FOR THE FREEDOM
OF THE SEAS
By Ralph Henry Barbour
PURPLE PENNANT SERIES
The Lucky Seventh
The Secret Play
The Purple Pennant
YARDLEY HALL SERIES
Forward Pass
Double Play
Winning His Y
For Yardley
Around the End
Change Signals
HILTON SERIES
The Half-back
For the Honor of the School
Captain of the Crew
ERSKINE SERIES
Behind the Line
Weatherby’s Inning
On Your Mark
THE “BIG FOUR” SERIES
Four in Camp
Four Afoot
Four Afloat
THE GRAFTON SERIES
Rivals for the Team
Winning His Game
Hitting the Line
BOOKS NOT IN SERIES
For the Freedom of the Seas
Keeping His Course
The Brother of a Hero
Finkler’s Field
Danforth Plays the Game
Benton’s Venture
The Junior Trophy
The New Boy at Hilltop
The Spirit of the School
The Arrival of Jimpson
D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, New York
[Illustration: “Hands up!”]
FOR THE FREEDOM
OF THE SEAS
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF
“KEEPING HIS COURSE,” “HITTING THE LINE,”
“WINNING HIS GAME,” ETC.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES L. WRENN
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1918
Copyright, 1918, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
To
THOMAS LATIMER
of Groton, Connecticut
with the Author’s
greetings
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WAY OF THE HUN 1
II. WITH THE COAST PATROL 14
III. THE LONELY REEF 26
IV. A BATTLE UNDERGROUND 38
V. A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 50
VI. ON THE THAMES 65
VII. THE U. S. S. “GYANDOTTE” 78
VIII. THE RAIDER 87
IX. OFF FOR THE OTHER SIDE 95
X. OVERBOARD! 106
XI. TWENTY FATHOMS DOWN 117
XII. IN THE SUBMARINE “Q-4” 133
XIII. “SURFACE!” 148
XIV. IN AN IRISH MIST 161
XV. THE MYSTERIOUS SIGNALS 177
XVI. THROUGH THE NIGHT 193
XVII. BOYS IN KHAKI 203
XVIII. TIP, OF THE “SANS SOUCI” 217
XIX. OFF HELIGOLAND 235
XX. THE BATTLE IN THE NORTH SEA 247
XXI. CASTAWAYS 258
XXII. MART TURNS UP 272
XXIII. THE CAPTAIN COMES ABOARD 284
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
“Hands up!” _Frontispiece_
Oars dashed at the water and the boat headed away 12
There was a crash as the shell sped from the gun 92
The big funnel crashed down upon the boy 112
FOR THE
FREEDOM OF THE SEAS
CHAPTER I
THE WAY OF THE HUN
The three-masted schooner _Jonas Clinton_ was loafing along in a
six-knot breeze some five hundred miles off the coast of France.
For the time of year, the middle of October, the Atlantic in those
latitudes was unusually docile and there was scarcely enough swell to
slant the schooner’s deck. Overhead, a moon in its first quarter was
playing hide-and-seek in a bank of purple-black clouds. The night――the
ship’s clock in the cabin had just struck five bells――was so mild that
the helmsman had not yet troubled to button his heavy reefer.
Light winds, or no wind at all, had been the _Jonas Clinton’s_ fortune
for a month. The eastward voyage had been made in twenty-two days,
Boston to Havre, but once rid of her cargo of lubricating oil for the
armies in France, she had been forced to swing at anchor for two weeks.
At last, despairing of a fair wind, Captain Troy had had the schooner
towed across to Falmouth, England. Another wait had followed, a delay
especially regrettable when ships were scarce and freight rates high.
But at last a brisk breeze had started the _Jonas Clinton_ on her
homeward voyage only to peter out at the end of the second day, leaving
the skipper, who, as half owner in the ship, was deeply concerned in
her fortunes, decidedly glum. The skipper’s frame of mind was reflected
by everyone else aboard, from Mr. Cupples, the mate, down to the latest
addition to the crew of eight, the tall, raw-boned Nova Scotian lad
who, whatever his real name might be, was known as “Bean Pole”; though
the gloom extended in a lesser degree to two inhabitants of the four
hundred ton craft, Nelson Troy and Pickles.
These two were at the moment seated side by side on the forward hatch,
as though awaiting this introduction. Nelson, Captain Troy’s son, was
seventeen, a well-built, nice-looking lad who was making his second
voyage in his father’s ship. He was down on the ship’s papers as
apprentice, since a merchant vessel may not carry passengers, but his
position as a member of the crew was nominal rather than actual. Not,
however, that he didn’t take a hand when there was something to be
done, for he had picked up a fair amount of sailoring, and, perhaps,
had inherited a taste for it. He was a broad-shouldered, healthy boy,
full of fun and very fond of Pickles.
Pickles was――well, Pickles was just Pickles. First of all, he was a
dog. Beyond that I hesitate to go. Leo, the big, two-fisted Swede
who had sailed with Captain Troy for seven years, declared that “he
ban part wolf-dog an’ part big fool.” But that was scarcely fair to
Pickles, because, no matter how mixed he was in the matter of breed,
he was certainly no fool. Even Terry, the cook, acknowledged that.
No dog capable of stealing a piece of mutton as big as his head from
right under the cook’s nose can rightly be called a fool. And Terry
didn’t call him a fool, although he applied several other names to him!
Visibly, Pickles was yellow as to color, shaggy as to coat, loving and
faithful as to disposition. For the rest, he was long-legged and big in
the shoulders, and just too much for a lapful.
Captain Troy, keeping the first watch, came along the deck from the
stern, a tall, rather gaunt figure in the dim light, and paused
where Nelson and Pickles sat. The captain was well on toward fifty
and had followed the sea, boy and man, for more than thirty years,
just as his father and his father’s father before him had followed
it. Several generations of Troys had been born within sight and sound
of Casco Bay and had taken to the sea as naturally and inevitably as
ducks take to water. The captain was a slow-speaking man, with a deep
and pleasant voice that could, when occasion demanded, bellow like a
liner’s fog-horn. He was a good Master, stern but never unjust, and a
good father to the boy who sat there holding the front half of the dog
across his knees. Nelson not only loved his father very deeply――how
deeply he was very soon to realize――but he both admired and respected
him. No one could make two trips over and back with Captain Troy,
watching his handling of his ship, his behavior in moments of peril
and his attitude toward the men under him, without feeling admiration
and respect for the simple-minded, big-hearted, cool-thinking man. The
fact that Nelson’s mother had died when he was eight years of age had
focused all his affection on his father, and, since Nelson was an only
child, had, on the other hand, concentrated all the captain’s love on
him. Besides being father and son they were excellent companions, and
neither was quite contented when away from the other.
The captain gazed up at the half-filled foresail. “I’m fearing it’s
to be light winds all the way across,” he said. “I hate the thought
of going into steam at my time of life, but there’s no denying that
a couple of screws aft there would be a big help just now. If I knew
where to pick up a small steamship I’m not sure I wouldn’t take her
over, son, for the next voyage. It’s maddening to think of all the
cargoes awaiting bottoms back home, and us wallowing along at five or
six knots; and in ballast, at that!”
“Mustn’t be greedy, dad,” answered the boy, smiling up in the dark. “We
made a pile of money this trip, didn’t we?”
“Money? Yes, we did pretty well,” replied the captain with satisfaction.
“I’ve been blowing east and west, north and south most of my life, son,
and this is nearly the first time that big money has come my way. We
ain’t rich, and I’d like to see a bit more in the bank before I quit.
You’ll be needing some, and so’ll I when I join the fireside fleet.”
“You needn’t worry about me, dad. I’m going to earn my own money in a
year or two.”
“Maybe, but not so soon as that. You’re going to finish your education
first, I’m hoping. I want you to have all the trimmings before you take
the wheel. Have you thought any more about that college?”
“Not much,” owned the boy. “There have been so many other things to
think about, you see.” His tone if not his words implied that the
other things were far more interesting. “Anyway, there’s time enough.
I’ll have to put in another year in high school, I suppose.” His voice
dropped dismally at the end, and the captain chuckled.
“I guess you’re like all the Troys. There never was one of ’em I ever
heard tell of that was much of a scholar. Your great-uncle Joab got to
be a Judge of the Supreme Court, but I always suspicioned that he did
it by keeping his mouth clamped down and not letting on to how little
he really knew about the Law! That’s one trait the Troys have generally
possessed, and it’s a good one.”
“What, not knowing much?” laughed the boy.
“Not saying much. There’s more men have talked themselves out of their
jobs than you can shake a stick at. Just you remember that, son, and
every time you’re tempted to say something when you ain’t got anything
to say, you just clap the hatch on. And then,” he added, “sit on it,
just as you’re doing now!” The captain craned his head a little for
a look at the dim spread of the jib. “I’ll feel a sight easier,” he
muttered, “when we’re five hundred miles further west.”
“You aren’t afraid of U-boats, are you, dad?” asked Nelson, smiling as
he pulled at the dog’s ears.
“I’m not exactly afraid of them, no, but ‘accidents’ have happened
before this, and I’m kind of fond of this little ship.”
“But, dad, we’re not at war with Germany. They wouldn’t――――”
“Well, there was the _William P. Frye_,” replied the captain dryly.
“They got her, didn’t they? And we weren’t at war with her then,
neither. Any more than we were when they sank the _Lusitania_,” he
added bitterly.
“But I’ve always thought that was――was different,” said Nelson,
vaguely. “She was British, dad, and――――”
“I know,” interrupted his father roughly. “She was British, but she had
American citizens aboard, and Germany knew it. I’d rather you didn’t
try to excuse Germany for that deed, son; I――I’m likely to lose my
temper. Well, ain’t it most time you turned in? Or are you considering
taking the graveyard watch to-night?”
“Oh, it isn’t really late yet,” laughed the boy. “It’s such a peachy
night that I hate to go below. So does Pickles, don’t you, you old
rascal?”
Apparently he did, for he wagged a stiff tail enthusiastically and
burrowed his nose further into the crook of the boy’s arm.
“Well, don’t make it too late,” advised his father, turning away. “If
I find you on deck at seven bells I’ll put you in the lazaret on hard
tack and water for the rest of the voyage.” With which dire threat
Captain Troy strode off toward the stern.
Left to themselves, boy and dog sat a few minutes longer, and then,
finding that the breeze was seeking them out, arose. Nelson yawned
deeply and Pickles wagged his tail, as they went sleepily aft to the
companion. As Nelson’s head dropped below the deck level he caught an
uncertain glimpse of his father’s form by the helmsman and a glowing
speck that showed that Leo’s pipe was drawing well. Nelson shared his
father’s cabin, and twenty minutes later he was sound asleep there,
while Pickles, half under the bunk and half out, twitched his legs and
made little sounds, dreaming, perhaps, that he was doing battle royal
with some long-whiskered, squeaking denizen of the hold.
Seven bells had struck some time ago, when Nelson was midway between
sleeping and waking, and now it was close on midnight. From across the
passage came the deep snores of Mr. Cupples. The mate was a vigorous,
hearty man even when he slumbered. In the dimly lighted captain’s cabin
Pickles, having vanquished his adversary, sighed and stretched his long
legs into new positions, without waking, and the boy above, dreaming,
too, doubtless, muttered faintly in his sleep. And then――――
And then he awoke to chaos!
The first disturbing sound had been a dull, crackling _thud_ from
somewhere forward, and the schooner had reeled and shivered with the
shock as though she had driven head-on to a reef. The second sound had
followed so close on the heels of the first that it had been virtually
but a continuation of it. Nelson was never certain that he had heard
the first sound at all, for he came fully awake with his ears fairly
splitting with the awful concussion that shook the ship. The noise was
beyond imagination, and yet so peculiar that he knew instinctively what
it meant.
An explosion!
Confused, frightened, too, if the truth must be told, he struggled
from his berth. The light was out. Somewhere in the darkness Pickles
was whimpering. On deck were shouts and the rushing of heavy feet. The
cabin floor slanted amazingly and Nelson, groping for the passage,
found the door swung wide and had to pull himself through the aperture
with a hand on each side of the frame. He remembered the dog then
and called. But his heart was beating too loudly for him to know
whether Pickles followed as, clinging to whatever his groping hands
encountered, he made his way to the companion. As he set foot on the
lowest step another rending shock shook the _Jonas Clinton_, and there
was the sound of splintering wood and the crash of yards and tackle to
the deck above.
He knew then. His father’s half-felt fear had not been unwarranted, it
seemed. Nelson’s fright gave way to a swift flood of anger, and as he
hastened on deck, he trembled with the tempest of his wrath.
Even in the moonlit darkness the little schooner presented a pitiable
sight. She was already far down at the head. Her foremast was broken
short off and the great foresail shrouded the deck and dragged over the
side. The first shell from the unseen enemy had entered the hull aft
the galley and just above the water-line and the succeeding explosion
had opened the seams wide and piled the fore part of the ship with
destruction. The second shot had gone high and taken the foremast ten
feet from deck. As he looked, spellbound at the head of the companion,
the schooner’s bowsprit disappeared under the surface and the stern,
with its idly swinging, deserted wheel, rose higher against the
purple-black sky. Amidship on the starboard side there was confused
shouting and the squeak of tackle where a boat was being lowered.
Nelson hurried toward it just as with a whine, a third shell passed the
stern.
There were but four men at the boat. One was Mr. Cupples, the mate, and
one was Leo. The other two were sailors whom the boy didn’t identify
until later. He caught Mr. Cupples’ arm.
“Where’s dad?” he cried anxiously.
“Lower away! What? Is that you, Nelson? Are you hurt?”
“No, sir. Where’s father, sir?”
“In with you, quick, lad! There’ll be another shell on us in a minute.”
“But I want to know where dad is! I don’t see him!”
“He’s coming,” said Mr. Cupples gruffly. “Skippers stand by to the
last, lad. Over you go now.”
“Well――――!” And then Nelson remembered Pickles. He called him but got
no answering bark nor sound of scampering feet. Pickles, then, was
still below! He turned, deaf to the cries of the mate and the others,
and hurried up the canted deck and plunged again into the after cabin.
“Pickles!” he called. “Pickles! Where are you?” And then he heard a
whine, and went stumbling, falling into the little compartment where
the floor was already an inch deep in sea water. For a moment he
couldn’t find the dog, but then another whine led him right and he
gathered the frightened animal in his arms and hastened out again,
sobbing reassurances and endearments, and all the time panic-stricken
with a terror he couldn’t formulate, but that had to do with the
amazing fact that his father had not come for him. On deck again, he
sped to the side. The little boat was in the water and as his head
showed over the rail Mr. Cupples called to him to jump.
“Catch Pickles,” he answered, and dropped the dog. “Is father down
there? Are you there, dad?”
But it was Leo who answered. “Sure, he ban here in boat. Yump, Nels!”
Nelson jumped――the distance now was but a few feet――and landed safely
between thwarts. Oars dashed at the water and the boat headed away.
Nelson, recovering himself, peered about. It seemed lighter here than
on the schooner’s deck, and it took him but an instant to learn the
truth. He leaped to his feet again despairingly.
[Illustration: Oars dashed at the water and the boat headed away.]
“He isn’t here! You lied to me! Where is he?” he cried.
An arm pulled him back to the seat and Mr. Cupples’ voice came to him
from the dimness, broken and husky.
“We couldn’t find him, Nelson. He must have been forward when the first
shot hit us. I think he was――I’m afraid――――” The mate’s voice trailed
off into silence. A fourth shot struck the schooner. They could see the
brief scarlet glare of the bursting shell and hear the havoc caused by
the flying shrapnel. But Nelson neither saw nor heard. He was staring
dumbly, agonizedly into the night, while Pickles, clasped close in his
arms, whimpered his sympathy.