The Awakening
"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.