A Loss and a Find
LATE in the afternoon, the wind falling light, Norderney lightship
was passed. Curiously enough, with the breeze dropping the fog
dispersed, and Hamerton was able to set a course for the Elbe
light-vessel.
"Here's a tramp bearing down upon us," he announced, after intently
watching the oncoming craft through his binoculars. "We'll signal
her." Again the flags that the German warship had all but ignored
were hoisted, and before long the crew of the _Diomeda_ saw the
steamship alter helm and head so as to pass within a cable's length
of the yacht.
She flew no ensign, neither did she reply by signal to Hamerton's
request to communicate.
"I'll semaphore her," announced the Sub, producing two red-and-yellow
hand flags from a locker. For nearly two minutes he vainly attempted
to enter into conversation.
"The bounders don't understand," he growled. "She's not a British
vessel, I'll bet my bottom dollar on it. We'll hoist the ensign, and
hail them through the speaking trumpet."
Out fluttered the red ensign. Still there was no reply that gave a
clue to the tramp's nationality. But she was now within hailing
distance.
"Vat you vant?" shouted a voice from the tramp's bridge.
"We've rescued a German seaman from a destroyer. Can you give him a
passage?"
"Vat you say? Me no onderstan'," came the exasperating reply.
"She's either a Dutchman or a German," said Detroit. "The name on her
bows conveys nothing. Why not hail them in German?"
"Couldn't trust myself to make a public confession of my inability,"
replied Hamerton, with a laugh. "But, by Jove, although we're doing
all this for Pfeil, I quite forgot him. He can do the chin-wagging
part of the business."
In answer to a shout from the Sub, Hans Pfeil, who had been asleep in
the fo'c'sle cot, came on deck. His clothes were still wet, since the
air was too moist for drying purposes, and a comical figure he cut,
wrapped up in a blanket, with his oilskin coat flung round his
shoulders.
The sailor hailed, and an animated conversation took place between
him and the skipper of the tramp.
"Heave her to," ordered Hamerton, seeing that the German tramp's
propeller was going astern, and that the vessel was losing way.
"They're going to lower a boat."
The two craft were now less than a cable's length apart and hardly
moving through the water, but Hamerton would not risk running the
_Diomeda_ alongside the wallowing hull of the tramp. He waited for a
boat to be sent.
Meantime Pfeil went below to assemble his saturated garments. Then,
clad only in his oilskin, and with the bundle of clothing under his
arm, he took leave of his rescuers, again thanking them for saving
his life.
This done, he entered the waiting boat, and was taken to the tramp.
Without further delay the steamship gathered way, hoisting and
dipping her ensign, to which the _Diomeda_ replied, while from the
taffrail could be discerned the oilskin-clad figure of the German
sailor, still waving adieux to the men who had saved him from a
watery grave.
"Haul down that ensign, old man," said the Sub when the tramp was
almost out of sight. "It's too pretty to be flapping itself against
the mizen halyards, now that a breeze is springing up."
Detroit, with his usual energy, sprang out of the cockpit and lowered
the bunting, rolled it in a professional manner and jammed it between
his knees, while he secured the halyard to a cleat. While thus
engaged one end of the halyard slipped from between his fingers, and
streamed to leeward. Hurriedly grasping the mizen shroud with one
hand, he leant outboard to recover the errant cord. As he did so the
sudden movement dislodged the ensign, and in an instant it was
overboard.
"I'm right-down sorry, Hamerton," he exclaimed ruefully.
"Can't be helped," was the reply. "Accidents will happen, you know.
We can get another for a matter of five or six marks at the first
chandler's shop we come to ashore. But I rather fancied myself
dropping anchor off the custom house at Cuxhaven with the red ensign
at the masthead to signify that we had sailed a little eight-tonner
from England."
"I'm an awkward mule," ejaculated Detroit. "Hope you are not
superstitious; losing an ensign looks like a bad omen."
"Thanks, I'm not in the least superstitious," was the reply. "After
all, it's of little consequence. But it's high time I went below and
filled and trimmed the lamps."
The _Diomeda's_ lamp-room was a small cupboard in the fo'c'sle. To
get to it Hamerton had to remove the topsail that had reposed on the
fo'c'sle floor since the previous night. As he did so he noticed a
book lying under one of the folds of the canvas.
It was a small, blue-covered volume, saturated with salt water. A
glance at the title told him the nature of the work. It was a
treatise on the Schwartz-Kopff twenty-five-inch torpedo, a highly
confidential work of which the British Admiralty had failed to obtain
a copy in spite of the most strenuous efforts on the part of the
Naval Intelligence Department.
"By Jove, this is a find!" ejaculated the Sub gleefully. "It must
have fallen out of Pfeil's jumper when we slipped off his wet
clothing. But I must stow it away very carefully, for there'll be
considerable trouble if the German custom-house authorities chance to
lay their hands on it when they start rummaging in search of
contraband. Let me think, now; where's the best place?"
It was certainly curious that, though the Sub had often mislaid
articles on board, and only after a laborious search had he been able
to find them (for below decks the yacht was a labyrinth of lockers
and odd corners), now, because he wanted to conceal a small book, he
was at a loss to find a suitable hiding place.
"Capital idea!" he exclaimed, slapping his thigh, and at the same
time giving his head a tremendous blow against an obtrusive deck
beam. "I'll stow it in the false bottom of the stove. It will stand a
good chance to dry, and at the same time ought to be quite safe from
detection."
As soon as the "manual" was hidden, Hamerton proceeded with his task
of getting the lamps ready for their night's work.
"It's piping up," announced Detroit, as a vicious puff struck the
yacht's sails, causing her to heel till her lee planks were awash.
"Yes, the glass is falling rapidly," said the Sub. "We're in for a
dirty night."
"Going to cut and run for it?" asked the American.
"No, not with a dangerous lee shore. If I knew the coast it would be
a different matter. We'll heave to on the port tack as soon as it
gets dark. Meanwhile we'll stow the mizen and change the jibs. Easy
canvas is best for a job of this sort."
With the rising wind came the rain, hissing upon cabin top and
obliterating everything beyond a few yards. Snugly clad in oilskins,
the two men remained on deck, for although the helm was lashed and
the yacht hardly making half a mile an hour to windward, neither
cared to go below and turn in.
Hour after hour passed without any attempt at conversation.
Occasionally Detroit would make some remark about the state of the
weather, to which Hamerton would reply with a grunt that could be
taken as expressing assent or otherwise.
Fortunately the rain served a good purpose. It kept down the sea, so
that, instead of vicious, crested waves breaking inboard, there was
little more than a long, sullen roll.
"Lights ahead!" announced Detroit, as a faint luminosity became
visible in the rain-charged darkness.
"Yes, searchlights. They always look like that in rainy weather.
We're apparently in the thick of the German naval manoeuvres. It may
be Heligoland. They say the place bristles with powerful
searchlights."
"Heligoland, eh? I'd just like to have a look at that place,"
exclaimed the American. "Many years ago my father spent a holiday
there. That was when it was a British possession, used principally as
a bathing resort for German visitors. He lived in Germany for some
time when he was about my age."
"I'm afraid you won't be able to gratify your wish, old man," said
the Sub. "It's forbidden ground now. In 1913 it was strongly
fortified, and shortly after that the island was given over solely to
military and naval purposes. The civil population had to clear out.
It's a sort of second Kronstadt. Our Intelligence Department would
dearly like to know a great deal more about it than they do at
present."
"Don't you think the British Government was a bit of a fool to give
the place away?"
"No, certainly not. We did jolly well out of the deal. Had a vast
tract of territory in Africa in exchange for a little lump of
sandstone that looked very much like falling into the sea."
"That's the average Britisher's notion--that is, if he thinks about
it at all. The German view is very different. As colonists the
Teutons do not shine, except, curiously enough, when under any
Government but their own. Very well. They give you a slice of virgin
territory. You develop it, and it increases in value a thousandfold
in a couple of decades. When 'The Day' comes, should Great Britain be
overwhelmed by the Triple Alliance, Germany takes back her former
territory--and a lot besides--all ready for her much-wanted place in
the sun."
"You're a jolly old croaker, Detroit," exclaimed the Sub. "I'll bet
my last halfpenny that the British navy will be top dog for a good
many years to come. I don't fancy that you and I will see the Teutons
walking through London with fixed bayonets, and the Kaiser dictating
terms of peace in Buckingham Palace. Hallo! The searchlights are out.
Evolutions finished for the night. What's the time, I wonder?"
Thrusting back the sliding hatch, Hamerton looked at the clock on the
fore bulkhead of the cabin. It was just 2 a.m.
As he reclosed the hatch his foot slipped on the wet grating, and his
rubber-soled boot came in contact with a hard substance close to
where the yacht binnacle stood.
"Good job I didn't sit on the compass, by Jove!" ejaculated the Sub.
"But what's this? What idiot placed it there?"
For the object he had kicked was a large belaying pin that
unaccountably had been propped up against the binnacle.
"I'll swear I didn't," declared Detroit.
"The mischief is done, at all events," continued Hamerton. "The
attraction of that lump of iron has affected the compass. We may be
points out of our course. Just watch."
Bringing the belaying pin back to its former position, Hamerton
carefully observed its effect upon the sensitive needle of the liquid
compass.
"Twelve degrees out, at least," exclaimed Detroit.
"And goodness only knows how long it has been like that. Perhaps
before the yacht was hove-to perhaps even when we passed Norderney
Gat."
"Well, we've a good offing, so there's little harm done. The wind is
falling some, and if only this tarnation rain would quit----"
"What's that?" interrupted Hamerton, holding up his hand.
"Nothing, I guess," replied Detroit, after a few moments. "What's
the matter with your nerves?"
"There's nothing the matter with my nerves," asserted the Sub with
asperity. "Feel my pulse. But I could swear I heard a fellow calling
out, 'Who goes there?' in German."
Detroit chuckled.
"Guess I'll have to take your word for it," he said. "I'll git. It's
time I made some coffee."
The Sub watched his companion descend into the cosy cabin and strip
off his glistening oilskins. Then, to avoid the glare, he closed the
sliding hatch, and peered steadfastly into the mirky night.
The rain was coming down with torrential violence. The wind had died
utterly away, and the saturated sails were slatting violently from
side to side with the motion of the craft.
Beyond the patter of the heavy raindrops, no sound came from the
black vault that encompassed the _Diomeda_ on every side.
"If only I could pick up a light!" he muttered; then, mainly with the
idea of doing something, he picked up the coiled lead-line.
"Five fathoms, by Jupiter!" he exclaimed; then, seized by an
inspiration, he dived into the cabin and bent over the chart.
According to the course the minimum depth ought to be thirteen.
"We've muddled the whole show, Oswald," he announced. "We're inside
the five-fathom line, and that means we are only a few miles from
shore. I'll put her due west, and see what comes of that. There's
enough wind now to give her steerage way."
"Couldn't do better," replied Detroit laconically, "unless it's to
have some coffee and a few rusks. I'll be slick about it."
Hamerton returned to his rain-exposed post, put the little craft's
head in the desired position, and waited. Five minutes later he made
another sounding. This time it was four and a half fathoms.
"I'll carry on," he resolved. "It may be a slight irregularity in the
ground, although the general tendency is for it to deepen."
Four fathoms--three and a half.
"Say, ready for your coffee?" asked Detroit, holding a cup in his
extended hand through the partially open hatchway.
"Far from it," replied the Sub. "Come on deck and give a hand to put
her about. The water's shoaling rapidly."
"How's her head?"
"Nor'-nor'-west. I'll keep her at due south for a bit until we find
deeper water."
Slowly the _Diomeda_ came into the wind and paid off on the other
tack. As she did so Hamerton noticed that, in spite of the heavy
rain, the seas were steeper, and showed a decided tendency to break.
"Guess that's surf," said the American, as the dull rumble of a
heavy ground swell was heard above the hiss of the rain. "Dead ahead,
too."
Hamerton heard it also. The _Diomeda_ was making straight towards a
sandbank. Unhesitatingly he put the helm hard up. He would not risk
going about; he chose the lesser danger of gybing all standing.
With a thud the boom swung over, and the stanch little craft drew
away from the hidden danger. Her course was now nor'-west.
"Still shallow," announced the Sub. "It's less than four fathoms, but
the water seems calmer."
"Light ahead!" shouted Detroit. "Showing red and white. We're right
on the dividing line between the two sectors."
"I see it now," replied Hamerton, as he altered his helm to bring the
_Diomeda_ more into the arc of the white light. "Hanged if I know
what or where it is, but, by Jove, there's a crowd of lights beyond!"
Through the rain a multitude of yellowish lamps blinked after the
manner of a street, except that, instead of two rows, there were four
or five. The water, too, was almost calm, ruffled by a faint breeze
that contrasted vividly with the strong wind but a few hundred yards
astern.
The Sub's ready wit grasped the situation. Unknowingly the yacht had
entered an anchorage, for the lights represented the anchor lamps of
a number of vessels.
"This is good enough for us," he exclaimed. "We'll bring up here till
daylight. I shouldn't wonder if we're off the mouth of the Jade or
the Weser. Stand by and let go, old man. I'll bring her up into the
wind."
Two minutes later the rattling of the chain cable announced the fact
that Detroit had let go the anchor. The saturated sails were quickly
lowered and stowed, the navigation lights removed, and an anchor lamp
hung from the fore stay.
A final look round satisfied Hamerton that he had done all that was
humanly possible. The _Diomeda_ was riding snugly in a safe but
unknown anchorage.
"Watch below, all hands!" he exclaimed cheerily. "We'll sleep like
logs. To-morrow, my dear Detroit, we'll wake up and find ourselves
close to a picturesque little German village, and you can go ashore
and buy fresh milk and new rolls. Think of that, and dream on it, old
man."
Detroit merely nodded. He was already half-asleep. Before the Sub was
ready to turn in, his companion was breathing heavily. Five minutes
later the crew of the _Diomeda_ were fast asleep, heedless of the
peril that overshadowed them.