ON THE EDGE OF THE ARCTIC SEA
Towards four o'clock of the following day we had reached the point
aforesaid. And now it was hard to know what to do, for the air was still
clear, the sea glassy-calm, with no indications of an early change.
So far, we had seen no ice, though we were now on the edge of the Arctic
Ocean. From that we might conclude that the route north-about round
Iceland was not yet practicable, for the ice had not yet broken up.
To run the blockade was, in existing circumstances, hopeless; especially
as it was nearing full-moon, and in these high latitudes there was,
properly speaking, no night at all. I decided simply to stop the
engines, and lie to all the next day. This kind of weather could not
last for ever, and the date of my rendezvous gave me a couple of days to
play with. For the moment there was not much danger, for no enemy craft
was likely to penetrate so far north.
If the English were to have to look out for German ships up here, they
might as well extend their outpost-line to the North Pole. In fact, if
there was any risk at all, it came from our own submarines, not all of
which could have received a warning about our voyage.
The stopping of the engines enabled some necessary repairs to be carried
out, and all the machinery was carefully overhauled, for there was no
knowing to what severe tests it might be put before all was done. The
deck-hands occupied themselves in repainting the flags and lettering
upon our sides, which, owing to the unfavourable conditions in which
these works of art had had their birth, had been reduced by weather and
water to a confusion of dots and splashes, which might well account for
some of the suspicious looks we had encountered.
The day ended with a concert, which my second-officer opened, only too
appropriately, with a song beginning, 'Calm lies the sea.'
So pressing was the problem, what we were to do during the next
twenty-four hours, that before turning in that night I held a council
with my officers in our little mess-room.
The blockade-line, which now lay before us, and which we must break
through, unless we were to go north-about round Iceland, was the
strongest of all the blockading cordons. We had reason to believe that
it was formed by no less than ten to twelve large auxiliary cruisers.
The distance from Iceland to the Faroes is, at the narrowest point,
about two-hundred nautical miles. Assuming, therefore, that the average
speed of these vessels was not more than fifteen knots, it was scarcely
to be expected that we could slip through, except in thick fog, for the
intervals between the patrolling cruisers must be very small. Never in
my life have I done so much calculating of courses and distances as that
night. All available charts and sailing directions were requisitioned,
and for hours we bent over the charts with pencil and dividers,
calculating, and weighing arguments. In the end we always came back to
the point that we _must_ make the attempt to break through; for all
other alternatives were too unpromising. The conclusion we finally came
to was, to make the attempt next day--provided the weather conditions
became appreciably more favourable.
We looked at the barometer. Good heavens! Was it possible? In the last
four hours it had fallen nearly a tenth.
At that moment there came a whistle down the voice-pipe beside my bunk.
'Well, what is it?'
'Waterspout to starboard, captain; come up at once,' shouted some one
from the bridge. Scarcely had we reached the deck, when the portent
swept past us, a great black column of water some five yards in
diameter, narrowing in the middle, and spreading wider as it mounted
into the clouds above.
The amazing thing was the speed at which, in spite of the dead calm, it
swept along the surface of the water. Its force was evidenced by the
whirlpool at its base, which left behind it a seething wake of foam.
It was well that it did not happen to take our little vessel in its
track, for it would certainly have left us some unpleasing mementoes of
its visit.