THE DESTROYER AND THE DESTROYED
EXACTLY three weeks after the capture of the _Mendez Nunez_ the _Alerte_
arrived off the mouth of the Wad-el-Abuam, a small river flowing
into the Atlantic a few miles south of Cape Bojador.
The estuary formed an ideal base for Captain Cain's new sphere of
operations. Nominally within the limits of Rio del Oro--Spain's
extensive, unproductive and loosely-held dependency, stretching from
Morocco on the north to French Senegal on the south--the
Wad-el-Abuam was hardly ever visited by vessels, except Moorish
coasters and fishing craft.
The entrance to the river was a difficult one, a bar on which the
surf broke heavily, extending practically right across it, although
well on the starboard hand was a narrow channel carrying twenty feet
at high water and protected by a long, narrow rocky island that not
only served as a breakwater, but also effectively screened the
estuary when viewed from seaward.
Within the bar the depth increased to sixty feet, with a bottom of
firm white sand. Farther up, the bed was composed of mud that became
more objectionable as the width of the river decreased. The
banks were almost destitute of vegetation, consisting of sand with a
few palms and a scanty scrub that afforded meagre food for goats
belonging to the inhabitants. There were four or five small villages
populated by a tribe of savages, half Arab, half Negro, who had long
resisted any attempt at subjection on the part of the Spanish troops
stationed at Villa Cisnero and other fortified posts of Rio del Oro.
Within two hundred miles lay the Canary Islands, with Funchal, the
favourite port of call for ships running between Europe and the west
and south coasts of Africa. Farther to the south'ard was Teneriffe,
with Las Palmas, another frequented coaling-station. Both these were
within the _Alerte's_ wireless radius, so that the pirates hoped to
obtain a fairly complete report of all vessels passing within
striking distance of their proposed base.
"I suppose we haven't made a mistake," remarked Pengelly, as the
_Alerte_ slowly approached the land. "I can't see any sign of an
estuary."
"It must be there," replied Cain, after consulting the latest but
far from reliable chart of this part of the coast. "We'll stand in a
bit more. If there's any doubt about it, we'll send a boat and take
soundings. The sailing directions state that the island is hardly
distinguishable from the mainland except at short distance."
He levelled his binoculars for the twentieth time during the last
hour.
"By thunder!" he exclaimed. "Hanged if there isn't a sail coming
round the point. Native craft, by the cut of her."
"That's awkward," remarked the second in command. "We don't want
company of that sort. She's heading towards us."
"Let her," said Cain, with his characteristic grim smile. "Let her.
Mr. Marchant, serve out the small arms. Get up the machine-gun, but
keep it out of sight until it might be wanted. We'll nab that fellow
and make the crew pilot us in."
Little guessing what reception awaited her, the boat approached. She
was a roughly-built craft of about thirty feet in length, bluff
bowed and with a high, ungainly stern. Her rig resembled that of a
felucca, but with a boom in place of the loose-furled sail usually
affected by craft of the type to be met with in the Mediterranean.
it could be seen that there were three men on board. One, dressed in
a loose garment of white, including a burnous, was at the long,
curved tiller. The others, darker skinned, wore loincloths only.
While the _Alerte_ was yet a quarter of a mile from her, the felucca
ported helm, close-hauled, and stood off in a nor' nor'-westerly
direction.
"What's her little game, I wonder?" remarked Pengelly. "I thought
she was coming off to us."
"So did I," agreed Captain Cain. "But now I think she's a Moorish
fishing vessel homeward bound. She had to stand out towards us to
avoid running on the shoals. We'll collar her, Pengelly. If the old
boy in the cotton nightgown is reasonable we'll pay him and let him
go when he's piloted us in."
In obedience to an order from the bridge, the _Alerte's_ Diesel
engines slowed down, till at a modest three and a half knots the
pirate submarine gained position between the felucca and the shore.
Having thus cut off the latter's retreat, the _Alerte_ starboarded
helm and, working up to twelve knots, began to overhaul the native
craft with ease.
A cast of the lead gave nine fathoms, and since the chart showed
that the soundings were remarkably even on this course, Captain Cain
had no apprehensions of running his vessel aground.
The crew of the felucca seemed quite apathetic when they saw the
_Alerte_ in pursuit. At a sign from the white-robed Moor the two
blacks lowered the sails, one of them standing by to heave a line.
Declutching her propellers, the pirate submarine gradually lost way,
coming to a dead stop alongside the felucca.
By means of a conversation conducted chiefly by signs, Captain Cain
imparted his request for a pilot, and without the faintest display
of hesitancy the Moor scrambled on board the _Alerte_, leaving his two
men to drop the felucca astern. Nor did he betray any sign of fear
when he saw the pirate crew armed with automatic pistols. Calmly,
and in a dignified manner, he proceeded to find out the draught of
the ship. This he did by producing a piece of cord about a yard in
length and then drawing the rough profile of a steam vessel. With a
much smaller piece of string he then measured off the draught on his
plan, and then pointing first to the longer cord and then to the
_Alerte_ he managed to make his meaning clear.
Captain Cain replied by indicating the longer cord and then holding
up six fingers. The Moor nodded gravely and motioned to the pirate
skipper to order the ship to forge ahead.
Slowly the _Alerte_ made her way inside the island, and thence through
the channel over the bar. The while the lead was kept going,
Pengelly and the bo'sun taking bearings and noting how the channel
bore for future occasions.
"Stand by and let go!" roared Cain as the _Alerte_ arrived at her
anchorage. "Is the buoy streamed, Mr. Barnard?"
"Ay, ay, sir!" replied the bo'sun.
"Then let go!"
With the rattle of chain tearing through the hawsepipe, the anchor
plunged to the bed of the Wad-el-Abuam.
Pengelly turned to his captain.
"Snug little crib, this, sir," he remarked. "What about our pilot?
Are we going to overhaul his boat in case there's anything useful?
The blighter might have been pearling. One never knows."
"Certainly not," replied Cain, with a deep frown of disgust. "The
fellow did us a good turn. Only an ungrateful, low-down swine would
suggest such a thing."
Turning to the Moor, who was standing a couple of paces off, the
pirate captain handed him a gold coin.
The pilot took the piece of money, made an elaborate salaam, and
went to the side, the felucca having been brought to the gangway.
Already the two negroes were hoisting sail. With another
salaam, the Moor boarded his own craft, the ropes were cast off, and
the felucca headed for the open sea.
Directly the intervening island hid the anchorage, the hitherto
grave features of the pilot were suffused with a broad grin.
"Start up the motor, Tom!" he exclaimed in English. "George, send
the aerial aloft. By Jove! I had the wind up when that pirate bloke
suggested overhauling the boat!"
In quick time the aerial was spread between the two masts and the
"lead-in" connected to a powerful wireless set concealed between
double bulkheads at the after end of the little fo'c'sle. A message
was then dispatched in code to the Officer Commanding H.M.S. _Canvey_,
giving the position of the pirate submarine's new base.
It was a smart bit of work. The _Canvey_, formerly a tramp steamer,
had been fitted out by the Admiralty as a decoy-ship, disguised as
the Belgian passenger and cargo boat _Candide_ and supposed to be
running between Borna, in Belgian Congo and Antwerp. Commanded by
Lieutenant-Commander Ralph Raxworthy, D.S.O., she was armed with six
six-inch guns and two submerged torpedo tubes, while for scouting
purposes she carried in her hold two of the latest type of small
flying boats fitted with folding wings. These aircraft could be
hoisted out and ready to ascend within the space of twelve minutes.
But in order to locate the _Alerte's_ base without exciting suspicion
or giving any indication of her presence in the offing, Raxworthy
had applied for seven boats of a type in use on this part of the
coast. Each of these was fitted with a paraffin motor and a wireless
installation, and was placed in charge of either a junior
commissioned officer or else a warrant officer. For crew, West
Indian negroes with a good knowledge of being able to manage a boat
under sail, were enlisted for temporary service, two or three being
told off to each boat.
It was a job that Sub-Lieutenant Gerald Broadmayne would have given
much to have undertaken; but in his case the risk was too great. Not
on account of possible personal danger was he turned down. In spite
of a skilful disguise he might be recognised by Captain Cain, should
the two meet. In that case the pirate would realise that a British
warship was hard on his heels and would take precautions
accordingly.
Well before sunset the seven tenders, recalled by wireless, returned
to their parent ship. Almost the first to arrive was the boat
commanded by Sub-Lieutenant Allerton, who had served under Raxworthy
in the _Windrush_ when she claimed to have sunk the _Alerte_ in St.
Ives' Bay.
Allerton was in high feather. It was he who had "trailed the tail of
his coat" across the path of the pirate submarine and had piloted
her into the estuary of the Wad-el-Abuam.
"Cain, as he calls himself, is rather a sport," he declared to his
rather envious brother-officers. "But that fellow Pengelly is an
out-and-out rotter--a cross between a broken-down mummer and
pickpocket. You know the type I mean."
"How is Cain a sport?" inquired the torpedo lieutenant.
"He ticked the mealy-mouthed blighter off when he suggested helping
himself to whatever he could find in the boat," replied Allerton.
"Cain jumped on him properly, and gave me a German ten-mark
gold-piece as a sort of backsheesh. He'd probably pinched it. I
didn't ask questions. I'll have the thing made into a brooch when we
get home."
Lieutenant-Commander Raxworthy did not receive the information of
the pirate submarine's base with any degree of enthusiasm. In fact,
he was rather down in the mouth about it. He had hoped that the
_Alerte_ would seek shelter in an obscure port in Morocco. Then the
_Canvey_ could go in and settle with her. The fact that the
Wad-el-Abuam was in Spanish territory, however loosely held,
complicated matters considerably. Without violating international
law he could do nothing unless the Spanish Government agreed to
allow the British warship a free hand.
Accordingly, the _Canvey_ put into Teneriffe and reported to the
Admiralty by cable lest a lengthy dispatch by wireless, even though
it were in code, should alarm the pirates and prompt them to change
their base.
For the next few days the decoy ship steamed to and fro between the
Canaries and St. Vincent sending out fictitious messages _en clair_
in the hope that the _Alerte_ would emerge from her retreat and come
outside the three-mile limit in order to seize a likely prey. But no
_Alerte_ put in an appearance.
Meanwhile, the Spanish Government had refused to accede to the
British Admiralty's request. Since the pirate vessel had made use of
a harbour in a Spanish colony, it was "up" to Spain to avenge the
insult to her national dignity. Accordingly the destroyer _Villamil_
was ordered to leave Cartagena and proceed to Wad-el-Abuam to
destroy the _Alerte_.
The _Villamil_ was an old vessel of three hundred and sixty tons, with
a speed of twenty-eight knots. Her armament consisted of five
six-pounders, of which three could fire ahead and three on the beam.
In addition, she carried two torpedo tubes.
While the Spanish destroyer was speeding south, the _Alerte_ remained
riding to her anchors in Wad-el-Abuam. It was not owing to
inclination on the part of Captain Cain that she did not put to sea.
Wireless messages were frequently being intercepted from vessels
bound to and from the French and Belgian colonies on the west coast
of Africa. Tempting prizes they appeared to be. But the _Alerte_ had
developed a leak where the post of the vertical rudder passes
through the trunk. A gland had given out. It would have been a
fairly simple business to effect repairs could the submarine be
dry-docked. In present circumstances it was a tedious and difficult
process, and until it were completed the _Alerte_ would be unable to
submerge without the almost certain result of being flooded. While
on the surface the leak could be kept under control; but at any
great depth the hydrostatic pressure would be irresistible.
While this work was in progress, Captain Cain had not allowed other
matters to slide. One of his first steps was to establish a signal
station on the rocky island guarding and screening the _Alerte's_
anchorage. Day and night armed men were on watch at the station,
ready to signal to the pirate vessel the moment any sail appeared
over the horizon.
Just before noon one morning, Captain Cain was informed that a craft
looking like a destroyer was approaching from the nor'ard and
steaming a course parallel to the coast.
Although fully conscious of the danger the _Alerte_ was incurring by
being caught in a disabled state, Captain Cain showed no sign of
panic. He was trapped. He knew it. Unable to submerge, unable to
ascend the river more than a few miles with a draught that
considerably exceeded that of a destroyer, he realised that the only
thing to be done short of scuttling the _Alerte_ and chancing a
doubtful refuge ashore in a barren country inhabited by fierce
natives, was to fight it out.
In hot haste six men with the machine-gun were sent off in a boat to
the island with instructions to keep under cover and not to open
fire until the approaching destroyer came within a hundred yards of
the rock, which she must do by reason of the tortuous course of the
deep-water channel.
The _Alerte_ was swung athwart the river to enable her six-inch
quick-firer to bear. With the exception of the captain, Mr. Marchant
and the gun's crew, all the rest of the hands were ordered below to
be ready to replace casualties amongst the men working the
quick-firer.
Presently a signal came through from the island: "Destroyer holding
on. Is flying Spanish colours."
"In that case we needn't worry much, my lads," exclaimed Cain. "She's
probably going down the coast. If she isn't, then we're more than
her match. There's not a single destroyer belonging to the Spanish
Navy with a gun anything approaching our six-inch. We'll give it her
in the neck if she tries conclusions with us."
After a brief interval, another message came through: "Destroyer
turned eight point to port and is making for the bar."
"Good enough, my hearties!" declared Cain in his ringing, convincing
voice. "Let her have it directly she pokes her nose round the bluff.
What's the opening range, Mr. Marchant?"
"Two thousand yards, sir," replied the gunner.
Under the captain's orders one of the crew ran off with a bundle
under his arm. Presently a flag was hoisted at the ensign staff. For
the first time the _Alerte_ was showing her true colours--the "Jolly
Roger."
Alone on the bridge, Cain stood calm and confident. There was not
the slightest tremor in his large, powerful hands as he grasped his
binoculars ready to bring them to bear upon the as yet invisible
enemy.
From his elevated position he gave a rapid glance at the gun's crew.
The men had closed up round their weapon, the gunlayer bending as he
peered through the sights. In the rear crouched the loading-party,
each with his hands on a hundred-pound projectile, ready the moment
the breech-block was opened to thrust the shell into the still
smoking breech. And somehow Cain's thoughts flew back to a similar
scene in the presence of an enemy. Then, he was fighting for a just
cause under the glorious white ensign. Now, he was fighting for no
cause but his own, his hand against every man's, and under the
shadow of that emblem of dishonour--the skull and cross-bones.
Round the precipitous face of the island appeared the lean bows of
the Spanish destroyer. Then her round bridge, mast and funnels came
into view. Through his glasses Cain saw that her fo'c'sle gun was
manned by a crew of white-clad, swarthy-faced men.... There was a
deafening crash as the _Alerte's_ six-inch sent the hundred-pound
projectile hurtling on its way.... Even as he looked, Cain saw a
vivid flash immediately in front of the destroyer's bridge... a
cloud of smoke torn by diverging blasts of air.... The smoke
dispersed, or rather the destroyer's speed carried her through
it.... The crew of her fo'c'sle six-pounder had dispersed, too; with
them the gun and its mounting.... The bridge didn't look the same as
it had a few seconds previously--a bit lopsided. Flames were pouring
from a heap of débris in the wake of the foremast.
At two thousand yards the appalling noise caused by the explosion of
the _Alerte's_ first shell was inaudible to the solitary watcher on
her bridge. The scene brought within a very short distance through
the lenses of the powerful binoculars resembled a "close-up" picture
on the cinematograph--unrealistic by reason of the absence of sound.
Two vivid flashes leapt from the Spanish destroyer's deck, one on
the port side, the other to starboard. They were her reply to the
destructive "sighting shot" from the pirate submarine.
The _Villamil_ had received a rough awakening. Her crew, not one of
whom had previously been under fire, were lacking in that courage
and tenacity that marks the Anglo-Saxon race. Appalled by the havoc
wrought on the fo'c'sle, the gunlayers of the remaining weapons that
could be brought to bear certainly did make reply. Their aim was
bad. One shell whizzed high above the _Alerte's_ masts, shrieking as
it sped to bury itself harmlessly in the sand three miles away. The
other, striking the water a hundred yards short of its objective,
ricochetted and hurtled through the air full fifty yards astern.
Cain paid no attention to either. His interest was centred upon his
attacker. He could hear the rapid crashes of the _Alerte's_
quick-firer. He could see the results by the frequent lurid bursts
of flame and the showers of débris as shell after shell struck the
luckless Spaniard.
Still she came on, leaving an eddying trail of smoke. One of her
six-pounders was firing spasmodically. She was reeling like a
drunken man.
Suddenly Cain put aside his glasses and made a spring for the
telegraph indicator, moving the starboard lever to "full ahead." His
quick eye had discerned a glistening object curving over the
_Villamil's_ side. A torpedo was already on its way, travelling at the
speed of a train in the direction of the pirate submarine.
Well before the action the _Alerte's_ oil-engines had been started
with the clutches in neutral position. It was a precaution that was
justified in its results. Under the action of one propeller only the
_Alerte_ forged ahead, her stern swinging round as she overran her
anchors.
Cain had no occasion now to use his binoculars. The double diverging
wake of the submerged locomotive torpedo was plainly visible to the
naked eye. It was approaching very rapidly; the ship was swinging
very slowly--too slowly, it seemed.
For ten seconds the captain held his breath. Looking aft, the rise
of the poop intercepted the wake of the torpedo. It seemed as if the
_Alerte_ was doomed.
But no explosion tore her asunder. By less than a couple of yards
the deadly missile cleared her stern, to detonate harmlessly against
the steep bank of the river half a mile away.
The _Alerte's_ quick-firer was now silent. The manoeuvre that had
saved her from the torpedo had brought her almost bows-on to the
_Villamil_, with the result that the former's fo'c'sle masked her line
of fire.
By this time the Spanish destroyer had closed to about a thousand
yards. She was yawing badly. Possibly her steam-steering gear had
been demolished and she was being conned from aft.
Nevertheless, she was keeping to the channel which at this
particular time brought her almost abeam. Her decks were a shambles,
two of her funnels had disappeared. The rest of the bridge that had
survived the _Alerte's_ first shell had collapsed. One gun well aft
alone was spitting defiance. Either she meant to ram her anchored
opponent, or else she was manoeuvring for a position favourable for
the release of a second torpedo.
Again the _Alerte's_ engine-room telegraph bell clanged. With the port
propeller going hard astern, and her cables tautened like
harp-strings, she began to swing into her former position.
For the first time since the action commenced Captain Cain spoke.
Leaning over the bridgerail he shouted to the gunlayer to aim for
the Spaniard's aft torpedo-tube.
The _Villamil_ was well down by the head and had a pronounced list to
starboard. Her speed had appreciably fallen off. The menace of being
rammed was now hardly worth taking into account; but the torpedo----
At that range, if the Spanish torpedo-gunner knew his job, it was
almost a matter of impossibility to miss.
Cain could see four or five grimy figures bringing the loading cage
to the after-end of the tube. The torpedo was launched home.... He
could see the convex metal cover swing into the closing position...
the torpedo coxswain was getting astride the tube... in another
three or four seconds...
A deafening crash told the anxious skipper of the _Alerte_ that the
six-inch was again at work. At a range of six hundred yards the
shell got home. A terrific flash--it was far too vivid for the
explosion of a shell--leapt from the destroyer. An enormous cloud of
smoke was hurled skywards, completely obliterating the _Villamil_ from
Cain's vision. A blast of hot air swept over the superstructure of
the submarine. Pieces of metal tinkled on her steel deck. Heavier
pieces were falling with a succession of splashes into the
smoke-enshrouded water.
Slowly the pall of acrid-smelling vapour dispersed. Where the
destroyer had been was an expanse of agitated water surrounding a
broad and steadily-growing patch of black oil. Of the eighty men who
formed her crew, not one survived.
The only casualty on board the _Alerte_ was No. 3 of the gun's crew,
and he had been knocked out only after the _Villamil_ had been
destroyed. A fragment of steel descending with terrific force had
struck him on the head, killing him instantly.
The action over, Captain Cain brought the rest of the hands on deck.
"My lads!" he exclaimed, "if we were out for glory, we've got it. It
wasn't of our seeking. It's riches, not glory, we're after. Now,
lads, although there's no one of our opponents left to tell the
tale, we'll have to get a move on. One more good capture and we pay
off. With luck we'll finish repairs by nightfall. To-morrow I hope
our aims will be realised. There's a Belgian vessel due to leave St.
Vincent at dawn to-morrow. She's ours for the asking. I propose to
capture her and bring her in here until we can unload everything of
value. All then that remains to be done is to hide the booty, make
our way home and come out again as quite above-board West Coast
traders. That's all I have to say, lads. No hanging on to the slack,
but plenty of beef into your work for the next few hours and
everything will be plain sailing. Pipe down!"