"Dash it all! What am I doing here?" muttered Ross Trevor drowsily, as he opened his eyes.
For the moment he quite imagined that he was in his dormitory at school, and that by an oversight the rest of his chums had left him in bed. The suggestion was strengthened by the sound of gurgling water, as if the bathroom tap were running. Then he became aware that everything was pitching up and down. Once before he had experienced a similar sensation—when he had had a violent headache following a slight touch of sunstroke.
It puzzled him, too, that he was almost in darkness. Somewhere without, and partly screened by some projection, an electric light was burning. The reflected rays were just sufficient to enable him to take stock of his surroundings.
No, he was not back in the school dormitory. True, he had a headache, but that would not account for the actual motion. He fumbled, his fingers came in contact with a curved board that served to prevent the occupant of the bed—or, rather, bunk—from falling on the floor.
Almost mechanically he rolled out, and stood supporting himself by grasping the ledge of the bunk. The swaying, due partly to dizziness and partly to an unaccountable see-saw motion, would have thrown him to the floor but for the assistance afforded by the side of the bunk.
Gradually he became aware that there was a similar sleeping-place immediately beneath the one he had been occupying. Someone was lying there, breathing heavily. There was sufficient light for Ross to recognize him. It was his chum Vernon.
Just then a bell clanged noisily. The sound of running water was outvoiced by the loud din of machinery in motion. A wave of hot air that reminded the lad of the atmosphere of a Tube station wafted past him. The whole fabric trembled under the powerful pulsations of the mechanism.
With his legs trembling through sheer physical weakness, Ross hung on grimly. He wanted to shout, but no sound came from his parched tongue. He was bewildered. It seemed as if he were in the throes of a terrible nightmare, and that he would awake on finding himself falling into a bottomless abyss.
The reflected light was obscured as a broad-shouldered man made his way along the narrow corridor in which the bunks were placed. As he did so he caught sight of the lad. Without a word he seized Ross in his arms, not roughly, but nevertheless unceremoniously, and lifted him back into the bunk. There was something so peremptory in the action that Ross lay still and closed his eyes. All his will power seemed to have deserted him.
"Make a dash for it, old man!" exclaimed a muffled voice that Trefusis hardly recognized as his chum's. "Make a dash for it. Don't let them collar us."
It was Vernon rambling in his sleep. The words were sufficient to give Ross a key to the hitherto baffling problem.
Like a flash he recalled the episode of their adventure on St. Mena's Island. He remembered himself being held in the grasp of the powerful Ramblethorne until unconsciousness overcame him. He was still a prisoner, but with the qualifying knowledge that he was not alone. Vernon Haye was sharing his captivity, wherever it might be.
"We're afloat then," he muttered. "What has happened?"
Moistening his lips, Ross leant over the side of the bunk and called his chum by name. His voice sounded strangely unfamiliar. He could only just hear himself above the clamorous noise of the engines.
It was not long before another man appeared at the end of the corridor. As he did so he switched on a lamp almost above the lad's head. For a few seconds Ross was temporarily blinded by the sudden transition from artificial twilight to the intense brilliancy of electric light.
"So! You are now awake, hein?" asked a guttural voice. "How you vos feel?"
"Rotten!" replied Ross emphatically. His reply was brief and to the point. It summed up his sensations during the last ten minutes.
The man laughed.
"So you look. You better soon will be. You know where you now vos?"
"On board a ship," answered the lad. He was still hoping against hope that his questioner was anything but a German. There was a small chance that he had by some means been picked up at sea by a Dutch or a Swedish vessel.
The man's announcement "put the lid on" that possibility.
"Sheep—goot!" he chuckled. "German unterseeboot—vot you vos call submarine. No danger to you boys if you yourselves behave. Much to see—ach! plenty much."
The lad's eyes had now become more accustomed to the light. He could see that his visitor was a broad-shouldered, muscular man of average height, florid-featured, and with light-yellow hair and a fair moustache. He was dressed in a uniform that was apparently a bad copy of that worn by executive officers of the British Navy. On the breast of his coat he wore an Iron Cross.
"Me Hermann Rix, Ober-leutnant of unterseeboot," he announced. "Der Kapitan send me to see how you get better. Goot! I tell seaman to bring food quick. In one hour you go on deck. Den you feel all well."
The German Leutnant bent and peered into the lower cot.
"Fat head," he remarked seriously. "Bad knock, but he get well soon."
With that the officer went away, leaving the light switched on.
Scrambling out of his bunk, Ross approached his chum. Vernon was now sleeping quietly. His face, however, was flushed, while it was quite evident that he had received a fairly heavy blow across the skull, for the top of his head was swollen to a considerable extent.
Before Ross had finished his examination a sailor entered, bearing a tray on which were three slices of rye bread, some tinned beef, and a bottle of Rhenish wine.
"Sprechen Sie deutsch?" he asked.
For an instant Trefusis hesitated before replying. To profess ignorance of the German language would be an immense advantage while on board the submarine, provided he could control his facial expressions and listen without betraying himself. Then, on the other hand, he reflected that Ramblethorne, the spy, might have been instrumental in getting him into this predicament. More than likely the Captain of the submarine had been informed of the fact that his unconscious passengers were well acquainted with the tongue-twisting language of the Fatherland.
"Here is food for you," said the man, placing the tray on the floor. "You had better take hold of the bottle before it upsets. We are rolling a bit. When your friend open his eyes, call me. I am in yonder compartment. It would be well for you to dress. I will bring your clothes to you very soon."
Ross made a sorry meal. The food was not at all appetizing. His throat was in no condition to enable him to swallow easily. A feeling of nausea, due either to the motion, the hot, confined air, or the after effects of the stupefying injection—perhaps a little of all three—was still present.
He was actually on board a German submarine—one of Tirpitz's twentieth-century pirates. He racked his brains to find a reason. With its limited accommodation an unterseeboot seemed the last type of craft that would receive a pair of prisoners—and non-combatants—within its steel-clad hull. It must have been at Ramblethorne's instigation; yet why had not the spy knocked the pair of luckless eavesdroppers over the head and tumbled them into the sea? It seemed by far the easiest solution; yet, in spite of that, Ross and Vernon were being carried to an unknown destination in one of the "mystery-craft" of the Imperial German Navy.
The reappearance of the seaman bearing Ross's clothes cut short the latter's unsolved meditations. Without a word the man laid the neatly folded garments on the bunk—a pair of flannel trousers, cricket shirt, underclothes, and the sweater that had been the cause of the lads' undoing; but in place of his shoes a pair of half-boots, reeking with tallow, had been provided.
Ross proceeded to dress. As he did so a voice that he hardly recognized asked:
"Hulloa, Trefusis, where are we?"
It was Haye. His companion was now awake, but hardly conscious of his surroundings.
"Better?" asked Ross laconically. He could not at that moment bring himself to answer the question.
"Didn't know that I was ill," remonstrated Vernon. Then, after a vain attempt to raise his head—perhaps fortunately, since the bottom of Ross's cot was within a few inches of his face—he added:
"Dash it all! I remember. That beastly German gave me a crack over the head with his copper walking-stick. Where are we?"
"In a rotten hole, old man. We're in a German submarine, bound goodness knows where."
"Where are my clothes?" asked Haye, this time successfully getting out of his bunk. "Since you have yours, there seems to be no reason why I shouldn't have mine. Hang it! What's the matter with me? Everything's spinning round like a top."
Mindful of the seaman's words, and with a docility that would have surprised him in different circumstances, Ross staggered along the corridor. The passage was about thirty feet in length. On one side the metal wall was flat, on the other it had a pronounced curve. Against it were six bunks arranged in pairs. Four were used as stowing-places for baggage, the remaining ones had been given up to the two prisoners. The roof was almost hidden by numerous pipes, most of them running fore and aft, while a few branched off through the walls. The flat bulkhead evidently formed one of the walls of the engine-room, for, as the lad placed his hand against it to steady himself, he could feel a distinct tremor, quite different from the vibration under his feet. The floor was of steel, with a raised chequer pattern in order to give a better grip to one's feet. At frequent intervals there were circular places, similar to those covering the coal-shoots in the pavement of residential thoroughfares. Walls, ceiling, and floor were covered with beads of moisture, but whether from condensation or leakage Ross could not decide.
At the end of the corridor or alley-way was a steel water-tight door, running in gun-metal grooves packed with india-rubber. The door was closed.
Seizing the lever that served as a handle, Trefusis tried to turn it, but without success. Failing that, he kicked the steelwork with his heavy half-boots, yet no response came to his appeal.
"The fellow told me to call," he muttered airily. "What did he want to play the fool for?"
Retracing his steps, Ross went to the other end of the alley-way. There was barely room to pass his companion as he did so. The place from which he had previously seen the reflected light was now shut off by a door similarly constructed to the one that he had vainly attempted to open. He was locked in a steel tomb that was itself a metal box within a metal box—a water-tight compartment of the submarine.
"They might just as well have switched off the light while they were about it," he exclaimed bitterly; then at the next instant he wildly regretted his words. The idea of being imprisoned in that cheerless compartment without a light of any description appalled him.
Almost frantically he returned to the door that had previously baffled him. As he did so he became aware that the submarine was tilting longitudinally. Since he was unaware of the direction of the craft, and which was the bow or stern, he was unable to judge whether the unterseeboot was diving, or ascending to the surface.
The incline became so great that he had to grasp the door-lever for support. Turning his head, he saw that Vernon was hanging on grimly to the partition between the tiers of bunks.
Then, as the vessel regained an even keel, silently and smoothly the door slid back in its grooves, revealing a small space barely six feet in length and five in breadth, and separated from the rest of the vessel by a closed water-tight panel. Part of the compartment was occupied by a bend, at which the seaman to whom he had previously spoken was busily engaged in mending a rent in an oilskin coat.
"My friend is now awake," announced Ross.
The man laid aside his work.
"Good!" he replied. "He is just in time. I will bring him his food and his clothes. After that you will both go on deck for fresh air before you are interviewed by Herr Kapitan Schwalbe. See that door? Beyond that you must not pass without permission. It is forbidden. If you do so, you will not have another opportunity in a hurry."
"What are they going to do with us?" asked Ross.
The sailor shook his head.
"It is forbidden to ask questions," he said sternly. "Whatever is necessary that you should know will be told you."
He turned his back upon his questioner, signifying in a plain manner that it was useless for Trefusis to say more. Taking the hint the lad returned to his chum, wondering deeply at the fate that had thrown them into the hands of the enemy.
Like Ross, Vernon Haye made a poor meal. He had barely finished when a petty officer appeared and curtly ordered the lads to follow him. Since he did so in German it was fairly certain that Trefusis' admission had been communicated to both officers and crew.
Staggering, they passed along the alley-way into a broad subdivision that extended completely athwartships. It was one of the two broadside torpedo-rooms, and contained two tubes of slightly greater diameter than the British 21-inch. In "launching-trays" by the side of the tubes were eight torpedoes with their deadly war-heads attached. Both transverse bulkheads were almost hidden by indicators, voice-tubes, and pipes for transmitting the compressed air from the air-flasks to the torpedo-tubes.
Passing through another water-tight door the prisoners found themselves in yet another compartment. On one side was an "air-lock", with its complement of life-saving helmets; on the other was an oval-shaped door forming means of communication with the small room built against the curved sides of the submarine. Ross guessed, and rightly as it afterwards transpired, that the door led into a space that could be flooded at will, and which in turn enabled a diver to operate from the U-boat while submerged.
Confronting the lads was an almost perpendicular steel ladder communicating with the conning-tower. Their guide was about to ascend when a stern voice exclaimed in German:
"Not that, you idiotic clodhopper! Have you lost your reason? The forward hatchway, don't you know?"
"Pardon, Herr Leutnant," said the petty officer, abjectly apologetic, and, backing down the ladder, he passed through another door entering into an alley-way between the officers' cabins. Here was the bowl of a supplementary periscope, so that a vision of what was taking place could be obtained without going into the conning-tower.
The alley-way terminated at another broadside torpedo-room, the pairs of tubes pointing in the opposite direction to those the lads had just seen.
Beyond were the living-quarters of the crew, kept spotlessly clean and tidy, yet Spartan-like in their simplicity. Two of the men were sound asleep in their bunks. Three more, who were playing cards at a plain deal table, glanced up from their game as the British lads passed by; but their interest was of brief duration, and stolidly they resumed their play.
Stooping down to avoid a large metal trough—the "house" for the for'ard 105-millimetre disappearing gun—Ross and his chum arrived at the ladder by which they were to gain the open air.
The hatch-cover was thrown back. For the first time during their captivity they made the discovery that it was night. Looking upwards, they could see a rectangle of dark sky twinkling with stars that, with the slight motion of the submarine, appeared to sway to and fro.
The cool night breeze fanned their heated foreheads as they gained the deck. For some time, coming suddenly from the glare of the electrically lighted interior, their eyes were blinded. They could see nothing but an indistinct blurr of star-lit, gently heaving water.
Gradually the sense of vision returned. They found themselves on the fore-deck of the unterseeboot. They had made up their minds to see a turtle-back deck with a narrow level platform in the centre; instead they found that the deck was almost flat and, in nautical parlance, flush, save where it was broken by the elongated conning-tower topped by the twin periscopes and slender wireless mast.
Lying on the deck in all conceivable attitudes were most of the U-boat's crew, taking advantage of a brief spell on the surface to breathe deeply of the ozone-laden atmosphere.
Not a light was visible on board. Even the hatchway by which the lads had gained the deck was constructed to trap any stray beam from the brilliant glare below.
Miles away, and low down upon the horizon, a white light blinked solemnly; then after a brief interval it was succeeded by a red gleam. This in turn was followed by white again.
Trefusis, with a sailor's inborn instinct, began to count the intervals. Although having no means of consulting the only time-recording watch in the possession of the two captives, he had a fair idea of counting seconds. At fourteen from the disappearance of the red light the white appeared. An almost identical space of time occurred before the red reappeared.
"It's the Wolf Light," mentally ejaculated the lad.
His next step was to fix the bearing of the lighthouse. This he did by looking for the Great Bear, and then, following the Pointers, the North Star.
"Phew!" he muttered softly. "Nor'-nor'-west. This brute of a submarine is right in the chops of the Channel—the main highway for vessels making for London and the south coast ports."
"What's that?" asked Vernon, who heard his chum speaking, but had failed to grasp the significance of his words.
"Nothing," replied Ross almost in a whisper. "I'll tell you later."
The cool air had revived both lads wonderfully. They had been left to their own devices, for the petty officer had gone aft. Those of the crew who were on deck seemed as apathetic as the men below concerning the presence of the kidnapped youths. They looked like men utterly worn out by fatigue and nervous strain.
Grasping the flexible wire hand-rail Ross continued his survey of the horizon, all of which was visible except a small portion obscured by the rise of the conning-tower. The air was remarkably clear. Taking into consideration the refraction of the atmosphere, the navigation lamps of a vessel shown at twenty feet above the sea would be visible from the low-lying deck of the submarine at a distance of six to seven miles.
But there were no signs of any vessels in the vicinity. The German submarine rolled lazily in complete isolation, waiting, like a snake in the grass, for its prey.
"Herr Kapitan would see you," exclaimed the guttural voice of the petty officer. "Come aft. Remember, when you are addressed, to remove your caps."
The man led the way, making no attempt to avoid the recumbent limbs and bodies of the crew who impeded his passage. Treading with discretion Ross and Vernon followed till, after skirting the base of the conning-tower, they found themselves in the presence of Lieutenant-Commander Schwalbe, the Kapitan of U75.
Schwalbe was sitting in a small arm-chair which had been brought from his cabin. He was smoking a cigar. At his elbow stood his satellite, Hermann Rix, who was also smoking. This luxury was denied the crew, the officers being permitted to smoke only when the submarine was running awash or resting on the surface.
"So you have recovered from your little involuntary rest," exclaimed Schwalbe in excellent English. He was a remarkably good linguist, for previous to the outbreak of the war he had been the skipper of a North-German-Lloyd boat. By sheer good luck he had reached a home port the day after the momentous declaration of hostilities, having narrowly escaped capture by a British destroyer.
Owing to the great expansion of the German submarine service, and its equally rapid reduction at the hands of the British Navy, the supply of specially trained officers of the Imperial Navy for this branch had run out. More had been transferred from the pent-up High Seas Fleet, while others had been absorbed from the now useless German Mercantile Marine, and hastily put through a course of instruction. Schwalbe was one of these, and after less than two months' hazardous work in the capacity of Unter-leutnant found himself in command of U75, one of the "last words" of von Tirpitz's piratical fleet.
Neither Ross nor Vernon replied. They could form no suitable answer. It was no doubt very considerate on the part of the Kapitan to enquire after their healths, but somehow the lads felt that the skipper of U75 was responsible for their presence on board.
"Come, come," continued Schwalbe. "Don't be sulky."
"We are not," expostulated Ross.
"I'm glad to hear it," rejoined the Kapitan, with a grin that had the effect of letting his cigar fall to the deck. He stooped to retrieve it, but, suddenly remembering that it was beneath his dignity, changed his mind and kicked the glowing stump on one side. Having taken another from a gun-metal case, he lit it with a device that merely smouldered instead of giving a bright light.
"It is as well we understand each other," he continued. "Do you know why you are on board U75?"
"No, sir," replied Ross.
"Neither do I," rejoined Schwalbe with astonishing candour. "I wish I had not been honoured with your company."
"The remedy is in your hands then, sir," said Trefusis. "You can land us the next time you put in at St. Mena's Island for petrol, or else put us on board the first fishing craft we fall in with."
"I beg to differ," was the rejoinder. "Unfortunately you are on board, and you must make the best of it, I understand from my friend—shall I say Dr. Ramblethorne—that you are both very inquisitive. Inquisitiveness is a bad trait in ones so young. You see, it has got you into trouble. The doctor has strong reasons for getting me to take care of you for some considerable time, so you will have an opportunity of seeing how we Germans make war. No half-measures, mark you. It is useless to make war with a velvet glove. You English people call us pirates, I believe?"
"It certainly looks like piracy when German submarines sink harmless merchantmen without warning," declared Vernon.
"For my part I have never sent a merchant vessel to the bottom without warning," said Schwalbe. "As a seaman I regret having to sink any ship of commerce. As an officer of the German Navy I have to obey orders unquestionably. Nevertheless I have always given the crews of British ships a chance of escape, and have never sunk any vessel until the men are safely in the boats, unless she attempts to show fight or to run away."
"Would you blame a skipper for trying to save his ship?" asked Ross.
"You do not understand," exclaimed Schwalbe. "We are at war. A blockade has been declared upon the British Islands. If, after full warning, merchantmen persist in taking the risk, it is their look-out, not mine. However, to return to a more personal matter: having been saddled with you, I must endure your presence. You will be well fed, as far as the resources at our command will allow. You will be free to go wherever you wish on board, with the exception of the conning-tower, motor- and torpedo-rooms. I am not ungrateful, for my brother, who had the misfortune to be in theAriadne, was captured by your fleet. He is being well treated somewhere in England. Hence I give privileges to the son of Admiral Trefusis and the son of Commander Haye so long as they are my compulsory guests. But bear in mind: you will be watched. Should you commit any fault, however slight, you will pay dearly for it. If you are foolish enough to attempt any act of treachery, death will be the penalty. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"
"Yes, sir," replied both lads.
"Very well. Is there anything you would like me to do within the bounds of reason?"
"Could we communicate with our parents?" asked Ross.
"No," replied Schwalbe decisively. "There are strong objections. And, while I am on the subject, should you fall in with the crews of destroyed ships you are strictly forbidden to communicate with them either by word or gesture. That will be a punishable offence of the second degree. Anything more?"
"My friend has had a nasty knock on the head," said Trefusis. "Have you a doctor on board?"
Again Kapitan Schwalbe smiled broadly.
"No," he replied. "There is no need. Cases of illness must wait till we return to port. The only injuries we are likely to sustain would put us beyond all medical aid. But several of the men are fairly skilled in rough surgery, so I will——"
"Vessel on the port bow, sir; she's showing no lights," announced a voice.
"All hands to stations!" ordered the skipper.
"Down below with you!" hissed the petty officer, who during the interview had stood rigidly at attention at two paces to the rear of his charges.
Already the hitherto recumbent men were alert. Quickly, yet in order, they disappeared down the fore hatchway, and amongst them were Ross and Vernon.
The officers had taken their places inside the shelter of the conning-tower. Everything was battened down from within, and with a gentle purr the electric motors were set in motion, while at the same time water ballast was admitted into the trimming-tanks.
Swift and stealthy had been their preparations, but the presence of the submarine was betrayed by the phosphorescent swirl of the water caused by the churning of the twin propellers as she slipped beneath the surface.
Twenty seconds later a swift vessel that looked suspiciously like a trawler, although her speed belied her, tore over the place where U75 had disappeared. Bare inches only separated the top of the latter's conning-tower from the massive keel plates of the craft that had all but accomplished its mission.
The watch-dogs of the British Navy were at work.
Like a startled hare the unterseeboot fled for shelter. Not until she reached a depth of fifteen fathoms did she check her diagonally downward course. At intervals a dull booming, audible above the rattle of the motors, proclaimed the unpleasant fact that her antagonist was circling around the spot marked by the phosphorescent swirl and the iridescence of escaped oil, and was firing explosive grapnels in the hope of ripping open the U-boat's hull.
Kapitan Schwalbe, looking very grey in the artificial light, was standing behind the quartermaster. His hands were clenched in momentary apprehension. Beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead. He was experiencing a foretaste of the torment of the lost.
As a submarine officer of the Imperial German Navy he was a failure. Only sheer luck had hitherto saved him from the fate that had overtaken scores of his brother officers in that branch of the service. Skilled as he was in the handling of a huge liner, he lacked the iron nerve that is essential to the man who has to risk his life in a steel box that, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, offers no means of escape in the event of a catastrophe.
Yet he had to do his duty, notwithstanding his utter distaste for submarine work. He had had no option. The officers of the British Navy volunteer for submarine duties; those of the German Navy are simply told off whether they want to or not.
The nerve-racking work was beginning to tell upon him. His orders condemned him to a forlorn hope, for the English Channel was known to be a death-trap for the under-sea blockaders. The sight of a trawler filled him with feelings akin to terror. The possibility, nay probability, of a merchantman carrying guns made him approach his intended prey with the utmost caution; yet, as he had remarked to Ross Trefusis, he had never torpedoed any vessel flying the red ensign without giving her warning.
But it was not chivalry that prompted Schwalbe to act with consideration. Had he been untrammelled he would have sent his prey to the bottom without compunction, for he had all the brutal instincts of the kultured Hun. It was a superstitious fear that held his frightfulness in check—a presentiment based upon the Mosaic Law, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
Having placed a considerable distance between him and his attacker, Kapitan Schwalbe ordered the electric motors to be stopped. The ballast tanks were "blown", and cautiously U75 rose to the surface.
It was the best course open to her. The depth of the water was much too great to allow her to rest on the bed of the sea. On the other hand, in order to keep submerged, the motors would have to be in motion. No one knew better than Schwalbe that the British patrol-boats would be in a position to locate with uncanny certitude the presence of their quarry, unless the strictest silence were maintained by the fugitive.
So, ready to dive at the first alarm, U75 floated awash until such times as were considered favourable for getting under way. Decidedly this part of the English Channel was, for the time being at least, unhealthy; and Kapitan Schwalbe resolved to make for the Bristol Channel, where the dangers of being destroyed by modern mosquitoes were more remote.
Meanwhile Ross and Vernon had been sent back to the quarters in the alley-way, by the side of the motor-room. Not knowing the reason for the U-boat's sudden submergence, and consequently unaware of the danger that threatened her, they formed the erroneous impression that the submarine was about to attack.
"The old fellow gave us a pretty straight tip," remarked Vernon, when the chums found themselves alone. "All the same, I vote we get out of it at the first opportunity, favourable or otherwise."
"'Ssh," whispered Ross. "Someone might be listening. I don't see how you propose to clear out, though."
"We were on deck just now."
"We were," agreed Trefusis.
"It was fairly dark. All the men up for'ard were lying down. It would have been an easy matter to have dived overboard and swum for it, if we hadn't been twenty miles or more from land."
"There was a bright look-out kept, all the same," objected Ross. "And I wouldn't mind saying that if the submarine were closer inshore, getting a supply of petrol, for example, we should be closely watched. All the same, I'm with you if we get the ghost of a chance. But it's a rummy affair altogether. Fancy that chap knowing our names and the rank of our respective fathers."
"Ramblethorne must have told him that," said Vernon.
"I suppose so; but for what reason? By Jove, if we get out of this mess all right, we'll have something to talk about—having been prisoners on a German submarine!"
The lads were not allowed on deck again that night. Acting upon Haye's suggestion they "turned in", and slept fitfully until awakened by the noise of the watch being relieved.
The seaman, Hans Koppe, brought them their breakfast. The meal consisted of fish, coffee, and the usual black bread. By this time the captives had practically recovered from the effects of the injection. Haye's head was still painful, although the headache had left him.
They ate with avidity, owing possibly to the atmosphere of the confined space, which was highly charged with oxygen.
"What is the Captain's name?" asked Ross, when the man came to remove the breakfast things.
The sailor told him.
"Where are we now?" enquired Vernon.
The man winked solemnly.
"Afloat," he replied. "Be content with that."
Just then there were unmistakable signs of activity on the part of the submarine crew. Several men hurried along the alley-way, each with a set purpose. They paid little heed to the Englanders as they passed.
At their heels came Herr Rix, the Leutnant of the submarine. He was beaming affably.
"Goot mornings!" he exclaimed. "You come mit me, den I show you how we blockade."
He led the way to the compartment in which the bowl of the supplementary periscope was placed. It was now broad daylight, and consequently the bowl showed a distinct image. A junior officer was standing by, but on seeing Rix approach he saluted and moved aside.
"Look!" exclaimed the Leutnant.
Both lads peered into the bowl. On its dull sides, an expanse of sea and sky was portrayed. Beyond that they could see nothing, until Rix called their attention to a small dark object.
"Englische sheep!" he declared. "Now you vos watch."
He touched a metal stud. Instantly an arrangement of telescopic lenses came into play within the tube of the periscope, with the result that a small portion of the view was greatly magnified upon the object card. It revealed a tramp of about nine hundred tons. She had a single funnel painted black, with two broad red bands; two stumpy masts, with derricks, and a lofty bridge and chart-house abaft the funnel. She was wall-sided. Her rusty hull was originally painted black. Here and there were squares of red lead, showing that her crew had been engaged in trying to smarten her up before she reached port. Aft, frayed and dirty with the smoke that poured from her funnel, floated the red ensign.
The submarine began to rise. Although she tilted abruptly, the image of the tramp steamer still remained upon the object bowl. By an ingenious arrangement, the lenses were constructed to compensate for any deviation of the tube of the periscope from the vertical. The lads could see the bows of the U-boat shaking clear of the water, throwing cascades of foam off on either side as the passing craft forged ahead at at least eighteen knots.
Now, for the first time, the skipper of the tramp saw the danger. He was a short, thick-set man, with white hair and an iron-grey moustache, and a face the colour of mahogany. For an instant he grasped the bridge-rails and looked towards the submarine, then gesticulated violently to the man at the wheel.
The spikes ran through the helmsman's hands, as he rapidly revolved the wheel actuating the steam steering-gear. The tramp swung hard to port, with the idea of baffling the momentarily expected torpedo.
Kapitan Schwalbe acted up to his principles. In any case he was loath to use a torpedo upon a comparatively small vessel. In response to an order, half a dozen of the submarine's crew swarmed on deck, three going for'ard and three aft. Within forty-five seconds the two disappearing guns were raised from the water-tight "houses".
Ross, Vernon, and the German Leutnant remained gazing into the bowl of the periscope. The vision so absorbed the attention of the two lads that they hardly heeded the presence of Herr Rix, who occasionally emitted grunts of satisfaction or annoyance as the scene was enacted.
The bow gun spat viciously. The range was but three hundred yards. The missile passed a few feet in front of the tramp's bows, and, throwing up a shower of spray that burst inboard on the British vessel's fo'c'sle, ricochetted a mile or so away.
The tramp's skipper showed his mettle. Round swung the vessel, listing heavily as she did so. By this time the call for more steam had been responded to, and dense clouds of black smoke belched from her funnel, mingled with puffs of white vapour as the siren bleated loudly for aid.
Running awash, U75 had a great advantage of speed; overtaking her prey she was able to send half a dozen shells into the lofty target presented as she slid by.
Holes gaped in the thin plating close to the waterline. A shell, passing completely through the funnel, demolished the siren. Being without wireless, the tramp was now without means of long-distance signalling.
Another missile hit the chart-house and, exploding, swept the frail structure overboard in a thousand fragments. The old skipper, hit by a splinter of wood, fell inertly upon the bridge; but the next instant he staggered to his feet, bawling to the crew to get the hand-steering gear connected.
"He's down again!" exclaimed Ross breathlessly, as the brave old man dropped upon the shattered planking of the bridge. "Hurrah! He's still alive."
The skipper had deliberately taken cover behind the slender shelter afforded by the metal side-light boards. By the frantic movement of his arm, it was evident that he was exhorting his men to "stick it" like Britons.
The hail of shells continued. Already fire had broken out on board in several places. A sliver of metal sheered through the ensign staff. Without hesitation one of the crew rushed off, retrieved the weather-worn bunting, and made his way to the mainmast.
Slowly and deliberately he re-hoisted the ensign until it fluttered proudly from the truck, then with apparent unconcern the man disappeared below.
By this time the tramp was again under control, with a course shaped for land, which lay about ten miles to the S.S.E. It was, however, a foregone conclusion that unless help were speedily forthcoming the vessel was doomed.
The tramp began to heel, almost imperceptibly at first, then with increasing speed. She had received hercoup de grâce.
Still the engines were kept going full speed ahead. The dauntless skipper remained on the bridge, with a look of grim resolution on his weather-beaten features.
Slowly the vessel's way diminished. Her bow-wave, owing to the gradually increasing draught, was greater, but less sharp than before. In a few minutes the water would be pouring over her fore-deck.
Seeing that their work was completed, the pirates ceased fire, the guns' crews standing with folded arms and stolidly watching the tramp as she struggled in her death-throes.
Presently a vast cloud of steam issued from her engine-room. The inrush of water had damped her furnaces. The engineer and firemen, their faces black with coal-dust and streaming with moisture, hurried on deck.
For another quarter of a mile the doomed vessel carried way, then came to a sudden stop. As she did so she gave a quick list to starboard, until only a few inches of bulwark amidships showed above the waves.
Then, and only then, did the skipper give orders for the boats to be lowered. In an orderly manner the crew manned the falls, and the task of abandoning the ship began.
Without undue haste, the crew dropped into the waiting boats, each man with a bundle containing his scanty personal effects wrapped up in a handkerchief. The Captain was the last to leave. He did so reluctantly, his left hand tightly grasping the ship's papers.
Having rowed a safe distance from the foundering vessel, the men rested on their oars, and waited in silence for the end. It was not long in coming.
The tramp was heeling more and more, and slightly down by the bows. Suddenly she almost righted; then, amid a smother of foam as the compressed air burst open her hatches, she flung her stern high in the air.
Even then she seemed in no hurry. The after part from the mainmast remained in view, the now motionless propeller being well clear of the water.
For quite a minute she remained thus, then with a quick yet almost gentle movement slid under the waves. The last seen of her was the weather-worn red ensign still fluttering from the truck.
The periscope's bowl showed nothing but an expanse of sea and sky, and the two boats rising buoyantly to the waves.
A grim chuckle brought Ross and Vernon back to their surroundings. Herr Rix was rubbing his hands and grunting with evident satisfaction.
"Goot!" he ejaculated. "Now, how you like dat? Now you see how we German make blockade, hein?"
"A brave deed," replied Ross scornfully, and, gripping Vernon by the arm, led him back to their uncomfortable quarters in the alley-way.
For the next twenty-four hours nothing exciting occurred. The U-boat kept to the surface as much as possible, running under her petrol motors at fifteen knots. To exceed that pace would mean too great a consumption of fuel, and already the vessel was short of petrol.
Kapitan Schwalbe was prone to act on the side of extreme caution. Having sunk one vessel, he would not tackle another in the same vicinity. He invariably put at least a hundred miles between him and the scene of his latest ignominious exploit before attempting another act of kultur.
Three times during that twenty-four hours he dived: twice on sighting what were unquestionably Bristol Channel pilot-boats, and on the third occasion when a Penzance lugger under motor-power (for it was a dead calm) crossed his track.
All this time a regular stream of shipping was passing up and down the Bristol Channel, as unconcernedly as in the piping days of peace. To anyone but a bumptious German, the sight would have told its own tale; for the British Mercantile Marine, used to danger and difficulties, was not to be deterred by the "frightfulness" of von Tirpitz's blockade. On the contrary, the possibility of falling in with a hostile submarine gave an unwonted spice to the everyday routine of the toilers of the sea.
After breakfast on the following morning Ross and Vernon were told to go on deck. The sea was still calm, and the submarine, now running awash at full speed, was cleaving the water with practically dry decks.
The lads soon realized what was in progress. A couple of miles away was a large ocean cargo-boat, outward bound, and U75 was in pursuit.
Trefusis and his chum were not allowed for'ard, where the quick-firer was already in position for opening fire. They were ordered abaft the conning-tower, the hatch of which was open.
Kapitan Schwalbe's head and shoulders could be seen projecting above the opening. On the raised grating surrounding the conning-tower, stood a boyish-looking Unter-leutnant. Hermann Rix was nowhere to be seen. Apparently his duties compelled him to remain below.
Presently the quick-firer barked, and a projectile struck the water about a hundred yards from the starboard side of the pursued vessel. With the discharge of the gun, a sailor hoisted the black cross ensign of Germany from a small flagstaff aft, while a signal in the International Code ordering the British vessel to heave to instantly fluttered from the light mast immediately abaft the conning-tower.
The only response from the chase was the hoisting of the red ensign, for previously she had shown no colours. Slowly, defiantly, the bunting was hauled close up, and ironically "dipped" three times.
Again and again the submarine's bow-chaser fired. The shells were well aimed as regards direction, but all fell short. Imperceptibly the merchantman had increased distance.
"Look at the fools!" Ross heard the Kapitan remark, as he kept his binoculars focused on his intended prey. "They are trying to snapshot us. Are all Englishmen so blind to peril?"
"Are you sure they haven't a couple of quick-firers mounted aft, sir?" asked the Unter-leutnant. "There are several men gathered round something on the poop."
"Himmel, I hope not!" ejaculated Schwalbe. "But no; had they any guns they would have opened fire before now. What is the matter with our gun-layer? It is about time he got a shell home."
The Unter-leutnant lowered himself on the foredeck, and shouted angrily at the seaman whose duty it was to "lay" the bow-chasers. The man again bent over the sights.
This time the shell pitched ahead of the chase, but slightly to port. Some of the spray thrown up by the projectile fell on board.
"Is that the best you can do, you brainless idiot?" shouted Schwalbe wrathfully. Now that he was in pursuit he was loath to be baffled, but at the same time he realized that the submarine was using a lot of precious fuel and a prodigious amount of ammunition without any definite result.
In the midst of his torrent of abuse directed upon the luckless gun-layer, Kapitan Schwalbe suddenly stopped. Gripping the rim of the oval hatchway he gazed, horror-stricken, at two objects bobbing in the water directly in the path of the submarine. Then, recovering his voice, he shouted to the quartermaster to port helm.
The fellow obeyed promptly, but it was too late. Practically simultaneously, two barrels swung round and crashed alongside the submarine's hull.
Officers and men, expecting momentarily to find themselves blown into the air, stood stock-still. Then, as nothing so disastrous occurred, Schwalbe gave orders for easy astern.
The barrels, connected by a span of grass rope, had been thrown overboard from the pursued vessel, in the hope that the submarine would foul her propellers in the tangle of line. Once a blade picked up that trailing rope, the latter would coil round the boss as tightly as a band of flexible steel.
The plan all but succeeded; only the metal guards protecting the propellers saved them from being hopelessly jammed. Yet the attempt was attended with good results as far as the British ship was concerned, for by the time U75 had lost way and had cautiously backed away from the obstruction, the swift cargo-vessel had gained a distance that put her beyond all chance of being overhauled.
Infuriated by his failure, Kapitan Schwalbe went aft and descended into his cabin. He was hardly conscious of the presence of his two involuntary guests as he passed. He was thinking of the fate that had consigned him to a perilous and uncongenial task. Without doubt the vessel he had been pursuing was equipped with wireless, and by this time a number of those dreaded hornets would be tearing towards the spot. To add to his discomfiture it was reported to him that the reserve of fuel on board had seriously dwindled. In order to remain effective it was necessary that U75 should replenish her tanks before another forty-eight hours had passed.
According to his customary tactics, Schwalbe ordered the submarine to dive to sixty feet. At that depth she would be safe from any possibility of being rammed. Provided she could avoid the under-water obstructions with which the British naval authorities had sown the bed of the sea at almost every point likely to be frequented by lurking hostile submarines, she was in no actual danger.
Gaining his diminutive cabin, Schwalbe by sheer force of habit consulted the aneroid. The mercury was falling rapidly. Since he last looked, barely two hours previously, it had dropped 764 to 734 millimetres, or an inch and two-tenths. That meant that the anti-cyclone was rapidly breaking up, and that a severe gale was approaching with considerable swiftness.
U75 must submerge and seek shelter. It was impossible for her to keep at a uniform depth unless she maintained steerage-way; that meant a great demand upon her storage batteries. She could not remain on the bottom of the sea in a heavy gale, owing to the constant "pumping" or up-and-down movements caused by the varying pressure of passing waves, unless she sought a sheltered roadstead—and sheltered roadsteads were generally mined, or guarded by some ingenious device that had already accounted for several of U75's consorts.
Producing a chart of the Bristol Channel, Schwalbe unfolded and spread it upon a table. Then, in conjunction with a translation of the latest British Admiralty guide to the west coast of England, he proceeded to select what he hoped would be a snug shelter during the coming storm.
"Herr Rix!" he shouted. "I'll make for this anchorage. There's every indication of a strong blow from the nor'-east."
"This" was Helwick Channel, a deep, almost blind passage between the Glamorgan coast and an outlying submerged reef known as the East and West Helwick. In fine weather it was a short cut for traders plying between Llanelly and Swansea. In bad weather it was a place to be avoided, as far as sailing vessels were concerned. Sheltered by the bold outlines of Worm's Head, it ought to prove an ideal lurking-place until the gale had blown itself out, for there was little danger of the place being used as an anchorage, since vessels preferred to give the rock-bound coast a wide berth. On this account, it was also highly probable that the Helwick channel had not been safe-guarded by the British naval authorities.
Just before sunset, U75, having made the passage unobserved, brought up in twelve fathoms of water, resting evenly on the firm, hard sands at the bottom.
Ross and his chum turned in early. There was nothing for them to do. They held aloof from the crew; there were no books to entertain them, no games to amuse them. The submarine was now motionless, sufficient water ballast having been taken in to allow her to settle firmly upon the bottom; but, in order to be prepared, the anchor was let go. Thus not the slightest movement of the hull was apparent. The rest, after hours of erratic movement on the oily swell, was a welcome one.
The lads had set their joint watch by the submarine's time, which, being mid-European standard, was one hour fast of Greenwich.
For several hours they slept soundly and undisturbed. Suddenly they were both awakened by the muffled tramp of men in heavy sea-boots. The solitary light in the alley-way was switched off; the water-tight doors were firmly closed. Already the air in the confined space was stifling.
"What has happened?" asked Vernon anxiously, for the vessel, instead of resting immovably upon the bed of the channel, was now rolling sluggishly. Yet she could not be under way, for the motors were silent.
Springing from his bunk, Ross felt for the switch of the electric light. It was already down, yet the flow of current was interrupted.
"Let's find out," he said. "Come along."
The lads, before turning in, had carefully laid out their clothes, so as to be ready to slip into them at a moment's notice, yet it was a matter of considerable difficulty to dress in the dark.
"The door's closed," announced Ross as the lads groped their way to the end of the alley-way.
"I believe the submarine's holed," suggested Haye.
"No; she wouldn't lift as she's doing. Besides, the crew are moving about. Let's bang on the door with our boots."
For several minutes they hammered, but without result. The air, never very fresh, was now almost unbearable, owing to lack of ventilation. The imprisoned youths began to get desperate.
Then, without warning, the door slid back. The alley-way was flooded with brilliant light.
"Make haste!" shouted a voice which the lads recognized as that of Hans Koppe. At the same time he grasped Ross by the shoulder and literally dragged him across the steel threshold. Vernon followed quickly, but barely had he gained the compartment beyond than the massive steel door shot back again.
"Didn't you hear the order all hands for'ard?" asked Hans, not unkindly, for the white faces of the English lads told their own tale.
"No," replied Ross. "Besides, we are not included in the 'hands', are we?"
"You'll have to bear the consequences if you don't obey," rejoined Koppe. "I'm supposed to be looking after you, but how was I to know you hadn't turned out? Fortunately for you, I heard your knocking, and asked Herr Kapitan to open the doors. He was angry, but did so."
"What has happened then?" asked Trefusis, for the seaman seemed in a communicative mood.
"A shift of wind. It's blowing great guns up aloft, and there's a terrific tumble into this channel. We've dragged, or, rather, swung round our anchor."
"But we are safe enough?" asked Vernon.
"Yes, safe," replied Hans. "Too safe; we cannot break out our anchor. They are sending a diver to see what is amiss."
Evidently the diving arrangements on board were not considered to be of a confidential nature, for Hans led the way to the compartment under the fore-hatch, without the lads being sent back by the significant word "verboten".
A man was preparing for a submarine walk. He was already dressed in an india-rubber suit, with leaden weights attached to his chest, back, and boots. Two others were standing by, ready to place the helmet over his head, when Leutnant Rix had finished giving him minute directions.
The officer spoke rapidly and in a low tone. Ross could not catch all he said, but the words "gefährliche Strömungen" (dangerous currents) and "Der Wendepunkt der Flut" (slack water) and "Drei Viertel funf" (a quarter to five) occurred frequently.
Vernon glanced at his watch. It was then a minute after four. Apparently Rix was impressing upon the man that he must clear the anchor at slack water, which occurred at a quarter to five.
The two attendants then proceeded to place the diver's helmet on his head. The lads noticed that it had neither air-tube nor telephone wire. Nor was there a life-line attached to his waist. Fresh air was obtained from a metal case strapped to his back. The man was able to work independently, and without having to rely upon his air supply from the submarine.
The oval door in the diving-chamber was thrown open. The diver entered, and the water-tight panel was quickly replaced. One of the seamen thrust over a short lever, and immediately water rushed into the small compartment. As soon as the space was filled the diver was able to open a similar door in the outer plating of the submarine, and thus gain the bed of the sea.
Presently Leutnant Rix turned, and saw for the first time that Ross and Vernon were discreetly standing in the background.
"Go away. It is forbidden!" he shouted angrily.
They obeyed promptly, retreating to the space allotted to the crew, since it was neither desirable nor possible to return to their bunks.
For some minutes the luckless Hans Koppe was subjected to a severe dressing-down by his hot-headed officer, and when at length the seaman rejoined the lads he was in no humour to resume conversation.
Slowly the minutes sped. The submarine was still rolling sluggishly, in spite of the fact that more water had been admitted into the ballast tanks.
The men were talking seriously amongst themselves. From scraps of conversation that drifted to the lads' ears, it was evident that they had grave doubts concerning the ability of the diver to perform his task, and even of his chances of regaining the submarine, owing to the violent disturbances of the water.
Presently the motion of the anchored submarine became more acute. A weird grating sound—the noise made by the hull rasping over the bed of the sea—was distinctly audible.
One of the seamen produced a pocket compass. His startled exclamation brought other members of the crew around him. The magnetic needle was apparently describing a semicircle. U75 was swinging round her anchor.
Just then a bell tinkled, and a disc oscillated on the indicator board on the bulkhead. Instantly the two men who had been told off as attendants upon the diver hurried aft, while their companions crowded expectantly around the door.
The two men came back, staggering under the weight of the diver. They had already removed his head-dress and leaden weights. Water dropped from his rubber suit. His face was livid, his eyes wide open and rolling. One of his bare hands was streaked with blood that flowed sullenly from a cut in his numbed flesh.
Kapitan Schwalbe and Leutnant Rix followed him into the crew-space. It was not through feelings of compassion that they had come for'ard. It was acute anxiety to hear the diver's report.
The luckless man was laid upon the mess-table. His attendants divested him of his diving-suit, and rubbed his body with rough towels. A petty officer poured half a glass of brandy down his throat.
"What is amiss?" Kapitan Schwalbe kept on repeating.
With a great effort the diver sat up.
"An anchor, sir," he gasped feebly. "An anchor—an English naval pattern one—has been dropped right over ours. A very big one."
Then his eyes closed, and he fell back unconscious.
"Gott in Himmel!" ejaculated Rix. "We are trapped!"