Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen. Thank you, Iain Somerville!
[Illustration: cover art]
The Sea-girt Fortress
BY PERCY F. WESTERMAN
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quickening of his pulses."--Outlook.
The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland. 3_s_. 6_d_.
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"A remarkable, ingenious story."--Academy.
Captured at Tripoli: A Tale of Adventure. 2_s_. 6_d_.
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The Quest of the "Golden Hope": A Seventeenth-century Story of
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peculiarly hard to please."--Liverpool Courier.
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LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration: "HAND OVER HAND HE CLIMBED TILL HE REACHED A METALLIC
BEAM" _Frontispiece_]
The
Sea-girt Fortress
A Story of Heligoland
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of "When East Meets West" "Captured at Tripoli"
"The Quest of the _Golden Hope_"
"A Lad of Grit" &c.
_Illustrated by W. E. Wigfull_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
Contents
CHAP.
I. MAN OVERBOARD
II. THROUGH THE FOG
III. A LOSS AND A FIND
IV. ARRESTED
V. A DISCOVERY
VI. VON WITTELSBACH'S PLAN
VII. OFFICIAL HINDRANCES
VIII. SENTENCED
IX. ON THE SCENT
X. IN THE PRISON CELL
XI. A NIGHT OF TOIL
XII. INVESTIGATIONS
XIII. AN EXPERIMENT WITH A ZEPPELIN
XIV. THE SECOND NIGHT OF LIBERTY
XV. RECAPTURED
XVI. THE NEWS LEAKS OUT
XVII. THE SANDINSEL TUNNEL
XVIII. THE ERRANT AIRSHIP
XIX. AT THE MERCY OF THE WINDS
XX. HOMEWARD BOUND
XXI. GOOD OLD HAMERTON!
XXII. A MOMENTOUS DECISION
XXIII. FIRST BLOOD
XXIV. THE BATTLE OF THE GALLOPER SANDS
XXV. THE FALL OF THE ISLAND FORTRESS
Illustrations
"HAND OVER HAND HE CLIMBED TILL HE REACHED A METALLIC BEAM"
_Frontispiece_
"WAITING TILL A WAVE BROUGHT THE MAN WITHIN ARM'S LENGTH, THE SUB
CLUTCHED HOLD OF HIM"
"'SPIES ARE NOT ENTITLED TO ANY CONSIDERATION OF THAT DESCRIPTION'"
"'IT'S THE ROUNDS, BY JOVE!' WHISPERED THE SUB"
"'GREAT SCOTT!' HE EXCLAIMED; 'IT'S HAMERTON'"
"A SEAPLANE CONTRIVED TO DROP A BOMB ON THE _ROYAL SOVEREIGN'S_
DECK"
THE
SEA-GIRT FORTRESS
CHAPTER I
Man Overboard
"WHERE are we now?" asked Oswald Detroit, emerging from the cabin of
the _Diomeda_.
"Ask me another," replied his chum, Jack Hamerton, with a merry
laugh. "We may be here, we may be there, for all I know. One thing I
am certain of: I have just hove the lead, and found that we are in
twenty-two fathoms, with a gravelly bottom. That's good enough for
me. Also, by dead reckoning, we are three hundred and seventy-eight
miles from Lowestoft, and I can't take an observation because of this
fog."
"You don't seem at all anxious," remarked Detroit, who regarded the
wall of thick white mist with evident mistrust.
"Why should I? The yacht's as sound as anyone could desire, and we've
plenty of sea room. Now, if we were anywhere in the neighbourhood of
the sandbanks at the mouth of the Elbe, I might feel jumpy. Take the
helm, old man; north, eighty east, is the course. I'll get
breakfast."
Jack Hamerton was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow of twenty years of
age. He might well be described as thick-set, for his head was set
upon his square shoulders by a short, thick neck, his arms were
brawny, while his legs would have caused many a professional
footballer to turn green with envy. His features were inclined
towards heaviness, the bushy eyebrows and square jaw denoting force
of character amounting to stubbornness.
He was a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and had lately been "paid
off" from H.M.S. _Blazer_ after an arduous commission in the Persian
Gulf. Owing to the particular circumstances My Lords had granted
Hamerton three months' leave, and the Sub, with an innate love for
the salt seas, had chartered an eight-ton yacht, and with Detroit for
company had started on a cruise to Kiel.
Oswald Detroit was physically different from Hamerton. He was tall,
but slenderly built, yet there was a suppleness in his muscular limbs
that had stood him in good stead in the athletic world. His features
were clean-cut and regular, his hair of a light-brown hue and
inclined to curliness, while his fair skin, in spite of exposure to
the wind and sun, contrasted forcibly with Hamerton's almost swarthy
complexion.
Detroit was an American by birth--a native of Richmond, Va.--and
American in character to his finger tips. He had great faith in his
country, and a heap of self-reliance that had carried him through
many difficult places. His powers of argument were marvellous,
although he invariably hid his most telling points in debate under a
thin covering of dry humour.
It was at Lowestoft that the Sub met his future sailing mate for the
first time, only a few days before the momentous voyage commenced.
Oswald's sister had married a naval lieutenant, a distant cousin of
Hamerton's, and thus the two men came in contact with each other.
In a very few hours a bond of friendship was found, for despite their
physical difference Hamerton and Detroit had a lot in common. Both
were keen sportsmen, and each took a deep interest in yachting, the
American being an active member of the exclusive Marblehead Yacht
Club. When Hamerton spoke of a cruise to the Baltic, with the
crowning attraction of participating in the international racing at
Kiel, Detroit's interest was so marked that it wanted little
persuasion on the Sub's part to induce the American to accompany him.
Accordingly the eight-ton ketch _Diomeda_ was chartered. Although
somewhat small for an extensive voyage across the North Sea, she was
far more seaworthy than many a craft of twice or even thrice her
tonnage. Hamerton fell in love with her at first sight. It was not on
account of her lines, for an almost total lack of sheer, bluff bows,
and rounded run aft were not exactly pleasing to the eye. But there
was a substantial appearance about the craft that was far more
important than artistic curves, while closer acquaintance revealed
the fact that she did not belie her appearance.
Barely twenty-eight feet in length, with a generous beam of a third
of her over-all dimension, and a draught of nearly six feet, the
_Diomeda_ was snugly rigged and canvased.
Her cabin-top was low, offering little resistance to the wind, while
her cockpit, lead-lined and self-emptying, was essential for passages
across the short steep seas betwixt the east coast of England and the
opposite shores of the North Sea.
Descending the short flight of steps leading to the cabin, Hamerton
discarded his dripping oilskin, and methodically hung it on two hooks
in a cupboard devoted to that purpose.
He was in no hurry: he rarely was, save when occasion necessitated,
and only then did his activity become apparent. Otherwise he did
things in a cool, calculating way that seemed in keeping with his
ponderous form.
The cabin was plainly yet comfortably furnished. On either side were
sofa bunks, terminating with spacious lockers screened with curtains.
Two scuttles in the rise of the cabin-top and a skylight overhead
were sufficient to impart plenty of light, but owing to the flying
spindrift these were securely fastened. In the centre of the
linoleum-covered floor stood a swing table, on which was spread a
chart of the North Sea. On the chart lay a pair of parallel rulers
and a dividing compass.
The Sub rolled the chart--placing it in a rack so as to be easily got
at should it be required--dived into the pantry, and produced a
couple of enamel mugs, plates and rather tarnished knives and forks.
Then from another division he hauled out a teapot, some bread,
butter, and a bundle of rashers.
Taking the latter, he made his way along the steeply inclined floor
towards the fo'c'sle.
On the for'ard bulkhead was a clock and a barometer, surrounded by
four signal flags representing the yacht's name in code. The hands of
the clock pointed to a quarter to five, the barometer, 30.01, steady;
both pieces of information Hamerton entered in a rough logbook.
The fo'c'sle was small, and, being battened down, ill-ventilated. The
heat from the Primus stove and the odour from the frizzling bacon,
combined with the erratic pitching and listing of the yacht, would
have upset many an experienced sailor, but unperturbed the amateur
cook proceeded with his self-imposed task.
"On deck, there!" shouted Detroit, raising his voice to make himself
heard above the roar of the atmospheric stove.
There was something urgent in the tone of the American's voice.
Hamerton backed out of the narrow fo'c'sle door, and, without waiting
to put on his oilskin, ran up the ladder and gained the cockpit.
The fog was not so dense as it had been ten minutes previously. The
rising sun had partially dispelled the white wall of vapour, so that
it was possible to see about fifty yards ahead.
"Listen!" exclaimed Oswald.
"Yes, I hear," replied the Sub. "A steamer of some sort, tearing
along at a furious pace. A quarter of a mile off, I should say, but
close enough in this mirk."
With that Hamerton snatched up a fog trumpet that lay on the lee seat
of the well, and made the welkin echo to three loud blasts--the
recognized signal of a sailing vessel with the wind abaft the beam.
No reply came from the unknown vessel. Momentarily the noise of her
engines and the swish of water as her bows cleft the waves grew
louder and louder.
"Down helm, sharp!" ordered Hamerton. "What in the name of Davy Jones
is that idiot carrying on like that for?"
Round swung the _Diomeda_ slowly yet surely, but before the sails
began to flap, the disturber of her crew's peace of mind loomed out
of the fog.
It was a large destroyer, painted a dull grey. She was travelling at
close on thirty knots. Dull red flames were spurting from her four
squat funnels. Her decks were being swept from end to end with water,
while the spray, dashing against her funnels, trailed off into wisps
of steam, leaving the fore side of the smoke-stacks bleached with
salt. In spite of the wave-washed decks, men, clad in greenish-grey
oilskins, were standing by the two torpedo tubes on deck, while right
aft stood a seaman holding a red-and-white flag in his extended
hands.
This much the crew of the _Diomeda_ had barely time to take in, for
close astern of the leading destroyer came another, and another, and
yet another, less than thirty feet separating the black cross ensign
of the leading boat from the knife-like bows of the one next astern.
Any miscalculations on the part of the coxswains of the several boats
would inevitably result in disaster.
Just as the fourth destroyer darted past the violently pitching
yacht--for she was in the thick of the combined "wash"--one of her
crew, who was in the act of securing a stanchion rail, slipped on the
heaving, wave-swept deck. Unnoticed by his comrades, he rolled under
the rail and fell into the sea.
The _Diomeda_ was "in irons". Her sails were slatting violently in
the wind. She carried no way, nor would she answer to her helm, and
some minutes elapsed ere the ketch fell off sufficiently for her
canvas to draw.
Running forward and gripping the shrouds, Hamerton seized a boathook.
The unfortunate man still floated, face upwards, but made no attempt
to save himself.
"Guess he's broken his back," shouted Detroit to his companion, in
reply to which the Sub nodded. Falling off a boat travelling at
thirty knots, a man would strike the water with terrific force.
"Now luff!" bawled Hamerton. "Easy with your helm--port a little."
Leaning outwards to the full extent of his left arm, the Sub made a
futile attempt with the boathook to reach the sailor.
"Up helm, and gybe her," he shouted. "We'll pick him up on the next
tack."
Then to his surprise Hamerton saw the American leap out of the
cockpit, steady himself on the waterways for a brief instant, then
plunge into the sea.
"Silly ass!" grunted the Sub, although recognizing Detroit's pluck.
"I'll have two men to haul aboard now instead of one."
With that he made his way back to the cockpit to steady the yacht on
her helm. Then it was that he found that Oswald had acted with
discretion as well as bravery, for before leaping he had taken a turn
of the end of the mainsheet round his waist. Rescuer and rescued were
trailing astern at the end of forty feet of rope.
Hauling the _Diomeda's_ headsails to windward, Hamerton soon had the
yacht hove-to, though forging slowly through the water. It was then a
comparatively easy task to get the mainsheet in until Detroit and the
seaman were alongside. Then waiting till a wave brought the man
within arm's length, the Sub clutched hold of him, and with a
powerful heave lifted him on deck and into the well.
Without assistance Detroit scrambled up, and assisted his comrade to
attend to the rescued seaman.
[Illustration "WAITING TILL A WAVE BROUGHT THE MAN WITHIN ARM'S
LENGTH, THE SUB CLUTCHED HOLD OF HIM"]
"He's alive all right," announced Hamerton. "A lump of a fellow, by
Jove!" he added, critically regarding the stalwart, fair-haired
Teuton. "We'll get those wet clothes off him and carry him below. You
will do well to change. Never mind about the boat, she'll take care of
herself for a while."
The destroyers were now out of earshot, swallowed up in the still
dense watery mist. More than likely the absence of the unfortunate
seaman would not be noticed for some considerable time, and then it
was doubtful whether the vessels of the flotilla would retrace their
course far enough to come in touch with the _Diomeda_.
"I'm glad I didn't miss that sight, by Jove!" said Hamerton, with
unstinted praise. "Those Germans know how to handle their torpedo
craft. Fancy taking them at that bat through a fog!"
"It's fools' work," said Detroit, who was struggling into a change of
clothing.
"All the same, it's part of the game, and only by constant practice
can they keep in a state of efficiency. Our fellows are pretty smart
at manoeuvring, but these Germans appear to run all sorts of needless
risk, and still manage without serious accidents. Finished changing?
Good! You might get on deck and see how things are progressing."
Barely had Detroit resumed his post at the helm when out of the fog
came a succession of dull flashes, punctuated by the deafening
detonation of a number of quick-firing guns. Then, like a veil rent
in twain, the fog partly lifted, revealing a large battleship,
cleared for action, and blazing away with her light armament in the
direction of the small British yacht.