Accounted For
Before another quarter of an hour passed the long line of flames was
visible to the naked eye. Fanned by the strong breeze the fire spread
rapidly. It seemed as if its activity was by no means confined to the
horseshoe loop formed by the river. It appeared to have obtained a
grip upon the grass on the opposite bank. Once the flames attacked the
mangroves there was no saying where the mischief might end.
Denbigh could do little to aid his absent comrades, who, for aught he
knew, might even now be overwhelmed by the swift advance of the
devouring elements. Turning out the men who remained he had the
quick-firer ammunition removed to the boats. Then setting fire to the
grass around the bivouac he cleared a broad belt nearly a hundred yards
in diameter. At all events the main fire would be checked before the
flotilla was seriously imperilled.
By the time that this work was completed the flames were within three
miles of the camp. For a breadth of more than twice that distance the
grass was blazing furiously. Lurid red tongues of flame licked the
dark cloud of smoke that overhung the devouring elements. Already the
air was reeking with pungent fumes. Grey ashes, caught by the strong
wind, whirled past the anxious watchers or dashed lightly into their
faces. Dark shapes, silhouetted against the red glare, tore madly from
the advancing fire. They were the denizens of the grass lands flying
for their lives. Undeterred by the water the panic-stricken animals
plunged into the river, some of them in their terror frantically pawing
the sides of the anchored boats.
"Dash it all!" muttered Denbigh. "Wish to goodness I'd cleared another
hundred yards of the scrub. We'll be shrivelled up with the heat.
There's still time."
Calling to his handful of men the sub ran into the open. This time,
since the inner circle offered no grip to the flames, they could work
without fear of the fire getting the upper hand.
In the midst of their preparations Denbigh heard a hoarse shout.
Stumbling towards him, half-enveloped in the haze that was the
forerunner of the roaring furnace, were two men. One fell, picked
himself up, and staggered after his companion.
Outlined as they were against the ruddy glare it was impossible to
distinguish them, but as the British seamen ran forward to bear them
into safety the men raised their arms appealingly.
"Help, kamarade, help!" they cried.
"Germans!" ejaculated Armstrong. "Where are our fellows?"
Denbigh could not give an answer. A glance in the direction of the
wall of fire, now less than a quarter of a mile distant, told him that
life was impossible in front of that barrier unless the fugitives were
already in sight. But they were not The sub set his jaw tightly.
"Where are the others--and the British seamen?" he asked in German of
one of the men. The other was beyond speech.
"All gone! All gone!" replied the German.
"There's another, sir!" exclaimed a petty officer.
"Come on, stick it!" shouted half a dozen lusty voices in encouragement.
The third man was evidently in the last stages of exhaustion. He was
gasping for breath as he ran, but the hot acrid air was fast choking
him. He flung his arms above his head and pitched upon his face, with
the burning embers dropping all around him.
A cloud of eddying smoke enveloped him. Then a gust of wind cleared
the pall of vapour. The wretch was writhing. His clothes were
smouldering as he lay helpless in the withering grass.
With a bound Denbigh cleared the shallow trench, and bending low rushed
through the smoke. Burning ashes stung his face. What air he took in
through his nose felt pungent and suffocating. The heat seemed to gnaw
into his eyes.
How he covered that two hundred yards he never could explain, but at
length, with a feeling of relief, he turned his broad back to the
advancing flames and raised the now unconscious man from the ground.
With almost superhuman strength he lifted the listless body upon his
shoulder and began his bid for safety.
Almost blindly he ran till his gait slowed down almost to a halting
walk. Dimly he realized that he was not alone. Some of the devoted
seamen had followed him into the edge of the inferno.
Someone tried to shift the burden from his shoulders. He resisted.
Why he knew not. Already his senses were forsaking him.
With a crash he fell upon his knees. He was up and staggering again,
until, unable to withstand the strain, he rolled inertly upon the
ground with his fingers gripping his throat. Then all became a blank.
He recovered consciousness to find himself lying on a pile of canvas in
the stern-sheets of one of the boats. It was broad daylight. Overhead
an awning had been spread to ward off the rays of the morning sun.
Almost in an instant he recalled the incident of the night of horror.
The air still smelt vilely of smouldering vegetable matter. Wisps of
smoke eddied betwixt the sun and the awning, throwing fantastic shadows
upon the bellying canvas. The fire, then, had practically burnt itself
out.
"Any signs of the others?" he asked.
Armstrong shook his head.
"The whole place is a mass of glowing cinders," he replied. "It is
impossible to see more than a quarter of a mile in that direction. I'm
afraid----"
"Any more survivors?" asked Denbigh. The mere movement of his facial
muscles caused him exquisite pain, for his face was scorched and
blistered. His hair and eyebrows had been badly singed. Altogether he
looked a pitiable scarecrow. It is only on the stage and on the
cinematograph screen that heroes preserve an unruffled appearance.
"No," replied the mate. "Not one, after the fellow you brought in.
Did you know who it was?"
The sub shook his head, then winced, for the action sent a thrill of
anguish through his body.
"Unter-leutnant Klick," continued Armstrong in answer to his own
question. "He's still unconscious. We dare not move him to the boats.
His skin is literally peeling off all over his body. Shall I have you
sent down the river, old man? The chief petty officer is now in
charge. Is he to withdraw the rest of the boats?"
"No," replied Denbigh with sudden firmness. "No; by no means. We'll
wait until we can send volunteers to find traces of our fellows. Have
the sea-planes passed over yet?"
Armstrong replied in the negative.
"How are the other Germans?"
"One is practically fit. The other is suffering from shock."
"Then send the fit fellow to me, please."
The man was brought to the boat. He was one of the _Pelikan's_
firemen. Questioned in German he replied without hesitation. The fire
had been started, he declared, not by the raider's crew, but by bombs
dropped by British sea-planes. There was an action, but he and half a
dozen more worked round by the two banks until they were almost cut off
by the flames. He had reason to suppose that both the British and the
German forces had been overwhelmed by the onrushing flames.
Throughout the afternoon Denbigh lay in torment in spite of the
first-aid remedies applied by the only sick-berth attendant left with
the base party. Hardly ever before had he felt the sweltering heat so
acutely. The air under the awning was close and oppressive. It reeked
both of the odour of the river and of the fumes of the smouldering
grass. There was one compensation. The fire had effectually driven
off the swarms of mosquitoes that otherwise would have increased his
torments. He would have given almost anything to be back on board
ship, with the sea breezes flung in through the open scuttle and the
electric fans cooling the air. But stop he must until he had obtained
definite information as to the fate of the landing-party.
"I doubt after all if there's much to grumble at," he soliloquized. "I
might have been born to become a Tommy, and I might be stuck up to my
thighs in mud and water in a trench somewhere in France. It's all part
of one big business, and we're keeping our end up all right."
Then his thoughts took a turn in another direction. He was no longer a
prisoner of war. In another few months he hoped to be back in England.
What plans he would make to spin out that long-deferred leave! For the
time being he was no longer in a vile African river, but in a pretty
old-world garden in the homeland.
Suddenly his train of thought was rudely interrupted by a hoarse,
almost frenzied burst of cheering. The boat-keeper, thrusting his head
below the curtains to ascertain whether the sub was awake or otherwise,
answered Denbigh's mute appeal.
"It's orl right, sir," he announced. "They've romped home; the whole
bloomin' crush."
Following the downward course of the river was the landing-party,
bringing with them forty-three German prisoners, including Kapitan von
Riesser. Their own losses had been insignificant, for during the
long-drawn-out action that was brought to an abrupt conclusion by the
fire, one British officer and seven seamen had been slightly wounded.
These were brought in by the stretcher-bearers.
The escape of the little expedition was due to their resourcefulness in
fighting fire by fire. Finding that their retreat was not speedy
enough to outpace the flames, Lieutenant-commander Bourne had given
orders to set alight the long grass to leeward.
By this means, though suffering agonies from thirst and heat, the
British and their prisoners escaped.
The career of the raider and her crew had been brought to a close, and
before nightfall the boats of the flotilla had regained their
respective ships.
* * * * *
Frank Denbigh is sub-lieutenant no longer, but a full-fledged
lieutenant with the letters D.S.O. tacked on to his name. He has just
received his appointment to a brand-new battle-cruiser, and is about to
serve with the Grand Fleet.
Pat O'Hara is still limping about on one foot somewhere in the Emerald
Isle. He, too, has gained a step in rank, but rather envies his chum's
good luck. Still, there is time for the light-headed Irishman to get
fit again and be in at the death, when, it is to be hoped, the visions
of the trident in the German fist will be shattered for good and aye.
And Stirling? In recognition of his services he is confirmed as
lieutenant-commander of the monitor _Crustacean_. He is still looking
forward to his leave in the Highlands, but meanwhile he is doing good
work in a remote portion of the globe in upholding the glorious
tradition of the real Mistress of the Seas.
End of Project Gutenberg's Rounding up the Raider, by Percy F. Westerman