A BAFFLED QUEST
LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER RALPH RAXWORTHY, D.S.O., officer commanding
H.M. Destroyer _Windrush_, leant over the after end of the bridge
stanchion-rails to give final instructions to his sub-lieutenant.
"She's the one we want," he shouted, in order to make himself heard
above the hiss of escaping steam. "Mind how you close her. Examine
her papers, and if you find anything of the slightest suspicious
nature, put her under arrest."
"Very good, sir," replied Sub-Lieutenant Allerton, instinctively
patting his revolver-holster before dropping into the waiting boat.
"Shove off for'ard. Give way, lads!"
The boat, with the armed boarding-party, was soon speeding through
the black water in the direction of the supposed _Memnon_, which lay
rolling sluggishly in the full glare of the destroyer's searchlight.
Allerton, too, had his suspicions. Expecting to find a crowd of
curious and perhaps amused seamen peering at the _Windrush's_ boat, he
was considerably puzzled to see only one man on the tramp's bridge
and her deck absolutely deserted.
Even as he looked, a flash, followed by a roar, came from the
_Memnon's_ deck. A cloud of black smoke, its edges tinted with silver
and the rays of the searchlight, rose sullenly in the faint breeze.
For some moments Allerton was undecided what to do. At first, under
the impression that the mysterious vessel had opened fire, he
altered helm in order to prevent the boat masking the destroyer's
reply. Even as he did so, he noticed that the tramp was much lower
in the water.
"The blighters have scuttled her, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "Lay on
your oars, lads. We don't want to be carried down with her."
Without the faintest doubt, the would-be prize was sinking fast.
That was undeniable evidence of her guilt. No law-abiding merchant
vessel would voluntarily destroy herself simply because she was
about to be boarded by a party from a British man-of-war.
With great rapidity the _Memnon_ sank. She did not heel or even roll.
She disappeared amid a smother of foam, throwing out a swell that
tossed the _Windrush's_ boat like a cork. An oval patch of silvery
light from the destroyer's searchlight marked the spot where the
mysterious vessel had plunged to the bed of St. Ives Bay.
"Give way, lads!" ordered Allerton. "We may find some of them in the
ditch."
For a quarter of an hour the boat hovered around the spot. There
were no signs of survivors--not even of débris. A little oil,
floating in iridescent patches, alone marked the place, and even
that was drifting sullenly with the weak tidal current.
At dead slow ahead the _Windrush_ closed her boat. A mark-buoy and
sinker were dropped overboard, the searchlight was switched off and
the boat hoisted up and swung inboard.
"Good enough," declared the lieutenant-commander as his sub gained
the bridge and reported. "We haven't made a capture, worse luck; but
we've done the next best thing. We've scuppered this pirate-johnny,
whoever he may be. Right-o, Sub, carry on, please, while I write out
my report."
The _Windrush_ had that morning left Devonport under orders to patrol
the coast between Hartland and Pendeen Points. Another destroyer was
assigned a beat between Hartland and Worms Head, while a third
cruised between Swansea Bay and Milford Haven. All outward and
homeward bound shipping were to be spoken, and, in the event of any
suspicion, to be boarded and have the papers examined.
This was in execution of a general Admiralty order embracing the
whole of the West and South Coast of England and the South Coast of
Ireland, but it was hardly expected that the mysterious pirate would
be found in the approach to the Bristol Channel.
It was a piece of sheer good luck that had caused the _Windrush_ to
intercept the self-styled _Memnon_. Had the latter been half an hour
or even twenty minutes later in rounding Pendeen Head, the destroyer
would have turned and been on her way back to Hartland.
Two hours later, the Commander-in-Chief at Devonport was awakened by
his secretary.
"They've got her, sir!" exclaimed the latter, brandishing a
signal-pad.
"Got who?" demanded the still drowsy admiral.
"The pirate, sir; a message has just come through from the
_Windrush_."
The Commander-in-Chief took the pad and read:
"O.C. _Windrush_ to C.-in-C., Devonport. Radio
No. 445. Have honour to report that at midnight
_Windrush_ spoke vessel 2 miles W. 6 N. Godrevy
Light. Vessel reported herself _Memnon_ of Bristol.
Ordered her to close and sent boat to make examination.
Before boat could board _Memnon_ sank,
apparently result of internal explosion. No survivors.
Have marked wreck. In view of bad weather,
request permission to return Devonport.--
R. RAXWORTHY, Lieut.-Commdr."
"That looks like business, sir," remarked the secretary. "I suppose
she is the same craft that held up the _Cap Hoorn_ and got a mauling
from the _Surcouf_?"
"She hasn't lost much time in going round the Land," rejoined the
Commander-in-Chief. "I wonder what in the name of blazes she was
doing over this side? All right, Symington. Transmit the signal to
the Admiralty, please; and reply to _Windrush_. She's to put into
Milford Haven until the weather moderates. We'll send a dockyard tug
and a couple of lighters with a diving party round as soon as
practicable. That's all; good-night."
The Admiralty report was made public at 4.0 p.m. of the same day,
but two hours earlier the London evening papers brought out special
editions with double-headed headlines announcing the destruction of
the pirate vessel that had commenced to play havoc on the French
side of the Channel. Every newspaper brought out a different
account. For the most part, what they lacked in actual detail they
made up for by drawing upon their imagination.
One, very wide of the mark, reported that the pirate had been sunk
off Cherbourg, in action with a French cruiser; another declared
that the filibuster had been rammed and sunk by a British light
cruiser off Beachy Head. A third, that the mysterious vessel had
been driven ashore in Mounts Bay and that the crew had been taken
prisoners and were already on their way to London. A fourth, much
nearer the mark, had contrived to obtain information from St. Ives
to the effect that the destroyer _Windrush_ had sunk the pirate vessel
_Memnon_ off Trevose Head. Not one in half a dozen separate reports
mentioned the important fact that the corsair had sunk herself.
That same afternoon a westerly gale of force ten--or with a velocity
of sixty-five miles an hour--was blowing in the English Channel and
off the north coast of Cornwall. At Tresco, Scilly, the anemometer
even registered one hundred and twenty miles. For three days it blew
with unabated violence, finally veering to the N.N.W., leaving in
its wake a trail of disaster. For nearly a week after, a heavy
tumbling sea was sweeping in from the Atlantic, rendering
investigation of the wreck of the _Memnon_ impracticable.
At length the sea moderated sufficiently to enable the dockyard tug
and the two lighters to leave Plymouth Sound. They had not cleared
the breakwater more than an hour when the Devonport wireless station
received the following startling message:
"S.S. _Broadstone_ making for Falmouth, towing
Spanish oil-tanker _Mendez Nunez_, attacked, pillaged
and disabled by vessel, nationality unknown, in
Lat. 47° 20' N., long. 9° 15' W."
"Then there must have been a pair of 'em," exclaimed the
Commander-in-Chief.
"Unless the original one got away," suggested his flag-lieutenant.
"What do you mean?" demanded the admiral. "Didn't the _Windrush_
report her sunk?
"Strange things happen at sea, sir," remarked the admiral's
secretary.
"But there are limits," rejoined the Commander-in-Chief. "Well, the
diving-party will get to work early to-morrow if the weather holds.
I'm willing to bet a bottle of '14 Champagne to a Corona Corona that
they'll find the wreck of the _Memnon_ within three working days."
"Done, sir!" replied the secretary promptly. The admiral lost. In
calm weather, divers descended and discovered the sinker of the buoy
dropped by the _Windrush_. A couple of drifters swept a wide area
without encountering any obstruction resembling wreckage. A naval
seaplane assisted in the search, but without success. Reluctantly
the authorities had to admit that the operation was a complete
failure. The sunken _Memnon_ had vanished as completely as if she had
been swallowed up by a fathomless quicksand. But since no quicksand
existed in the neighbourhood of St. Ives Bay, that theory was
knocked on the head. Remained the question: What had happened to
her?