THE LAST OF THE "SYNTAX."
"YOU'RE a troublesome card, Mr. Aubyn; delaying the march of justice
by taking French leave."
This was the greeting of Lieutenant Gilroy, after Terence had
reported himself on board the "Livingstone."
The sub. looked inquiringly at the speaker.
"Fact," continued Gilroy. "You are under notice to appear as
principal witness at the trial of Major von Eckenhardt. The business
was to have come off to-day, but in consequence of your tumbling
overboard (we had the wireless report of your rescue) the trial is
postponed till to-morrow. Congrats, old man, on your escape.
Apparently you've had a lively time on board 'E Something'?"
"Fairly," admitted Aubyn, modestly. "But I wish to goodness I could
cut this trial business. Why couldn't they push on with the show
without me?"
"Ask me another," replied the lieutenant, shrugging his broad
shoulders. "So buck up and make the best of a bad job. You'll be in
good company, my lad, for I'm warned as a witness."
But the trial, which was to be held behind closed doors under the
summary authority of the Defence of the Realm Act, never came off.
Von Eckenhardt succeeded in escaping from Edinburgh Castle during a
dark, tempestuous night. Although searched when received into
custody, he had contrived to secrete a small bottle filled with
corrosive acid. This liquid applied to the bars of his cell made
short work of those barriers. His knowledge of his environments must
have been remarkably accurate, for after dropping a height of
twenty-five feet from the window to the floor of the dry moat without
sustaining any injury sufficient to impede his movements, he found
his way down the precipitous sides of the Castle rock and got clean
away.
The authorities left no stone unturned to attempt the recapture of
the dangerous and daring spy, but their efforts were in vain. The
disquieting thought remained that von Eckenhardt was still within the
limits of Great Britain. His activity, amounting almost to
recklessness, made it pretty certain that he would not return to the
Continent while there was scope for work amongst his enemies; and,
although it was unlikely that he would carry on his secret service
work either in the vicinity of Rosyth or Great Yarmouth, it was
surmisable that he would recommence operations in the neighbourhood
of another important naval or military centre.
Shortly after the escape of von Eckenhardt the various units of the
torpedo-boat-destroyer flotilla to which the "Livingstone" belonged
were sent out on detached service. Since the repetition of the
luckless German raid seemed unlikely, at least until the extensive
repairs to the "Derfflinger" and "Moltke" were carried out, the
necessity for keeping the full complement of flotillas ceased to
exist. Hence the "Livingstone" was ordered to proceed to a certain
rendezvous off the Lizard, in the vicinity of which one of von
Tirpitz's pirate submarines was making itself a considerable nuisance
to British merchantmen bound up and down Channel.
Twenty-four hours after leaving the Firth of Forth the destroyer
arrived at her appointed station, where she had the mortification of
hearing that a large tramp steamer, the "Quickstep," had been held up
and sunk only two hours previously.
All the destroyer could do was to tow the ship's boats with the
survivors within an easy distance of Falmouth; then back the
"Livingstone" doubled, her officers and crew filled with the utmost
keenness to meet and destroy the skulking terror of the deep.
About three bells in the First Dog Watch the lookout reported a sail
in sight, which quickly proved to be a large two-masted cargo vessel
bound down Channel.
As she came within signalling distance she made her number,
announcing that she was the SS. "Syntax" of London, and inquired if
the destroyer had seen any of the enemy's submarines.
"Tell them 'yes'," ordered Gilroy, who was the officer of the watch.
"And inform them that we will escort her as far as the Wolf Rock.
Beyond that she ought to be fairly safe."
"Tough old skipper of that packet," remarked Terence, pointing to the
"Syntax." "He doesn't deign to sail under false colours--there's the
good old 'red' flying as proudly as any merchant skipper could wish.
And I wouldn't mind betting that there isn't a firearm on board,
except the signal gun and perhaps the old man's revolver."
"We'll mother him all right," declared Gilroy optimistically. "It
would go hard with any German submarine that dared to show her
periscope now," and he indicated the man standing by the for'ard
4-in. gun, ready at the first alarm to shoot and shoot straight--for
the No. 1 was one of the best gunlayers of the flotilla.
With her speed reduced to a modest twelve knots, in order to keep
station with her convoy, the destroyer turned and followed the
"Syntax" at a distance of one seamile astern and slightly on her port
quarter.
Just as the sun was setting, the lofty needle-like pinnacle of the
Wolf Lighthouse was observed, rising above the horizon and backed by
the vivid crimson of the disappearing orb of day.
There was little or no wind. The surface of the sea was as placid as
a mill-pond, broken only by the bow-wave of the two vessels. So calm
was the air that the savoury smell from the galley of the merchant
vessel was wafted to the nostrils of the officers on the bridge of
the destroyer. On the lofty fore-deck a seaman was about to hoist the
steaming-lamp. His figure silhouetted against the ruddy light was,
when viewed from the destroyer, just clear of one end of the bridge.
For no apparent reason Terence kept his glasses focussed on the man,
who, awaiting the order to send the light aloft, was taking a
farewell view of the rapidly-receding coast-line of Old England, for
the Cornish hills were just visible abaft on the starboard quarter.
Suddenly the fellow put the lamp on deck and shouted. Although Aubyn
heard no sound, he could distinctly see the seaman's mouth working as
he pointed to something on the starboard hand. Then heeling heavily
to port the "Syntax" circled in the direction indicated.
"A submarine, by Jove!" ejaculated Terence. "On the tramp's starboard
bow--and the old man's trying to ram her."
Gilroy, too, levelled his glass, but owing to the glare on the water
he could pick up no sign of the submarine. But Terence was right in
his surmise. A periscope had emerged from beneath the surface at less
than a cable's length from the "Syntax." The courageous old skipper
had put his helm hard a-port, with the laudable intention of ramming
and sending the submarine to the bottom.
He missed; more, the hull of the cargo steamer screened the submarine
from the destroyer's bow-gun.
"That's done it!" ejaculated Gilroy, as a column of water tore
skywards on the far side of the luckless vessel. The merchantman
heeled violently, recovered herself with a corresponding roll, as her
main-mast buckled, burst its shrouds and toppled across the deck.
"Full speed ahead!"
The engine-room telegraph gong had scarce ceased vibrating ere the
"Livingstone" leapt ahead like a greyhound released from its leash.
With the oil-fired engines running at their utmost capacity the
destroyer quickly circled round the doomed vessel, but not a sign of
the modern pirate was to be seen. Having shot the cowardly bolt, the
submarine had quickly dived, and perhaps was lying _en perdu_ eighty
feet beneath the surface.
Even in the midst of peril the heart of the stout old merchant
skipper never failed him. Immediately his ship had been torpedoed, he
steered towards the distant shore, hoping against hope to beach his
vessel on the iron-bound Cornish coast.
In less than ten minutes it was obvious that the attempt was in vain.
The "Syntax" was settling rapidly by the bows. Already the stern was
so high out of the water that the boss of the swiftly-revolving
propeller was visible amidst the cascades of spray churned up by the
blades.
Presently the propeller ceased to revolve. Not until the water was
over the level of the engine-bed did the skipper give orders for the
engine-room staff to save themselves. Up on deck they poured,
hurriedly yet without undue confusion. The boats were already swung
out and made ready to lower.
So sluggish was the partly-flooded vessel that she lost way rapidly.
One by one the boats were lowered, and the disengaging gear of the
falls cast off without a hitch. The old skipper was the last to
leave. With the ship's papers thrust inside his buttoned,
weather-beaten coat, he waved a salute to the destroyer that had
attended the "Syntax" in vain, then slid down into one of the boats.
Before the boat had rowed a dozen lengths from the ship, the "Syntax"
all but disappeared from view, boisterously, amid a series of veiled
explosions as the compressed air burst from her seams. Amidst a
miniature maelstrom the stern hung irresolute for a brief instant,
with the red ensign still fluttering in the calm air. Then, with a
quick dive, the emblem of the Mercantile Marine vanished from view.
"Shall I take you in tow?" shouted the lieutenant-commander of the
"Livingstone."
"Better not, sir," replied the "old man." "That skulking submarine
may be showing her snout again. Another couple of yards and I would
have given her a bump. No, sir, we're all right. Sea's calm. All
being well we'll land at Sennen Cove before another couple of hours.
"There's pluck," commented Gilroy. "I always had a certain respect
for the Mercantile Marine, and after this, by Jove----"
Terence made no reply. He was thinking regretfully of that
magnificent specimen of British construction lying fathoms deep, a
victim to the brutal violation of all conventions and compacts of
modern civilization.