"All hands on deck!"
Aloft my boys flew, into the rigging and up the ratlines like monkeys.
"Loose the fore-taups'l!" boomed up from the quarter deck.
"All gone, the fore-taups'l," they sang out. "Loose the ga'nts'ls
and stays'ls!"
The sails were sheeted home and were filling out. We didn't lose
much time in getting her away. Lying over on her beam ends and
running before the wind, we set our course for Madeira.
We knew that just off Gibraltar would be one of our best hunting
grounds, so we cleared away the remains of our Norwegian camouflage,
and after a few days we were as spick and clean and orderly as a
German auxiliary cruiser should be. We were the _Irma_ no longer,
but the _Seeadler_ now, although I felt a pang of regret at letting
go the name that had served us so well and brought us luck.
There was constant labour on the motor. The lubricating oil we had
was of poor quality. Oil, like many other things, had become scarce
in Germany. Our enterprise had the enthusiastic support of only a
few of the officials at the Admiralty. The others thought it
certainly foredoomed to failure, and did not want to risk too much on
it. Among these were the heads of the department that supplied us
with oil. A sailing vessel under the pressure of sail nearly always
lists to one side. The work of the motor was hampered by a leaning
position. We sailed most of the time throughout our cruise with the
motor dismantled and under repairs.
We had only two guns, and only one at a time could be brought into
action against an enemy. Our orders were to attack sailing ships
only. Windjammer against steamship was considered a ridiculous idea.
We would not need great broadsides of cannon in capturing sailing
vessels. We tried to make up for our lack of gun power by skill and
precision in handling the guns we had. Our gun crew worked
incessantly at drill and target practice, and schooled themselves to
such quickness and accuracy of fire that the power of our armament,
in effect, was doubled.
Our lookout posts were excellent. We had a crow's nest with a
comfortable seat high up on the mast. Only a man at ease watches
well. A second lookout was on the foremast, where a petty officer
was perched. I offered ten pounds sterling and a bottle of champagne
to whoever should report a ship first. A jealous rivalry grew up
between the lookouts. In each raged a tremendous thirst for that
bottle of champagne. All day long eager eyes swept the horizon.
On January 9th, off Gibraltar, the shout rang out:
"Ship ahoy."
On our larboard side was a large steamer heading toward us. Flying
our Norwegian colours, we turned to meet her. She flew no flag and
carried no name. The British were the only people who sent their
boats out without names. She looked of British build, too. Our
orders were not to tackle steamers. Well, you can promise a lot. We
raised the signal:
"Chronometer time, please."
A sailing ship long away from port rarely has the correct time. Our
request was reasonable enough. The steamer signalled that she
understood us, and came to the windward so that we could heave to. I
wore my great-coat to conceal my uniform. Those of the crew that had
rifles hid themselves behind the railings.
The steamer came near, ready to give the sleepy old Norwegian the
time.
"Shall we tackle him?" I asked one of my sailors who was crouched
next to me peering through a loophole.
"Sure, let's take him. He's an Englishman."
I shouted the command, and the drum beat "clear for action." A
section of the rail could be lowered and raised as a gun shield. It
dropped clattering and revealed the muzzle of the cannon. Up with
the German flag and fire, one across her bows.
It was the _Seeadler's_ first shot against the enemy.
What's that, by Joe? Nothing happened, no movement on deck, no
slowing down of the ship. Then a flag went up the mast, the British
flag. It was like the fantastic things that happen in a dream. I
thought I must be asleep. Another shot across her bows. She
suddenly changes her course. Hello, she wants to get away. A shot
over the stern, another over the smokestack, and now she hove to.
A boat was in the water rowing toward us. We all put on our best
manners, and I welcomed Captain Chewn aboard the _Seeadler_. What
did we want of him, he asked, so bewildered that he stuttered.
"Well, first a friendly chat," I replied. He was an old salt with a
scraggly gray beard. I liked him right off. His ship was the
_Gladys Royal_, bound from Cardiff with five thousand tons of coal
for Buenos Aires. I told him that, much as I disliked sending any
ship to the bottom of the sea, nevertheless, we must sink the _Gladys
Royal_.
"Oh, no," he argued, "we are bound for a neutral port and won't harm
anything. It will be bad for me to lose my ship, and I have a wife
and children at home."
"Do you believe, Captain Chewn, that, under the same circumstances, a
British naval officer would show any mercy to a German ship?"
He made no reply.
We now got an explanation of the queer behaviour of his ship that had
so puzzled us after our first shot. Captain Chewn, an old-timer at
sea, simply thought we were trying to compare time in the old
traditional way, by firing a blank mortar. He had raised his flag to
serve as the mortar shot on his side. He would afterward lower it to
give the exact moment. That is the way in vogue to-day. But when
our second shot was fired, the cook on the _Gladys Royal_ saw the
shell strike the water and thought we had sighted a submarine and
were firing at it. He gave the alarm, and the captain started to
zigzag. It was only after the third shot that they saw our cannon
pointed at them and the German battle flag at our masthead.
"By Joe," and the captain pounded the rail with open admiration, "you
fooled me bloody well. It was the damnedest trap I ever saw."
I sent a prize crew aboard the _Gladys Royal_ with orders to have her
follow the _Seeadler_. I wanted to wait and blow her up after
nightfall. Cruisers might be roaming somewhere in these parts, and
it would be unwise to run the risk of attracting their attention with
the sound of an explosion.
We photographed our capture carefully. At dusk we transferred the
steamer's twenty-six men, white and black, to our ship. The captain
brought his belongings aboard. I also sent Lieutenant Preiss to pack
up everything aboard the captured vessel that he thought we might
need and ferry it over. He displayed excellent judgment, too, and
turned up with a welcome store of excellent provisions. We sailors
could be content with a sailor's fare whenever need be, but we wanted
our guests to dine well at all times to help make up for the sorrow
of losing their ships.
Preiss and his men planted a bomb in her hold, lit the time fuse, and
took to the boats. Fifteen minutes passed. Then the _Gladys Royal_
trembled fore and aft.
She went down stern first, and in ten minutes her forward quarter
stuck straight out of the sea. Her bow remained above water for a
long time. A steamer hove into sight. She carried side lights, and
from that we judged her to be a neutral. Suddenly a second
explosion, from the accumulation of air pressure, burst the bow of
the _Gladys Royal_. With a final quiver, she took her last plunge
into the depths and slid out of sight, while we scurried away into
the night with all sails set.
We wanted nothing of neutral ships. We would not bother them even if
we thought their neutrality a pretense. If we stopped one and
searched her and found her really to be a neutral, we could only
release her, and she would spread the news about us. We had a trump
card in our hand--nobody imagined that an old sailing ship could be
out buccaneering in this age of fast battle cruisers. It was our
plan also to molest only those ships that we were fairly certain did
not carry wireless sets and therefore could not broadcast our attack
before we had boarded them.
Captain Chewn was agreeably surprised to find himself assigned to a
cozy cabin. His only complaint was that he had no one to enjoy it
with him. This sociable mariner liked company. So we promised to
supply him with companions as soon as possible.
Much as we wanted to please Captain Chewn and show him that we were
accommodating hosts, we allowed the next ship to sail by in peace.
She was a British passenger steamer bound through Gibraltar. We had
room enough for all her passengers, but we did not want to be
bothered with women and children. Having lived at sea among men
nearly all my life, I regarded all women as flowerlike creatures sent
to beautify and soften the harshness of this world. In my opinion,
women should see nothing of war. Their lovely eyes should only gaze
on the beautiful, the pleasant things of life. Women are too
graceful and delicate for the sights of war, with men shot down,
wounds and blood, and men dead and dying. I had resolved to carry
out my raiding cruise without any killing, if I could help it, but in
my nautical career I had found many a thing I couldn't help. Anyway,
to me women were synonymous with romance and love--not with war.
At noon, with a heavy sea running, we sighted a steamer cutting
diagonally across our course. No flag, no name. We signalled her
for information, but there was no response. Surely she must be an
Englishman with a hard-boiled efficient skipper. You know how a
British captain often is, with his nose right down on his job, with
no thought except his cargo and his lookout for submarines and
cruisers? Well, evidently this chap couldn't be bothered with a
funny old Norwegian windjammer. Sails set and motor running, we held
across his course and got in front of him. Now, at sea, a sailing
vessel always has the right of way over a steamship because the
latter can manœuvre more rapidly. But that meant nothing to this
steamship. She swerved not an inch, and seemed quite content to run
us down.
"This businesslike skipper must have an important cargo, since he
doesn't care a rap, by Joe, about ploughing into a clumsy old
Norwegian bumboat," said I to myself. And I could imagine how he was
swearing there on his bridge.
"Stupid blighter, by Joe," no doubt he was saying, "get out of my way
or I'll ram you!"
We had to jib and let him go in the wind, or there would have been a
collision. The Englishman passed us at three hundred yards.
The German flag was climbing swiftly to our masthead.
"Fire," I commanded, "let's see if that will make him change his
mind."
The gun boomed and a shell went screaming over the steamer.
"By Joe," I said, "he sticks to his opinions."
The steamer's stacks belched fresh clouds of smoke. Her course
changed not at all. Another shot, this one, by way of emphasis, just
over the smokestack. The steamer turned into the wind.
"A wise baby, that skipper," commented Leudemann sarcastically. "He
knows a windjammer can't sail against the wind."
We, of course, couldn't catch him in a chase, but our range was still
point-blank. A shot through the smokestack and a couple into the
hull. We could see the crew running around wildly. A siren was
screaming. A shell exploded on deck. The propeller stopped, and the
steamer slowed down and lay rolling in the trough of the sea.
"This new invention of war without killing, what do you think of it
now?" Leudemann looked up at me satirically. "I guess you'll find
there are a couple of casualties over there."
The Englishman must have known that he hadn't a ghost of a chance to
escape under fire at such close range. First of all, he had been
discourteous in ignoring our friendly signals. Then he had violated
the rules of ocean traffic in not giving our clipper the right of
way. And now in cold blood he had endangered the life of his crew.
According to the unwritten rules of etiquette among pirates and
raiders, it was up to us to put out a boat and board a prize. But
instead I signalled the steamer:
"Captain, come aboard!" Let him come over to us. If he's such a
tough guy, we'll show him who rules the waves in this part of the
Atlantic.
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[Illustration: A strange encounter. The old _Pinmore_, on which
"Phelax Leudige" had served, appears on the horizon.