CAIN RESUMES COMMAND
"UP aloft, one of you!" shouted Marchant. "See if the swine's in
sight."
The _Alerte_ was pitching as she faced the long Atlantic swell after
crossing the bar in pursuit of the _Bronx City_. A few--a very few--of
the crew were sober; the majority were befuddled in the transition
stage between drunkenness and sobriety; while four or five,
helplessly intoxicated, lay rolling in the scuppers.
One of the hands, pot-valiant, made an attempt to go aloft. Before
he had ascended half a dozen ratlines he slipped. Luckily for him,
the _Alerte_ was at the limit of her roll. Instead of dropping into
the sea he slithered helplessly round the aftershroud and subsided
heavily upon the gunner. The pair fell in a heap on deck. The
drunken seaman, none the worse for his involuntary descent, sat up
and looked around as if seeking applause. Marchant staggered to his
feet, his right shoulder dislocated.
Pengelly, from the bridge, saw the incident. It cheered him
considerably, for with Marchant rendered _hors de combat_ he was
able to reassert his lax authority on the undisciplined crew.
A seaman, less drunk than his predecessor, went aloft. Before he
reached the cross-trees he shouted, "There she lies--a point on our
port bow.
"Sure she's the _Bronx City_?" inquired Pengelly anxiously.
"Do you call me a liar?" shouted the lookout man in reply. "If I
says she's the Bronx, then she is. That's all about it."
With the oil-engines running "all out," the _Alerte_ stood in pursuit
of the fugitive. A couple of hours enabled her to gain on the Bronx
City to such an extent that the latter was barely six miles ahead.
At that rate, another hour and a half would enable the pirate
submarine to overhaul her prey.
Although Pengelly had no liking for Marchant, he was forced to admit
that the gunner's proposal to abandon the _Alerte_ and take the Bronx
City over to some obscure South American port was a sound one. The
question of fuel largely influenced his decision. The _Alerte's_ tanks
were seriously depleted; the _Bronx City's_ coal bunkers were
three-quarters full. It was on that account that Pengelly refrained
from opening fire upon the Yankee vessel, otherwise he could have
ended the chase half an hour ago.
At intervals, Pengelly raised his binoculars and watched the chase.
It was on one of these occasions that he noticed a faint blur of
smoke on the horizon at less than a degree to the left of the Bronx
City.
Cursing under his breath, the pirate called to the gunner to come on
the bridge. Marchant, his right shoulder swathed in bandages,
complied, grumbling and wincing as every step shot a sharp pain
through the injured part.
"There's another vessel," announced Pengelly. "She's coming this
way, I think. What's to be done?"
"Done?" repeated the gunner. "Why, collar the pair of 'em. We'll
make a fine haul, I'll swear."
"But if she's a warship?" objected the other.
"Is it likely?" rejoined Marchant. "What would a warship be doing on
this part of the coast? Seein' as Cain reported us sunk--say what
you like, that chap's got a head on 'im--there'll be none lookin'
for us. Where's that glass of yours?"
Steadying the telescope on the bridge-rail, the gunner, groaning
with the effort, bent his head and applied his eye to the
instrument.
"Tramp of sorts," he announced. "She's flying no colours. Odds are
the _Bronx City_'ll tip her the wink. That being so, we'll have to
send her to the bottom.... Yes, hang me, if she ain't closing."
For the next minute or so the gunner kept his eye glued to the
telescope. Suddenly he dropped the glass and sprang to his feet.
"She's a British cruiser, blast her!" he shouted. "Put about and leg
it, Pengelly. If she spots us, it's all UP!"
Without waiting for Pengelly to give the order, the quartermaster
put the wheel hard down. Round swept the _Alerte_, listing heavily to
port as she swung to starboard.
The hands on deck, surprised by the sudden change of course, were
clamouring to know why the pursuit had been abandoned.
"Why?" shouted the gunner. "'Cause we're being chased. No blessed
Dago destroyer this time, but a British cruiser. We'll have to be
mighty smart to dodge the white ensign."
"She's spotted us!" exclaimed Pengelly, in a high-pitched voice.
"The _Bronx City_ is slewing round, too. Confound Cain! If he'd
crippled the _Bronx City_ instead of just running her gently on the
mud, there'd have been none of this business."
"We'll be glad to have Cain on board before long," said the bo'sun,
who had joined Pengelly and the gunner on the bridge. "I reckon our
only chance is to submerge. Without Cain, how's it to be done? You
couldn't take her down, nor can I."
"Soundings are too deep for diving in any case," declared Pengelly.
"Seems to me we're holding her, even if we aren't gaining. What's
the time?"
"Close on one bell," replied the bo'sun.
"Time to make Bahia Arenas well before dark then," continued
Pengelly. "See here, Mr. Barnard, go aft and sound that swine Cain.
Don't tell him I sent you, but ask him if he'll take charge of the
ship for submerging."
The bo'sun departed on his errand. Presently he returned.
"Cap'n Cain says he'll consider the matter if you go and ask him
yourself," he announced.
"Then you'd better go," added Marchant.
"Not I," said Pengelly.
While the _Alerte_ held her own, Pengelly adhered to his resolution
not to eat humble pie. But when, in the course of the afternoon, the
pursuing vessel began to gain rapidly, he yielded to the
importunities of the gunner, the bo'sun, and the majority of the
crew.
"Look here, Trevorrick," he began, addressing his former partner and
skipper by the name by which he was known at Polkyll Creek; "'spose
we let bygones be bygones? Will you take charge of the ship and
submerge her when we make Bahia Arenas?"
Cain looked him straight in the face. Pengelly could not bear the
other's gaze. Unsteadily he averted his eves.
"I'll submerge when I'm captain of the _Alerte_ again, not before,"
replied Cain.
"Three cheers for Cap'n Cain!" shouted one of the hands, several of
whom had followed the deputation aft.
At that moment a plugged shell shrieked past the pirate submarine,
throwing up a huge column of spray as it ricochetted to strike the
surface of the water a good five hundred yards ahead of the ship.
Pengelly made no protest to the demonstration in favour of the
ex-captain. Followed by Marchant he returned to the bridge.
"Carry on, sir!" shouted half a dozen of the pirates.
Some one cast off the lashings that secured Cain's wrists. The
bo'sun slipped an automatic into his hand. With a grim smile, Cain
went forward and ascended the bridge ladder.
"Now then!" he exclaimed, sternly addressing the trembling Pengelly.
"Who's skipper now!"
"You are," admitted the thoroughly scared man. "For heaven's sake,
don't shoot!"
"Good lead is too precious to waste on rats," retorted Cain,
thrusting the automatic into his pocket. "Get down, you treacherous
swab!"
Pengelly began to descend the bridge-ladder, his progress materially
assisted by the application of the reinstated captain's boot. The
crew, notwithstanding their imminent peril, applauded lustily.
"Avast there!" shouted Captain Cain. "Shout when you're out of the
wood--not before. Strike and secure masts! Look lively, there!"
While most of the crew were engaged upon this task, Cain beckoned to
the bo'sun.
"Look here, Barnard!" he exclaimed in a low voice; "remove the
rapid-flooding valves from all the boats. Take one below; heave the
others overboard."
This the bo'sun did, unshipping a hinged plate that when secured by
two butterfly nuts rendered each boat watertight. When open, the
valves allowed the boats to take in water rapidly, so that their
natural buoyancy was destroyed and did not hinder the submergence of
the submarine. The solitary valve that was not thrown overboard was
placed below, under the conning-tower hatchway ladder.
"Well done, Mr. Barnard!" said Cain approvingly. "Now, tell Cross
and Davidge to go below and secure both the for'ard and after
hatches on the inside. Also tell Cross to inform the engine-room
staff from me that as soon as I ring down for 'Stop' they are to
come on deck through the conning-tower hatchway with all possible
speed. Is that clear?"
The bo'sun repeated his instructions and went off to see that they
were carried out. By the time he returned the crew had lowered and
secured the masts and funnel for diving and were standing by,
anxiously dividing their attention between the pursuing _Canvey_ and
their reinstated skipper's next order.
"All hands fall in in the waist!" shouted Cain.
The deck hands trooped to the place indicated, with the exception of
Davidge and Cross, who, acting under orders, were standing by the
valve actuating gear of the ballast tanks.
Deliberately, Cain thrust the telegraph indicators to stop, gave one
quick glance at the vessel in pursuit and descended from the bridge.
By this time the _Alerte_ was over the bar and about half a mile from
the land-locked shore. The _Canvey_, none too sure of the entrance,
had slowed down, the leadsman sounding as she cautiously smelt her
way in.
As soon as the men whose duty lay in the engine-room came on deck,
Cain made a slight imperceptible movement with his hand.
Unconcernedly, the bo'sun stepped to the wake of the
conning-tower and took three steps down the ladder. There he waited.
"Now, you treacherous, mutineering swine!" thundered Cain. "I'll
give you one minute to get your lifebelts. You're to choose between
being eaten by sharks or hanging by your necks in a British prison."
Before the astounded men could realise the significance of their
captain's words, Cain made for the only open hatchway. There he
stopped, his eyes roving whimsically over the dumbfounded men, a
supercilious smile lurking in his heavy bulldog features.
Marchant fumbled for his automatic. But for his injured shoulder he
might have achieved his object. The pistol cracked, the bullet
mushrooming on the armour-plated conning tower.
"Forty-five seconds more!" announced Cain, in cold, level tones.
The next instant Captain Cain disappeared from view. The
conning-tower hatch descended with a metallic clang.
With the closing of the last means of entering the hull of the
submarine the spell was broken. The crew, realising the fate that
awaited them, were seized with panic. Some began to struggle into
their cork lifebelts, others made a mad rush for the davit-boats, to
find to their consternation that they were no longer capable of
floating.
A shell, evidently of light calibre, struck the _Alerte_ a few feet
abaft the bows, demolishing the dummy fo'c'sle like a pack of cards.
It was fortunate for the men that they were either in the waist or
on the poop, for no one was hit; but the exploding missile warned
them that their pursuer was getting to work in earnest.
"Lower that cursed rag!" shrieked Pengelly, pointing to the skull
and cross-bones which, on the masts being lowered, the gunner in
reckless bravado had hoisted at the end of a boathook. "Has anybody
got anything that'll do for a white flag? No? Then, for heaven's
sake, some of you in the poop hold your hands up, or she'll blow us
to bits."
Several of the hands did so, while the signalman, clambering on the
bridge, frantically semaphored that the ship had surrendered.
Even as the message was being signalled, the _Alerte_ began to settle.
In less than half a minute she disappeared beneath the surface,
leaving the agitated water of the Bahia Arenas dotted with the heads
of her mutinous crew.
The pirate submarine _Alerte_ had made her final plunge.