overboard with its sail. It was a lucky shot, for the range was great,
but the thirty-two pound ball had shorn off the mast close to the deck,
and had effectually stopped the lugger’s progress, though she still
strove to escape with the sails on her fore and main masts.
“Won’t do, me son,” murmured the fisherman, looking at her. “Yer copped
all right!”
He was perfectly correct, for the _Amazon_ was now sailing two feet to
her one, and ten minutes later had hove to close alongside the
Frenchman. They saw the smoke of a volley of musketry; but it was the
enemy’s last effort, for a minute or two later the tricolour fluttered
down from her peak. She had surrendered.
The _Speedwell_ still held on her course for Bembridge, and when the
frigate had transferred her prisoners she took her crippled prize in
tow, and steered up towards Spithead. She came booming along at a great
speed, far faster than the cutter, and half an hour later the two
vessels were close alongside.
Tom took off his hat and cheered as she passed; an answering yell came
back from the man-of-war’s men, and shortly afterwards an officer with a
speaking trumpet jumped up on to the white hammock cloths and stood
balancing himself with one arm hooked round a backstay.
“Cutter, ahoy!” he bellowed.
Tom waved his hand in reply.
“We’ve captured the _Trois Sœurs_ of Saint Malo. Eight guns and forty
men. She very nearly had you! D’you want any help?”
“Tell ’em no,” growled Marsh; “this prick o’ mine can wait till we get
back home.”
“No, sir,” shouted the boy.
“Right!” came back the answer. “What’s the name of the cutter and her
owner?”
“The _Speedwell_ of Bembridge, sir,” replied Tom. “John Marsh, owner!”
“Right! Good-bye! Glad to have been able to help you!” The frigate drove
ahead out of earshot, and the figure in blue and gold leapt down on
deck.
A couple of hours later the _Speedwell_ arrived at Bembridge, and the
little town, as may well be imagined, was thrown into a state of frantic
excitement when the story of her narrow escape became public property.
Tom became a sort of public hero, and one day about a fortnight later,
when his father was convalescent, for the bullet had broken no bones,
they were once more at work in the cutter moored up alongside the jetty.
“What did I tell ’e, John Marsh?” said the well-known voice of old Wiles
from above. “Didn’t I tell ’e as ’ow th’ Frenchies was cruisin’ around?”
“Aye, feyther,” replied the fisherman, busy putting patches in the sails
through which the French bullets had driven holes. “But we wusn’t
copped, all th’ same!”
“It wurn’t none o’ yer fault, then,” retorted the old gentleman. “If it
’adn’t bin fur that son o’ yourn ye’d a’ tasted t’inside of a French
gaol. I knows!” he concluded, wagging his head wisely.
“Never mind, feyther,” laughed John Marsh. “We wusn’t copped, an’ Tom
did save th’ _Speedwell_. Didn’t ’e, son?” he added, putting his hand on
the boy’s shoulder.
Tom merely blushed and felt a fool.
IX
THE LUCK OF THE _TAVY_
It was a dirty night; there was no possible mistake about that, and
Sub-Lieutenant Patrick Munro, R.N., of H.M. T.B.D. _Tavy_, crouching for
shelter behind the canvas weather screens on the bridge, felt supremely
miserable.
For one thing, he was rather seasick, for the destroyer, well out in
mid-Channel, was punching her way westward in the teeth of a rapidly
rising south-westerly gale. No sailor likes a gale; those in destroyers
hate them.
The sea was big, and every now and then as the _Tavy_ plunged her nose
into the heart of an advancing wave, masses of solid water came pouring
over the forecastle and sheets of spray went flying high over the
bridge.
The night was very dark and the sky overcast. The wind cut like a knife,
and in spite of his oilskins, sou’-wester, sea-boots, and a profusion of
woollen mufflers, the sub was nearly wet through and chilled to the very
marrow.
He was keeping the middle watch--midnight till 4 a.m., and now, at 1.30,
he had still another two and a half hours before he would be relieved by
the gunner and could retire to the warm bunk in his cabin.
Even then it seemed doubtful if he would get any sleep, for the _Tavy_
rolled and pitched abominably. Moreover, at odd moments she had a
playful habit of throwing her stern high into the air on top of a wave
and of shaking it like a dog’s tail. It was disconcerting, to say the
least of it.
The destroyer was by herself, and not a solitary gleam of light was in
sight anywhere. Somewhere over the horizon to the northward lay the
south coast of England; but as it was war time all shore lights had long
since been extinguished. They afforded too good a guide to hostile
submarines.
The war had been in progress for well over eighteen months at the time
of which we write, and neither the _Tavy_ nor her sub-lieutenant had
seen a shot fired in anger. They had come across plenty of mines,
floating and otherwise, and on one occasion had seen a merchant ship
blown up and sunk and had rescued her crew.
Once they had sighted a Zeppelin, miles away on the horizon until it
looked like an overgrown, animated sausage; while many, many times they
had been sent to sea to assist in “strafing” hostile submarines. But
they had never “strafed” any, had never fired a gun or a torpedo in real
earnest; whereat the hearts of all the officers and men had grown sick,
and they envied those of their comrades who had been lucky enough to be
in action in the Dardanelles or North Sea.
The weather had grown steadily worse as the night wore on. They had been
steaming twenty knots to start with, but on account of the sea, had had
to ease down first to fifteen, and then to twelve, lest the masses of
heavy water coming over the bows should strain the ship and carry
things away.
The lieutenant in command, Travers, was vainly endeavouring to get a
little sleep on the cushioned locker in the charthouse underneath the
bridge. He had been on deck till 12.30 a.m., and his last orders to
Munro were to the effect that he was to be called at four o’clock or if
any lights were sighted.
The time wore on, and towards two o’clock, as the sub was beginning to
feel a little better and was wondering whether he were bold enough to
manage some cocoa from his vacuum flask, he heard the signalman on watch
utter a sudden exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I thought I saw a flash o’ some kind on the ’orizon a little on the
port bow, sir!” the man replied excitedly, peering in the direction
named.
“What sort of flash?”
“It looked like a gun, sir.”
They both gazed anxiously out over the water, dodging the sheets of
spray as they came flying over the bows, but not a thing was visible.
“If it had been a gun,” the sub pointed out at last, “surely we should
have heard it? The place where you thought you saw the flash is almost
dead to wind’ard.”
“I don’t rightly know, sir,” the signalman answered. “Maybe we’d not
hear it if it was a small gun.”
Hardly had he spoken when a sharp spurt of ruby flame broke out from the
darkness right ahead. It was unmistakably the flash of a gun, apparently
about five miles away, and the sub strained his ears for the report. He
heard nothing except the wash of the breaking seas.
But an instant later the fiery trail of a rocket cleft the air in
exactly the same spot. It rose in a curve, and finally burst in a shower
of stars which seemed to illuminate the sea for miles round.
The glare died away, but not before he had caught a fleeting glimpse of
the dark shape of a vessel. She carried no lights of any kind, so far as
he could see, and what sort of craft she was he could not determine. But
she was a ship of some kind, he could swear to that.
“Signalman, go and tell the captain!” he ordered excitedly. “Messenger,
warn the guns’ crews to stand by!”
The two men departed on their respective errands.
Travers was on the bridge in less than five seconds, and when the sub
had told him what he had seen he went to the engine-room telegraph and
increased the revolutions of the engines to fifteen knots.
“I’ll shove her on at fifteen,” he remarked. “Can’t go more than that in
this sea. By the way, how far off did you say she was?”
“About five miles, sir,” the sub and signalman said together.
“Right,” nodded the skipper. “In twenty minutes we should be up to her,
whoever she is. Sub, have the men warned, and get the guns and torpedo
tubes manned. I don’t expect for an instant she’s anything but an
innocent tramp, but we’d better be ready. These Huns are up to all sorts
of dodges, foul and otherwise.”
[Illustration: “The glare died away, but not before we had caught a
fleeting glimpse of the dark shape of a vessel.”
_See page 150_
]
“But what about the gun flashes, sir?” the sub-lieutenant queried.
“M’yes,” said Travers slowly. “The flashes certainly complicate matters.
I don’t expect people go blazing off guns in the middle of the night for
the good of their health. Someone must be pretty scared, I should think.
However, have everything ready.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The men, sleeping in their clothes, as was their habit at sea, came
tumbling up, but less than thirty seconds later there was another
development when the wireless operator clambered on to the bridge.
“I wants th’ captain!” he exclaimed, ducking his head as a whiff of
spray came rattling against the weather screens, like a volley of small
shot.
“Here I am,” said Travers. “What’s the matter?”
“About a minute ago, sir, I heard a ship making S.O.S. by wireless! She
made it twice, and then suddenly stopped! There’s somethin’ else makin’
signals, too, but I can’t make head nor tail o’ what she’s sayin’!
There’s somethin’ happenin’, sir?” He seemed very excited.
“Phew!” whistled the skipper joyfully. “Don’t say we’re going to have a
run for our money at last! How far off d’you think the signals came
from, Sparks?”
“They were comin’ in strong, sir. I should say a matter o’ ten mile or
less.”
“Right. Go down and keep your ears glued to your receivers, and if you
hear any more, let me know at once. By George, sub!” he added, rubbing
his hands and turning to Munro. “There appears to be dirty work going
on somewhere, eh?”
“There does, sir,” the sub agreed.
The time seemed to pass very slowly as the _Tavy_ forged ahead. Five
minutes passed ... ten minutes ... a quarter of an hour.
“We ought to be barely a mile off her by now if she’s stationary!”
murmured Travers disappointedly. “But I’m blowed if I can see a sign of
anything!”
Twenty minutes ... twenty-five minutes. Still nothing in sight.
The skipper growled something under his breath.
“Where on earth’s she got to?” he exclaimed. “Shove her on at seventeen,
sub. I think she’ll stand it.” He was getting impatient.
Munro turned the handle of the telegraph until the dial showed the
requisite number of revolutions.
The destroyer moved on, making heavier weather of it as she gathered
speed, but it was not until thirty-five minutes had elapsed that the
lieutenant made a muffled remark, wiped his binoculars carefully, and
applied them to his eyes.
“I’ve spotted her!” he cried. “She seems to be steering to the
south-west’ard, and we’re overhauling her pretty fast! Starboard a
little, cox’n! Steady so!”
Before very long the dark hull of the stranger was visible with the
naked eye. She seemed a fairly large ship, and was apparently about a
couple of miles off and steaming twelve knots. The _Tavy_ was gaining
fast.
“Make a signal telling her to stop!” Travers ordered. “Then ask her name
and where she’s bound.”
The signalman pressed the key of his flashing lamp in the longs and
shorts of the Morse code. He did it for quite ten minutes without
stopping, but no reply was forthcoming. At the end of this time the two
ships were barely a mile apart, and unless the steamer, now plainly
visible as a craft with one straight funnel and two masts, was keeping
an extremely bad look out, she must have seen the destroyer’s signals.
But no, nothing happened.
“These chaps deserve to be sunk!” Travers grunted disgustedly. “I’ll put
a shot across her bows; that’ll wake her up!”
He leant over the bridge rail and gave the necessary orders to the men
at the gun below.
As the weapon was discharged there came a brilliant flash and a loud
report, and presently the plugged shell pitched into the water several
hundred yards ahead of the steamer.
It was a summons she could not afford to neglect, and putting her helm
over, she turned round in her tracks and steered straight for the
destroyer.
“Tell her to stop!” Travers ordered again, noticing that she was still
moving through the water and approaching fast.
Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the fun began.
The steamer sheered abruptly to port, dense clouds of black smoke
pouring from her funnel as she increased speed, and then, when she was
barely half a mile off, the brilliant red flash of a gun broke out from
her side.
Those on board the destroyer heard the report, and a shell screamed
through the air like an infuriated demon and raised its spray fountain
some distance beyond them. Before it had pitched, other gun flashes were
sparkling up and down the stranger’s side. She was a merchant ship from
her build and appearance, but was evidently powerfully armed. She was
firing furiously.
The attack was quite unexpected, but the _Tavy_ was not unprepared.
“Open fire on her!” Travers yelled hoarsely, dashing to the telegraphs
and jamming them over to “Full speed.” “Sub, I’m going to run past her!
Nip down on deck and stand by to fire the foremost tube when your sights
come on!”
The _Tavy’s_ guns roared out in reply, and albeit the violent motion of
the ship and the water breaking on board made the shooting rather wild,
the shells seemed to be pitching somewhere near the target.
The steamer still fired rapidly, until the air was full of an awful,
horrible whining; but at first her shooting was not too good. Perhaps
the destroyer offered a very small target, or perhaps the stranger’s
guns’ crews were not very expert; at any rate, most of the projectiles
seemed to be falling harmlessly into the sea about two hundred yards
beyond and astern of the _Tavy_.
The whole affair was over in less time than it takes to read a
description of it. The ships were approaching each other fast on
parallel and opposite courses, and would pass at a distance of about
eight hundred yards.
The hostile shells began to fall closer. Travers heard a violent
explosion from aft, and glancing round, saw the lurid flame of a
detonation close by the after funnel. Someone screamed, and then the
air seemed full of flying, whistling splinters. The ship had evidently
been damaged, for her speed dropped fast. But she still moved through
the water.
Another shell, falling in the water about twenty yards short, raised a
gigantic spray column which fell on deck and drenched every soul on the
bridge and forecastle. It then ricochetted over the bridge, passing so
close that the air disturbance whisked the cap off Travers’ head and
carried it neatly overboard.
But in another instant the sights of the foremost torpedo tube came on,
and the sub pulled a lever.
The torpedo leapt out of its tube like a great silver fish and landed in
the water with a splash. The stranger evidently saw it fired, for she
circled round to avoid it with her guns still firing heavily.
Another hostile shell, bursting in the water, sent a number of fragments
whizzing across the destroyer’s forecastle. Two men of the foremost
gun’s crew were hit, and dropped to the deck, but the others, pushing
them aside, went on loading and firing, loading and firing, as fast as
they could.
The stranger, at very close range, offered an enormous target, and the
destroyer’s weapons, small though they were, could hardly miss her.
Shell after shell drove home, for they could see the brilliant flashes
of the explosions as they struck and burst. The _Tavy’s_ guns were
smaller than those of her opponent, but the latter was enduring terrible
punishment, and her fire was weakening rapidly.
Then, quite suddenly, a great column of water mingled with smoke and
flame, leapt into the air at the steamer’s side. There came the awful,
shattering roar of a heavy explosion. The torpedo had gone home.
When the turmoil died away, she had ceased firing. The torpedo must have
struck her forward, for her bows were deep in the water and her stem was
high in the air, with the propellers still revolving slowly. She seemed
to be sinking fast.
Travers was still staring at her speechless, when the sub came on to the
bridge chuckling with glee.
“I got her!” he shouted excitedly, pointing at the sinking ship. “By
gum--I got her!”
The skipper said nothing. He had an awful feeling at the back of his
mind that perhaps he might have sunk a British ship.
She had fired on him first, it is true, but would that absolve him from
sinking her if she did turn out to be British?
* * * * *
The _Tavy_ had five men killed outright by the shell explosion aft, and
another two wounded at the foremost gun. She was leaking and badly
damaged, too, for when the engineer officer came on to the bridge, a
little later, he reported that one boiler was hopelessly out of action,
that the starboard engine was damaged and could not be used, and that
one shell, penetrating the side below the waterline in the stern without
bursting, had drilled a hole through which several compartments had been
flooded. However, he added cheerfully, the hole had been plugged
temporarily, and the ship was in no danger, while she could steam at
ten knots with her other engine.
The stranger’s bows, meanwhile, were under water, and she was sinking
fast by the head. Men aboard her could be seen lowering boats, and
circling round, the _Tavy_ approached to render what assistance she
could.
But before she reached the spot, the steamer flung her stern high into
the air. She hung poised for a few seconds, and then, amidst a cloud of
steam and smoke, and with the muffled roar of collapsing bulkheads,
slowly disappeared from view as if sucked down by a gigantic magnet.
The destroyer approached the scene and stopped her engines. The sea was
covered with wreckage and a film of oil which prevented the waves from
breaking, and switching on her searchlight, the _Tavy_ swept the water
for any signs of survivors. One or two were seen, the whaler was
lowered, and after a prolonged search and with no little risk, one
officer and twenty men, some of them badly wounded, were rescued. All
the remainder had gone to their fate.
Travers waited anxiously. Suppose she were a British ship after all?
Suppose he had been responsible for the drowning of some of his own
countrymen?
But, no! The sub, who had been superintending the embarkation of the
survivors, came on to the bridge soon afterwards. He was half beside
himself with excitement.
“She was the German auxiliary cruiser _Pelikan_, sir!” he almost
shouted.
“The _Pelikan_!” exclaimed Travers, a wave of thankfulness surging
through his heart. “Are you quite certain, man?”
“Absolutely, sir. I got it from one of our--er--prisoners! You remember
those flashes we saw?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she was sinking a British steamer!”
“A British steamer!” echoed the skipper. “Did they pick up any of her
men?”
“No, sir,” the sub-lieutenant replied venomously. “They didn’t. They
left ’em to sink or swim! Said the weather was too bad to lower boats!”
“Too bad for their boats when we could lower our whaler!” cried Travers,
clenching his fists in rage. “The wretched cowards! I’m glad we had our
revenge and sent a few of ’em under! I’d like to shove the survivors
overboard after ’em, but suppose I can’t, worse luck! Is someone looking
after ’em?”
“Yes,” said Munro with a grin. “At present they’re sitting round the
galley fire drinking hot Bovril!”
“We’re a jolly sight too soft-hearted!” Travers retorted bitterly.
* * * * *
Some fifteen hours later the _Tavy_, minus her after funnel and looking
very battered and war-worn, limped into a certain port. The news of her
exploit had already been transmitted by wireless, and when she steamed
slowly up the harbour on her way to the dockyard, the crews of all the
other ships present thronged on deck and cheered themselves hoarse.
The next day a brief announcement from the Admiralty appeared in the
morning papers:--
On the morning of Thursday last the German armed steamer _Pelikan_,
which has lately been responsible for the sinking of several
British steamers on the Atlantic trade routes, was encountered in
the English Channel by H.M. destroyer _Tavy_ (Lieutenant Robert H.
Travers, R.N.). After a brief but spirited engagement, the enemy
was sunk by a torpedo. One officer and twenty men, three of whom
have since succumbed to their injuries, were rescued. Our losses
were very slight.
PRINTED BY
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Nakhuda, i.e. the native captain of a dhow.
[B] Coir rope has the advantage of floating, though it has only
one-third of the strength of hemp rope of the same diameter.