Two weeks later the old _Costa Rica,_ looking somewhat youthful in a
new coat of black paint and with a huge American flag painted on each
topside, slipped quietly out of San Francisco in ballast and for the
last time turned her nose toward Panama. In the brief period given him
in which to overhaul her interior, Terence P. Reardon had accomplished
wonders, and an hour after Mike Murphy had taken his bearings from Point
San Pedro and laid out his course the chief came into the chart room to
announce that the old girl was doing eight knots and, barring unexpected
bad weather, would continue to do it without falling to pieces. “If I
could have spint two thousand dollars more on her,” Terence declared, “I
believe I could get another knot out av her. Time was whin she could do
sixteen.”
Cappy Ricks, enjoying his afternoon cigar in the snug chart room,
snorted vigorously. “I don't very often take a notion to throw my money
into the sea, Terence,” he reminded his port engineer, “but when I do
get that reckless I limit myself to twenty thousand dollars, and that,
in round figures, is what this old ruin will stand me about the time the
torpedo blows you up on top of the fiddle. However, that is a trifling
investment if we succeed in destroying a late-type German submarine with
a couple of hundred thousand dollars' worth of torpedoes aboard. As a
sporting proposition it's somewhat more expensive than golf, but the
excitement makes up for the added cost.”
“The old box is alive with rats and bedbugs,” Murphy complained.
“If they annoy you, Mike, my boy, comfort yourself with the thought that
they're all going to be drowned,” Cappy replied gayly.
Slowly the old packet wallowed down the coast, the while her crew, under
Mike Murphy's supervision, built gun platforms fore and aft. Following
their completion, the two six-inch guns Cappy had succeeded in getting
from the navy were lifted out of the hold with the aid of the cargo
winch and placed in position, one forward and the other aft. Thereupon
the mate took charge of the _Costa Rica,_ while Mike Murphy drilled his
crew in range finding and celerity in loading the piece. Pointing the
gun was entirely up to Murphy and, needless to state, the task was in
capable hands, as was frequently demonstrated during target practice as
they loafed down the coast.
Upon arrival at Panama the _Costa Rica's_ bunkers were replenished
and an extra supply of sacked coal was piled on deck, for with her
patched-up boilers the old steamer was a hog on fuel. Then the mechanics
and carpenters and all men not vitally needed aboard for the remainder
of the voyage were put ashore and furnished with transportation back to
San Francisco by the regular Pacific Mail liner. Next, the name on the
bows of the _Costa Rica_ was painted out, the name boards at each end of
her bridge removed and the raised-letter record of her identity and
home port chipped off her stern; following which Cappy Ricks, Terence
P. Reardon and Michael J. Murphy commended their souls to their Creator,
and the _Costa Rica_ slipped leisurely through the ditch and out into
the Caribbean Sea.
Fourteen days later Mike Murphy dropped round to Cappy Ricks' cabin.
“We're in the danger zone, sir,” he announced. “And from now on we're
liable to meet one of the larger type of U-boats that operate a couple
of thousand miles from the base at Zeebrugge.”
“Very well,” Cappy replied calmly. “Whether torpedoed or shelled, your
instructions are the same. Forbid the wireless operator to send out a
call for help, heave to immediately and get the men into the boats and
away from the ship. Terry Reardon will remain on duty in the engine
room, provided it isn't wrecked by a torpedo and the engine room
crew killed; you and your gun crew will remain aboard and hide in the
forecastle if it's action front, and in the auxiliary steering-gear
house if it's action rear. I will relieve the quartermaster, take charge
of the wheel and direct the action. If I see that there isn't going to
be any action we'll put on life preservers, jump overboard and be picked
up by our men in the boats. However, something tells me, Mike, that
we're going to have a crack at--”
At that very instant something rapped the _Costa Rica_ terrifically
on the starboard side amidships and tore through her with a grinding,
wrenching noise, followed by an explosion.
“There's the crack you were speaking of, sir,” Murphy yelled and started
for the door. Cappy Ricks grasped him frantically by the arm. “Was that
a shell or a torpedo?” he cried. His voice, thin and shrill with age,
quavered now with excitement.
“It was a shell,” Murphy answered. “Went through the second cabin.”
“Then that German belongs to Alden P. Ricks,” Cappy declared, and
scurried for the pilot house. “Out and into life-boats!” he ordered the
quartermaster, and shoved him away from the wheel. “Set her over to slow
speed ahead,” he called to the mate, who was standing stupidly, gazing
at the white puffs of smoke that marked the position of the submarine
two miles off the starboard bow. The mate came to life, jammed over the
handle of the marine telegraph and, obeying an order bellowed to him by
Mike Murphy from the main deck, abandoned the bridge for the boat deck,
there to superintend the task of getting the men away from the ship.
His first thrill of excitement having subsided, Cappy carefully drew
the little half curtains on the pilot-house window, leaving a small
slit through which he could observe the submarine without being observed
himself, for it was no part of his plan to disclose to the enemy the
fact that the ship was not entirely deserted--and that the submarine
commander should jump to the conclusion that she was deserted by all
hands was precisely the condition that Cappy desired to bring about.
Down in the engine room the indomitable Terence Reardon, with one hand
on the throttle and one eye on the steam gauge, put the _Costa Rica_
under a dead-slow bell; she seemed scarcely to move, yet she had
sufficient steerage way to enable Cappy to keep her pointed in the
general direction of the submarine, the commander of which, seeing the
crew of the Costa Rica scurrying for the boats, contented himself with
sending over half a dozen shells for the purpose of hurrying them along;
then he ceased firing, and when the boats pulled out from the ship in
tow of a motor lifeboat and his powerful glasses showed neither guns nor
sign of life upon the _Costa Rica's_ decks, he did exactly what Cappy
Ricks figured he would do.
He circled warily round his prize, but the absence of frantic wireless
calls for help lulled his suspicions, and presently he bore down upon
her, hove to two cable lengths abreast the wallowing hulk and watched
her fully five minutes for a possible trap, for the absence of any name
puzzled him. His suspicions subsided at length, however, the hatch
in her turtle deck slid back and men appeared, dragging up a small
collapsible boat.
Slowly, slowly--so gradually that it seemed the old vessel was merely
drifting, Cappy brought the _Costa Rica_ round until her bow pointed
toward the submarine. Mike Murphy, standing just inside the forecastle
door, kept his glance on the slit in the curtains on the pilot-house
window-and presently Cappy motioned violently to him.
“To the gun!” ordered the captain. Followed by his gun crew he dashed
out of the forecastle and up the companion ladder to the forecastle
head. A jerk at a lever connecting a cunningly constructed set of
controls, and the false topsides on the forecastle head flopped to the
deck, revealing Mike Murphy's six-inch gun. Cappy saw him deflect the
gun while another man traversed it; for five seconds his eyes pressed
the sight, and when the gun remained motionless Cappy knew that the hull
of the submarine was looming fairly on the intersection of the cross
wires in the sight. The range was point-blank!
Quick as were Murphy and his crew, however, the gun crew of the
submarine was quicker. Before the _Costa Rica's_ gun was properly laid,
a shell from the submarine flew a foot over the heads of the Murphyites
and burst fifty yards beyond the ship. “Ah, missed!” breathed Michael J.
and raised his hand. The gunner released the firing pin and the six-inch
projectile with which the gun had been loaded for two days crashed into
the submarine at her water line.
A terrific explosion followed the shot. Cappy Ricks, gazing popeyed
with horror, saw the submarine disintegrate and disappear in a huge
water-spout; when the water settled only a vast and widening smear of
heavy fuel oil showed where she had been.
From the forecastle head Michael Murphy yelled to Cappy Ricks. “Well,
are you satisfied, sir?” On his part, Cappy, jubilant, even in the
instant when he knew thirty new faces were already whining round the
devil, dashed out on the bridge, seized the whistle cord and swung on
it. A sad, nautical sob from the _Costa Rica's_ siren answered him, and
ten seconds later Terence Reardon whistled up the bridge. Cappy let go
the whistle cord and took up the speaking tube. “Hello,” he piped.
“What the divil do ye mean be blowin' that whistle?” roared Terence,
thinking he was addressing the mate. “Wit' me alone in the engine
room how d'ye expect me to keep shteam up on this ould hooker wit' you
blowin' it off in the whistle! Take shame to yourself!”
“Mike sunk the submarine! Mike sunk the submarine!” Cappy shrilled
over and over again. “Come up, Terence, and see the oil. See the oil,
Terence, see the oil! Mike sunk the submarine, Mike sunk it. Bully for
Mike! Oh, bully! Bully! Bully! Mike sunk it, but I schemed it. Come up,
Terence, I'm going to faint.”
And then, with shrill yips of delirious delight he slid down the
companion to the main deck, to be gathered in Michael J. Murphy's
arms and hugged and passed to the gun crew, who hoisted him to their
shoulders and paraded joyously and blasphemously round the deck.
“I told you he wouldn't use a torpedo if he could do the trick with
shells,” Gappy shouted. “I told you he'd board us if we didn't wireless
for help. Ha, ha, ha! Te-hee!” And he burst into shrill cachinnations.
“I out-thought the scoundrel--goin' to get a patent on my idea--turn
it over to the Government--oh, Mike! Oh, Terence! Get the steward back
aboard. We must have some liquor. They used to serve grog in the old
navy after a victory, didn't they? Yi-yi-yi!”
Terence P. Reardon came up and proffered his greasy paw, the while
his quizzical glance swept the oily sea. “Well, sor,” he remarked
philosophically, “what wit' bein' a Christian I'm a little bit sorry
the Dutchman lost, but back av that again I'm a little bit glad we won.
Michael, do you get those blackguards o' mine down below as quick as ye
can, or we'll be all day gettin' shteam up agin in this ould brute av a
ship.”