"Hans!" whispered Seaman Kaspar Krauss of U 247. "Do you know what our swine-headed kapitan has made up his mind to do?"
"How should I?" responded Hans Furst with a grunt. "Something that has upset your apple-cart."
"He's taking the vessel back to Ostend," announced Krauss. "It's madness. To say nothing of the danger of mines, it's putting our heads into a noose. With Wilhelmshaven and Heligoland dead under our lee, why does he persist in making for Ostend? The boat is hardly seaworthy; we are short of food, and yet——"
A petty officer, stooping to avoid the overhead gear, thrust his head and shoulders through the oval aperture in the transverse bulkhead.
"Herr Kapitan wants you, Kaspar Krauss," he exclaimed curtly. The seaman wiped his hands on a piece of cotton waste, looked into the burnished reflector of a lamp to assure himself that his cap was on straight, and hurried along the congested alleyway.
"Wonder what he wants me for?" he thought. He had done nothing as far as he knew to merit either praise or censure. It was somewhat unusual for a kapitan to summon a seaman. Orders would be generally communicated through the medium of a petty officer.
Ober-leutnant von Preugfeld was sitting on a camp-stool on the after-part of the deck. Behind him stood Unter-leutnant Eitel von Loringhoven, while at his side were three men rigidly at attention.
The U-boat was running awash, the conning-tower being occupied for the time being by the chief petty officer.
Kaspar Krauss felt far from comfortable. The sight of the three motionless wooden-faced seamen—comrades of his—heightened his discomfiture.
"See here, you swine!" began the amiable von Preugfeld, curtly acknowledging the man's salute. "You were slow—abominably slow—in executing orders. What have you to say?"
Krauss moistened his dry lips, trying vainly to recall the incident to which the ober-leutnant referred.
Von Preugfeld eyed him like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. He was furiously angry, and wanted to vent his wrath upon some one who could not retaliate. The cause of his fury had nothing to do with Kaspar Krauss's delinquency. He had just been referring to the English Encyclopaedia to discover the meaning of the epithet "old bean," and to his almost speechless indignation he found that one of his Royal Air Force prisoners had likened him to "the seed of certain leguminous plants, universally cultivated for food"—and old at that.
"You were fifteen seconds slow in carrying out my order to blow the auxiliary ballasttank, you wooden-faced pig!" exclaimed von Preugfeld. "For the remainder of the voyage you will work double tricks and keep for'ard look-out on deck whenever we are running on the surface. Now go!"
Kaspar Krauss, outwardly pale but inwardly fuming, saluted with a faint suspicion of reluctance, and began to make his way aft until the guttural voice of his kapitan called him back.
"Is that the way you salute me,schweinhund?" demanded von Preugfeld. "If I find any more signs of slackness on your part, look out. That's all. Now, again: dismiss!"
Von Preugfeld watched the fellow out of sight and then turned to his subordinate.
"There's nothing like being firm with these brutes, von Loringhoven," he said in a loud voice, as if to impress the fact upon the three seamen. "Take my advice: come down on them like Thor's hammer the moment you see them giving signs of discontent. How many men have been placed in the report this trip?"
"Eleven, Herr Kapitan," replied the unter-leutnant, smacking his lips with relish. "A third of the ship's company."
"That shows good discipline, Eitel," rejoined von Preugfeld. "Cast-iron discipline—that's the secret of efficiency."
He made his way to the conning-tower and spent some moments poring over a chart of the centre portion of the North Sea. There were mine-fields in profusion. Those laid by the British were shown in blue, those of German origin were indicated in red. On paper they looked formidable, but unfortunately for von Preugfeld there were hundreds of others either drifting or else uncharted. He, too, cursed the wireless order that was responsible for U 274 making for Ostend.
Having checked the course and given further instructions to the quartermaster, von Preugfeld strolled aft, took a leisurely survey of the horizon and, finding nothing in the shape of a vessel, settled himself once more in his deck-chair.
Meanwhile 'tween decks discontent was seething. The men, disheartened and hungry, were aghast at the idea of making for the Belgian coast. Many of them were undergoing punishment for various slight offences. Krauss, one of the more advanced agitators, was holding forth upon the purposeless brutality of the kapitan.
Just then von Loringhoven made his way for'ard. Possibly by accident, one of the group of malcontents lurched against him, for the submarine was rolling in the sullen swell.
"Pardon, Herr Offizier!" exclaimed the man. It was Furst, slow of action yet quick to take offence.
The next instant von Loringhoven raised his clenched fist and struck the man heavily in the face. It was the unter-leutnant's idea of imparting discipline with an iron hand according to the advice given by Kapitan von Preugfeld.
Von Loringhoven had struck his men before. He had seen them stand rigidly at attention, meekly bearing blows as becomes a military or naval subject of the Kaiser. He expected Furst to do likewise, but to his unbounded astonishment the German bluejacket planted a staggering blow right in the centre of the unter-leutnant's chest.
Von Loringhoven reeled and fell heavily against a large air-flask. There he lay breathless and unable to utter a sound.
For a few moments the men were dumfounded. Oft-times they had formed mental pictures of striking their officers to the deck. Now the idea had become a reality.
"You'll be shot for this, Hans Furst," exclaimed one of the men.
"Perhaps," replied Furst. "And all of you with me. I struck the pig, I admit, but you were standing by and did not stop me. So that's mutiny."
"Yes; that is so," agreed Krauss. "We've started, so why not carry it through? I owe the kapitan a debt which I mean to pay. Furst will help. Who joins?"
There was no lack of offers of assistance. The men knew that whether guilty or innocent they would have to suffer. They had no definite plan. It was merely a sudden conflagration on the part of men stifled by adverse conditions. Carried away by the unexpected turn of events, their seething discontent flared up into the red flame of mutiny.
"Down with von Preugfeld!" hissed Krauss. "Come with me, brothers!"
Maintaining a certain amount of caution, a dozen of the mutineers swarmed up the fore-hatch and made their way aft. Von Preugfeld, seated in the deck-chair and deep in a book, took no heed of their approach until, with a cat-like spring, Krauss leapt upon him. The chair collapsed. The kapitan and his assailant fell on the deck in a confused heap.
Although a bully and a coward by nature, von Preugfeld put up a stiff fight when cornered. Recovering from his sudden surprise, he fought and struggled desperately, shouting in vain to von Loringhoven for assistance. The unter-leutnant was at that moment being held by two stalwart Frisian seamen.
Over and over rolled von Preugfeld and his attacker. Punching, kicking, snarling and even biting, the two tackled each other tenaciously—the blue-blooded Prussian and the plebeian Frisian—while the rest of the mutineers looked on with evident relish, until it occurred to them that they might have a hand in the discomfiture of their hated taskmaster.
It was not until half a dozen had thrown themselves upon the wellnigh breathless von Preugfeld that the unequal struggle ended. The ober-leutnant was bound hand and foot and secured to a ring-bolt—an object for derision and coarse jests from his captors.
Shouting to the quartermaster to telegraph to the engine-room to stop the motors, Furst, who by common consent was acclaimed the ringleader, ordered all hands on deck. The mutineers' first council of war was about to begin.
The outbreak had been spontaneous. A general mutiny of submarine crews had been thought about, and the idea was taking firm root; but this ebullition was almost unpremeditated. The men had no definite plan. They were literally and metaphorically at sea.
"Let's hoist the Red Flag," suggested one. "Our comrades on the otherunterseebootenwill join us."
"Unless we meet an English ship of war in the meanwhile," added another. "I propose we hoist the White Flag and take the boat into an English port. We'll be well treated."
"Yes," admitted Furst; "but what will happen after the war? Supposing the English treat us as mutineers and hand us over to Germany when peace is signed? What then?"
"And I, for another, wish to get back to my wife and children," exclaimed a mutineer of timorous fibre. "I vote we alter our course for Hamburg or Wilhelmshaven."
"And what then?" demanded Krauss scornfully. "There'll be questions asked. We will be put under arrest straight away and no doubt shot. That's not good enough."
"It will be all right if we throw these pigs overboard," said Furst, indicating the two officers, who were now both lying bound on deck. "We can say that they were swept overboard in heavy weather. We must all stick to the same tale. It will be of no use for anyone to betray us. We're all hand in glove in this business."
"Supposing an English ship of war does appear?" queried the timorous one. "We'll be sunk at sight. You know the way they have."
"We could submerge," declared Krauss loftily.
"And who will take command if we do," persisted the man. "I know of no one of us able to manage this boat under water. I'd rather take my chance and hoist the White Flag. Besides, haven't we English prisoners—officers—on board? They might help us if we treated them well."
"That is so," admitted Furst. "Meanwhile we'll steer east for Germany."
"Who is navigator?" asked a mechanic. "Do you know anything of navigation, Hans Furst?"
Furst was obliged to admit that he knew but little. Taking observations—a very necessary accomplishment when one has to thread a way through mine-fields—was beyond him.
"I'll try," he added. "We can but hope for the best. But now we must first get rid of these."
He pointed to the late kapitan and unter-leutnant of U 247.
"Shoot them," suggested the revengeful Krauss.
"Too easy a death," objected Furst. "We'll toss them overboard."
Some of the men moved aft to carry out the suggestion, but Furst called on them to stand by.
"Cast off those lashings," he ordered, with a grim laugh. "We'll give them a chance to swim for it. The nearest land is only about two hundred miles away. It will give them time to think over things. Start up those motors again and get way on her."
The men obeyed promptly. The idea of seeing their former officers struggling for life "in the ditch" appealed to their innate cruelty. After all, they argued, they were only revenging themselves upon two tyrants who had shown no mercy to the crews of British merchant vessels they had sunk.
Von Loringhoven squealed like a stuck pig when he saw one of the seamen advancing with a drawn knife. With a couple of deft cuts the unter-leutnant's bonds were severed. Two brawny men seized him by arms and legs and with a swinging heave tossed him over the side into the water.
Von Preugfeld, cursing, imploring and struggling, shared the same fate, his exit watched by all the hands on deck save one, who, evidently lacking the nerve to witness the tragedy, had stepped unobserved to the other side of the conning-tower.
Then, increasing her speed to twelve knots, U 247 turned eight degrees to port and headed for the distant shore of Germany, leaving von Preugfeld and his subordinate struggling for life in the cold waters of the North Sea.
"Knowanything about motor bikes?" inquired Morpeth, helping himself to a liberal chunk of margarine and pushing the earthenware jar across to his companion. "After you with the jam. Thank heaven it's not the everlasting plum and apple!"
Meredith and the "owner" of Q 171 were at tea in the ward-room. Wakefield was taking deck duties in conjunction with the Q-boat's official sub-lieutenant—a youth of twenty, Ainslie by name.
Tea was served in war time fashion afloat—an iron-moulded table-cloth, two enamelled cups, plates of the same material, and wooden-handled steel knives that had evidently not made the acquaintance of a knife-board since they came aboard. A loaf of large and decidedly ancient appearance, a pot of jam and a generous pat of margarine (referred to in conversation as nut-butter) formed the edible part of the feast. Black, strongly brewed tea, condensed milk and moist sugar in more senses than one combined to provide liquid refreshment. The whole contents of the swing table were executing a rhythmic dance with the vibrations of the twin engines, the propeller shafts of which ran under and on either side of the table.
"I have one," replied Meredith. "At least I believe I have—unless my young brother has pinched it," he added feelingly and with the knowledge of past experiences. "Why?"
"Rather curious to know what you paid for it?" replied Morpeth.
"As a matter of fact I got it a great bargain from a pal of mine who was given a commission in '15," replied Meredith. "Twenty-two pounds."
"I guess I can beat that," remarked the R.N.R. officer, deliberately and deftly harpooning a slice of bread in the act of skimming over the fidleys on to the floor. "I bought one for a sovereign."
"Scrap iron, then," declared Kenneth.
"No; in good running order," continued Morpeth, "twin cylinders, magneto, countershaft, kick starter and all that sort of fake-a-lorum. True, the old 'bus had been in the ditch for a fortnight. Do you remember when the oldTantaluswas torpedoed some while back? They got her into shallow water down Cornwall. Well, this motor bike was on board. Bought it from a chap called Farrar, who told me he had bought it from a marine officer for four bob and had refused a fiver for it as the vessel was sinking. Spent best part of seven days' leave cleaning the thing up, and now, by Jove!——"
"You're wanted on deck, sir," exclaimed a sailor excitedly. "We've just sighted two men in the ditch——"
Taking a hasty and copious gulp of tea on the principle that "you never know when you may get another chance," Lieutenant-Commander Morpeth ran up the ladder, Meredith only hanging back sufficiently to clear the heels of the R.N.R. officer's seaboots.
The mystery ship had already slowed down and altered course. Men, grasping coiled bowlines, were grouped on her long narrow bows. Ainslie, standing well for'ard, was conning the ship by movements of his arms. Wakefield, binoculars to his eyes, was keeping the men in distress under observation.
"A pair of Huns!" he exclaimed, as Morpeth and Meredith joined him. "They're clinging to a U-boat's buoy. I can see the number 'U 247' painted on it."
"One of our submarines has been busy, then," remarked Morpeth. "Hope to goodness she doesn't jolly well take it into her head to slap a tinfish into us."
Wakefield shrugged his shoulders. This was another phase of U-boat tactics. When a fellow rigs himself up like a Fritz to bag a Fritz, presumably he must run the risk of being taken for a genuine Fritz by other Fritz-hunters. He glanced at Morpeth inquiringly. The R.N.R. man's face was set and determined.
Above the risks of war another issue dominated. Human life was at stake, not in the heat of battle but in the ceaseless struggle of man with the sea—a fight that has been waged ever since men adventured themselves upon the waters. Friends or foemen made no difference: Morpeth was determined to pluck the two distressed men from the grip of the voracious sea.
The swimmers were Ober-leutnant Hans von Preugfeld and Unter-leutnant Eitel von Loringhoven. More than an hour had elapsed since they had been ruthlessly jettisoned by the mutineers. Their chances of being picked up were small indeed. Had it not been for the fact that one of the U-boat's crew, more humane than the rest, had surreptitiously released a life-buoy from the starboard side of the submarine—he had done this just before the two officers were hurled overboard—von Preugfeld and von Loringhoven would have perished. As it was, the support afforded by the cylindrical hollow metal buoy had kept both afloat, although they were almost exhausted by the numbing cold.
Slowing down until she carried bare steerage way, Q 171's bows passed within three yards of the life-buoy and the two men. A bowline, thrown with admirable judgment and precision, fell over the unter-leutnant's head, but von Loringhoven was too exhausted to slip his arms and shoulders through the looped line. Without hesitation, the bluejacket who had hurled the coil of rope thrust the tail end into the hands of a man standing next to him.
"Hold hard, mate!" he exclaimed, as he took a flying leap over the low stanchion rail.
Deftly the rescuer adjusted the bowline under von Loringhoven's shoulders, and with a stentorian "Heave away roundly!" he swung himself back to the Q-boat's fo'c'sle.
In another fifteen seconds two dripping and water-logged individuals joined the rescuer.
Kapitan von Preugfeld, gasping like a stranded carp, was speechless with exhaustion and astonishment. Up to that moment he had been deceived into believing that the vessel that had effected his rescue was a U-boat. He was still hazy on that point, but there was no shadow of doubt that the crew were British.
"Give the blighters a stiff glass of grog and shove them into hot blankets," ordered Morpeth. "I'll see them later and find out how they came to be in the ditch."
But von Preugfeld, recovering his speech, was anxious to explain matters at once. The thought paramount in his mind was that of revenge. It mattered not by what motive or through whose agency retribution was accomplished as long as the mutineers were accounted for.
"I kapitan am ofunterseebooten247," he announced in his broken English. "My crew haf mutiny make an' throw me into der zee. Der submarine is dere"—he pointed eastwards—"not von hour an' half gone."
"Peculiar bird," thought Morpeth, then—"Good enough, cap'n," he replied. "We'll be on her track. With luck she'll be scrap iron before night."
"No, no," protested von Preugfeld. "Do not to der bottom send. Make capture. I tink not dat she can sink."
"Won't she," interrupted the R.N.R. officer grimly. "You leave that to us."
"He means 'submerge,' I fancy," remarked Wakefield.
"Ach! Dat is so. She submerge cannot make. Take prisoners dose mutineer sailors."
"What's he driving at, Wakefield?" inquired Morpeth. "Hanged if I can cotton on to the yarn."
"He apparently wants to get his own back," suggested Wakefield. "A true type of the egotistical, arrogant Prussian. D'ye notice he never referred to his fellow victim of the mutiny. Perhaps they got what they jolly well deserved."
"No business of mine," quoth the R.N.R. man. "Sinking Fritzes is my job. Take that fellow below, Walters."
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the fore hatchway, whither von Loringhoven had already been escorted; but von Preugfeld had another card to play.
"Englisch officers der are on board der submarine," he declared. "Four officers prisoners—nein, it is three," and he held up three fingers to emphasise the fact.
Except to serve his own ends, von Preugfeld would not have mentioned the fact. It mattered nothing to him whether the prisoners were sent to the bottom inside the hull of the U-boat if she were destroyed by the British craft; but as a lever to influence Morpeth's decision, in order to enable von Preugfeld to take vengeance on the mutineers at some distant date, the Prussian blurted out the disconcerting news.
Almost at the same time he realised that the situation was a complicated one. There was the question of the spy, von Preussen. The R.A.F. officers would, on their release, certainly demand an explanation of their supposed comrade's whereabouts, and then the spy would be revealed in his true character. It would be awkward—decidedly awkward—for von Preussen, but in his vindictiveness against the mutineering crew von Preugfeld swept aside the question. He had little qualms in sacrificing von Preussen to attain his immediate aim.
"What officers are they?" demanded Morpeth. He pictured the plight of master mariners of Mercantile Marine held captive on board the submarine that had sent their vessel to the bottom—hostages who, contrary to all the recognised canons of war, had been compelled to run a grave risk of being slaughtered by their fellow countrymen while in the hold of a modern pirate submarine.
"Von der Air Regiment at Auldhaig," replied von Preugfeld. "It fair capture vos," he hastened to explain.
"We know most of them," exclaimed Meredith. "I wonder who they are?"
Morpeth as inquisitor-in-chief put the question, but von Preugfeld shook his head and professed ignorance on the matter.
With a gesture Morpeth dismissed him. Shivering with cold and trembling with rage, the kapitan of U 247 disappeared below, to enjoy a far greater hospitality than he had ever bestowed upon his prisoners of war.
Meanwhile Q 171, running at thirty knots, was fast overhauling the mutineers. In forty minutes after von Preugfeld's rescue the conning-tower of the fugitive was sighted at a distance of five miles.
Morpeth immediately rang down for fifteen knots. The enormous speed of the Q-boat would be sufficient to cause surprise and suspicion in the minds of the U-boat's crew, and supposing it were another submarine which could dive and succeed in getting away, then the story of a decoy capable of attaining a terrific pace would be known to the German Admiralty. In that case Morpeth's "little stunt" would bid fair to become a "wash-out."
Ten minutes later the White Ensign was hoisted at Q 171's masthead, and a shell, purposely fired wide, threw up a column of water fifty yards from the U-boat's port bow.
"That's done the trick," exclaimed Wakefield, as a white flag was promptly hoisted on the mutineer. "It's 'Kamerad' all the time when they're cornered. By Jove! the old blighter did speak the truth for once. There are fellows in khaki standing aft."
Morpeth merely grunted. He was pondering in his mind—not on the question of how to deal with his prize, but one on which weightier matters depended. It meant an addition of thirty odd people to feed and quarter—a big proposition indeed.
"What'sfor dinner at the mess to-night?" inquired Blenkinson. "Wonder if the management has got rid of our box for 'The Maid of the Mountains'? If not, will he try and make us pay up?"
"The theatre people can try," replied Cumberleigh grimly. "Hope they'll accept the excuse: unavoidable absence."
"Wonder how Pyecroft got on?" remarked Jefferson.
The three R.A.F. officers were cooped up in the otherwise empty storeroom of U 247. They were in utter darkness. The place was damp, ill ventilated, and reeked abominably. Moisture was constantly forming on the curved angle-iron deck beams and dripping promiscuously upon the captives.
"It is presumed that the genial captain of this vessel," continued Jefferson, "has not yet invested in a cinematograph. If he had it would be reasonable to suppose that he would have us on deck at regular intervals, supply us with cigarettes and cock-tails, and at the same time take a film to let neutrals know how benevolent and humane the Hun is when he is on the warpath. I am afraid my surmise is correct. Therefore we languish in captivity."
"Anyone any idea of the time?" inquired Cumberleigh. "My watch says half-past three, but I can't depend upon it."
"Mine shows ten o'clock," reported Blenkinson, consulting the luminous dial of his wristlet watch. "Unfortunately it omits to inform me whether it is AK Emma or PIP Emma, and I'm hanged if I know which it is."
"My watch went west the day before yesterday," said Jefferson. "The best Waterbury in existence is not proof against the back-fire of a six-cylinder car. Now if that fellow Fennelburt were here, he had a ripping little watch, I noticed."
"By the way, what happened to Fennelburt?" inquired Cumberleigh.
"Happened?" echoed Jefferson. "Why he's in the cart, same as us. Hard lines on the chap—taking him out on a joy trip and then landing him in this mess."
Cumberleigh grunted. He was not at all sure that he agreed with Jefferson's sentiments. Not that he had any suspicion that Fennelburt had conjured up the U-boat to take the Salvage Syndicate prisoners. The suggestion that the party should go fishing emanated from himself. Yet it was somewhat curious that Fennelburt should be separated from the others.
The three Auldhaig Air Station officers had had a sticky time during the last twenty-four hours. During that period they had been twice supplied with scanty and unappetising meals; they had dozed fitfully in the foetid atmosphere of their cell, but up to the present they had not been allowed on deck to get a breath of fresh air.
"Hope old Pyecroft pulled it off all right," remarked Blenkinson. He had harped on the matter at least a dozen times. Pyecroft had been his special pal. They had flown over the German lines together; they had crashed in the same 'bus; they had spent six weeks in the same hospital—in all, quite sufficient to cement a casual acquaintance into a lifelong friendship.
"There's the chance, anyway," said Jefferson. "He may not have been missed, and—hello what's the game now? They've stopped the motors."
The three men listened intently. The faintest alteration in the rhythmic purr of the U-boat's engines set their nerves on edge. They knew something of the fearfully ingenious devices used to strafe Hun submarines, and now they were metaphorically at the business end of a big gun, whereas formerly they had been behind it. It was a disconcerting affair, exposed to unseen perils that might without warning send them to their death in company with a crowd of Huns. And, unless Pyecroft had succeeded in getting safely ashore, the manner of their going would remain a secret for all time.
For several long-drawn seconds the trio listened in silence. They knew by the difference in the pulsations of the motors that the U-boat had been running on the surface. The diving-tanks had not been filled, otherwise they would have heard the gurgling inrush of water. For some reason the submarine had brought up and was drifting with wind and tide.
A quarter of an hour elapsed, then the petrol-motors were restarted. Very soon after the door of their cell was unlocked and a couple of Hun seamen appeared.
"Come you on deck!" one exclaimed, with such a broad smile that Cumberleigh and Co. suspected a dirty trick on the part of Fritz.
"Anything to get a breather," ejaculated Blenkinson. "Lead on, old bird!"
In single file the three British officers followed their guide along the intricate alley-way and on deck via the conning-tower hatchway.
A hurried glance gave no clue to the unexpected change of environment. The U-boat was forging ahead. By noting the position of the sun the captive officers knew that the course was approximately east, and that direction led towards Germany. The skyline was unbroken. Neither the proximity of land nor the presence of another craft was evident to account for the change of attitude on the part of their captors.
"We friends is," continued the Hun who had previously addressed them; and as evidence of good faith he handed the Englishmen a box of cigarettes.
The dearth of tobacco, cigars and cigarettes that had been noticeable amongst the ratings during von Preugfeld's regime was now, temporarily at least, a thing of the past. The former ober-leutnant's cabin had been systematically ransacked, with the result that a goodly store of tobacco had been discovered and distributed.
"What has gone wrong?" inquired Captain Cumberleigh, speaking slowly in order to make himself understood. "Where are your officers?"
The seaman paused before replying. In order to ingratiate himself he would not have hesitated to confess that the Prussian tyrants had been thrown overboard; but in the event of the submarine making Hamburg safely or else being overhauled by a vessel flying the Black Cross Ensign, the knowledge that the Englishmen knew the secret might prove decidedly awkward.
"They overboard fell, Herr Offizier," replied the German. "They stand so, making what the Englisch sailors call 'shooting der sun.' A big wave come an' pouf!—dey are gone."
Cumberleigh nodded. For the present he deemed it prudent to accept the statement, although he was aware by the comparatively easy motion that the U-boat had not encountered heavy weather. Nor had the German sailor given any explanation why the collapsible canvas boat had not been lowered to effect a rescue.
"And where is Captain Fennelburt?" he asked. "There were four of us taken prisoners."
A blank look overspread the Teuton's heavy features. He extended his palms in a manner that expressed complete disinterestedness.
Cumberleigh pressed the point. The Hun turned and consulted his comrades. Apparently they had not taken this factor into their calculations.
"I want no lies," continued Cumberleigh, who was rapidly finding his feet. "What has become of the fourth officer (he was about to prefix the word British, but somehow he checked himself) who was taken on board?"
"Kapitan von Preugfeld him sent on land last night, Herr Offizier," announced the man.
"For what reason?"
"I do not know der plans of Kapitan von Preugfeld," explained the German. "An' he not is here to ask."
This was simple, but none the less truthful logic. It was hardly conceivable that the ober-leutnant should explain his actions to a lower-deck rating.
"It's jolly rummy, any old way," remarked Blenkinson. "The whole business is fishy—decidedly fishy. And I reckon that big wave yarn won't go down."
Again the German strolled up, smiling and apparently unperturbed.
"You know der mine-fields, Herr Offizier?" he asked. "You can take us to Zhermany?"
"All I know," replied Cumberleigh pointedly, "is that there are mines—thousands of them—and that you're going straight for them. I might add that I know the course to Auldhaig. It's a jolly sight safer than barging along as you're doing."
The German apparently saw the wisdom of the suggestion. He retired to consult his companions. On a Soviet-controlled ship everyone has to have a say—with conflicting and other disastrous results.
Kaspar Krauss and Hans Furst vehemently opposed the suggestion, which, considering the fact that they were the ringleaders in the mutiny, was somewhat remarkable. The desire to get home overruled their fears of running against a mine. Others, fearful lest the curse be brought home to them, clamoured to be taken into a British port, bringing forward the argument that German prisoners of war in England were well treated and that no difference was made in the case of men who had served in U-boats.
How long the drolly-conducted debate would have lasted remains a matter for speculation, but it was brought to an abrupt and still undecided conclusion by one of the men raising a shout and pointing astern.
A vessel of some description was approaching rapidly. The enormous "bone in her teeth" as her sharp bows cleft the waves into frothy clouds of foam showed that she was moving at a terrific rate.
"An English ship!" exclaimed the fellow excitedly. "A U-boat hunter! Quick, run up the white flag, or we'll be blown to bits!"
All was scurry bordering on panic. There was a hasty rush to find the emblem of surrender. Hans Furst, gripping the interpreter by the shoulders, shouted to him to ask the English officers to go aft and stand in a conspicuous place.
Cumberleigh and his companions fell in with the request with the greatest good humour. They had no desire to become objectives for the approaching vessel's quick-firers. They realised that deliverance from a hideous captivity was at hand.
Suddenly Kaspar Krauss, who was standing just abaft the conning-tower, shouted to his fellow mutineer-in-chief.
"It's one of our U-boats after all," he exclaimed. "Now we shall have to be most careful."
"Surely not," questioned Furst, snatching up a pair of binoculars.
Then, after a brief scrutiny, he added, "You're right, Kaspar. There's a number—U 231—painted on her conning-tower. Kick those Englishmen below. They will be of no further use to us. Dietrich, untoggle that white flag and hoist our ensign again. Make our private signal, too. For heaven's sake look sharp about it!"
Calling to two or three of his comrades, Kaspar Krauss began to make his way aft, with the intention of putting into execution the congenial task of kicking the Englishmen below.
Before he had taken a couple of steps, the flash of a gun brought him up all standing. Dumfounded, he stared at the oncoming vessel. Even the terrific splash of the ricochetting shot, barely fifty yards away, failed to detract his attention, for the approaching craft had hoisted her colours—no Black Cross Ensign, but the White Ensign of a navy that has a glorious tradition covering over a thousand years.
The seaman Dietrich paused in the act of hoisting the U-boat's ensign. Frantically Furst shouted to him to run up the white flag after all.
"Be quick!" yelled half a dozen voices. "Be quick before she fires again!"
It was an excellent example of the lack of discipline. When the men were ruled, although by an iron hand, they did their work smartly and well. In secret they grumbled, but the fact remained they carried out the orders of their commanding officers with automaton-like precision. Deprived by their own act of a real leader, they had deteriorated within the space of a few hours into a panic-stricken mob.
The Black Cross Ensign—the hoisting of which might have drawn a devastating fire upon the mutineers—was untoggled and rolled into a ball with indecorous haste, and a rectangular piece of white cloth was hoisted to the mast-head. Even Hans Furst heaved a sigh of relief. Captivity awaited him, but, after all, it was preferable to being "bowled out" by the German naval authorities and ignominiously shot as a mutineer.
Then as Q 171—to outward appearances she was U 231—lost way a cable's length astern of her prize and trained her formidable armament upon the mutineers, the Huns lined up on deck with hands upraised, shouting their craven shibboleth of "Kamerad."
Blenkinson smiled.
"Good as a play, eh, what?" he remarked.
"I agree," remarked Cumberleigh. "After all, I'm glad I missed 'The Maid of the Mountains.'"
"Itseems as if Old Man Morpeth's keen on taking all the Auldhaig crush for a joyride," said Meredith, as he shook hands with Cumberleigh and was introduced by the latter to the other R.A.F. officers.
Both Wakefield and the R.N.V.R. Sub knew most of the staff at Auldhaig Air Station by sight, while Meredith had met Cumberleigh on several occasions, both officially and socially, as they were members of the same club.
"The world is small," quoth Cumberleigh. "All the same, I hardly expected to tumble across you half way across the North Sea. What are you doing on this hooker?"
"Supernumeraries," replied Wakefield. "Same as you. Unless anything unforeseen takes place, I fancy we're off to German waters on a particular stunt."
"Hope there won't be too many underwater stunts," said Blenkinson. "I've had enough submarine work during the last twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime. Give me an old 'bus at five thousand feet any day."
"There'll be no under-water performances this trip, I hope," remarked Wakefield gravely. "If there is, it will be a case with us."
"Is that so?" asked Cumberleigh. "I thought this was a captured U-boat."
"So did I once upon a time," said Wakefield, and he briefly explained Q 171's true rôle.
The five officers were standing aft watching the transhipment of the mutineers. Morpeth and Sub-lieutenant Ainslie were far too busy to pay any attention to the released captives. The R.N.R. skipper was alertly watching events, ready to cope with any sinister designs on the part of Fritz, while Ainslie was superintending the task of clapping the surrendered Huns under hatches.
With a good knowledge of German—it was mainly on that account that he was appointed to Q 171—Ainslie soon obtained the mutineers' carefully concocted account of what had happened to merit their tame surrender; what was more, he literally "knocked the stuffing out of them" by informing them that their precious yarn was all eye-wash, and that Ober-leutnant von Preugfeld and Unter-leutnant von Loringhoven had been picked up and were now on board as prisoners of war. Yet with the Hun's typical effrontery Hans Furst coolly told the examination officer that after the war he proposed to settle in England, become naturalised, and make plenty of money.
"The English," he added "will be grateful to me when they learn that I threw the German officers overboard."
While the cross-questioning of the mutineers was in progress Morpeth was taking steps to destroy the prize.
"You might have a look round before we send her to the bottom," he said to Wakefield, who jumped at the suggestion.
So Wakefield, Meredith and three of the Q-boat's crew manned the collapsible dinghy belonging to the captured submarine and boarded the prize.
A hasty examination showed that no attempt had been made to play tricks with the sea-cocks, nor had Fritz, according to his usual custom, placed bombs with time-fuses in the hold. It was another example of the lack of a master. So intent had the Huns been to save their own skins that they took not the faintest precaution to prevent the confidential signal-book, log-book and other documents from falling into the hands of their enemy.
"It's a pity to have to scuttle her," remarked Meredith regretfully, as he surveyed the complicated array of mechanism. "It would be just my mark to navigate her to Auldhaig under a prize crew."
"No doubt, Sub," rejoined Wakefield drily. "But unfortunately there are objections. Morpeth's short-handed although he's choc-a-block with useless passengers. We couldn't make the Hun mechanics take on in the engine-room. On the way, even supposing you tackled the job, there's a risk of falling in with a Boche U-boat, or a greater risk of being torpedoed or bombed by our destroyers and aircraft. No doubt Cumberleigh and the R.A.F. fellows would bear a hand, but they're amateurs at the game. We should be if we were called upon to navigate a coastal airship."
"And we should be out of Morpeth's big stunt," added Meredith. "Having gone so far I should be sorry to miss it."
"Exactly," agreed the R.N.V.R. lieutenant. "So U 247 must go to Davy Jones. I think we've seen everything of importance."
The U-boat was to be scuttled by opening the under-water valves. Destruction by means of explosives was undesirable, as the report might bring inquisitive craft upon the scene, and Q 171 was for the nonce a sort of social pariah and liable to be fired upon by British patrol boats, which acted upon the principle of shoot quick and shoot straight at anything resembling a German submarine.
Ordering the boat's crew to stand by, Wakefield went below once more. By the aid of an electric torch, for the internal lighting arrangements had given out, he found the levers that operated the big valves. So great was the inrush of water that Wakefield fancied he would be trapped by the miniature Niagara. Without waiting to manipulate the second sea-cock, he hastened precipitately on deck and followed Meredith into the dinghy.
"Done the trick?" inquired Morpeth, as the two R.N.V.R. officers regained the mystery ship. "She doesn't seem in a hurry."
Nor was she. It seemed quite a long time before the volume of water admitted into the U-boat's hull made any visible change in her trim. At length her freeboard diminished. She began to settle by the stern.
"I suppose you made certain that there were no other prisoners of war on board?" inquired Captain Cumberleigh.
"Trust me for that," replied Wakefield. "Why did you ask?"
"Because I'm rather mystified about a fellow who called himself Captain Fennelburt. He was with us when von Preugfeld collared us. One of the mutineers pitched me a yarn to the effect that von Preugfeld set him ashore. If so, what was the motive?"
"I'll see Morpeth about it," decided Wakefield.
"Ask von Preugfeld," suggested the skipper. "I can't do so myself just at present. Make him own up, and don't stand any nonsense."
Cumberleigh, Wakefield and Blenkinson went below to interview the prisoner. They acted on Morpeth's tip and stood on no ceremony. Time was a consideration, as the U-boat was sinking and they wanted to see the end.
Wakefield came straight to the point.
"I understand, Kapitan von Preugfeld," he said sternly, "that you had on board another prisoner, a Captain Fennelburt of the R.A.F. He was not found when we searched U 247. Now where is he?"
"You ask him," replied von Preugfeld, indicating von Loringhoven.
"I do not know," protested the unter-leutnant, "but he does."
Evidently von Loringhoven was getting pretty sick of being made a convenience of by his egotistical skipper.
Wakefield's brows lowered. There was an ominous glint in his eye.
"I give you five seconds," he said darkly. "Otherwise, if you refuse to tell me, back you go on board U 247. I might add that she is sinking. Now: one... two... three... four—-"
"I tell you!" exclaimed von Preugfeld. "All I tell you. Der offizier he try to escape. He vos shot. It is der rules of der war."
"Unfortunately for the statement," interposed Captain Cumberleigh, "I heard from one of your men that you landed him early this morning."
"In dat case," rejoined von Preugfeld, shrugging his shoulders, "why you ask me? You take der word of a common sailor instead of a Prussian offizier—a von Preugfeld? I tell you he lie."
Wakefield turned his back upon the bullying Prussian.
"It's evident that there was no other British officer on board," he remarked to his companions. "We'll go into the matter later. Come along, if we are to see the last of U 247."
The door was locked upon the prisoners, and the three officers hurried on deck. Q 171 was forging ahead, moving in wide circles around the sinking pirate craft.
By this time the U-boat had dipped her stern. Waves were lapping along her deck as far as the after quick-firer. Her stem was correspondingly raised until the bow tubes were visible above water.
Higher and higher rose the submarine's bows. Tons of water were flung into her hull through the open after-hatch. Compressed air was hissing loudly. Little rivulets of iridescent oil were forming on the surface. Occasionally interior fittings, giving way under the ever-increasing pressure, creaked and groaned to add to the discordant noises of the sinking craft.
Then, with a shuddering movement, the U-boat slithered under the water. For a brief instant her bows stood almost on end. A column of water, forced by the terrific pressure through the fore-hatch, spurted a good fifty feet, ejecting with it a quantity of debris and oil.
"Bon voyage!" exclaimed Wakefield.
A turmoil of agitated water marked the spot where the submarine disappeared. For a full minute the maelstrom surged and swirled, then, overcome by the liberation of tons of heavy oil, the disturbed water died down, leaving in its place an ever-increasing patch of multi-hued colours. Forty fathoms down the submarine had made a permanent acquaintance with the bed of the North Sea.
"Well, any luck?" inquired Morpeth, who, having left Ainslie in charge, had rejoined his unofficial guests in the ward-room. "What did you get out of von Preugfeld?"
"Precious little," admitted Wakefield. "He tried to hedge. We'll have to confront him with some of his mutineering men."
"I'll find out if there's any reference to the mysterious captain in this," said the R.N.R. skipper, holding up U 247's log-book. "Any of you fellows read the lingo?"
"Sorry," replied Meredith.
"You needn't be, old son," rejoined Morpeth. "I can't an' don't want to, although just now it would come in mighty handy. Some years back the Foul Anchor Line turned me down when I wanted a job as Second Officer on one of their crack boats because I couldn't speak German. They were carrying a lot of German passengers and South Americans at that time. Another fellow—Campbell was his name—got the billet 'cause he'd gained a first prize for German on a cadet training-ship. First trip he piled the old hooker aground off the entrance to Rio Harbour, 'and a dozen or more Huns got drowned."
"So you were glad you didn't get the appointment after all?" asked Cumberleigh.
"Rather," agreed Morpeth, with a laugh. "Not that I'd have put the ship aground. Guess I know that part of the South American coast too well. But, looking back on it, young Campbell was a patriot, only he didn't know it. We might have had another dozen Huns to fight. But to get back to business: here's this log wants looking into, and it's young Ainslie's trick. He's the Hun lingoist."
"I'll have a shot at it," volunteered Captain Cumberleigh. "I was in Germany. ...Long before the war," he added apologetically, speaking with the weight of experience of twenty-two years.
He opened the log-book at the last-written page.
"'Fraid it won't help us much," he announced. "Apparently it doesn't go beyond 8 A.M. of the 15th—that is the morning of the day they collared us. By Jove! Morpeth, you've caught a much-wanted specimen. Von Preugfeld's the fellow who torpedoed the hospital shipColumbineand theCamperdown Castle."
"The Lord have mercy on his soul, then!" said Morpeth solemnly.