The Submarine Hunters, Percy F. Westerman [e reader comics txt] 📗

to each man, and preparations were made for the approaching night. Vernon's boat, which possessed the only lantern that would burn, was to take the lead as soon as darkness set in, the light enabling the whaler to keep in touch with her consort.

"Jolly funny where the Capella's got to," remarked Ross to the skipper. "With her speed she could search a couple of hundred square miles by this time."

"'Spose she wasn't torpedoed?" asked the Orontabella's master.

"No jolly fear!" replied the midshipman decidedly. "She's torpedo-proof. We've had plenty of them fired at us, but never the least danger of being hit."

"It's a good thing the sea's calm," continued the skipper. "We're doing a good four knots. Twelve hours at the very most ought to bring us in sight of the Wight, but we've dropped a long way to lee'ard. P'raps it's as well, for it's no joke to be in the thick of the cross-Channel traffic at night, with only a tuppenny dip to light us. Good heavens! What's that?"

Less than fifty yards from the boat a pole-like object, throwing off a double feather of spray, was forging through the water.

"A periscope, sir!" shouted half a dozen voices.

Ross did not require to be told that. With considerable misgivings, he saw the metal shaft rise higher and higher out of the water; then the tip of an ensign-staff, followed almost simultaneously by the snout and conning-tower of a large German submarine. Finally the unterseeboot rose to the surface, revealing her entire length, which was not less than three hundred feet.

She slowed down. The aperture in her conning-tower opened and a couple of officers appeared. From hatchways fore and aft, seamen clad in grey fearnought coats came tumbling on deck, greeting the British with jibes and laughter.

"So you getting on, Englishmen!" exclaimed a leutnant. "Still it is long vay to land, hein? An' where vos der Capella? Suppose I tell you: we her haf sent to der bottom. Goot night, ver' goot night. Our ver' kind regards to Jellicoe."

The U-boat forged ahead, then, getting way, made off at high speed. In a quarter of an hour she was out of sight.

"I suppose those fellows were telling the truth, old man," called out Ross, addressing his chum.

"'Fraid so," replied Vernon. "They had her name pat, so it looks as if the poor old ship's done for. But, I say, what a whopper of a submarine!"

"One of the new type, I should fancy," said the skipper of the Orontabella. "I shouldn't be surprised if she were a mine-layer as well."

Darkness fell upon the scene. The men rowed doggedly, Vernon setting the course by the simple expedient of keeping the Pole Star in line with the boat's stem. It saved the strain of peering into the compass bowl, and in any case the boats were bound to hit the English coast, unless they were swamped or run down.

Throughout the long night the steady progress was maintained. It was horribly cold. Most of the men were lightly clad in imperfectly dried garments. Both Ross and Vernon were glad when the officers of the Orontabella relieved them, since they could take turn at the oars and derive a certain amount of warmth from the exertion.

Day dawned at last, a brilliant pink sky that betokened bad weather before the day was out. Away on the starboard bow could be discerned a grey cliff surmounted by dark hills. It was the Isle of Wight, distant about six miles off.

With the appearance of the sun the wind freshened, and soon developed into a strong breeze dead in their teeth. Spray began to fly over the bows, soon to be followed by green seas, that necessitated constant baling. It was quite evident that every yard of that six miles meant desperate work, with the chances of being swamped before the boat reached land.

The men, weakened by hunger and exposure, stuck gamely to their task, yet after another half an hour's hard pulling the boats seemed no nearer their object. They were barely holding their own against the wind and waves.

"What's to be done now?" asked Ross, consulting the experienced skipper. Although the midshipman was in charge, he was not above asking the advice of a man who had been to sea almost as many years as the lad had been days. "We're hardly making headway, and the sea's beating up fast."

"And the men are almost done up," added the skipper. "It's bound to be worse before it gets better. I would suggest that we ride to a sea-anchor, and trust to luck to be picked up."

The men quickly got to work. A triangle was composed of six oars in pairs lashed together, two of the boat's gratings being secured between the ash spars. To the apex the anchor was made fast, in order to make the sea-anchor float in a vertical position, its weight compensated by the use of the now empty water-beaker as a float.

Secured by three spans of equal length, which in turn were bent to the boat's painter, the sea-anchor was dropped overboard. For some distance the whaler drifted to leeward, until held by the strain of the painter she rode head to wind, and in comparative safety in the wake of the floating breakwater.

Vernon's boat then came close alongside. Her painter was caught and secured, allowing her to ride astern.

The crews were then at liberty to rest, with the knowledge that their drift was little more than half a knot. Yet every two hours they would be drifting a mile farther from shore, unless their plight were observed by passing vessels.

By this time the sea was running high. At one moment the whaler would be tossing high upon the rounded crest of a wave, with the other boat deep in the trough. At the next, nothing was to be seen from the whaler save an incline of green water and a canopy of dark-grey sky. On either side the crests were white with foam, yet, thanks to the sea-anchor, hardly a drop of water was taken in over the boats' gunwales.

The men sat in silence, turning their backs to the keen wind. A few who had tobacco smoked. Those who had not were glad to chew the small quantity given them by their more fortunate comrades. As for Ross and Vernon, they were glad to doze, lying on the damp bottom-boards with their heads pillowed on their arms.

Ross was almost asleep when he was aroused by one of the men announcing that a vessel was in sight. At the prospect of rescue, all hands were alert. The man was right, for, as the whaler rose on the crests of the waves, a dark, grey shape could be discerned through the mirk at a distance of about a couple of miles.

Quickly the shape resolved itself into a large four-funnelled cruiser pelting down-Channel at full speed. Unless she altered her course she would pass within a hundred yards of the boats.

"Lash a shirt to the boat-hook, lads!" ordered Ross.

A few moments of intense anxiety followed. Then a groan of disappointment rose from the men as the cruiser ported helm.

She was then a couple of miles to windward. The smoke from her funnels drifted around the boats, making it impossible for the derelict men to see what she was doing, until the evil-smelling haze dispersed, showing the cruiser less than two cables' length away and bearing down towards them.

From her after bridge a seaman was semaphoring vigorously.

"Will slow down to windward of you," read the message.

"Oars, lads!" ordered Ross.

The bowman of each boat promptly cut the painter. With renewed spirit the rowers bent to their work, and soon the boats were alongside and under the lee of H.M.S. Oxford, armoured cruiser of the County class.

By the aid of bowlines the rescued men were quickly hauled over the side. Without delay the Capella's boats were cut adrift, and the cruiser proceeded on her way.

CHAPTER XXII An Unexpected Capture

"I can see no possibility of landing you at present," said the officer of the watch, after Ross had reported the events that had led up to the rescue of the two boats. "We're under sealed orders. We have to make for a certain rendezvous at full speed. When we arrive we shall know where we are bound for—until then we are quite in the dark. We'll wireless, however, and let the Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth know that you are safe."

"Have you any news of the Capella?"

"Yes; she was mined while in pursuit of a submarine. It is a dickens of a puzzle to know why, for our sweepers were over there early that morning and never found a single mine. Whatever it was, it was not so powerful as they generally are, for the Capella was able to make for shore and run aground within a few miles of Barfleur. All hands were saved, luckily, but I'm afraid this gale will do for her entirely. It's blowing great guns."

"Then those fellows on the unterseeboot were wrong," remarked Vernon. "They said she had gone down with all hands. We believe that the submarine is a mine-layer, and perhaps it was one of her mines that the old Capella bumped against."

"Let's hope the patrol-vessels will settle her," rejoined the officer of the watch. "But you must be awfully knocked up. I'll introduce you to your new messmates, and they'll give you a shake-down in the steerage flat. The Orontabella's officers can mess with the 'warrants', and the men will be berthed for'ard."

The Lieutenant stepped to the top of the ladder from the navigation bridge. A couple of midshipmen were standing on the superstructure, watching with professional interest the splicing of a six-inch hawser.

"Mr. Sefton!" sang out the officer of the watch.

The midshipman ran up the ladder and saluted.

"Your messmates for the time being," continued the Lieutenant, after he had formally introduced Trefusis and Haye. "They've had a pretty rough time, and they are jolly peckish, I know."

Midshipman Sefton led the two chums below, and piloted them into a very long room on the main deck. It was plainly, nay scantily furnished, and appeared at first sight to be utterly cheerless. Possibly the idea was heightened by the fact that frequently the scuttles were obscured by the seas that slapped viciously against the cruiser's sides.

"This is the gun-room," explained Sefton apologetically. "We've had to clear it out pretty thoroughly, you know. No knick-knacks or pretty-pretties in war time. Sorry the other fellows aren't here. We're four one-stripers, three midshipmen R.N., and five midshipmen R.N.R.—a jolly lively crowd of us, I can assure you."

He touched a bell. A messman appeared.

"Jones," ordered the midshipman, "a good square meal for two, and jolly well look sharp about it."

"You've got to be dead nuts on that chap if you want anything done in a hurry," explained Sefton after the man had cleared off. "It's the only way to check slackness. No doubt he gets his own back by giving us plum-duff without troubling to extract the cockroaches; but we manage to thrive on it. By the by, I'll tell my servant to sling a couple of hammocks for you. There'll be no need to turn out before dinner."

Sefton hastened below to acquaint the marine who, for the sum of ten shillings a month, acted as the budding Nelson's factotum to make the necessary preparations for his new chums. By the time he returned, a substantial lunch had been set before Trefusis and Haye.

"I say, you fellows," remarked the midshipman; "I notice that Eccles—that's the officer of the watch, you know—was greasing his jaw tackle a good bit. Did he mention where we are bound for?"

"Nothing definite," replied Vernon. "He said that the ship was under sealed orders."

"Then it's no use hazarding a guess," decided Sefton. "It might be anywhere from China to Peru. In any case, it's a change from what we've been doing—knocking about in the North Sea, waiting for an appointment which the Germans flatly