WithCaptain Cumberleigh's valedictory words ringing in his ears, Pyecroft began his preparations to avoid capture. While his comrades were hurriedly lowering thePipsqueak'ssail, the "second loot," hidden from the pirate craft by the flapping canvas, slipped over the side as noiselessly and silently as an eel.
The shock of the icy-cold water almost took his breath away.
"By gosh!" he muttered. "It is a bit of a stinger. But cheer up, old son, you may get it pretty hot in a very short time."
With that he dived under the lighter's hull. Literally groping his way down the weed and barnacle-covered bottom, he scraped under the keel and up again on the other side until darkness gave place to a glint of pale green water that in turn gave place to the salt-laden air. He had now placed the hull of No. 5 between him and the U-boat. So far so good, but the late member of the R.A.F. Salvage Syndicate had to consider another pressing problem.
Even supposing, as he fondly hoped, that the Huns had not noticed him, it was logical to assume that they would not sheer off before sending the lighter to Davy Jones's locker. How? By ramming? Hardly. A U-boat would not hesitate to crash into a ship's boat deeply laden with the survivors of a torpedoed merchantman, but she would think twice before trying conclusions with the lighter's massive rubbing-strake. By placing bombs on board? That meant making use of a boat and consequently delay. Gunfire? Yes; that looked like the answer to the question.
Now for the subsidiary problem. Assuming that the Huns would turn a quick-firer upon the lighter, where would they aim? At the engine-room? Hardly, as the stern was already awash. Amidships, into the heavily-laden hold, the work of destruction would be most easily accomplished.
"So here's for her bows," decided Pyecroft, having reviewed the situation. "If my theories are all wrong, then it's a case of 'going west.'" He swam with slow, easy strokes towards the bows. There was no immediate hurry, since the boat with his companions had not yet reached the pirate submarine. He knew that he had to conserve his strength and his energies for the ordeal that promised to be forthcoming.
To his great delight, he found a rope trailing overboard. A tug reassured him that it was made fast to the towing bollards. By hanging on to it Pyecroft could support himself with ease, while the bluff, overhanging bows would effectually screen him should any of the Huns board the abandoned craft.
For a long-drawn ten minutes—it seemed like ten hours—Pyecroft waited. Already the numbing cold was taking effect. His upstretched arm seemed to have lost all sensation of feeling. It was merely the grip of the tightly closed fingers, contracted by the cold, that supported him.
Then with appalling suddenness came the crash of the exploding shell. Jerked almost clear of the water, Pyecroft had a vision of the forepart of the massive hull rearing high in the air. Flying debris hurtled over him, pungent smoke filled the air. Then, with a rush of eddying water, the X-lighter slithered beneath the waves.
Under cover of the smoke Pyecroft struck out. Fragments hurled high in the air were now falling all around him, while buoyant objects, taken down by the vortex, were rising to the surface with terrific force. A plank, the jagged edge of which would have almost cut the swimmer in two, shot upwards from beneath the waves. Missing him by inches, it described a parabola, rising to a height of twenty feet or more before it fell back with a resounding smack.
With his senses deadened by the stupendous roar, the pungent smoke and the coldness of the water, Pyecroft kept himself afloat automatically until he came in contact with a huge wicker basket that was floating upside down with about a third of its bulk exposed.
As he grasped it, the basket turned completely over, the rim striking the swimmer a smart rap on the face. The sting of the blow had the effect of partly restoring his mental faculties. Gaining a firmer grip of the basket, he took stock of his surroundings.
The surface of the water was coated with a deposit of oil, for part of the cargo of X 5 had consisted of turps, linseed, and lubricating oil in casks. One effect of the explosion of the shell had been to liberate the contents of the casks; another, the oil acted as an antidote to the coldness of the water.
Before the haze of smoke had completely disappeared Pyecroft drew the basket over his head. Within there was enough space to keep his head clear of the water, and at the same time there remained considerable buoyancy on the part of the stout wicker-work.
Presently the outlines of the U-boat that had been responsible for Pyecroft's predicament became visible. She was slowly forging ahead. Her deck was deserted. She was preparing to submerge.
"She's gone," he soliloquised. "That's a blessing. I wouldn't swop places with Cumberleigh for a tenner."
He dodged outside his place of concealment and glanced around. A hundred yards away was the water-loggedPip-squeak. Even with her garboard smashed the staunchly built boat kept afloat.
"Wonder if I can do it?" thought the swimmer.
Fumbling with benumbed fingers to draw a knife from his pocket, he proceeded to cut the laces of his leggings.
"There's thirty-one and six gone," he muttered ruefully. "An' they aren't paid for yet."
His boots were likewise ruthlessly sacrificed. Then, quitting his hold of the basket, he struck out towards the derelict boat. A few strokes convinced him that the overhand method of swimming has its disadvantages when hampered with sodden clothing. The breast stroke, he found, required comparatively little effort, yet by the time he covered that hundred yards he felt that he had reached the limit of his prowess in the swimming line.
Grasping the gunwale, Pyecroft attempted to clamber into the boat, with the result that the water-logged boat dipped completely under his weight.
At the second attempt he slithered over the transom and, still submerged, lightly grasped one of the thwarts. Here was a precarious shelter. Provided he made no attempt to draw himself clear of the water, there was just sufficient buoyancy to keep him afloat.
His next task—there was little time before he would be overcome by the cold—was to unship the mast and lash it to the thwarts. Thrice the boat dipped before the effort met with success. The stout spar, secured to the thwarts by the main-sheets and halliards, added considerably to the liveliness of the boat.
An oar, amongst other flotsam, drifted alongside. This Pyecroft secured, and by its aid added another oar, although of different length, to his life-saving appliances. A circular life-buoy and a couple of empty petrol tins were also taken possession of; these he lashed under thwarts, with the result that the boat's gunwales showed four inches above the surface amidships.
Groping on the bottom boards, the young officer discovered a pair of gun-metal rowlocks that had apparently escaped the eye of the destructive Hun. Thus equipped, he began to row for the distant shore.
It was hard work. At the best the water-logged craft made a bare mile an hour, but the effect of the heavy toil was to bring warmth to the man's chilled body and limbs. Setting his jaw tightly, he held on, glancing from time to time over his shoulder in the direction of the cliffs, now growing dim in the dusk of approaching night.
"How much further?" he asked himself at the end of two hours. "Hanged if they seem any nearer. Wind and tide are with me, too."
Compared with flying through the air at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, his present rate of progression was indeed painfully slow, yet with the dogged determination of an Englishman, "never to say die till you're dead," he tugged at the heavy oars until his blistered hands grew raw and his muscles ached as if his back would break.
With night the wind dropped and the sea assumed a placid, oily aspect. The land was now invisible, for not a light could be seen from seaward. Fortunate it was that the young airman had been compelled to undergo a course of astronomy. He hated it at the time; now he was glad, for by keeping the North Star broad on his starboard beam, he knew that he was heading towards the shores of Scotland.
His task was stupendous. The drag of the boat, which contained more than a ton of the North Sea, was terrific. He was wearing badly. Cold, hunger and fatigue were telling. Almost mechanically he swotted at the heavy oars.
He had lost all count of time, when he heard a faint rumble. It was the surf lashing the beach. Encouraged, yet realising that other dangers lurked on that surf-beaten shore, he rallied his remaining energies, counting each stroke as he bent to the oars.
At the one thousand and eightieth stroke he desisted. Around him the water was phosphorescent and white with the backlash of the waves. His task was accomplished. Human endurance had attained its limit. He was powerless to control his water-logged craft in the breakers. All he could do was to sit tight and trust in Providence.
For another five minutes the sorely-triedPip-squeakwas tossed and buffeted in the broken water, until a tremendous jar announced that in the trough of the waves she had touched hard shingle.
Then, like an avalanche, a cascade of foam swept completely over the boat. Frantically Pyecroft strove to grip the gunwale. Torn away by the rush of water, he was conscious of being pounded on the shingle. Then came the dreaded undertow.
Vainly he attempted to grasp the rolling shingle. He felt himself being swept backwards to be again overwhelmed by the next roller, when his retrograde motion was arrested by a heavy object. It was thePip-squeak. Even in the last stages of her existence Jefferson's boat seemed destined to be of service.
With a final effort as the frothy water slithered past Pyecroft gained his feet. The hiss of the approaching breaker gave strength to his limbs. Stumbling, terror-stricken, and well-nigh exhausted, he contrived to win the race by inches until, realising that the dreaded enemy had fallen short, he fell on his face on the wet shingle.
For some moments he lay thus until, haunted by the horrible suspicion that the rising tide would overwhelm him, he staggered a few paces until he was above high-water mark, and then collapsed inertly upon the seaweed-strewn shore.
How long he lay unconscious he had no idea; but when he came to himself the moon was shining dimly through a watery haze. The tide had fallen, and with it the horrible ground-swell had disappeared.
He was bitterly cold: his limbs were like lead. An effort to rise was a dismal failure. He tried to shout, but no sound came from his parched lips. While he had lain unconscious there must have been a short spell of wind, for he found that he was covered with dried wrack and seaweed.
"It must be close on daybreak," he thought. "I'll have to stick it a little longer."
He made an attempt to look at his wristlet watch. The dial was no longer luminous, while an ominous silence had taken the place of an erstwhile healthy tick. A prolonged submergence had ruined the delicate mechanism for all time.
As he lay, too benumbed to move, he became aware that a boat had grounded on the beach within a few yards of his involuntary resting-place. The little craft must have come in very silently, for until the men's boots grated on the shingle he was unaware of their presence.
Again he tried to shout, but without result. Then, even as he tried to raise himself, he noticed that with one exception the men wore unfamiliar uniforms. They were talking softly, with an unmistakable guttural Teutonic accent.
"Huns," thought Pyecroft. "What's their little game? I've done them so far, and I'm hanged if I want them to put a half-nelson on me now. I'll lie doggo."
Which, considering his weak physical state, was an easy matter to do.
The Huns were evidently in a hurry, for after a few words with a greatcoated individual, they pushed off and rowed seaward, while the man they had left ashore lifted a portmanteau from the shingle and made his way towards the cliff with the air of one who is confident of his surroundings.
He passed so close to the prone figure lying partly covered by seaweed that for a brief instant Pyecroft expected the stranger to stumble against him.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated the astonished Pyecroft. "Where have I seen that fellow? By Jove—it's Fennelburt. Up to some dirty work: I wonder what?"
"Gun-fire!" exclaimed Lieutenant-Commander Morpeth, sniffing the salt air like an alert terrier scenting a rat.
"Away to the south-east'ard," corroborated Wakefield. "Is this going to be one of your lucky days, George?"
"It won't be for the want of trying," rejoined the R.N. R. man grimly; then bending till his lips nearly touched the mouth of the voice tube, he shouted, "Stand by, below there, to whack her up."
A few crisp orders followed. Men moved swiftly and silently to their appointed stations, while the course was altered a couple of points to take Q 171 to the scene of the supposed action.
It was the second day of Wakefield's and Meredith's enforced but none the less interesting detention on board the mystery ship. Q 171 was well out into the North Sea, bound for a certain position a few miles to the west'ard of the now famous Horn Reefs Lightship. The sea was calm, a light breeze blew from the west'ard, while the sky was filled with small fleecy clouds drifting slowly athwart the lower air-currents—an indication of a forthcoming change of wind.
The three officers, clad in black oilskins to keep up the rôle of Hun pirates, had been sitting on the cambered edge of the base of the dummy conning-tower, yarning of times not long gone and holding forth wondrous theories of what might happen in the seemingly far distant epoch after the war.
"Small quick-firers," declared Morpeth, as the rumble of the sharp reports grew louder and louder. "None of our M.L.'s in action by any chance, I hope?"
Slinging his binoculars round his neck, Morpeth, with an agility that his ponderous frame belied, clambered to the domed top of the conning-tower, reckless of the fact that his weight was causing the frail metal-work to "give" ominously.
Bringing his glasses to bear upon a faint dot just on the horizon, Morpeth made a long and steady scrutiny.
"Merchant vessel—tramp, by the look of her—chased by a Fritz," he reported, "Unhealthy work—for Fritz. I'll keep her on my lee bow a bit. It's no use butting in too soon. Too much dashed hurry spoils everything."
At sixteen knots Q 171 held on, with the apparent object of joining in the chase and cutting off the fleeing merchantman. Quickly the chase came in sight—a bluff-bowed, wall-sided tramp, with an elaborately camouflaged hull.
"Confounded scheme that razzle-dazzle," commented Morpeth. "Meet three or four in a crowded waterway, and you begin to wonder whether you'll see mother again. Can't tell whether they are bows on, or what. Fancy we've got her cold, though. For'ard gun, let her have it."
The bow-chaser spat viciously, sending a shrieking missile within a hundred yards of the tramp, which, badly on fire aft, was still proudly flying the Red Ensign. Her funnel, hit about six feet above the deck, was showing signs of collapse, being supported only by the wire rope guys. Making a bare eight knots, she was evidently at the mercy of the pursuing U-boat, which, capable of doing eighteen on the surface, was slowing down after the manner of a cat playing with a mouse.
Q 171, firing rapidly, but deliberately planting her shells wide of the merchant vessel, now turned twelve points to port. This had the effect of bringing her into a decidedly convergent course with that of the U-boat. The latter, probably "smelling a rat," or taking exception to what appeared to be another of her kind "spoiling the game," edged away to starboard, at the same time hoisting a signal.
By the aid of the appropriated German Naval Code Book, Q 171's skipper deciphered the signal. It was a peremptory request for the pseudo U-boat to make her number and thus proclaim her identity.
This was easily done. A four letter hoist of bunting fluttered from Q 171's mast, giving the information that she was U 251 of the Imperial German Navy.
"This is my prize," signalled the dog-in-the-manger Fritz.
"I have good reasons for joining in the chase," was Morpeth's reply.
During the lengthy exchange of flag messages, both boats had maintained a hot fire upon the tramp. From the genuine U-boat the result of Q 171's shells could not be observed. Had the Huns been able to do so, they would have expressed considerable surprise at their supposed consort's decidedly erratic gunnery; but in the heat of rivalry they became reckless.
Almost imperceptibly, Q 171 lessened the distance between her and her prey. The tramp was two miles ahead, while barely half a mile separated the U-boat and the decoy.
"Stand by the tubes!" ordered Morpeth, at the same time motioning to Wakefield and Meredith to step clear of the rails.
Meredith felt a distinctly unpleasant sensation in his throat. Perspiration oozed from his forehead. Fascinated, he watched the alert faces of the men standing by the mechanism that was to lay bare the deadly torpedo-tubes.
"Let her have it!" shouted Morpeth.
With hardly a rumble, the dummy conning-tower rolled over the well-oiled rails, revealing the triple tubes trained abeam upon their prey. The next instant the glistening cigar-shaped missiles leapt over the side and disappeared in a welter of foam.
Travelling at the rate of an express train under the impulse of small but powerful electric motors, the torpedoes took very little time to cover the intervening distance. So intent were the Huns at shelling the tramp that they failed to notice the tracks of the sinister weapons until, with an appalling roar, two of them exploded simultaneously and thirty yards apart against the U-boat's hull.
Morpeth gave a grunt of satisfaction as he watched the tall column of water break and fall in a shower of smoke-mingled spray.
"Simple—quite simple," he remarked; then, observing Meredith's white face, he clapped the young officer on the shoulder.
"Cheer up!" he ejaculated. "Nothing to look white about the gills.... When you've been on the game as long as I have, and seen what an utter bounder Fritz is, you'll understand."
With the discharge of the torpedoes Q 171 altered helm and resumed her former course. Morpeth meant to take no chances by revealing his identity to the tramp. He preferred to let the crew of the merchant vessel think that the disaster of her supposed consort had effectually put the wind up the second U-boat. Q 171 was a mystery ship, and once her true character was known the story would be all over the first port at which the tramp touched. And, after all, it was not a very far cry from an East Coast port to Berlin in war time, and benevolent neutrals had an unfortunate liking for spreading reports, true or otherwise, of what they saw and heard in British harbours.
A sudden ejaculation from Morpeth attracted Meredith's attention. The R.N.R. man was pointing with outstretched arm in the direction of the tramp.
He had good reason for astonishment. The apparently badly battered tramp had swung round and was forging through the water at high speed—possibly a good twenty-five knots. The Red Ensign had been struck, and the White Ensign streamed proudly in the breeze.
"Look alive there!" shouted Morpeth. "Up with our rag, or they'll be planking a four-point-seven into us. Hanged if she isn't a Q-boat too!"
The R.N.R. man was right concerning the rôle of the oncoming ship; but he was wrong in his surmise as to her intentions. Her skipper had noticed that the shells fired from the second U-boat had purposely gone wide, he had spotted the uncovered torpedo-tubes on her deck, and had seen the sudden disintegration of U-boat No. 1. Metaphorically speaking, he was foaming at the mouth.
A hoist of bunting rose to the masthead of the approaching vessel. "Heave-to; I wish to communicate," read the signal.
Morpeth rang for "half speed" and then "stop." He turned to Wakefield.
"Now's your chance to get a lift back," he remarked.
"Fancy I'll hang on," replied the late skipper of M.L. 1071. "A day or two won't make much difference. Had I been ashore I suppose the S.N.O. would have packed me off on leaf."
"And you, my festive?" inquired Morpeth, addressing Meredith.
"I'm following my senior officer's lead," replied the Sub promptly.
"As regards your men, I'll put them on board if she'll have 'em," continued Morpeth. "It'll relieve the pressure on the grub locker. Hope they won't kag too much about us, though."
"I don't think so," replied Wakefield, who had great faith in the sound sense of his crew.
"But after all it won't matter so very much," added the R.N.R. officer. "By the time they get ashore my little stunt will, I hope, be a back number. Now, let's see what this camouflaged blighter has to say."
The Q-boat had now ranged up within fifty or sixty feet of her small co-worker. Men, rigged out in the nondescript garments affected by the Mercantile Marine, were clustered for'ard, while a couple of stalwart individuals, rigged out in pilot-coats, serge trousers and sea-boots, were leaning over the side abreast the mainmast.
"Dash you, you meddling bounder!" roared one of the latter. "What d'ye mean by butting in and spoiling our sport? D'ye think we stood a gruelling for four mortal hours just for the fun of seeing you give Fritz socks? An' we had her nicely within range when you let rip."
"Sorry," replied Morpeth apologetically, "But how the blazes was I to know?"
"You'd have known quick enough if we had shown our teeth," replied the other grimly. "Three of my men killed and six wounded, and nothing to show for it."
"So I suppose when I fall in with a genuine tramp being chased by a Fritz, I'll just carry on?" inquired Morpeth caustically.
"I won't say that," replied the other. His wrath was fast evaporating. He was beginning to realise that, after all, cooperation was the thing, and that rivalry, except of the healthy order, was detrimental to the great work in hand. "When all's said and done, it's something to think that we took you in. At first I thought you were a Fritz: your get-up was so good. But I say, isn't your name Morpeth—Geordie Morpeth?"
"I have a notion that you've hit the right nail on the head," replied the skipper Of Q 171. "But I'm dashed if I can call your face to mind!"
"Met you in Rio in January '12," announced the other, with a typical sailorman's memory for dates. "You were in theHumming-Bird. I was on theGlaucis, second mate at the time."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Morpeth, "you're Bellairs. I didn't recognise you; you've altered some."
"Hardly recognise myself at times," remarked Bellairs. "If you want to age rapidly, try a trick in a Q-boat. I see you're trying it already. Well, I must be pushing along. I'm making for Newcastle, after three weeks off the Lofoden Islands. Fritz was pretty busy in Norwegian waters, but I guess he's put up his shutters for a time at least. We've driven a few nails into his coffin."
"Left one or two for me, I hope?" remarked Morpeth. "But look here, can you give a passage to a few hands?"
"A few," agreed Bellairs guardedly. "How many?"
Morpeth told him.
"I've also two officers on board," he added. "They wish to stay and have a rest cure. I'm doing my best to educate 'em at the same time."
The other R.N.R. man laughed. "Right-o!" he exclaimed. "If you educate 'em like you did the youngsters on theHumming-BirdI can see them writing home to mother about you."
"Hear that?" inquired Morpeth, turning to Wakefield and Meredith. "Old man Bellairs evidently thinks I'm a tough nut. Hope Fritz'll think so too; that's the thing that counts."
"FromSub-lieut. J. McIntosh to S.N.O., Auldhaig. Regret to report X-lighter No. 5 sunk in collision. Crew saved."
"From Officer Commanding No. Umpteen Group to Air Ministry. I have to report that the following officers are reported missing, believed drowned:—Captain R. G. Cumberleigh, Lieut. H. L. Jefferson, 2/Lieut. W. Pyecroft, Lieut. J. Blenkinson, all of Auldhaig Air Station; and Captain G. Fennelburt, from Sheerness Air Station, on detached duty. It is understood that these officers left Auldhaig in a private boat on a fishing expedition. It is requested that Sheerness may be informed concerning the officer mentioned above."
"From O.C. Lintieness Coast Guard Station to Inspecting Officer of C.G., Auldhaig. I have to report that at 4 P.M. a lighter which had been signalled passing south at 11 A.M. was observed to be derelict 3 miles E. by S. off Lintieness Head. It was afterwards lost in the haze, drifting to the northward. At 5 P.M. a violent explosion was heard, apparently from a direction bearing E. by N."
"From O.C. Auldhaig M.L. Flotilla to S.N.O., Auldhaig. Acting upon instructions, I proceeded in search of X-lighter No. 5. At a position bearing N.E. by E., five miles from Lintieness Head, quantity of wreckage discovered floating, including a buoy marked 'X-lighter No. 5.' The debris gave indication of an explosion. Saw no trace of boat reported missing by Air Station, Auldhaig."
"From Superintendent of Police, Abercuish, to O.C. Auldhaig Air Station. Report that at 5 A.M. on the — inst. 2/Lieutenant W. Pyecroft, R.A.F., was discovered in an exhausted condition on the shore at Abercuish. He was removed to a house in the village, and thence to the Abercuish Cottage Hospital. According to his statement, his companions were taken prisoners by a German submarine from X-lighter No. 5."
"From Air Ministry to O.C. No. Umpteen Group, Auldhaig. Nothing known of Captain Fennelburt at Sheerness Air Station. Please ascertain if a mistake has been made in this officer's name, and report the nature of the detached duty referred to in your telegram No. 4452 of the — inst."
These messages, written on official forms, lay on the table in the private room of the Commander-in-Chief's office at Auldhaig.
There were three persons in the room. One, the Commander-in-Chief, a breezy, dark-featured, clean-shaven naval officer of about fifty-five; the second, the dapper, boyish-faced lieutenant-colonel who held the post of Officer Commanding the R.A.F. Air Station. The third was the Commander-in-Chief's secretary—a silent, almost taciturn individual whose face was almost the same colour as that of his gilt aiguillettes. In his head the secretary held knowledge upon which depended the success of the Grand Fleet and for which Germany would willingly have paid millions; but that firmly set mouth was sealed upon all matters appertaining to the war save when lawful occasion demanded. And in a few months' time John Elphinhaye would be placed upon the Retired List with a pension that, with Income Tax deducted, would be little more than the wages of an artisan.
"The whole business seems a general muck-up, Greyhouse," observed the Commander-in-Chief, addressing the lieutenant-colonel. "There's something wrong somewhere. How can this confounded lighter be sunk in collision and shortly afterwards be blown up?"
"There were two lighters, sir," replied Colonel Greyhouse. "It is quite possible that one was mistaken for the other."
"As a matter of fact there were half a dozen," explained the Commander-in-Chief. "And all, except No. 5, are accounted for. That is so, Elphinhaye?"
"Yes, sir," corroborated the secretary.
"But the main reason why I came to see you, sir," said Lieutenant-Colonel Greyhouse, "was the affair of my missing officers. In the first instance they went off in a boat belonging to one of my lieutenants. I cannot conceive how they came to be on board the lighter. True, she was to be transferred to the R.A.F., but she left here under an R.N.V.R officer and crew."
"Sub-lieutenant John McIntosh, sir, who reported from Donnikirk," announced the secretary, in response to his superior's inquiry —mutely expressed by the raising of his bushy eyebrows.
"Exactly," agreed the Commander-in-Chief. "The situation required further information, and I have wired instructions to Mr. McIntosh to report immediately upon his return to-day."
"Then there is the question raised by the presence of Captain Fennelburt——"
"That," interrupted the naval officer, "is a matter that concerns the Air Force. I have no jurisdiction in the case."
"But," persisted Colonel Greyhouse, "that officer visited Auldhaig Dockyard."
"He called upon the Staff Captain, sir," reported the secretary, who appeared to have a knowledge of the movements of every stranger within the gates of Auldhaig Dockyard at his fingers' ends.
"And yet the Air Ministry and Sheerness Air Station deny all knowledge of him," continued Colonel Greyhouse. "I was away on duty at the time he reported at my station, but curiously enough Captain Cumberleigh, one of the missing officers, entertained a suspicion of him. He communicated his doubts to my second-in-command, Major Sparrowhawk, who this morning reported to me on the matter. It is now his belief, although he scouted the idea at the time, that this Captain Fennelburt is a spy, or at least an impostor, masquerading as an R.A.F. officer, with certain shady motives behind him. That is why I came, in order to find out his alleged motives for visiting Auldhaig Dockyard."
"That's the worst of these new-fangled shows," declared the Commander-in-Chief vehemently. He was a sailor of the Old School who did not take kindly to innovations. "When the R.N.A.S. was in existence we had good men who could fly. Now with this amalgamation it seems to me that for every effective pilot the Air Ministry grants a dozen commissions to men who never will 'go up' and who apparently have nothing better to do than to knock about in uniform doing work badly that a civilian clerk could do well, and trying to bluff people that they are the salt of the earth. Apparently Captain Fennelburt is one of this crowd, only the Air Ministry has forgotten his existence. I rather feel inclined to pooh-pooh the spy theory."
The colonel suffered the Commander-in-Chief's strictures in silence. Although his career in the Service had been limited to a period of four years, his promotion had been rapid. He had a real pride in the R.A.F., but at the same time he knew that there was considerable truth in the naval man's assertions. Also he realised that it was both inadvisable and contrary to discipline to argue with an officer of superior rank.
"Your best course," continued the Commander-in-Chief, "would be to send some one over to Abercuish Cottage Hospital to interview Mr. Pyecrust—I mean, Pyecroft. That is, naturally, if he is in a fit state to give information."
Colonel Greyhouse inclined his head in assent. It was, moreover, exactly what he had already given instructions to be done. The colonel took his leave, and just as he stepped ashore at the Air Station a motor car dashed into the parade-ground. From it alighted Major Sparrowhawk.
"I've seen young Pyecroft, sir," he reported with a salute. "He's going on well in the circumstances. The doctor informed me that he will be fit to be removed to-morrow."
"That's good," commented the colonel. Together they walked a few paces out of hearing of the transport driver and the coxwain of the motor boat.
"Well?" inquired Colonel Greyhouse laconically.
"Dashed queer business, sir," replied the major. "Pyecroft is perfectly fit mentally, which, considering what he has gone through, is rather to be wondered at. It appears our fellows boarded a derelict lighter and while on board were surprised by a Hun submarine. Pyecroft got away, had a sticky time on a water-logged boat, and finally drifted ashore more than half dead with cold and exposure. The others, it seems, were taken prisoners by the Huns. And now comes the extraordinary part of the story. We had an officer here on inspection duties. Fennelburt—Captain George Fennelburt—he announced himself on reporting."
Colonel Greyhouse nodded.
"Yes," he observed. "I know that much."
"Well, sir," explained Sparrowhawk, "he came ashore from the German submarine at night, while Pyecroft was lying helpless on the beach. Four men brought him ashore in a collapsible boat, and he vanished inland, still rigged out in R.A.F. uniform. Pyecroft can swear definitely on that point."
"And Sheerness Air Station has disclaimed all knowledge of him," remarked the C.O. "Why the deuce the Air Ministry cannot be more particular in posting the movements of officers passes my understanding! Can you give a fairly accurate description of Captain—er—Fennelburt?"
"I think so, sir; he was at the mess to lunch, and I saw a good deal of him."
"Good," ejaculated Colonel Greyhouse. "Send a report to 'Area,' and at the same time to Scotland Yard. The police will then take the matter up. You might also inform the Naval and Military Authorities. If we don't lay the fellow by the heels within the next twelve hours I'll eat my hat."
A vow that, taking into consideration the copious gold leaves that adorned the peak, was an exceedingly rash one, unless Greyhouse had the digestion of an ostrich.
Forthe second time within forty-eight hours Karl von Preussen tramped the deserted road leading to Nedderburn Junction railway station. On the previous occasion he called himself Captain George Fennelburt; on the second he had assumed the name of Ronald Broadstone.
He travelled light, but in place of his khaki, leather-reinforced haversack he carried a small portmanteau, which, owing to unforeseen circumstances, was practically empty. He decided that at the first favourable opportunity he would replenish a portion of his kit and replace that lying at the Auldhaig Hotel. But in the portmanteau was an automatic pistol of British manufacture. Its possession showed economy and discrimination in small details. Since it had been acquired from a battlefield, it had cost von Preussen nothing; and being of British make it was in keeping with the spy's rôle as an officer of the Royal Air Force.
He walked quickly and unhesitatingly along the bleak, unfrequented road. Delay meant the great possibility of missing the night train and a consequent detention at Nedderburn, which was too close to Auldhaig to be pleasant. He had good reasons for steering clear of Auldhaig "for the rest of the duration." The place had been a "wash-out," and since von Preussen was of a superstitious nature he always avoided scenes of previous failures.
Beyond meeting a belated shepherd, who greeted the spy in an unknown Highland dialect, von Preussen arrived at Nedderburn without encountering anyone. The station had just been lit up, two feeble paraffin lamps providing the necessary illumination for the safety of passengers. Peeping through the high wooden palisade, von Preussen took stock of the people on the up-platform.
There were half a dozen "Jocks" with full equipment, including "tin hats" and rifles with the breech-mechanism bound in strips of oiled cloth.
"Highlanders returning from leave to the Front, curse them!" muttered von Preussen.
He had reason for his maledictory utterance. In the earlier days of the war, when he was a lieutenant of Uhlans, he soon learnt to have a wholesome respect for the stalwart, bare-kneed, kilted men from "Caledonia stern and wild." He recalled an incident at a certain village about twenty kilometres from Mons. His squadron had overtaken twenty tired Highlanders tramping along thepavé. Observation by means of binoculars showed that they were bordering on utter fatigue. Most of them wore blood-stained bandages. They had no officer with them. They looked to be an easy prey to the lances of his Uhlans. Von Preussen never had a worse shock. Instead of the kilted men taking to their heels at the sight of the charging cavalry and thus falling easy victims to the steel-tipped lances, they coolly threw themselves into a circle fringed by a ring of glittering bayonets. Three volleys in quick succession were too much for the Uhlans to stomach. They galloped off, amongst them von Preussen groaning and cursing with a bullet wound through his left shoulder.
In the present instance he decided that he had nothing to fear from these men. A little further on were three greatcoated officers. With a grunt of satisfaction von Preussen noted that their cap-bands were not black with the badge of the crown, eagle and wings. He had good cause to avoid Air Force officers and men just at present.
Beyond stood a sturdily-built man with a long black coat and soft hat—evidently a clergyman. He was trying to decipher a poster in the feeble glimmer of the station lamps.
The changing of the signal from red to green warned the spy that it was time to enter the station. Outside the entrance stood an old and somewhat decrepit porter who, after inquiry as to whether the new arrival had any luggage and receiving a negative reply, hobbled off to ring the bell. At the doorway stood a girl ticket-collector.
"Warrant, miss!" exclaimed von Preussen, holding out a buff paper.
The girl examined it perfunctorily.
"Carlisle—change at Edinburgh!" she announced.
The spy thanked the girl for the gratuitous and unnecessary information. To change at Edinburgh was his intention. By so doing he could withhold and destroy the faked railway warrant, which, had it been retained by the ticket collector, would eventually be presented to the Air Ministry for payment. Already von Preussen had travelled thousands of miles over British railways without payment, and never once had he surrendered the buff slip that would otherwise have been a clue to his movements.
With much hissing of steam the night mail train drew up at the platform. The handful of travellers hurried along, peering into the dimly-lit compartments in the hope of finding vacant seats. Von Preussen happened to secure one in the company of five naval officers who were already "bored stiff" with their tedious journey from a far northern base. The spy soon discovered that there was precious little information to be picked up from them.
At Perth the spy changed compartments. He now found himself in the company of four rather lively subalterns and the clergyman he had noticed on Nedderburn Junction platform. The latter, deep in the pages of theChurch Times, took no notice of the new arrival.
"Tickets, please!"
A gigantic inspector examined the tickets and vouchers of the occupants of the compartment.
"Change at Edinburgh," he remarked, as he clipped von Preussen's warrant. "Through train to Carlisle at 7.5."
With the resumption of the journey, the clerical passenger offered von Preussen a copy of an evening paper as a prelude to opening conversation. He was, he informed the spy, travelling from Nedderburn to Hawick, where he was about to take up an Army chaplaincy at Stobs Camp. In return von Preussen told a fairy tale to the effect that he was joining an R.A.F. balloon station near Carlisle and gave some vivid and totally imaginary stories of his adventures in the air. Yet in spite of several attempts to draw the subalterns into the conversation, the hilarious representatives of the "One Star Crush" limited their discourse to anecdotes calculated to bring blushes to the cheeks of the padre.
It was nearly six in the morning when the train reached Edinburgh. Without difficulty von Preussen passed the barrier and emerged into Princes Street. For the rest of the day he remained in seclusion at a small private hotel just behind Edinburgh's main thoroughfare.
He had a nasty shock that evening. The evening papers came out with an announcement that there was a reward of one hundred pounds for information leading to the detection of a certain individual giving the name of George Fennelburt, aged about thirty; height, five feet seven or eight; broadly built, fair featured with blue eyes. Believed to be wearing the uniform of a captain in the Royal Air Force, and last seen in the neighbourhood of Auldhaig.
Von Preussen broke into a gentle perspiration. Furtively he glanced at his companions in the commercial room. They were, fortunately for him, deep in a game of chess.
The spy had registered in the name of Captain Broadstone. That was now, of itself, a decidedly risky proceeding, since, the hue and cry being raised, there would most certainly be a stringent examination of registration forms at all the hotels.
Even in his panic von Preussen was curious. He could form no satisfactory theory on the matter. How was his presence known, since it was reasonable to conjecture that the authorities knew he had gone on the fishing expedition that had been so unpropitious to his temporary companions? Obviously the notice offering a reward for his apprehension had not been issued before his visit to Auldhaig; and since he, with others, was missing and presumed to be drowned, why go to the length of advertising for his arrest? Perchance U 247 had been captured and the British prisoners released. Even in that case none of those knew the true facts. When they were sent below they were under the impression that he, von Preussen, was also a prisoner of war. In the absence of detail the newspaper notice was terrible in its gaunt wording.
"I will have to find a different disguise," he decided. "But how? To purchase civilian clothing would be courting instant suspicion. I cannot get it myself, nor can I trust anyone to obtain it for me. Yet to persist in appearing in this Air Force uniform would be simple madness. It is equally futile to dye my hair and eyebrows. The people here would notice the difference instantly. And if I changed my hotel I would run fresh and possibly greater risks.Himmel!What can I do?"
He glanced suspiciously round the room. The players, deep in their game, paid no attention to anyone or anything else.
"There's one blessing," he soliloquised. "I registered as Broadstone, not Fennelburt. I think I'll go to bed. It's safer."
He went, placed his automatic pistol under his pillow, and found himself looking at the empty portmanteau. Then, switching off the light, he attempted to court slumber.
It was in vain. For hours he lay wide awake, racking his ready brain for a solution to the apparently insurmountable difficulty. He heard the occupant of the next room retiring, the click of the electric light switch, and very soon after, the first of a series of loud snores.
"At all events," thought the spy, "the fellow is luckier than I: he can sleep soundly."
The sleeper and the empty portmanteau: subconsciously von Preussen connected the two. Why, he knew not, but gradually and with increasing lucidity a plan matured. Why not steal the sleeper's clothes, pack them into his portmanteau, and change in a remote country spot?
"It may throw suspicion on me," he thought, "but it's worth trying. Given four or five hours' start, I'll throw them off the scent."
Cautiously von Preussen got out of bed and opened the door. A light burned in the corridor. By its aid he could see pairs of boots standing outside the various rooms: either the servant responsible for the cleaning of them was late, or else the task of collection was left till early in the morning.
Silently the spy picked up a boot belonging to the person he intended to rob and examined it carefully. It was an "eight":—a similar size to his. So far so good; he could only hope that the fellow resembled him in build and height. He must at all events avoid the incongruity of donning the clothes of a man five feet two or six feet one.
Very deftly von Preussen tried the door-handle. The sleeper had omitted to bolt the door. The snores continued.
Creeping into the room the intruder closed the door. The lawful occupant had evidently not intended to wake up and switch on the light, otherwise he would not have thrown back the heavy curtains and admitted the moonlight. Neatly folded on a chair were the man's clothes. For once the methodical habits of their owner were to his disadvantage.
Quickly von Preussen collected the articles, and, pausing only for a few minutes to make sure that the corridor was deserted, regained his own room.
Ten minutes later, having crammed his portmanteau with his newly-gotten booty, he again turned in.
He had arranged to be called at eight-thirty. He saw no object in anticipating the hour. Let the occupier of the adjoining room discover his loss. The management would not dare to question the officer guest or examine his portmanteau.
At seven he was awakened by a furious ringing and a bellowing voice. He smiled grimly. The fun was about to commence. He could hear various members of the hotel staff talking excitedly, while the indignant tones of the robbed guest dominated all.
Pleading a headache caused by the noise and that he was suffering from shell-shock, von Preussen had his breakfast brought to his bedroom. Then, having shaved and paid his bill, he grasped his now heavy portmanteau and left the hotel.
He made his way to Princes Street, feeling horribly self-conscious. At every salute he received and returned, he felt that the man who gave it had his suspicions. He made haste to board the first tramcar, which, he noticed, was marked "Portobello and Joppa."
Before the car had passed Scott's Monument a couple of R.A.F. officers boarded it and, to the spy's consternation, took seats immediately behind him.
Presently one of them, a captain, tapped von Preussen on the shoulder:
"Can you oblige me with a match, old bean?"
The old bean complied without a word.
The next question came with startling suddenness:
"'Spose you haven't come across Captain Fennelburt?"
The spy, controlling himself with an effort, turned his head and laughed.
"Hope you don't think I'm the fellow?" he inquired. "If, so, you won't get that hundred pounds, old son. I heard this morning that he had been collared at Perth."
"Is that so?" asked the other, a subaltern. "What was all the racket about?"
"Misappropriation of mess funds, I believe," replied von Preussen. He now felt more at ease and master of the situation. He forced the conversation on trivial topics until his undesirable acquaintances reached their destination.
The spy remained until the car stopped at the terminus; then he started to walk briskly inland, reproving himself for his bad manoeuvre in taking a car bound for a coast town.
A four hours' stiff walk brought him to a desolate moor, standing well on eight hundred feet above the sea. Sheltering from possible observation behind an overhanging rock, he made the necessary change from Captain Broadstone, R.A.F., to plain Thomas Smith, commercial traveller, representing Collar & Grab, wholesale provision merchants (and incidentally profiteers), of Liverpool.
For the next four days he remained at Galashiels, lying low and explaining his presence by the plausible statement that the samples his firm had dispatched had gone astray. On the fifth he decided to go to York, where he knew of a Polish Jew, Polinski by name, who was in reality a German Secret Service agent.
At Newcastle he caught a fast train bound for London. He now travelled third class, finding himself in the company of four bluejackets proceeding "on leaf."
Within a few minutes of the train leaving the station the commercial traveller was apparently fast asleep. He was keenly on the alert to gather information, and his wishes were realised.
"S'elp me," exclaimed one of the men. "We'd got a blanked U-boat blazing away at us like mad. 'Course we didn't reply, an' they didn't 'arf give us a dustin'. Then up comes another of the swine an' starts firin', only 'er shells goes wide. Still our owner sticks it without so much as winkin'. Hopin', you see, to bag 'em both."
"And did 'e?" inquired another.
"Not 'e, worse luck," replied the other. "Just as we was about ter drop our false bulwarks an' give 'em perishin' socks, one of the U-boats slipped in a couple o' tawpedas into t'other an' blew 'er to blazes."
"Wot for?" asked a bearded petty officer.
"Wot for?" snorted the other. "To do us out of our bloomin' prize money, of course. There was we, with our decks littered with sheep and cattle, stickin' it for four mortal hours in the hope we'd put it abaft the swine, an' all for nothin'. The U-boat was one of our own mystery ships, rigged up to bamboozle Fritz. She was orf right into Heligoland Bight to do 'er dirty work, if I remember right."
Von Preussen chuckled inwardly. Here indeed was a "scoop." Before eight that evening the information, transmitted in the form of an apparently genuine business telegram to a firm in Amsterdam, was in the hands of the German Admiralty.