Cold, grey dawn was stealing over the North Sea. Hull down to the east'ard, her cage-mast just showing above the horizon, lay the Hoorn Reefs Lightship. Off the tail of the bank that fringes Denmark's shores Hun submarines were in the habit of bringing up and receiving wireless orders before venturing through the inner mine-fields either to the mouth of the Elbe or northwards to the Baltic through the Kattegat.
Q 171 was moving slowly through the greyish-green water. Her triple torpedo-tubes were ready with their deadly complements; her quick-firers, trained fore and aft after the manner of U-boats returning to their bases, were ready for action at a moment's notice. The torpedo-men and gun crews, sheltering under the lee of the dummy conning-tower, were keenly on the alert, watching their commanding officer as he, in his turn, watched the broad expanse of sea over which the rising sun would shortly throw its slanting rays.
Supporting himself by the shaft of the periscope, which, like the conning-tower, was a "dud," Morpeth again and again raised his prism-binoculars to his eyes. Just below him stood Wakefield, conscious of a peculiar sensation of mingled doubts and hopes. He, too, shared with Morpeth the feeling that the climax was at hand. The great stunt that was to deal a terrific blow to Germany's campaign of unrestricted warfare was imminent. Would it succeed?
The plan of operations was daring in its simplicity. According to information obtained from a British Secret Service agent in Kiel, two giant submarine-cruisers were leaving the German Baltic port, passing through the Imperial Kiel Canal during the hours of darkness, and leaving Brunsbuttel the following night for the Hoorn Reefs rendezvous. Here they were to take on board two experienced U-boat commanders from submarines expected to be homeward-bound from the Irish Sea, and then proceed to the Atlantic seaboard of the United States. Capable of keeping the sea for a period of sixty days without having to re-fuel or re-provision, these submarine-cruisers were a direct menace to the Allies in general and to Uncle Sam in particular. Consequently, if Morpeth's plans were successful and he were able to destroy both submarine-cruisers before the returning U-boats arrived at the rendezvous, the moral effects of the mysterious disappearance of two brand-new additions to Germany's under-sea fleet would be more far-reaching than their actual loss.
And the hour was approaching when the two submarine-cruisers would arrive at the rendezvous—and then Q 171 would strike—swiftly and with annihilating force.
Right aft stood Meredith and Ainslie. The former was in charge of the after quick-firer, while on the other sub-lieutenant rested the responsibility of "dumping the ash-cans," or, in other words, dropping the depth-charges, should they be required. He also had charge of the hand-steerage flat, where, in the event of the electrically-operated wheel becoming disabled, the work of steering the Q-boat would be undertaken.
"Fritz is late in keeping his appointment," remarked Meredith. "Beastly uncivil of him on a cold morning like this."
Ainslie swung his arms vigorously and stamped with his rubber boots upon the metal deck.
"We'll forgive him if he shows up," he remarked. "Wonder if there'll be a chance of a scrap? By the by, you've your gasmask ready?"
"Yes, old son," replied Meredith, producing a hideous-looking contraption from the pocket of his oilskin coat. "We hadn't them issued to us on the M.L.'s, for which many thanks. Gosh! What would the old folks at home say if they could see their little Kenneth in this?"
"You do look a Hun," admitted Ainslie, as Meredith rather clumsily clipped the antigas device to his nose. "What a dash you'd cut at a kids' Christmas party! Got everything—pneumatic life-belt, first-aid outfit, meat lozenges, spirit flask an' all, in case you fancy rivalling a cross-Channel swimmer?"
Meredith gravely assured his questioner that he had all the articles named.
"Right-o," rejoined Ainslie. "And just kick over the oiler. Here's a link that wants a drop of oil pretty badly. Thanks, old thing."
The Sub was about to attend to what appeared to be a stiff link in the dummy deckgear release, when a cry came from for'ard:
"Submarine two points on the starboard bow, sir!"
At a distance of two miles in the direction indicated lay a U-boat motionless, with her deck just awash. Telescopes and binoculars were brought to bear upon her.
"That's not the bird I want," declared Morpeth. "She's one of the ordinary submarine mine-layers. We'll sheer off. No sprat to catch a mackerel for me!"
Q 171 turned eight points to port. Expecting at any moment to be challenged by the U-boat, Morpeth gave a curt order to the signalman. The latter toggled thesoi-disantU 251's signal numbers to the halliards and stood by.
"They don't keep a sharp look-out," remarked Wakefield. "If we can spot them lying awash, surely they've twigged us by now."
"Just back from a cruise, I expect," surmised the R.N.R. officer. "And jolly glad to be back out of it, so they're holding on to the slack."
"Where's the other one, then?" inquired Wakefield. "There were two expected."
"She's neither of 'em," explained Morpeth. "Sort of stray cat coming home. The ones expected to meet the submarine-cruisers are big ones—three hundred feet or thereabouts. This one's not more'n a couple of hundred. I'd slip a tinfish into her with the greatest of pleasure, only that would spoil the proper stunt.Au revoir, Fritz!"
"Seaplane, sir!" shouted one of the crew.
"Confounded nuisance!" muttered "Tough Geordie." "Get our decorations ready, lads, and look slippy about it."
Two or three of the hands prepared to unroll a couple of square pieces of canvas. These were Morpeth's "decorations," or, in other words, the vessel's "aircraft distinction discs." On one side of the canvas were painted red, white and blue concentric circles—the British hall-mark for aerial efficiency. On the reverse were black Maltese crosses on a white ground—the symbol adopted by Hun aircraft. In both cases the same device showed on the deck of a ship denoted her either as a friend or foe.
"Hun, sir!" shouted three or four voices in unison, when the rapidly approaching seaplane drew near enough for the crew of Q 171 to distinguish the Black Crosses on her wings.
"Up with 'em!" shouted Morpeth.
Dexterously "Tough Geordie's" decorations were unfolded and exhibited—one at the top of the conning-tower, the other just abaft the for'ard gun.
Right aft the gun-layer of the concealed anti-aircraft weapon kept the sights trained on the approaching Hun, ready and eager at the word of command to let fly with a novel type of shell that on bursting would entail the immediate destruction of any aircraft within a couple of hundred feet of the point of detonation.
"'Nother seaplane right astern, sir!" roared a seaman in stentorian tones.
"Confound it!" ejaculated Morpeth. "What is their little game?"
The anti-aircraft gun could have effectively silenced one seaplane, but the other would have turned and flown off to give the alarm. So impassively Q 171 held on, every man on board (except von Preugfeld and von Loringhoven, who were ignorant of what was transpiring) fervently hoping that the Hun airmen would take it for granted that she was a U-boat.
With a rush and a roar the first seaplane dived steeply, flattening out and passing within fifty feet of the mystery ship's deck. Meredith distinctly felt the rush of air from her wake and could make out the goggled and helmeted heads of the observer and machine-gunner. The pilot behind his triple glass screen was invisible.
The seaplane began climbing in vast circles, until it became a mere dot in the now sunlit sky. The second Hun, content with hovering at five hundred feet for nearly five minutes, also began climbing, and finally both disappeared behind a stratum of high, fleecy clouds.
"Hanged if I like that!" remarked Morpeth.
"They've probably mistaken us for one of the returning U-boats," suggested Wakefield. "In that case they've cleared off to report that the submarine-cruisers can repair to the rendezvous."
"Let's hope you're right," added Morpeth. "Once I bag those submarine-cruisers, I'll take my chance with the seaplanes."
He rapped out an order to the quartermaster.
Round swung Q 171 until she steadied on a course that would bring her once more within a short distance of the U-boat they had sighted soon after dawn.
She was practically in the same position, but had swung with the change of tide—a fact which indicated that she was riding at anchor.
For full half an hour Morpeth kept her under observation, but no sign of life was visible on board.
"Another mutiny?" queried Meredith.
"Hardly," replied Wakefield. "Unless it were a general mutiny amongst the submarine fleet, and this one were left behind. No, it's not that."
"Then what do you think?" asked the Sub.
"A booby-trap, possibly. If so, then Morpeth's stunt is off. I'll see what he says."
The late skipper of M.L. 1071 went up to the R.N.R. officer and saluted—as he always did when on deck.
"Yes," admitted "Tough Geordie" gloomily. "I'm afraid that it's a booby-trap. Those seaplanes, too, rather support the theory. And there are no signs of the submarine-cruisers. If nothing turns up by noon I'll torpedo that packet and leg it home at the rate of knots."
"Any objection to my boarding her?" asked Wakefield.
"None, as far as I am concerned," replied Morpeth, "provided, of course, you take all reasonable precautions. I'll be ready in case of an accident, but I must insist upon your taking a volunteer crew."
A boarding-party was quickly forthcoming, consisting of Wakefield, Meredith, an armourer's mate, and two bluejackets. Launching the collapsible dinghy, they approached the U-boat, while Q 171, her concealed torpedo-tubes bearing on the former's hull, was ready to frustrate or at any rate to avenge any attempt upon the boarding-party.
A rope ladder trailed forlornly over the U-boat's bulging side. This Wakefield studiously avoided, making for the after-part where the long tapering stern dipped beneath the surface.
He hailed in German. No reply came from the apparently deserted craft, which was fretting at her cable in the now strong tideway.
Wakefield motioned to the rowers to pull alongside. Followed by Meredith and the armourer's mate, he gained the rusty deck.
"Hatches are closed," he said, in a low voice.
"Soon have them open, sir," declared the petty officer confidently.
"I think not," replied Wakefield. "Not until we've looked round a bit."
The three men moved for'ard. There were signs that the boat had not recently been in commission. Apparently she had been towed out of harbour and moored in the isolated position off the Hoorn Reefs. Why? If as a mark-boat to assist returning submarines to verify their position, the fact of closed hatches was easily explained. Being shut, they enabled her to ride out a spell of bad weather, otherwise she would have foundered.
"That's curious," exclaimed Meredith, pointing to the closed fore-hatch.
"What?" asked Wakefield.
"This," replied the Sub, pointing to a small, almost unnoticeable disc let in flush with the steel lid.
"By Jove, rather!" agreed the lieutenant. "An ebonite plug with a copper core! Yes; look here. There's a corresponding gadget on the deck. The two would come in contact when the holding down bolts of the hatch are released and the cover flies back. I fancy we were wise not to meddle with those hatch covers, or our curiosity would have landed us in a hole."
"She's stuffed with explosives, then?"
"Precisely," agreed Wakefield. "Once the circuit is completed by opening any of these hatches, up she goes, and anyone on board with her. We've seen enough. We'll clear out."
"What's the reason?" inquired Meredith.
"Ask Morpeth," was the reply. "He'll probably tell you that details of his stunt have leaked out. Hello! Seaplanes coming back? Look alive there!"
The boarding-party hurried to the boat. Quickly the rowers gave way. It was a race between a comparatively slow-moving boat and a pair of swift seaplanes. The former had to cover about two hundred yards: the latter a distance of from two to three miles.
The aircraft would have won hands down had they not banked and circled. As it was, there was time for Wakefield and his party to regain the mystery ship.
"Fritz has smelt a rat," reported the R.N.V.R. officer. "That U-boat's chock-a-block with explosives."
"Good enough!" declared Morpeth, ringing for "Easy ahead, both engines." "See that the smoke-screen gear is ready, Wakefield. We may want it, badly."
Q 171 increased her distance from the booby-trap to a good two cables' length, then she turned until she could bring her broadside torpedo-tubes to bear upon the anchored U-boat.
Diving steeply, the first seaplane swooped down to within three hundred feet. From underneath her fuselage a black object dropped swiftly—then another. Four seconds later the first missile struck the water, exploding with a deafening report unpleasantly close to the Q-boat's starboard quarter and deluging the after quick-firer's crew with spray. The second bomb fell further away.
Morpeth gave no signal to the anti-aircraft gun, although the departing seaplane offered a tempting target. His cool and ready wit saw an opening and he took it.
Both Hun machines were now flying on a parallel course, the first one manoeuvring to return to the attack. Incautiously they were approaching the anchored U-boat.
Like an arrow from a bow, a gleaming steel cylinder leapt from the Q-boat's side. Striking the water with a shower of spray, it dived obliquely and made straight for the Hun's booby-trap, its trail clearly defined by the milky foam on the surface.
Suddenly there was a lurid flash that seemed to outshine the light of the sun. A roar so stupendous that it shook Q 171 from stem to stern gave warning that the torpedo had reached its mark.
The terrific crash was not merely the result of the torpedo detonating. Laden with tons of powerful explosive, the decoy U-boat was literally blown to fragments. Even at the intervening distance pieces of molten metal hit Q 171 with great force. Fragments rattled against her side and on her deck like hailstones upon a galvanised iron shed.
For a brief space officers and men were stupefied by the overpowering concussion. Wakefield and three of the seamen were hit by flying debris, although fortunately the wounds were nothing worse than skin deep. In fact, Wakefield, in the excitement of it all, was unaware of the fact until Meredith called his attention to a trickle of blood down his cheek.
The first seaplane, which at the moment of explosion was immediately above the anchored U-boat, had vanished utterly in the irresistible blast of fire. The other, with her wings and tail planes riddled and rent, fluttered downwards like a wounded bird until, the drop developing into a tail-spin, she crashed into the sea. Floats were shattered under the impact, and almost before the foam had subsided the wreck of the second seaplane had disappeared beneath the waves.
"The stunt's a wash-out," declared Morpeth disappointedly. "It might have been worse, though, if those seaplanes had brought a crowd of their pals with them instead of being too sure off their own bat. We'll have to leg it for home."
"If we can," added Wakefield calmly. "Look!"
He pointed with outstretched arm towards the south-west. Pelting along at high speed, with their funnels belching out clouds of oil-fed smoke, were seven German ocean-going torpedo boats. Simultaneously, away to the nor'ard, three more columns of smoke indicated pretty plainly that Fritz was doing his utmost to trap the too daring Q-boat.
"Tough Geordie" shrugged his massive shoulders.
"Looks like a bit of a scrap after all," he remarked.
Itwas a formidable trap. Already there was less than seven miles between the jaws of these rapidly closing pincers as the two divisions of hostile torpedo-craft steamed towards each other. To make matters more unpleasant a Zeppelin—a comparatively rare bird in the latter stages of the Great War—appeared from the east'ard, possibly from the airsheds at Tondern, and without venturing to make a direct attack was evidently communicating by wireless with the torpedo boats.
"Hoist our Ensign!" ordered Morpeth. "That'll show 'em we aren't going to take it lying down. We'll give them a run for their money."
Up rose the White Ensign bravely in the breeze. Simultaneously came the tell-tale bark of a torpedo. With a quick movement of her helm Q 171 avoided the missile, but even as she did so another torpedo came hissing under the waves. To avoid the new menace by alteration of course was impossible. The Q-boat carried too much way to reverse and gather sternway in time. To Meredith, standing by the after quick-firer, the sight of the approaching torpedo was a nerve-thrilling one. Gripping the rail, he watched its approach as it headed almost under that part of the deck on which he stood. Mechanically he gripped the wire and waited. He could do nothing: not even run a few paces in order to avoid, if possible, the direct effect of the explosion. He felt much as the French aristocrats must have felt when they lay strapped to the bed of the guillotine waiting for the fatal knife to fall....
"How much longer?" he thought. "How much——"
"Stand by with the depth-charges," roared Morpeth, as Q 171 swung round and made straight for the spot where the twin periscopes of a U-boat were disappearing.
The torpedo had been aimed truly, save in one respect. The commander of the U-boat had gauged the draught of the mystery ship by that of his own craft, forgetting that, although above water Q 171 resembled a German submarine, her depth beneath the water-line was only seven feet six inches. The missile had travelled harmlessly under her to finish its run three miles beyond.
Outboard toppled the two metal canisters. At the speed of an express train the reel of wire ran out; then, with a detonation that threatened to shake every rivet in the Q-boat's hull, the depth-charges exploded simultaneously.
There was no time to investigate whether the U-boat had been destroyed, or whether, with buckled plates and gaping seams, she was blowing her tanks in an attempt to reach the surface. In any case, even if she did survive, her crew would be so shaken by the concussion that they would be "down and out" as far as further submarine work was concerned.
The shrill whine of a 6-inch shell drew attention to the fact that the destroyers were getting within range, and that a "registering shot" had been fired to test the accuracy of their range-finder.
Almost immediately after, and before a second flash came from the nearmost torpedo boat, Q 171 liberated her smoke-screen; then, answering rapidly to her helm, spun round and practically retraced her course.
There was a chance of escape—that of making for Danish waters—but Morpeth scorned the idea. As he had remarked, he meant to give Fritz a run for his money. He would go down with flying colours, biting savagely till the last. And his men were with him. Discarding their black oilskin coats, and tightening their belts, they spat upon their hands after the manner of sailor-men and prepared to take their gruelling.
An artificial fog-screen cannot last indefinitely. Sooner or later Q 171 had to emerge from her concealment. When she did she was steering almost due west, or towards the tail of the seven torpedo boats.
Directly the movement was observed, the Huns turned sixteen degrees to port, all firing as they swung round. At the same moment Q 171's quick-firers replied for the first time.
The bark of her own guns eased the tension amongst the crew. Although outnumbered, they realised that there was some satisfaction in being able to reply.
The Q-boat took her punishment grimly—and it was punishment! Several shells of varying calibre hit her in quick succession. The dummy conning-tower had vanished, all but a few bent and twisted steel girders. Acrid-smelling fumes swept down upon Meredith as he assisted the last member of the after quick-firer to load and train the weapon. Through the eddying vapour he could see men feverishly working the other gun. He fancied he could distinguish Wakefield, but he was not sure... And Morpeth: where was he?
Suddenly Meredith felt his legs give way under him. The sensation was akin to that of receiving an unexpected blow behind the knees. Surprised and resentful, he tried to regain his feet. Some one was lying across them. It was Ainslie—or rather all that was left of Ainslie.
For perhaps twenty seconds Meredith lay on the deck striving to recollect where he was and how he came there. A red mist swam before his eyes, then it cleared, and he saw Ainslie's body once more.
There were rents on the deck. The whole fabric of the vessel was throbbing under the continued concussions. Q 171 was turning in a wide circle to starboard, exposing the whole of her broadside to the hostile fire.
With an effort Meredith freed his legs, and by the aid of the shoulder-piece of the now silent after quick-firer regained his feet. As he did so a man, grimy and blood-stained, lurched aft.
"Cap'n's down, sir," he reported. "Steering-gear carried away.... There's the hand-gear, sir."
Heavens! Morpeth down, Ainslie killed, Wakefield nowhere to be seen. The responsibility of fighting Q 171 to a finish had fallen upon the supernumerary, Sub-lieutenant Kenneth Meredith.
Staggering right aft, the Sub, assisted by the bluejacket who had reported to him, contrived to unshackle the useless wires from the heavy tiller. Then in answer to a powerful heave on the metal bar the boat began to swing once more to port.
Standing up, Meredith gave directions by gesture to the emergency helmsman. It was impossible to be understood otherwise, so terrific was the din, and, apart from that, Meredith's throat was so dry that he was unable to utter a sound.
Rapidly the Sub took in the situation. Morpeth's idea was to "cross the tee" of the approaching line of torpedo boats, which had changed their course so that the rearmost boat was now leading the flotilla. The demolition of the steering-gear, and Morpeth being knocked out of action, had temporarily thwarted the manoeuvre, but there was yet time to mend matters. The steady pulsations of the motors showed that below decks the badly battered vessel was still making good. For'ard a solitary gun was barking at wide intervals, keeping up a sullen and determined show of defiance. Otherwise the whole length of deck resembled, as far as the eddying smoke permitted, a gaunt and hideous charnel-house.
"Fritz has got to have it in the neck," thought Meredith. "Here goes!"
Conning the still swiftly moving Q-boat, he made straight for the leading German vessel. The latter held stubbornly on her course, at the same time masking the fire of her consorts astern.
It was a tense moment. Approaching at a speed of about sixty miles an hour, the two vessels, British and German, were heading to mutual destruction. With telescoped bows and interlocked framework, they would assuredly founder together in a common and awe-inspiring dissolution.
But almost at the last moment the nerve of the German commander failed. He ported his helm in a vain attempt to avoid the despairing act of a mad Englishman. He was too late. Meredith held on.
It was true that the kapitan-leutnant of the V 199 saved the bows of his boat from being telescoped, but by giving the vessel starboard helm he had neglected the important fact that the stern would swing to starboard more rapidly than the bows would turn to port.
Almost before he was aware of the fact, the bows of Q 171 bit deeply into the German torpedo boat's quarter. The shock was lighter than the Sub expected: it was the tortional wrench that hurled him sideways against the disabled quick-firer.
Then, swinging outwards under the way carried by her opponent, Q 171 literally levered the partly severed stern away from the rest of the rammed torpedo boat. With a gurgling sound, audible above the hiss of steam from the flooding engine-room, the after-part of the Hun boat sank, leaving two-thirds of the hull floating almost motionless and kept afloat solely by the badly strained bulkheads.
Freed from the interlocking embrace, Q 171 drifted clear, but she was no longer under control. Both her propellers had fouled some of the wreckage, and the bosses were stripped clear of their phosphor-bronze blades.
The gallant mystery ship, with the White Ensign flying from her stumpy mast—how it withstood that tornado of hurtling metal was little short of miraculous—was doomed.
But the end was not yet. The second enemy torpedo boat, unable to bring her guns to bear lest she should hit her disabled consort, was manoeuvring to obtain a favourable position to deliver thecoup de grâce. It seemed an easy thing to do, for Q 171 was little better than a floating scrap-heap.
Suddenly, from what appeared to be a tangle of riddled steel-plating and grotesquely twisted girders, a gleaming steel cylinder flashed in the sunlight.
Q 171 had shot her last bolt. One of the torpedo-tubes was still intact, and a grievously wounded man had seized his chance.
Fifteen seconds later the torpedo got home, literally blowing the Hun in twain.
Meredith saw the Q-boat's last blow. Defiantly, almost exultantly, he drew himself to full height, then a blinding flash seemed to leap from beneath his feet, and he toppled unconscious upon the deck.
"Fore-control,there! Anything to report?"
It was ten and a half hours after the light-cruiser squadron had left Auldhaig. At thirty knots the light cruisers were approaching the rendezvous mentioned in their sealed orders—orders that were no longer secret, since they were opened and communicated within one hour of clearing harbour.
On either side of the cruisers, which were steaming in double column line ahead, were the destroyers—long, lean, and eager to be released from the leash that held them to that comparatively modest thirty knots.
For the sixth time in the last hour the Commodore had asked the question. His impatience was natural. Visibility was good, and from the lofty eerie of the fore-control platform a wide expanse of horizon lay revealed.
Before the fore-control could reply, the navigating lieutenant, who was standing by the Commodore on the bridge, threw back his head and listened intently.
Above the whine of the wind past the tautened wire shrouds and sagging aerials came a long, low rumble.
"Gunfire!" he announced laconically, yet there was keen anticipation in his tone.
"Quick-firers," added the gunnery lieutenant.
"Suppose it's too much to expect—to find Fritz's battle fleet out?" remarked the navigator. "We'd shake 'em up a bit, I reckon."
The Commodore smiled at the subordinate's enthusiasm for a "hussar-stroke" of the light, swiftly-moving vessels against the heavily-armoured battleships of Germany.
"We'll think ourselves more than lucky if their light cruisers are out," he replied. "Lucky if there are only destroyers. If——"
He broke off abruptly to receive a message through a voice-tube.
"Good enough," he replied. "Increase speed to thirty-four," he ordered. "Keep her as she is, Quartermaster."
"Is it they, sir?" asked the gunnery lieutenant.
"Look-out has reported a smoke-screen dead ahead," replied the Commodore. "We'll be seeing the enemy ships above the horizon in a few minutes."
"Then my name's Johnny Walker, sir," said the gunnery officer whimsically, as he hurried off to his post to superintend the firing of the long-distance salvoes.
A signal was hoisted to the signal-yard arm of the flagship. Hardly had it appeared ere a similar hoist appeared "at the dip" on every ship of the squadron—there to pause for a brief instant before being hauled "close up."
It was a signal well understood, although the opportunities for its use were few and far between. It signified "Enemy in sight; prepare to open fire."
"Enemy torpedo boats beating east by north, sir," came the welcome news. "Heavy firing from the leading boats." Then, fifty seconds later: "One blown up, sir.... Another on fire."
Moments of suspense followed. Would the Huns, intent upon battering the vessel that the approaching flotillas were bent upon rescuing, spot the presence of the British light cruisers and destroyers before they drew within effective range?
Up in the fire-control station the range-finding officer was calling out the range, much like an intonation: "Twelve thousand yards... eleven thousand yards... ten thousand——"
A flash, immediately followed by a loud report, gave very audible warning that the flagship had opened the ball. The officers and men on the bridge could follow the flight of the spinning projectile, until it was lost to sight in the blue atmosphere. But they knew it was hurtling and climbing to an immense height, thence to drop, still with terrific speed, until it burst where, according to the highest efforts of ballistic science, and when it was intended to do—to the detriment, physical and moral, of the King's enemies.
Simultaneously the leading light cruiser of the port division opened fire, the following vessel executing an echelon manoeuvre in order that they too could join in the grim carnival of battle and sudden death.
The hitherto flanking destroyers were now, with two exceptions, far ahead, one division steering east by south in order to cut off, if possible, the enemy's retreat behind the Heligoland batteries; the other was pelting east-north-east to frustrate Fritz's flight round the northernmost point of Denmark. The exceptions were the T.B.D.'sPylosandPolyxo, on board of which their officers fumed in impatient and excusable wrath while sweating engine-room artificers were desperately striving to effect repairs to defective condensers.
So at a modest fifteen, soon afterwards increased to twenty-two, knots, thePylosandPolyxofollowed their more fortunate competitors in the "Fritz Stakes." To all appearances they were "out of it" and numbered amongst the "Also Rans." Yet they held on, hoping like Mr. Wilkins Micawber that something might turn up.
Already Fritz had turned tail. Under cover of a heavy smoke-screen the remaining Hun torpedo boats were "legging it," steering zig-zag courses in order to avoid, if possible, the long-range shells that followed with uncanny accuracy. And they were steering neither for the Bight nor for the Kattegat. The Zeppelin, that had been hovering around throughout the operations, had given warning of the outflanking British destroyers, and they were making for a place of security which is recognised as such by the navies of the world save that of Germany—the three-mile limit of a neutral seaboard.
The light cruisers opened outwards to avoid the far-flung line of artificially-created fog. It was unwise to penetrate that screen. A Hun torpedo boat at bay might seize an opportunity to "slap a tinfish" into an opponent at close range, or U-boats might be lurking in the fringe of the pall to claim a victim.
ThePylosand thePolyxo, jogging along, held straight on. By the time they reached the fog-screen the smoke would have lifted, and there was a chance that they might pick up some of the light cruisers' leavings in the shape of a few Huns.
It so happened that a sudden dispersal of a part of the smoke-screen under the steady westerly breeze revealed to thePolyxowhat appeared to be an intact hostile torpedo boat with her engines broken down. She was still flying the Black Cross Ensign.
Gleefully the destroyer altered helm, let fly with her bow quick-firer, and prepared to send Fritz to the bottom by means of a torpedo.
But Fritz objected. He had had no compunction at firing, together with half a dozen of his kind, at a solitary British Q-boat; and he had been considerably surprised when the Q-boat had chopped off twenty or thirty feet of her stern. But when a destroyer suddenly loomed out of the fog, the panic-stricken kapitan-leutnant promptly gave orders to lower the Black Cross Ensign and substitute one that was as blank and pale as his face.
While the officers and men of thePolyxowere enjoying a performance of the "Kamerad" order, thePylos, slower than her consort, butted up against what she took to be at first sight a Hun submarine, down by the head and with practically all her top hamper gone. From her mast-head hung a flag, tattered, torn and dun-coloured by smoke and dust.
"By Jove!" ejaculated the astonished lieutenant-commander of thePylos. "It's Q 171."
Every officer and man on board the destroyer had been firmly convinced that the mystery ship had been sunk. Indeed it seemed incredible that the lightly-built vessel could have withstood a hammering from half a dozen relatively heavily-armed ocean-going torpedo boats, and yet remain afloat.
On the Q-boat's deck were standing ten or twelve grimy men, stripped to the waist, and for the most part wearing bandages. There were others—some sitting with their heads supported by their hands, others stretched motionless.
"Pass the word for the surgeon," ordered the lieutenant-commander, as he rang for "half-speed" and then "stop."
Adroitly manoeuvred, thePylosran alongside the cruelly battered Q-boat and made fast. A sub-lieutenant, the surgeon and a dozen hands boarded the disabled boat.
"Not an officer left standing, sir," reported a chief petty officer, whose rank was indicated only by a battered peak cap set at a raking angle on his head and partly counterbalanced by a stained bandage. The rest of his attire consisted of a pair of trousers hanging in shreds below the knees, and the remains of a singlet that failed to conceal a lacerated wound on the man's broad chest. "And only a handful of us—mostly engine-room ratings."
Leaving the doctor and his assistants to deal with their grim and stupendous task, the sub-lieutenant proceeded to investigate the state of the ship. A decision had to be arrived at with the utmost promptitude—whether she should be sunk or steps taken to tow her back across the North Sea.
Her bows were battered and the for'ard compartment flooded. Beyond that she seemed fairly water-tight. Her engine-room was practically intact, although there were several gaping holes just above the water-line.
"I think we can save her yet," decided the Sub—a lad of nineteen, with the mature judgment of one who has seen three years of naval warfare.
He made his way aft, encountering the surgeon.
"A hard case, Pills," he remarked. "How many casualties?"
"Seventeen killed," was the reply. "Nine wounded. The disparity shows that she must have had a gruelling. There are only eight men fit to carry on, and most of them have scratches or are shaken up by the concussion. There are three officers right aft—all badly knocked about."
Lying side by side, close to the disabled after quick-firer, were Morpeth, Wakefield and Meredith. A short distance away was all that was mortal of young Ainslie.
Morpeth was unconscious, his left arm shattered below the elbow and his skull laid bare by a fragment of shell. Wakefield, already under the influence of morphia, was lying on his back, staring blankly at the tattered White Ensign. Aware that something was wrong with him, he was ignorant of the fact that four pieces of German shells were finding a temporary lodging in his body. For the present, he was serenely happy—not solely on account of the morphia injection, but because he realised that he had "seen it through," and that Q 171 was still flying the flag that symbolises the real Freedom of the Seas.
Next to him was Kenneth Meredith, his bandaged head supported on a coir fender. Seeing the destroyer's sub-lieutenant, he made an effort to rise.
"Now lie still, my lad," said the doctor kindly, but authoritatively. "You can tell us all about it when we get you in the sick bay."
He turned to his companion.
"That youngster's got something on his chest that he wants to get rid of," he remarked. "I can't make out what he wants. P'raps you can. It will relieve his mind." The Sub of thePylosknelt by Meredith's side.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
Kenneth moved his lips in a vain endeavour to speak.
"This won't hurt him, I suppose?" inquired the sub-lieutenant, producing a spirit flask.
"Only a small nip," replied the doctor, as he busied himself with another case.
Kenneth drank the proffered brandy. The spirit put fresh life into him. He raised himself and pointed below, but no words came from his lips.
The Sub of thePyloslooked puzzled.
"It's all right," he replied soothingly. "She's as tight as a bottle. We'll tow her in yet."
Meredith shook his head.
"I'm on the wrong tack evidently," thought the Sub. "I wonder if he can write down what he wants."
He handed Kenneth a pencil and notebook. The wounded officer took them eagerly and, with trembling fingers feebly grasping the pencil, he wrote:
"Prisoners still below."
"Good enough," exclaimed the other. "I'll see to that."
Kenneth smiled, closed his eyes, and relapsed into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
* * * * *
Accompanied by a couple of hands, the sub-lieutenant of thePyloswent below and hurried aft.
Stretched at full length in the narrow alley-way was one of the mystery ship's crew. He had been detailed at the commencement of the action to mount guard outside the compartment in which von Preugfeld and von Loringhoven had been placed. His orders were, in the event of the ship beginning to sink, to liberate the prisoners and give them an equal chance with their captors of saving their lives.
Unknown to the rest of the crew, the sentry had been rendered insensible, apparently by concussion only, for no marks of injury were visible.
They found the key of the compartment lying on the floor within a few inches of the man's hand, but no amount of persuasion could shoot back the wards of the lock. They had jammed possibly through the same shock that had rendered the bluejacket unconscious.
"Stand clear inside there!" shouted the Sub warningly; then, placing the muzzle of his revolver a few inches off the door, he fired and shattered the lock.
The sight which met his eyes was an unexpected one. Ober-leutnant Hans von Preugfeld was lying on his back with a ghastly wound in his chest. Even in death his heavy Prussian features looked grim and forbidding.
In the far corner von Loringhoven was leaning against the bulkhead, pale-faced and terror-stricken, with three fingers of his right hand torn away.
"You're all right, old bean!" exclaimed the sub-lieutenant of thePylos. "You'll enjoy the hospitality of Donnington Hall yet. Come along and let's see what our doc. can do for you."
In spite of every precaution that Morpeth had taken to safeguard his prisoners, Nemesis in the shape of a German shell had overtaken von Preugfeld. Placed for his protection as far below the water-line as possible, the ober-leutnant had been slain by a three-pounder shell, which, without exploding, had penetrated Q 171's side about two feet above the water-line. Glancing from the underside of the metal base of one of the triple torpedo-tubes, the missile had been deflected downwards. Penetrating the roof of the prisoners' cell, the pointed missile had gone completely through von Preugfeld's body and had ended its career by pulverising von Loringhoven's fingers and jamming the door.
By the time the Sub returned to the deck the work of rendering first aid to the wounded was accomplished. ThePolyxo, having transferred the German crew as prisoners from the torpedo boat that Q 171 had rammed, was engaged in sending to the bottom the still floating portion. Already the light cruisers were returning, having been robbed of the fruits of complete victory by their foe taking shelter in neutral waters.
Twenty minutes later Q 171, taken in tow by thePylos, was on her way back to Britannia's shores.