed Kaspar grimly. "And when the time comes here is one who will jump at the opportunity. Now, at——"
The clang of a gong interrupted the discourse. The men jumped up smartly. The cast-iron discipline of the German Navy was as yet too powerful a force to be flouted by embryo revolutionists.
"Empty two and four tanks," came a guttural order through a voice tube. "And be quick about it, you numskulls!"
U 247 was preparing to rise to the surface in order to verify her position. For several hours she had rested on the bottom, scared by the presence of a swarm of destroyers and M.L.'s which had hurried to avenge the bombardment of Aberspey.
The material damage to the little town had been slight—almost negligible—for the majority of the shells had fallen in open spaces. Two people had been slightly injured by flying fragments. Actual destruction of military property was nil. Financially the bombardment was a failure. The cost of the ammunition far exceeded that of the damage; but morally an insult had been offered to the island shores of Britain, and the destroyer flotillas were quick to avenge the affront.
Ober-leutnant Hans von Preugfeld, kapitan of U 247, had acted with great discretion after his brave bombardment of Aberspey. "Legging it," submerged for several miles, he allowed the submarine to lie on the bottom for a considerable period. Then, hearing no suspicious sounds, he had the motors restarted and, the while submerged, shifted his position a good five miles. At length, assuming that it was safe to blow ballast-tanks and come to the surface, he gave the necessary orders.
Directly a patch of white light showed upon the object-bowl of the periscope, signifying that the tip of the latter had "broken surface," von Preugfeld made a cautious survey. Through nearly three hundred degrees the periscope revolved. Then, abruptly, the kapitan checked the rotary movement of the training-wheel.
"Come here, Eitel!" he exclaimed peremptorily.
Von Preugfeld stood aside to allow the unter-leutnant to view the object that had attracted his superior's attention.
"Come now," said the ober-leutnant irritably. "What do you make of it?"
"It is a vessel of some kind, Herr Kapitan," replied Eitel von Loringhoven.
"Of course it is," snapped von Preugfeld. "Any fool could see that. What I want to know is: what sort of craft is it? Stand aside if you cannot do better than that."
"It is a long, low-lying craft painted black," resumed Loringhoven, retaining his place at the periscope in order to ingratiate himself in the eyes of his commanding officer. "There are men standing aft. Amidships I can see a small sail—it may be that there is a sailing boat alongside."
"That's better," remarked von Preugfeld, literally pushing the unter-leutnant aside. "Port helm fifteen degrees," he ordered. "A touch ahead with both motors."
The U-boat shuddered under the beats of the twin screws, then forging slowly ahead approached the puzzling object.
"Stop!"
A bell clanged somewhere in the confined recesses of the modern pirate craft. At a curt nod from the kapitan the quartermaster pulled over a lever which had the effect of actuating the twin horizontal rudders. Once more the periscope reared its sinister head above the waves.
"Ach! I see men in uniform," exclaimed von Preugfeld. "We must be cautious. Men in khaki," he continued, scratching his closely cropped head in perplexity. "I cannot understand it. Look again, Eitel: can you see if she carries any guns or torpedo-tubes?"
"None, as far as I can see, Herr Kapitan," replied von Loringhoven after a careful scrutiny. "To me it looks as if she is sinking. Her stern is well down. Yes, there is a sailing-boat alongside or close to her. The boat is moving ahead."
"We will submerge and come up again on the other side," declared von Preugfeld. "We may then solve the mystery. Down to ten metres," he ordered.
Bubbling with latent insubordination, Furst and Krauss at their posts at the auxiliary ballast-tank valves obeyed promptly. In spite of all their revolutionary tendencies and expressions of general "fed-uppedness," they realised that their lives depended upon the prompt execution of their hated superior's orders. Knowing nothing of what was going on without, they submitted to discipline as the only remedy for their present predicament. After a period of ten minutes' total submergence the periscope shoved its squat snout above the surface—like a reluctant puppy about to receive a hiding. When a periscope is in danger of getting a blinding blow in the shape of a six-pounder shell, or the hull to which it belongs is liable to be pulverised by a trio of torpedoes, the need for extreme caution becomes apparent.
"They have not observed us," muttered von Preugfeld with fervent gratitude to the providence that looks after Hun submarines. "There's 'X 5' painted on her bows. Know what that means, Eitel?"
Von Loringhoven confessed that he did not. In spite of a careful perusal of all works dealing with numbers and nomenclature of British shipping—and Berlin was kept fairly up-to-date in such matters—the mystic symbol "X 5" was to him an unknown quantity. Incidentally it recalled days when he was studying mathematics at the Kiel Naval College.
The ober-leutnant steadied the periscope and touched a switch. Immediately, by the introduction of a special lens, the "field" covered by the eye-piece of the periscope was reduced, but the object actually seen was considerably magnified. It was like looking through a telescope.
"They are men of the English Air Force," he observed. "I believe—here, Eitel, look—the man walking for'ard. What do you make of him?"
"Donnerwetter!" ejaculated von Loringhoven. "Surely it is our friend von Preussen?"
"Yes," replied the ober-leutnant. "Von Preussen playing the part of a Jonah to an English whale. I wonder what he does there?"
"It would be well to clear out and leave him alone, Herr Kapitan," suggested von Loringhoven. "It could only be that von Preussen is engaged in highly important confidential work that brings him afloat again.Himmel!He is a clever fellow."
The ober-leutnant tugged at his moustache thoughtfully. Eager to have a finger in any pie without the risk of burning himself, he was loth to take his subordinate's advice. Here, apparently, was an unarmed craft, crewless, with the exception of a few officers. To him it suggested that highly confidential experiments were being carried on—so important that no one beneath the rank of officer was permitted to be present. Perhaps they were staff officers of high rank?
Eagerly von Preugfeld kept each man under observation. The trench-coats gave no indication of their wearers' rank, but —disappointing fact—none of the officers wore gilt leaves round the peaks of their caps. The sailing-boat alongside was also a puzzle. Why should the experimenters make use of an insignificant sailing-boat when there were steam pinnaces and motor launches available?
"Stand by!" he ordered. "Guns' crews prepare to take your stations. Blow main and auxiliary tanks."
Bells clanged, valves hissed and pumps grated, men hurried to and fro in execution of loud-voiced orders.
Von Preugfeld turned to his unter-leutnant.
"Bring her up," he ordered. "I am going to take those fellows prisoners."
"Whatin the name of goodness is that?" exclaimed Captain Cumberleigh.
He knew perfectly well. The sight of a slender pole inclined slightly from the perpendicular and throwing out a double feather of spray as it cleft the water told him that it was the periscope of a submarine.
His exclamation attracted the attention of his companions. Even as they looked appeared the tip of the second periscope, followed almost immediately by the bows and conning-tower of the submarine. Then like a gigantic whale the long, bulging hull slithered above the surface, the water pouring from its deck in cascades of swirling foam.
"One of our submarines, by Jove!" exclaimed Pyecroft. "Wonder what she's doing here?"
"A Hun!" corrected Cumberleigh. "We're properly in the soup, you fellows."
He gave a hurried glance in the only direction from which they could expect aid—skywards. Not an aircraft of any description was in sight. The gorgeous prospect of seeing a seaplane swoop down upon an incautious Fritz was out of the question.
"Jefferson!" he shouted. "Run for it, man. Don't wait for us."
The owner of thePip-squeaktook in the situation at a glance. True, the U-boat was between him and the shore, but there was a stiff leading wind. While the Hun was concentrating his attention upon the X-lighter the sailing-boat had a fair chance of getting away, but Jefferson was a "white man."
"No fear, old bird!" he shouted. "We're all in this stunt. I am coming on board."
With that he ran the sailing-boat alongside the barge, and, without waiting to lower the sail, leapt on deck and secured the painter.
Meanwhile the hatches of the U-boat had been thrown open and her two guns manned and trained point-blank upon the helpless lighter.
"'Fraid this isn't the time for a death-or-glory stunt," remarked Cumberleigh. "Fritz is evidently 'one up.'"
Of the five, "Captain Fennelburt" was the least perturbed. The spy was distinctly annoyed at the unexpected turn of events. It looked as if his carefully prepared campaign was to be nipped in the bud. Consequently he was liable to heavy financial loss in addition to a waste of valuable time, for his employers in Berlin paid only for definite results. "No work, no pay," was the motto of the German Secret Service, and before von Preussen could be landed in Great Britain again weeks might elapse. As a secondary consideration, there was the doubt of how he would be received by his compatriots. For very good reasons he wished to conceal his identity from his companions on the lighter. In spite of strenuous precautions, British prisoners of war sometimes contrived to effect their escape, and it would be a very serious matter for von Preussen if it became known through the medium of a former captive in Germany that thesoi-disantCaptain Fennelburt was a Secret Service agent of the German Intelligence Department.
"Gentlemen!" observed Pyecroft facetiously. "The R.A.F. Salvage Syndicate is dissolved."
With her guns still trained upon the lighter, U 247 approached slowly and with evident hesitation. At the back of von Preugfeld's mind lurked the haunting suspicion that X 5 was a snare. The very temptingness of the bait increased his suspicions. Perhaps a British submarine was lying in wait to blow him and his U-boat to atoms; or somewhere in the clouds a coastal airship was floating motionless, awaiting an opportunity to swoop down and let loose an aerial torpedo before the Germans had time to close hatches and submerge.
On the other hand, there was von Preussen, clad in a British R.A.F. uniform and standing seemingly unconcerned upon the lighter's deck. Surely, if there were a trap, the Hun would contrive to make a mute signal to his compatriots.
Von Preussen gave none. He was content to let events take their course.
Presently U 247 reversed engines and brought up within half a cable's length of the barge. Clambering upon the raised platform abaft the conning-tower, the kapitan raised a megaphone to his lips.
His delivery of English was execrable, but he was unaware of the fact. He rather prided himself on the knowledge that he could speak the language, having learnt it from a third-rate German professor in a minor university in the Fatherland.
"You vos surrender make!" he shouted. "It all of an instant up is mit you. Get into der leedle boat and put you yourselves on board dis scheep. If you drouble giff, den we shoot."
"Right-o, old bean!" hailed Cumberleigh in reply.
Von Preugfeld was puzzled by the reply. Mentally he resolved at the first opportunity to consult Volume II (Ba-Cu) of a British Encyclopaedia that he had on board.
"Look you pointed about it!" he exclaimed angrily. "I you give half a minute to quit der boat."
"Come on, boys!" said Cumberleigh. "The old josser's getting jumpy."
"Is that an order or a request, Cumberleigh?" asked Pyecroft. "If it's an order, well and good; if not, I'm not having any."
"Please yourself, old man," replied the captain. "And the very best of luck."
The four stepped into thePip-squeak. Her sail was hurriedly stowed, and under oars the boat approached the submarine.
"Der vos five!" exclaimed Ober-leutnant von Preugfeld, as the prisoners came over the side. "Vere is der odder?"
A look of blank ignorance appeared on each man's face. Even the spy failed to betray any sign that would reveal the secret. The kapitan turned to a petty officer.
"Place these men below," he ordered.
"These three in No. 3 store-room; this one will go aft. You, there," he added, addressing another seaman. "Take an axe and knock out the garboards of that boat."
Cumberleigh, Blenkinson and Jefferson found themselves escorted below in double quick time. When fear hangs on the heels of a U-boat's crew the promptness to execute an order borders on panic. Literally hustled along a narrow alley-way bristling with dozens, nay, scores, of valve-wheels, they were bundled into a dark, moisture-laden recess that at one time contained a quantity of consumable stores. The door was slammed and locked, and the three R.A.F. officers found themselves prisoners of war under highly objectionable circumstances—trapped in a U-boat.
Giving another glance skywards and all around the horizon, von Preugfeld walked aft to the hatchway through which von Preussen had disappeared. "I'll see you in the ward-room in less than five minutes, von Preussen," he said. "Apparently this affair requires an explanation. But what has become of the fourth Englishman?"
"Still on board," replied the spy. "He's trying to evade capture."
"There is an alternative," remarked the ober-leutnant grimly. "He's welcome to it."
Making his way back to the outside of the conning-tower, von Preugfeld noted that his order concerning the sailing-boat had been carried out. Levelling his binocular, he scanned the shelving deck of the X-lighter. There was no sign of life on board X 5.
Ringing for half speed, von Preugfeld increased the distance between the U-boat and her prize to three hundred yards.
"Give her a round amidships!" he ordered.
The U-boat rolled sluggishly to starboard under the recoil of the gun. Almost simultaneously with the report of the weapon came the crash of exploding shell. Amidst a welter of foam and yellow smoke X 5 disappeared beneath the waves, leaving the water dotted with floating debris in the shape of buoyant articles released from her hold by the shattering of her hatches.
For a full half-minute the ober-leutnant kept the flotsam under observation; then, satisfied that his work of destruction had been accomplished in its entirety, and that to remain on the surface much longer after the roar of the explosion was hazardous, he turned to von Loringhoven.
"Down to twenty-five metres," he ordered. "Course due west at eight knots for ten minutes. Then let her sound."
Leaving the unter-leutnant to carry out his instructions, von Preugfeld made his way to the cabin where the returned spy awaited him.
"I hardly expected to see you so soon, Karl," he began. "I hope I haven't disturbed your elaborate plans."
"You have," replied the spy, with marked emphasis.
"Himmel!How is that? Were you taken into the confidence of these English officers, and were your investigations a secret project that was being experimented upon to the disadvantage of the Fatherland?"
"You have put me to considerable inconvenience," replied von Preussen. "My kit is at an hotel at Auldhaig."
"No compromising documents, I hope?" asked the kapitan anxiously.
"No; but a man cannot get about in comfort without his travelling belongings," remarked the spy. "You will have to land me again, but my venture in the Auldhaig district is a failure. It means that I must make my way south and try my luck in Dover and Portsmouth. And I was getting on so nicely with those fellows at the air station," he added, little knowing to what purpose the hospitality had been extended.
"And what was the experiment?" asked von Preugfeld.
"Experiment? There was no experiment," declared the spy. "Those fools of Englishmen took a liking to me and insisted on my going with them on a fishing expedition. We fell in with an almost water-logged barge, and while we were exploring you appeared. Now comes the question, where and when do you intend to set me ashore?"
Von Preugfeld's feelings were far from those of composure. On the one hand, he had sunk an English vessel of sorts. It was true that she looked like sinking before, but that was a side issue. He had made a capture of three English officers and had killed a fourth. Unfortunately, they were of no great rank as he had hoped—merely junior officers. On the other hand, he would have to delay his return journey in order to set von Preussen ashore. Stores, fuel and provisions were already running short, and the delay would mean considerable inconvenience, possibly danger. His afternoon's work, like that of the bombardment of Aberspey, was not worth the candle.
"I have already carried out instructions with reference to yourself," he remarked stiffly.
"And almost immediately you have undone all the work required of you in the matter," added the spy.
The ober-leutnant shrugged his shoulders. He was obstinate, pig-headed and arrogant, but in argument he was no match for the trained finesse of the Secret Service agent.
"As a favour——" he began.
"No—as a right," corrected von Preussen firmly.
"Donnerwetter!You insist too much," grumbled von Preugfeld. "I suppose there is nothing to be done but to fall in with your whim."
"With official instructions," interpolated the spy.
"Have your own way then," snapped the ober-leutnant. "To land you must necessarily entail night-work. I propose, then, to set you ashore at the same place as before. We are, in fact, within a couple of miles of it, and you will observe that we have shut off the motors, and U 247 is even now resting on the bed of the German Ocean. I would suggest that you should walk to Nedderburn and catch the mail train south that stops at the junction shortly after three in the morning."
"And more than likely stumble across some of the officers and men from Auldhaig Air Station," objected the spy. "No, my friend, I prefer to lay my own plans; then, if anything does go wrong, I have only myself to blame. And since Captain George Fennelburt is either a prisoner of war or 'missing—presumed drowned,' I must needs beg, borrow or steal another name. Henceforth, until further notice, I am Captain Broadstone, also of the Royal Air Force. Will you oblige me by lending me a pen? There are certain forms which I must now fill in to bear out my new character."