These are chancy times for sailormen, both those who man our fighting
ships and the crews of merchant vessels, but they must all take the sea
as they find it and do their best while their country is at war. Many
of them have faced death cheerfully in the execution of their duty.
Some have gone under, while others have endured wounds and privation,
as did the men of the British steamer _Glenholme_.
This staunch ship, steering wide of the land, cleared the southern
shores of Malta and stuck her blunt nose into the long smooth swell
that rolled up from the eastward. A ten-knot cargo-boat, deep-laden
with steel rails for Alexandria, she forged steadily onward through
the murky night. From stem to stern her hull lay shrouded in darkness;
not a single light gleamed from any of her portholes, and even the
lamp in her steering compass was veiled, for those on board knew right
well that hostile submarines were operating in various parts of the
Mediterranean.
Captain John Groome leaned his elbows on the bridge-rail and gazed into
the gloom ahead.
"We're all right so far," he said; "and from what I can hear of things
it seems that these beastly submarines are operating quite a bit to the
northward of our track. All the same, a sharp look-out must be kept or
we may fall foul of some other craft running, like ourselves, without
lights. I don't want to bump any of them."
"The ocean is a wide place, sir," cheerfully remarked the chief
officer. "We'll keep clear of collision easy enough."
"I hope so," replied the skipper. "And now, Mr. Bolt, I'm going to lie
down in the chart-room for a couple of hours, and I want you to call me
at daybreak. That's the time when submarines poke up their periscopes
for a morning look around."
The mists of dawn hung like grey curtains over the northern horizon
when Captain Groome, in answer to a call from the chief officer, again
ascended the bridge ladder.
"Anything in sight?" he queried.
"Nothing at all," replied Mr. Bolt. "It's a bit hazy to the northward,"
he added, "but the skyline is quite clear ahead."
Hardly had the chief officer finished speaking when a shot--apparently
coming from nowhere--shrieked overhead between the _Glenholme's_ masts.
A moment later the report of a gun came rolling down the wind. Groome
hurriedly snatched up his binocular glasses and peered into the haze
out abeam.
"Great Scot!" he exclaimed. "A submarine! Hard-a-port, my son. Let her
go off to south."
The helmsman ground his wheel over, and not a moment too soon, for
a white line, like the trail of a shooting star, streaked athwart
the surface of the waters. A torpedo had been discharged at the
_Glenholme_, but as she swerved and swung from her course the deadly
missile passed harmlessly ahead.
"Murderous devils!" ejaculated Mr. Bolt. "Attacking an unarmed ship
with both gunfire and torpedoes."
"Pass the word to the engineer to give her every pound of steam,"
shouted Groome.
As the morning haze lifted the submarine came into clear view--a dark,
sinister shape. She gave chase while the _Glenholme_ made off at her
topmost speed. Engineers and stokers did their best, and steam hissed
from her safety-valve as, on a zigzag course, she fled. Meanwhile the
pursuing craft hung doggedly in her track. The submarine, however,
discharged no more torpedoes; probably the German commander did not
wish to deplete his stock of these expensive weapons.
Gradually the pursuer closed with her quarry, until she was not more
than a mile distant, and then her twelve-pounder gun began to bark
viciously. Having found the range, the Germans fairly pounded the
_Glenholme_ with bursting shell, battering her deck-houses and funnel
into masses of twisted steel.
Groome and his crew did their duty well. They were game, quite game, to
the finish. The captain, alert and watchful, stood beside the helmsman
and directed the steering in such a manner as to keep the hostile craft
dead astern. Presently a flying splinter of shell gashed his leg below
the knee, and blood trickled into his boot as he bound up the wound.
Nevertheless, he kept his vessel going at top speed, for he knew that
British warships were patrolling the Mediterranean, and while the chase
lasted there still remained the chance that a swift destroyer might
suddenly loom up on the skyline and rush to the assistance of his
stricken and harrassed vessel.
No help came, however, and it was not long ere a shell struck the
rudder-head. With steering gear completely wrecked, the steamer became
unmanageable, and swung round at right angles to her course. Then,
seeing escape was impossible, Captain Groome reluctantly rang his
engines astern and signalled to the enemy that he was bringing his
vessel to a standstill.