TOUCH AND GO
SEIZING the steering-wheel Farrar flung the boat hard to port, in
the hope that he might shake off pursuit by running at right angles
to his former course. By so doing he was taking her farther from
Venice, but in this matter he had little option. Had he ported helm
the change of direction would have brought the patrol boat athwart
the course of the destroyer.
"Take her," he exclaimed hurriedly, and hied him to the motor-room,
letting the engines "all out" with full throttle.
When he returned on deck the hostile craft had also altered helm.
She was gaining steadily. Columns of flame-tinged smoke poured from
her four funnels, while her outlines were faintly discernible
against the starlit sea as she came bows on to the fugitives.
Again she signalled, throwing out a code message.
"She doesn't like to open fire," declared the sub. "She's puzzled.
Thinks we might be one of her patrol boats. We are, as far as the
craft's concerned. Ah, I thought so: a warning shot."
A spurt of flame leapt from the destroyer's fo'c'sle, and, almost as
soon as the sharp report, a 12-centimetre shell struck the water a
cable's length away from the patrol boat's starboard quarter.
"A miss is as good as a mile," observed Sylvester. Nevertheless he
ducked beneath the coaming, as if the thin teak plank was a
sufficient protection from a powerful shell.
"It was intended as a miss," rejoined Farrar. "She'll get nearer
than that, I fancy. Moke, old man, it's 'No Surrender.'"
"No Surrender," repeated Sylvester firmly. He had had quite enough
of prison life in an enemy country to wish not to repeat the
experience. Then, "How about those chaps?" he inquired, indicating
the fore-peak, from which frantic shouts punctuated by loud beats
upon the hatchway floated aft.
The sub pondered for a moment only.
"I'll give them the option of jumping overboard or hanging on here,"
he decided. "There are lifebelts... the destroyer will, I take it,
stop and pick up some of her own crowd. Of course it's a toss-up."
Pistol in hand the sub crept for'ard. For a minute or so, during
which interval another shell burst astern of the boat, he exchanged
words with the two men. Then he unbolted the hatch and came aft.
Presently the bowman and the motor-artificer (who had quite
recovered consciousness) crawled through the hatchway, dragging
lifebelts after them; While they were donning the life-saving gear a
third shell pitched so close to the bows that the boat drove through
the descending column of spray.
A similar proposition to the coxswain was rejected. Nothing would
induce the little man to emerge from the cabin, where he was lying
at full length upon the floor.
"We'll leave the door unlocked," declared the sub. "He's not likely
to give trouble, and we can't be accused of leaving a prisoner to
drown in a boxed-in cabin--like the Huns have an unpleasant habit of
doing. Hullo what's that?"
The two men for'ard were shouting an pointing aft. In spite of the
roar of the engine, Farrar understood. They were afraid of being
caught in the suction of the rapidly revolving propellers.
"Quite a reasonable fear," muttered the sub. "I've felt the same
sort of thing myself; but I'm sorry I can't stop to let them dive in
gracefully. I'll slow down a bit, although it's jolly risky for us."
By means of the reverse gear lever in the cockpit--a supplementary
device to enable the motor to be regulated in the event of the
mechanism being incapacitated--Farrar threw the propeller' shafts
out of clutch. The boat began to lose way appreciably.
"_Beeilen Sie sich!_" shouted the sub.
The two Austrians required no second bidding. Both leapt feet
foremost into the water, striking out with the utmost vigour, as if
afraid that their late captors would restart the propellers and "do
them in."
The patrol boat quickly worked up to her previous speed, but the
pursuing craft had decreased the intervening distance to about a
mile. Already the first gleam of dawn was stealing across the
eastern sky, silhouetting the dark outlines of the destroyer against
the grey blend of sea and air in the distant horizon.
"Good business!" exclaimed Farrar. "She's reversing engines to pick
those fellows up."
The Austrian skipper was no novice at the job, nor was he a man to
waste time in stopping to pick two seamen out of the water when
there were greater issues at stake, Merely stopping the engines he
steered the still swiftly moving craft close to the swimmers;
bowlines were thrown them, and in a very brief space of time they
were both hauled on board.
Yet during this manoeuvre the destroyer lost more than the patrol
boat had done when Farrar humanely declutched the propellers. The
distance between pursuer and pursued had increased to nearly two
miles.
All hope of shaking off the destroyer in the darkness was now at an
end. North, south, east, and west the sky line was unbroken save by
the grim outlines of the enemy craft. Every minute it was growing
lighter, thus decreasing the slight advantage held by the patrol
boat. It might be on this account that the larger craft was
withholding her fire, for her guns were now silent; or, perhaps, the
men rescued from the sea had informed the captain of the destroyer
that there was another compatriot on the mysteriously captured boat.
The upper disc of the sun appeared above the horizon, a blood-red
arc of fire. Farrar found himself wondering whether he was about to
look upon the orb of day for the last time, yet, in spite of his
resolution to fight to a finish, he mechanically put on a lifebelt
which his companion had handed him.
A clanking sound from the motor-room, audible above the purr of the
machinery and the throb of the pistons, roused the sub to a state of
activity.
"Knocking badly!" he exclaimed. "Half a minute, Moke; I'll see
what's to be done."
Even as he moved towards the hatchway there came an ear-splitting
crash. The bows of the boat rose high out of the water, and subsided
heavily in a smother of smoke and foam. A cloud of steam issuing
from the motor-room indicated that an inrush of sea water had come
in contact with the hot cylinders. The ignition failed, and the
propellers ceased to revolve.
Then, with a sickening, shuddering movement the stricken craft
heeled over on her side, with her bows level with the water.
Momentarily recovering from her list, she slid beneath the surface,
leaving the two chums floundering in a maelstrom of oil and foam.
"That's done it!" ejaculated the sub, addressing the well-nigh
breathless Moke, who was choking and coughing from the effects of
swallowing a mouthful of particularly greasy fluid. "What's that
you're hanging on to?"
"Only the p-p-portmanteau," spluttered Sylvester. "It won't
s-s-sink, dash it!"
The sub swam to his chum's side.
"We'll open it. The thing's watertight as it is," he said. "Won't do
to let that fall into the hands of the enemy."
Even as he fumbled with the sliding locks a terrific roar rent the
air. Where the destroyer had been but a brief instant before there
was nothing but a cloud of smoke and a shower of flying debris,
while, at an altitude of about five hundred feet and rocking
violently in the agitated air, was a large flying-boat.
"Hang on to the bag, Moke," exclaimed Farrar. "'We needn't scuttle
it now. Hullo, here's Little Willie."
The last remark referred to the coxswain of the patrol boat. More
fortunate than his former messmates he was floating upon the surface
at a distance of less than twenty yards from the sub and his
companion. Not only had he lashed a lifebelt round his waist but
others encircled each leg. A fourth he grasped with his left hand,
while his right arm was waving frantically to attract the attention
of the aircraft that had strafed a vessel flying the ensign under
which he served.
"Wonder if it's the 'Avenger'?" soliloquised the sub. "Shouldn't be
surprised, but they are all so beautifully alike. Can't tell t'other
from which."
He was not long left in doubt. The flyingboat circled above the
scene of her latest success; then spotting the immersed men, she
shut off her motors and glided gracefully downwards, alighting with
a healthy splash at a distance of nearly half a mile from the sub
and his companions.
Then the motors throbbed again, and under the action of her
hydrostatic propeller the flying-boat glided on the surface towards
the spot where the patrol craft had foundered.
"By Jove!" ejaculated the sub. "We're in luck's way. It is the
'Avenger,' and there's old Barcroft, bless his chirpy figurehead!"
"Who's Barcroft?" inquired the Moke.
"Pal of mine, and a thundering good sort," replied Farrar. "Don't
let that portmanteau go now."
"I don't mean to," declared Sylvester grimly. The "Avenger" eased
down. Maintaining a precarious hold on her flaring sides a
bluejacket "stood by" with a coil of rope.
"A bloomin' crowd of Fritzes, sir," he reported. "One of them an
officer. Rummy sort o' goings on, that destroyer sinking some of her
own side."
The Austrian coxswain was the first to be rescued, his array of
lifebelts causing unrestrained hilarity amongst the British crew of
the flying-boat. The Moke, still hanging on to Baron Eitel von
Stopelfeld's property, was the next to be hauled on board, Farrar
following, attired only in a coarse blue-grey shirt and soldier's
ill-fitting trousers.
"Come aboard, sir," he announced according to the custom of the
Senior Service, as he saluted the astonished flight-lieutenant.
"Farrar, by all that's wonderful!" ejaculated the astonished Billy.
"Bless my soul, man, I little thought that I was hauling you out of
the ditch. We heard that you had been done in.... Reported missing;
believed killed. Come along for'ard; I'll see if I can kit you out
in dry rig. And these are chums of yours?"
"Yes," replied the irrepressible sub. "The one hugging that bag is
Tony Sylvester, alias Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, otherwise known as
the Moke--highly intelligent animal, I can assure you, for if it
hadn't been for him I shouldn't be here. The other--we've dubbed him
Little Willie--is a scratch acquaintance. You needn't be afraid of
passing remarks about him in his presence, for he wouldn't tumble to
it."
Since the flying-boat did not carry a liberal wardrobe Sylvester, on
discarding the saturated German officer's uniform, had perforce to
be rigged out in a duffel suit, while Farrar was accommodated with a
bluejacket's trousers and a great-coat belonging to Kirkwood,
Billy's second-in-command, who was on the point of turning in to
make up arrears of sleep.
The "Avenger" was temporarily attached to the British squadron
acting in concert with the Italian fleet in the Gulf of Venice, and
was returning from a twelve-hours' patrol flight when she sighted
the Austrian destroyer. So intent was the latter on her pursuit of
the seized motor-boat that she failed to notice the "Avenger," the
noise of the latter's aerial propellers being out-voiced by the
noise of the destroyer's engines. A powerful bomb, dropped with
unerring accuracy, did the trick most effectually and so rapidly
that the majority of the hostile crew had no idea of what strafed
them. Literally blown in two amidships the ill-fated craft had
foundered with all hands.
"You'll be home again in three or four days with reasonable luck,
Mr. Sylvester," observed Barcroft. "The train service is absolutely
rotten, but I suppose it's the stock excuse--'owing to the war.'
After three years of captivity I suppose you won't mind three days
in a railway carriage."
"It will feel like three centuries," declared the Moke seriously.
"The sudden change from being a fugitive in a hostile country to a
free man is so bewildering that I know I shall be grousing every
minute of the journey. By Jove! If ever I get home I don't think
I'll want to go outside England for the rest of my natural life.
Wonder what London's like? According to the Boche guards at
Ruhleben, half the city is in ruins, 25 per cent. of the population
are blown to bits, and the remaining 75 per cent. are either
cowering in the Tubes or else have bolted for the country to get
away from the Gothas."
Barcroft laughed. There was a confident ring in his merriment.
"London was much the same when I was there last," he observed. "What
say you, Farrar? In one or two places it looks as if the L.C.C.
workmen have started to pull down some buildings instead of pulling
up the roadway. I went on a 'bus from Fulham to the Bank, and never
saw a sign of damage. As for the population having cold feet--here,
read this, it's a letter from a girl friend of my wife's; sixteen I
think's her age."
The flight-lieutenant drew a crumpled envelope from his pocket and
handed it to the Moke.
The letter was written in pencil as follows:
"DRAMATIS PERSONAE
GERMAN 'PLANES LONDON AIR DEFENCE
BOMBS--A BEASTLY ROW SHRAPNEL
AND THE FAMILY OF RAMSHAW
_Time_--9.15 p.m. _Place_--The wine cellar of No. 445,
Russeldish Square. _Play_--"The Tin Kettles of London."
"_Act I, Scene I._--Peggy is asleep on the mattress that is kept
down here." ("Peggy is her sister, aged nine," explained Barcroft.)
"I have a few dozen bottles of champagne in front of me, so if my
writing gets a bit wobbly you will know the cause. Golly! They are
making a beastly row; I shall go deaf in a minute. A policeman tore
along the road just now, ringing his bicycle bell and shouting,
'Take cover,' so we adjourned to our dugout as usual. The housemaid
is shaking like a jelly. I hope she won't collapse on top of poor
me.
"_Act I, Scene II._--Crash.... That's some of our glass gone--that
means another piece of shrapnel, hip, pip. In the last raid we had
some glass broken in the kitchen skylight, and afterwards I had a
gorgeous find--a piece of shell weighing three-quarters of a pound.
"_Act II, Scene I._--There's an aeroplane going overhead--a moment
of suspense. Bang!... A bomb next door by the sound of it, but I
expect it's really a good way away. It's ten o'clock now, so they've
been at it for three-quarters of an hour--what an age I'm taking to
write this letter, but I stop every minute to listen to the
orchestra playing a selection which varies between the big drum
(bombs) and the kettle-drums (guns). Please excuse the writing and
the pencil, but there are nine of us squashed into about eight
square feet, with hardly any ventilation. Do you think that the
motor of your laid-up car would drive an air-fan? Because, if so,
you might send it to us and I could rig it up before to-morrow
night, as we have been down here at least once every night this
week, and I expect we shall continue to do so until the end of this
moon.
"_Act II, Scene II_.--There's another aeroplane. They always seem to
spend ages going over this house.
"10.15.--We're been down here an hour and Fritz's still going
strong, like Johnny Walker. There's a motor-ambulance going past.
"10.20.--A lull in the operations.
"10.35.--Just been out to look for shrapnel, but could not find any.
Molly" ("the second sister," explained Barcroft) "is still out
there; so are most of the neighbours, in airy evening dress.
The 'All Clear' signal has not been given, but there's no more
firing.
"10.45.--'All Clear' just sounded, and I'm off to bed, so
good-night.
"DIANA.
"P.S.--A policeman has just come to say, that they have been driven
off, but they may come back again, so the 'All Clear' signal has
been cancelled.
"_Sunday morning_.--The 'All Clear' signal was not given last night
till 1 o'clock.
"DIANA."
"Well?" inquired Billy, as the Moke handed back the letter. "What do
you think of that? Not bad for a sixteen year old, eh?"
"A girl to be proud of, Barcroft," replied Sylvester. "British to
the core. By Jove! I can see a German fräulein writing a letter like
that and under similar conditions--I don't think."
"And," added Barcroft, "it shows the true drift of public opinion.
Thanks to the absurd restrictions of a rotten censorship all sorts
of vague and inaccurate rumours float around. You cannot muzzle
millions of people, you know. Consequently it is the froth that
floats on the surface--the vapourings of irresponsible individuals
of excitable temperament. That which matters most--evidences of the
calmness and steadfastness of the bulk of the population in the
danger areas--is only occasionally revealed by such means as this.
Yes, Diana is a topping example of British grit and courage."
"Any stunts lately?" asked Farrar.
Barcroft shook his head.
"Not counting the destroyer we've just done in, we haven't had a
decent strafe for nearly a week. I can't imagine where Fritz hangs
his hat and coat up about here. There are dozens of U-boats in the
Mediterranean. It is certain that they put into the Adriatic for
repairs and replenishing stores, but where, goodness only knows.
We've tried Trieste, Pola, and Fiume, and drawn blank. I'd like to
meet some one who could give me the tip."
"You have," remarked the sub quietly.
"Who--where?" demanded the flight-lieutenant.
"This child," replied Farrar, nudging his own ribs. "I'd recognise
the place at once. It's somewhere behind the islands off the
Dalmatian coast."
"By the Lord Harry!" ejaculated Billy Barcroft explosively. "We'll
land Sylvester and Little Willie, fill up with bombs and petrol, and
you'll pilot me to the U-boat base. Farrar, my bird, we'll have a
glorious stunt and the most gorgeous strafe on record. Game?"
"Rather," replied the sub enthusiastically.