The horse tenders in the other holds were summoned and informed that for
the present the _Narcissus_ would not be bombed. Quickly two of them,
with Mike Murphy and Sam Daniels, donned the dungarees and caps of the
prisoners and strapped on their belts containing the automatics in their
holsters. In the interim Terence had descended to the collapsible boat
bumping at the gangway and fended her off until Sam Daniels, the two
cowboys and Mike Murphy joined him; whereupon Terence took one pair of
oars, while Murphy handled the other, and the boat crept out from the
steamer and headed directly for the submarine, which had been ratching
backward and forward under a dead-slow bell, watching the towering black
hulk of the _Narcissus_ rolling idly. A light showed on the turret of
the submarine, outlining vaguely the figures of half a dozen men on her
small deck.
The disposition of Mike Murphy's forces was such that the chances of the
enemy detecting the substitution of the boarding party before it should
reach the submersible were reduced to a minimum. In the bow of the
collapsible one of the cowboys sat, facing the stern; Terence and Mike
also faced the stern, by reason of the fact that they were rowing; and
Sam Daniels and the other cowboy, seated in the stern sheets, were under
orders to turn and look back at the _Narcissus_ as the boat came within
the radius of the meager light from the submarine's turret. Thus they
ran little risk of premature discovery.
“For,” as Cappy Ricks sagely reminded them just before they pulled away
from the _Narcissus_, “the German is both cautious and cocksure. The
capture of his bombing party has been effected without a sound; the
commander saw our men leave the steamer in the boats; he sees the
_Narcissus_ now not under command and wallowing; he figures that all is
lovely and the goose honks high. Therefore, he will be off his guard,
since his suspicions have not been roused. His deck is very dimly
lighted by that single light on the turret, and he knows that light is
sufficient to guide the boat party back to the submarine. There is no
sea running to speak of; so it will not be necessary for him to turn his
searchlight on you to light the way for you.
“Moreover, he will not care to use his searchlight, because it may guide
a patrol boat to this spot, and Terence has very carefully turned out
all the lights on the ship which might be visible from a distance,
because that is precisely what that lieutenant would or should have done
if we had given him time. And when you row toward that submarine, row
like the devil, because that's the way the bombing party would row in
their hurry to board the submarine and steam clear of the explosion.
It is my guess that the instant you heave alongside you will be snagged
with boat hooks by the men on her deck. In the excitement of making a
quick get-away nobody will be looking into your faces, anyhow; they'll
see your familiar dungaree suits and caps; some of them may even give
you a hand to help you when you leap aboard. Do not despise such help;
just extend your left hands and before you let go the enemy's right bend
your guns--and you, Terry, your monkey wrench--over their heads. You'll
have the deck in a pig's whisper! Then, Mike, the rest is up to you.
I've made the ball; now you fire it.
“I take it the submarine will be in such a hurry to get away that all
the men on her deck will reach down and snake the boat in; once out of
danger, they'll plan on knocking that collapsible down and storing
it away at their leisure. Tackle 'em while they're busy with the
boat--provided you get aboard unsuspected. Terence, remember to shout
the minute you go into action--and I'll give you fighting light.”
Following these instructions, Cappy had very solemnly shaken hands all
round and departed for the bridge, where he removed the canvas covering
from the searchlight, bent the reflector toward the submarine, and
waited, with his nervous old finger on the switch.
In pursuance of Cappy Ricks' instructions, Mike Murphy and Terence
Reardon rowed furiously toward the submarine--so furiously, indeed, that
the harsh grating of their oars in the rowlocks apprised Captain Emil
Bechtel of their approach some seconds before the boat was visible. At
his brisk command the men on deck stepped down to the low pipe railing
on the port side of the deck, prepared to snag the boat the instant she
drew alongside. When he could hear the sound of the commander's voice,
Mike Murphy chanced a quick look over his shoulder, noted the position
of the submarine, and turned his head again.
“Four more strokes, Terry; then ship your oars,” he cautioned the
engineer in a low voice.
At the fourth stroke Terence obediently shipped his oars; with a deft
twist of one oar, Murphy straightened the boat and shot neatly in
alongside the submarine, the deck of which was less than three feet
above the water. As Cappy Ricks had anticipated, the men on that deck
promptly snagged the boat at bow and stern with boat hooks--and on the
instant Cappy Ricks' bully boys leaped for their prey.
As luck would have it, Terence P. Reardon was the only one offered a
helping hand--and he did not despise it; neither did he forget Cappy's
last instructions. With neatness and ample force he brought his monkey
wrench down on the German's skull; and then to Cappy Ricks, waiting
on the bridge of the _Narcissus_, came the ancient Irish battlecry of
_Faugh-a-ballagh!_ For the benefit of those not versed in the ways of
the fighting Celt, be it known that _Faugh-a-ballagh_ means Clear the
Road. And history records but few instances when Irish soldiery have
raised that cry and rushed without clearing a pathway.
The fight was too short and savage for description. Suffice it to say
that not a shot was fired--the work was too close for that, for the
surprise had been complete. Even before Cappy Ricks could focus the
steamer's searchlight on the fracas, it was over. Terence P. Reardon got
two in two strokes of his trusty monkey wrench; Sam Daniels and his
two fellow-bronco-busters each laid open a German scalp with the long
barrels of their forty-fives; and Michael J. Murphy, plain lunatic-crazy
with rage, disdaining all but Nature's weapons, tied into the amazed
Captain Emil Bechtel under the rules of the Longshoremen's Union--which
is to state that Michael J. Murphy clinched Emil Bechtel, lifted him,
set him down hard on his plump back, crawled him, knelt on his arms, and
addressed him in these words:
“Hah! (A right jab to the face.) You would, would you? (Left jab to
face.) You pig-iron polisher! (Bending the nose back forcibly with the
heel of his fist.) When I get (smash) through with your (smash) head
(smash) it'll be long (smash) before you'll block (smash) your hat again
(smash) on the Samson post, you--”
“Out av me way, Michael, lad, till I get a kick at his slats!” crooned
Terence P. Reardon, heaving alongside.
“You gossoon! Take care of the scuttle; don't let them close it down,
or they'll submerge and drown us. Leave this lad to me, I tell you. He's
the captain, and why shouldn't he be killed by one of his own rank?”
Thus rebuked, Terence curbed his blood-thirsty proclivities. Leaving
his countryman to beat his devil's tattoo on the submarine commander,
Terence leaped to the open scuttle just in time to bang another head as
it appeared on a level with the deck.
“Let that be a lesson to you!” he called as the unconscious man slid
back down the companion into the interior of the vessel.
Then he sat on the lid of the scuttle, poised his monkey wrench on high
over the scuttle, and awaited developments, the while he tossed an order
over his shoulder to Sam Daniels:
“Bring me the bum!”
“Which one?” Mr. Daniels queried.
“The German bum, av coorse,” Terence retorted waspishly.
“But all these bums are Germans--”
“Not that kind av a bum!” howled Terence. “I mean the bum in the boat.”
Thus enlightened, Sam brought a bomb from the boat and handed it to the
engineer. In the interim Mike Murphy had polished off his man to his
entire satisfaction and joined Terence at the scuttle, while one of the
horse wranglers, a cool individual and a firm believer in safety first,
collected the weapons from the fallen.
Mike Murphy approached the scuttle and bawled down it to the amazed and
puzzled crew below. As a linguist Mike was no great shakes, particularly
when called upon to juggle German; but he was a resolute fellow and not
afraid to do his best at all times. Consequently his hail took the form
of “Hey! _Landsmann!_”
Something told Terence Reardon that Michael was through; so he added his
mite to the store and bellowed:
“_Spreckels die deutsch,_ ye blackguards?”
Then both sat back to await developments. Presently a voice at the foot
of the companion said:
“Hello dere! Vat iss?”
“Vat iss? Hell iss! Dot's vat! Listen to me, you Dutchy. I'm the skipper
of that horse transport your commander tried to sink without warning,
and I'm in command of the deck of this craft, with the scuttle open; and
you can't submerge and wash me off, either. When I give the word I
want you and your men to come up, one at a time and no crowding. And if
you're not up five minutes after I order you up I'll not wait; I'll
set a bomb in your turret, back off in the small boat and kill with
revolvers any man that tries to come up and see where the fuse is
burning in order to put it out. Do you surrender, or would you rather
die?”
“Vait a minute und I find oud,” the German answered promptly.
It required five minutes for a council of war below decks; then the
interpreter came to the foot of the companion and informed Mike Murphy
that, considering the circumstances, they had decided to live. In
the interim the skipper of the _Narcissus_ had arrived, with
re-enforcements, in the cruiser, and reported that his crew was getting
back aboard the steamer as fast as possible and would have her under
command again in a minute. At Murphy's order the unconscious Germans
were put aboard the cruiser; later, when the remainder of the
submersible's crew came up, one at a time, they were disarmed and lined
up on the little deck; whereupon Michael J. Murphy addressed their
spokesman thus:
“Listen--you! It would be just like you to have set a time bomb
somewhere in this submarine to blow her up after you were all safely out
of her. If you did you made a grave tactical error. You're not going
to leave her for quite a while yet. You're going to sit quietly here on
deck, under guard, while the steamer hooks on to this submarine and tows
her; and if my prize crew is blown up, remember, you--”
The spokesman--he was the chief engineer, by the way--yelled “_Ach,
Gott!_” and leaped for the scuttle. Mike Murphy followed him into the
engine room in time to see him stamp out a long length of slow-burning
fuse.
“Any more?” Murphy queried.
“Dot von vas sufficient, if it goes off,” the German answered simply.
“All right!” Mike Murphy replied. “I'll take a chance and so will you.
You'll stay aboard and run those oil engines.”
Half an hour later with the submarine's crew safely under lock and key
on the _Narcissus,_ the big freighter continued on her course, followed
by the captured submarine, with Michael J. Murphy in her turret and a
quartermaster from the _Narcissus_ at her helm. In the engine room her
own engineer grudgingly explained to Terence P. Reardon the workings of
an oil engine and the ramifications of the electric-light system--and
during all of that period the deadly monkey wrench never left the port
engineer's hand.
Sam Daniels and his comrades were once more back aboard the _Narcissus,_
attending to the horses; and Cappy Ricks, his heart so filled with pride
that it was like to burst, occupied the submarine's turret with the
doughty Michael J. For an hour they discussed the marvelous coup until
there was no angle of it left undiscussed; whereupon fell a silence,
with Michael J.'s eyes fixed on the dark bulk ahead that marked the
_Narcissus_, and Cappy's thoughts on what Matt Peasley and Mr. Skinner
would say when they heard the glorious news.
For nearly an hour not a word passed between the pair.
Presently Cappy's regular breathing drew Murphy's attention to him. He
had fallen asleep in his seat, his chin bent on his old breast, a little
half-smile on his lips. And as Murphy looked at him pridefully Cappy
spoke in his sleep:
“Holy sailor! How Mike Murphy can swear!”
Terence P. Reardon came to the foot of the little spiral staircase
leading to the turret.
“Michael, me lad,” he announced, “the internal-combustion ile ingin'
is the marine ingin' av the future. They're as simple as two an' two is
four. Listen, _avic!_ Does she not run like a twenty-four-jewel watch?
An' this man that invinted thim was a Ger-r-man--more power to him!
Faith, I'm thinkin' if the Ger-r-mans were as great in war as they are
in peace 'twould need more nor the Irish to take the measure av thim!”
“Irish?” Mike Murphy answered irritably. “Terence, quit your bragging!
God knows the Irish are great--”
“The greatest in the wide, wide wur-rld!” Terence declared, with all the
egotism of his race.
“Whist, Terry! There's a little old Yankee man aboard; if you wake him
up he'll call you a liar.”
“The darlin' ould fox!” Terry murmured affectionately, and went back to
his engines.