DAVE’S NIGHT OF AGONY
“The ‘Griswold’ sinking! And Belle on board!” hurried into Dave Darrin’s
mind as he heard further details and learned that the stricken liner lay
twenty-five miles away, sou’-sou’-west from the “Grigsby’s” present
position.
He darted through the doorway and sprang for the bridge.
“Full speed to the ‘Griswold’!” he commanded as he darted up the bridge
stairs.
But Ensign Weedon had already worked the engine-room telegraph, and
hardly had Dave rested two unsteady hands on the bridge rail when he
felt the dashing spray in his face, for the “Grigsby” was racing like a
hound just freed from its leash.
“Heading straight to the position reported, sir,” stated Ensign Weedon.
Lieutenant Fernald, also summoned, came hurrying to the bridge a few
moments later.
“Like as not some of our own friends are on the ‘Griswold’,” muttered
Fernald. “I understand she carries a large passenger list.”
“My wife is on board,” answered Darrin with a calmness that he did not
feel.
Fernald’s face fell.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Darrin. We’ll do our best to reach the ship in time!”
“Yes, we’ll do our level best and go our fastest, just as we would hurry
to aid any other stricken ship,” Darrin rejoined, steadily, though his
hands gripped the rail so tightly that they showed white at the
knuckles.
Weedon had already wirelessed to the “Griswold” that help was coming
swiftly. Dalzell’s craft, too, had picked up the radio messages telling
of the “Griswold’s” desperate plight. Dan was thirty-two miles away from
the ship that bore Belle Darrin.
Then from the “Griswold” came this message:
“Listing so that cannot use bow or stern guns. Submarine risen and is
shelling us!”
“The monsters!” groaned Dave, as Fernald, in an unsteady voice, read the
radio message to him. “Ask how long the ‘Griswold’ can keep afloat if
not hit further.”
This message was sent, bringing back the alarming word:
“Cannot say, but submarine moving closer. Evidently determined to make
swift job of us.”
“And of course the German hears these messages!” groaned Dave. “He may
even have the key to our code with commercial ships. He will now do his
best and quickest to send the liner to the bottom!”
Ten minutes later this came in by way of the “Grigsby’s” aerials:
“S. O. S.! Taking to our boats on starboard side. Enemy on our port! S.
O. S. ‘Griswold’.”
“And we are still fifteen miles away!” moaned Dave.
His face was calm, but ghastly white. His lips were tightly closed over
firmly set jaws. “Fifteen miles away!”
“The turbines are doing every ounce of work that is in them,” said
Lieutenant Fernald, in a low voice.
“I know it,” Dave answered dully, staring ahead into the night. “And
Dalzell will be even longer than we in reaching the ‘Griswold’.”
“If you could tell the captain of the ‘Griswold’ how long it will take
you to reach him, he might know better what to do—how to hold out more
successfully,” suggested Fernald.
“And, if the German knows the code we are using he would know how long
he could continue his wicked work and still have chance to get away,”
Darrin replied. “I must not send him that information. Fernald, I have
some hope that I may be able to find that German pirate still on the
surface. If I do—”
Darrin did not finish, but on his face there was an expression that was
both prayer and threat.
The watch officer counted the miles as they were reeled off and told
Dave, from time to time, how many miles yet remained to be covered.
On the bridge were screened lights—one over the bridge compass, that the
quartermaster might see to keep the ship on her course; another light
placed under the hood that protected the chart table.
No other light appeared, and no light whatever could have been made out
on the destroyer by any one from a near-by craft.
The minutes ticked slowly by—eternities they were to Dave Darrin.
Nearer and nearer, every minute, yet was there hope of arriving in time?
“By—by Jove!” cried Fernald, at last, under his breath.
“I see it,” Dave replied quietly. “And there is another—flashes from the
German craft’s deck guns. We see them on account of the elevation of the
guns, though we do not yet see the German hull through the glass.”
“I can make out the ‘Griswold’,” Fernald exclaimed. “Over there! See
her, yonder? She is low in the water.”
“Yes; she must soon sink, or I am a poor guesser,” Dave rejoined. “Look,
Fernald! Isn’t the liner lowering her port boats now?”
“Yes, sir, and shoving rafts over, too.”
“The rafts? Ah, yes! Near the finish now, and the ‘Griswold’s’ skipper
has given up hope of our help. Putting the rafts overboard is always the
first step in a wreck.”
Though hoping against hope, Fernald telephoned the engine room, urging
the engineer to try to get a little more speed from the engines. The
chief engineer officer, himself in charge below, did his best. Billows
of black smoke hung over the water astern. Bit by bit the straining
engines provided more, and then a little more speed.
If it were but daylight! Men stood by the “Grigsby’s” guns, ready to
fire at the word—to sight by guess, should the lieutenant-commander on
the bridge call for it. Dave might have thrown on the searchlight.
Should the white ribbon of light appear now, while still so far away,
the German commander would know how soon to submerge.
And Dave Darrin wanted the lives of those Germans! He was not
blood-thirsty, and heretofore had fought because it was his duty to
fight. Now he HATED these German fiends! If he could send fifty of them
to the bottom, that would be excellent. If he could drown a hundred of
the Hun pirates, that would be fine! To send a thousand of them to the
bottom of the Atlantic Ocean—that would be something worth while!
But to send that beam of clear white light across the ocean—to signal
the German commander, in effect, the word “Dive!”—that would be
criminal.
“Fernald!” cried Dave, hoarsely.
“Sir?”
“Can you make out the enemy hull?”
“No, sir.”
“Try!”
“I cannot make it out yet, sir,” replied Lieutenant Fernald, lowering
the glass from his eyes. “But look—the first streaks of dawn are behind
us.”
“That will be of no assistance for ten minutes or more,” answered Dave.
“Ten minutes! It will all be over then. Look at that flash from the
scoundrel’s gun!”
The German was now shelling the boats that were trying to slip away in
the darkness. Next, undoubtedly, the Hun would begin firing on the
rafts, which could move little faster than the waves that slipped them
along.
“Never again any mercy to a pirate! Not one surrender will I accept
after this! All Germans who fall into my clutches shall go to the
bottom!”
Lieutenant Fernald turned his head aside to hide a bitter smile. He did
not blame Dave; his heart ached for that gallant young commander. Yet
well enough Fernald knew that Darrin would never, once his rage had
passed, sink a helpless foe, no matter how much he despised the wretch.
They could now, through the night glass, make out a German sailor who
stood forward on the submarine’s hull, a lookout, doubtless scanning the
dark lines of the destroyer rushing to the rescue. It must be that
lookout’s business to try to judge the distance of the destroyer, that
the submersible might remain on the surface long enough to wreak all
possible havoc on the lifeboats. Then, at the last moment, the submarine
would submerge, that its commander, crew and craft might survive to
assassinate ships’ companies on another day!
“He knows I won’t use my searchlight—he’s daring me!” muttered Dave,
savagely. “But, by the great Dewey! I’ll use that light in thirty
seconds more. Fernald, tell me when the time is up!”
Dave’s next word was passed to the officer in command of the forward
guns, and by that officer to the skilled, cool gun-pointers.
None except Darrin, Fernald and the watch officer knew that Belle Darrin
was a passenger on the ill-fated “Griswold.”
“Let your first shots set this craft’s record!” was the division
officer’s quiet command to the gun-pointers.
No message could have been more inspiring to these veterans, on a new
ship, knowing that she was one of the best of the destroyer fleet.
The “Grigsby” came rushing, roaring in, and then, slowing down, went
close to the foremost of the boats from the sinking liner.
From the submarine a shell arched and struck in that boat, tearing out
the bottom and throwing the occupants into the sea.
“Searchlight!” commanded Darrin.
Hardly a second did the light waver in the sky, then settled down across
the submarine, making a fair mark of her.
A double bark leaped out from the forward guns. Never had pieces been
better served, for one shell tore a big, jagged hole in the starboard
hull of the enemy, the bottom of the rent being barely six inches from
the water. The second shell went in just below the water-line, throwing
up a geyser-like jet of water.
“A just fate, but a pity it could not have been made ten times more
severe,” muttered Dave, as, through the glass, he saw the submersible
careen under the impact, with a swift listing to starboard.
There was no use bothering further about the fate of the enemy. That was
already settled. There were travelers, many of them Americans, to be
saved as far as saving could be done.
As though to keep the submersible mocking company, the “Griswold” gave a
final lurch, then settled quietly under the waves despite the immensity
of her hull.
“Put around to port—back!” shouted Darrin, his voice now cool and steady
as the realization of his rescue duties came to him. “Slow,” he added,
warningly. “We must be careful not to upset those boats with our wash.”
After making the turn, Darrin ordered the speed reduced still more, as
he saw human figures ahead on the dark waves—some swimming, others
floating in death.
Not waiting for the order the searchlight men deflected the light,
sending a beam out across the waters as the “Grigsby,” moving slowly
enough now, steamed along to one side of the forms in the water. Other
seamen, at the edge of the slippery deck, stood by to heave lines to
those who could grasp them.
The light, as it rested upon the water at a point seventy-five yards
from the destroyer, revealed a woman’s features.
Dave gave a start, rubbing his eyes as though sure he was the victim of
some hideous illusion.
His eyesight was excellent; there could be no mistaking.
“Belle!” burst from him, in a convulsive sob.
Before those with him could divine his purpose, Dave Darrin leaped from
the bridge to the deck below.
An agonized moment he devoted to the removing of cumbersome rubber
boots. Less than half as much time was required to throw off cap and
coat. Then bounding forward, he leaped and sprang out, his clasped hands
cleaving the water ahead of him as he struck through the waves.
Another splash, half a second later. But Darrin did not know that
another swam behind him.