The Landing at Port Treherne
"I wonder if they'll let us go on deck," remarked Vernon Haye. "If so,
I vote we have a shot at getting ashore. What sort of show is Port
Treherne?"
"I know it fairly well," replied Ross. "It's the most forsaken crib
you are ever likely to meet along the coast. It's a deep gully in the
cliffs. There's only one small landing-place--a flat rock. Years ago
there used to be a tramway down to the rock, and they shipped copper
ore by means of derricks into lighters, which were towed across in fine
weather to Swansea. But the mine closed down, the village is now
deserted, and I don't believe there are any fishermen there. They say
that the stream that flows into the port is still heavily charged with
mundic. At all events the water is of a bright-red colour for several
hundred yards from shore, and no fish will stick that."
It was close on the midnight following the disastrous attempt on the
part of U75 to capture the oil-tank. The submarine was running awash,
proceeding very slowly and cautiously towards Port Treherne--Station 41
of the secret petrol depots established by German agents along the
coast of the British Islands.
The lads had been informed of the destination of the submarine, but had
not been told why. Nevertheless it was an easy conjecture that U75 was
going there to pick up stores that she had been unable to obtain in
sufficient quantities at St. Mena's Island.
The Unter-leutnant was in charge of the submarine. Kapitan Schwalbe
had taken the advantage of the opportunity of a few hours' sleep.
Under-officered and undermanned, the strain on the personnel was a
severe one. It was only on rare occasions that Schwalbe could in
future descend from his post in the conning-tower.
At midnight, according to custom, the submarine called up her consorts
by wireless. Judging by the previous attempt it seemed a useless task,
but to the Operator's surprise he received a reply from U77, which was
then lying off the Scillies.
Kapitan Schwalbe, aroused from his sleep, eagerly awaited the decoding
of the message. It was to the effect that the commander of U77 had
received information that H.M.S. _Tremendous_, one of the earlier
Dreadnoughts, was leaving Gibraltar for Rosyth. The _Tremendous_, he
knew, had been engaged in the Dardanelles operations. U77 therefore
suggested that the two unterseebooten should meet at a rendezvous off
The Lizard, and attempt a _coup de main_, the success of which would go
towards atoning for the blunders and losses sustained by the German
submarines in their endeavour to blockade the British Isles.
"Good!" exclaimed Kapitan Schwalbe. "Tell them that I purpose to
rendezvous twenty kilometres S.W. by W. of The Lizard, on Thursday at
10 p.m. I am now about to take in fuel. Will communicate again at
noon to-morrow. Ask them if they have picked up a wireless from U74."
Some time elapsed before the message could be coded by the sender and
translated by the receiving submarine. When the reply confirming the
rendezvous was received, a message was added to the effect that U77 had
heard nothing of U74 for three days. It was presumed, however, that
she was now on her way back to Wilhelmshaven, and was already out of
wireless range.
Kapitan Schwalbe knew better. As senior officer of the three
submarines detached to operate in these waters, he was aware that U74
would not have left her station without orders from him. That part of
the message had been sent merely as a "blind", so that the crews of the
remaining unterseebooten should not be discouraged. It was safe to
conclude, decided Kapitan Schwalbe, that another of the blockaders had
gone to the bottom for the last time.
It was close on one o'clock when the "wirelessing" terminated. U75,
which had hitherto been running awash, was now trimmed for surface work.
Most of the crew went on deck. Amongst them were Ross and Vernon, no
one offering any objection.
The sea was no longer rough. A long oily swell took the place of the
white-crested wave. The night was dark. Only a few stars were
visible. Away to the S.E., the black outlines of the Cornish coast
reared themselves like an enormous wall against the gloomy sky.
Suddenly Vernon touched his chum's elbow, as a faint pin-prick of light
glimmered twice. It was the shore agent's signal that the coast was
clear.
Barely carrying steerage-way, U75 stood in towards the as yet invisible
Port Treherne. Already her crew had brought the collapsible canvas
boat from below, "man-handling" it through the fore hatch. The men,
having opened it out and shipped the felt-lined and well-greased
rowlocks, stood by to launch it.
Gradually the towering cliffs enclosing the creek became
distinguishable against the loftier background of gaunt hills. Into
the gap the submarine crept with the utmost caution, until it seemed as
if she were on the point of running her nose against the sheer face of
the granite wall. The water bubbled slightly as her motors were
reversed; then, turning in her own length, she brought up, with her
bows pointing seawards.
Three of the crew grasped the canvas boat and pushed it gently into the
water on the port side. One of them clambered in and shipped the oars
in the row-locks.
The two lads were cautiously scanning the shores of the inlet. Ross
could sniff the unmistakable Cornish air. The call of home seemed
irresistible. It looked a comparatively easy matter to slip quietly
over the starboard side, and swim with noiseless strokes towards the
weed-covered rocks that showed six feet or more above the sea. It was
half ebb-tide; there was little or no drift out of the cove. Under the
shadow of those dark cliffs detection seemed almost impossible, unless
the submarine went to the risky expedient of switching on her
search-light.
They moved stealthily towards the light wire railing on the starboard
side just abaft the conning-tower. Everything seemed in their favour.
Kapitan Schwalbe and the Unter-leutnant were on the navigation
platform, peering through their night-glasses towards the flat rock
that served as a landing-place. Two of the seamen were engaged in
coiling down a hand-lead line; the rest of the men on deck were
devoting their attention to the now departing canvas boat.
"Not so fast, my friends," exclaimed a low deep voice, which the lads
recognized as that of Kapitan Schwalbe. "Remember I have a pistol
ready to hand."
"How in the name of goodness did he know what we were up to?" thought
Ross.
The chums stood stock-still. They felt much like children found out in
some petty escapade.
"Koppe! Where are you?" asked the Kapitan in a loud whisper.
"Here, sir," replied the seaman.
"I hold you responsible for these Englishmen. Now they are trying to
give us the slip. Take them below. But hold on. Secure them to a
stanchion. Chain them up, and bring me the key."
The seaman approached the lads almost apologetically, and led them to
the port side just for'ard of the conning-tower. A light steel chain
was hitched round Ross's right ankle and Vernon's left, and deftly
padlocked round one of the uprights supporting the hand-rail.
"It is of no use trying any of your pranks here," commented Kapitan
Schwalbe, still in a low tone. "You are only looking for trouble."
For several moments all was still, save for the screech of a benighted
gull. Overhead a meteor passed swiftly across the sky, throwing a pale
gleam upon-the lurking submarine.
"Wer da?"
The words, although uttered in an undertone, travelled distinctly over
the placid waters of the cove.
The sailor in the boat muttered some inaudible reply. The listeners in
the submarine could detect the sound of his oars as he laid them across
the thwarts. Then, after further conversation, could be heard the
rumble of metal as the tins of petrol were rapidly placed in the boat.
"How many are there?" asked Kapitan Schwalbe eagerly as the men
returned with the first load.
"Forty here, Herr Kapitan. Altogether there are over two hundred."
"Then be sharp and whip them on board. Was there any communication for
me?"
"A bundle of English newspapers, sir, and this letter."
The man drew the documents from the inside of his jumper and passed
them to a seaman, who in turn handed them to the skipper.
"I may have to land, sir," continued the seaman. "The rest of the cans
are in a cove at some distance from the landing-place. Can Max go with
me to mind the boat? There is a slight ground-swell at times, and she
might have a hole through her canvas if she is allowed to grind against
the rocks."
Receiving an affirmative reply, the man told his comrade to get on
board, and once more the boat vanished into the darkness.
Another twenty minutes elapsed, then came the sounds of muffled
footsteps, and of volatile spirit surging inside the petrol cans. Then
one of the men must have slipped, for there was a slight scuffling,
followed by the loud crash of a can clattering over the rocks.
"'Alt! Who goes there?" shouted a hoarse and unmistakably English
voice.
"Freund," promptly replied the German sailor.
It would have been far wiser on his part if he had waited for his
fellow-worker, the German agent, to reply, since his knowledge and
pronunciation of English were almost perfect. But unfortunately it was
the spy who had fallen, and, half-winded by coming in contact with one
of the tins, was gasping for breath and at the same time rubbing a
barked shin.
"Not good enough for me, old sport," rejoined the challenger, and
without further ado he let loose "five rounds rapid".
A loud yell announced that one of the bullets had at least taken
effect. It was the prostrate spy who received a dose of nickel through
the fleshy part of his thigh.
The seaman, dropping his cans, fled for his life. Recklessly he leapt
from the landing-place into the canvas boat, which his comrade had been
keeping at oar's length from the shore. The sudden impetus was too
much for the frail craft. She capsized, and, being only
single-skinned, sank like a stone.
Already men, members of a picket, were hastening to the sentry's
support, their progress marked by a lantern held by a stout and sleepy
sergeant.
By this time U75 was making for the open sea. Kapitan Schwalbe was
cursing loudly; not because the luckless agent had been hit--it was his
fault for not making sure of his ground; not so much on account of the
loss of two more men, nor of the sinking of the only boat belonging to
the submarine. His anger was aroused at the knowledge that once again
his efforts to obtain fuel had been balked. The quantity contained in
forty tins was a mere fraction of the amount he required in order to
carry out his ambitious programme. Bitterly he realized that, like
those of transgressors, the ways of modern pirates are hard.