UNEXPECTED PERIL
The four apprentice seamen went down to Rivermouth in great spirits. The
home folks were not actually glad to see them go, but they were a little
relieved; for the chums had managed to keep things very lively about
Seacove during their shore leave.
The terrible disaster at Elmvale, however, had sobered the four friends
a good bit at the last. Seven Knott had gone away before it happened, so
he had had no part in their later adventures. They were not even sure
that he had gone to join the crew of the _Kennebunk_, the new
superdreadnaught to which they were assigned for a brief cruise.
They had heard nothing from Ensign MacMasters, so the Navy boys did not
know when or how they were to meet him; but they went to Rivermouth on
the early train and had plenty of time to look about the port and see
all of the shipping in the harbor.
One craft they did not see. The oil tender, _Sarah Coville_, was not
here, and, on making some inquiries of the dock loungers, the boys
learned that she had not been seen at Rivermouth since the night they
had come in off the submarine chaser in the fog.
Rivermouth was fast becoming a base for patrol boats and submarines, it
seemed, although New London and Groton, across the harbor from New
London, were really the headquarters for all such craft along the North
Atlantic seaboard.
"Maybe we can spy the Three Eights," Torry said, referring to the
submarine chaser in which they had pursued the _Sarah Coville_ a few
days before. "Mr. MacMasters must have been relieved of the command of
her before this, don't you think?"
"Don't know," Whistler rejoined, breaking off in his whistling briefly.
"But where is he?" queried the anxious Frenchy.
"Don't worry," Whistler said. "He'll be here."
"Oi, oi! If he don't come," said Ikey, "we're marooned, eh?"
"That'll be fierce!" growled Frenchy Donahue. "I've got just fifty-five
cents left, and one of the nickels is punched. I can see my finish if he
doesn't show up to-day."
The chums soon discovered that they were not the only boys from the Navy
in town. By ones and twos other bluejackets made their appearance on
the water-front. But there was not even a petty officer assigned to the
port to meet them.
The four friends from Seacove learned that every enlisted man and
apprentice they talked with was assigned to the _Kennebunk_, and
immediately all fraternized.
At noon time the bluejackets marched up town in a body to Yancey's and
flocked into that eating place like a swarm of hungry locusts. Abe, the
waiter, was just about swamped, and Ikey and Frenchy volunteered to help
him serve the vociferous crew. Yancey's other customers were very much
out of it for the time being.
They were a noisy crowd, but perfectly good-natured; and with the
freehandedness characteristic of the sailor ashore, bought the best
Yancey could provide. The restaurant proprietor had no complaint to
make.
In the midst of the jollification a hush began to spread over the room.
It began at the tables near the main entrance of the restaurant; then
the men began to get briskly to their feet. With automatic precision
they came to attention, saluting the officer who had entered with that
jerky little downward gesture of the forearm typical of the bluejacket.
Ikey, starting from the order window with a tray load of food, nearly
dropped the whole thing on the floor in trying to salute.
"Ensign MacMasters!" hissed Torry for the benefit of the boys near, who
did not know the officer.
And over Ensign MacMasters' shoulder glowed the moon-like face of Seven
Knott.
"Keep your seats, men," said the ensign quietly, returning the salute in
general. "You have half an hour to finish before we march to the dock.
I take it you are all assigned to my present command?"
He nodded to Seven Knott. Then he took a chair at an empty table and
ordered coffee, while the boatswain's mate went around among the other
tables making a list of the men's names and their former billets.
Under the eyes of a commissioned officer the boys behaved with much more
decorum; but it was still a jolly party that finally lined up on the
sidewalk outside Yancey's, prepared to march to the dock.
Ensign MacMasters sought out Whistler Morgan to speak to personally:
"I shall expect you to keep the younger boys straight, Morgan. We're
going to be in crowded quarters aboard the patrol boat. Mr. Junior
Lieutenant Perkins has come back to his command and we are only guests
aboard," and Ensign MacMasters laughed.
"We are about to have a taste of rough weather outside, too, I fancy.
But our instructions are to make the port where the _Kennebunk_ lies
before the morning tide."
"Has the submarine patrol boat, Eight-hundred-eighty-eight, come into
the harbor, sir?"
"I have just been relieved of her command. I am assigned to take you
chaps on her to the battleship. I understand that we shall have a three
months' cruise in the _Kennebunk_ before we are returned to the
_Colodia_," said the ensign.
Whistler's eyes sparkled. "Then some of us will have a chance of
handling the big guns, sir?"
"That is the object, I believe. That, and the fact that the full
complement of the battleship's crew cannot be at once made up. There
will be changes made in the crew of the _Colodia_ when she returns from
her European cruise. If you youngsters do well on the _Kennebunk_ some
of you may soon be gunners' mates. The present cruise of the _Kennebunk_
is mainly for practice work."
"Oh, sir! won't we see any active service in her?" cried Whistler.
Mr. MacMasters looked very mysterious. "You must not ask too many
questions. I am telling you, Morgan, what is generally known about the
orders under which the superdreadnaught sails. But we may see plenty of
real work At least, we need not suppose that the _Kennebunk_ will run
away from any enemy submarine that may appear along this coast."
"Do you believe there are German subs over here again, sir?"
"It is my private opinion that at least one is here and more are
coming," declared Ensign MacMasters. "And there is a supply boat for
them lying somewhere off our coast, too. We ran down that _Sarah
Coville_ yesterday, by the way, with another cargo of oil aboard. Her
captain and crew will surely be interned."
Mr. MacMasters had no more time to talk with Phil Morgan then. The men
being ready, the march to the dock was made, Seven Knott bringing up the
rear to see that there were no loiterers.
"See that narrow streak!" ejaculated one fellow, when they came to the
dock where the chaser was moored. "Oh, boy! got your sea legs with you?"
The slate-colored S. P. 888 looked to be no friend to a landsman,
especially with the sea as it was just then. Beyond the craft the harbor
was tossing in innumerable whitecaps, while through the breach between
the capes the Atlantic itself could be seen to be in ugly mood.
They got aboard; and as soon as the moorings were cast off the
newcomers were welcomed in friendly fashion, by the regular crew of the
chaser, to most of whom Whistler Morgan and his three friends were
already known.
"Hey, garby! where d'you sleep on this hooker?" demanded one of the
strangers, hoarsely and behind the sharp of his hand, of a member of the
chaser's crew. "Or do you go ashore at nights?"
"If we can't get ashore for the watch below," was the perfectly serious
reply, "every man gets a hook to hang on."
"You mean to hang his hammock on?"
"No such luck! There isn't room for hammocks on one of these chasers.
Why, even the officer commanding has to sleep on a hammock slung out
over the stern in pleasant weather."
"Good-night!" gasped Al Torrance. "Where does he sleep when it isn't
pleasant?"
"He doesn't sleep at all--or anybody else, as you'll probably find out
to-night, garby," was the reply.
There was bound to be a deal of joking of this nature; but it was all
good-natured. The crew of the chaser were of course just as proud of
their craft as the crew of the battleship is of their sea-home. They
ignored the inconveniences of the S. P. 888 and dilated upon her speed
and what they hoped to do in her. She was even better than a destroyer
for getting right on top of a submarine and sinking that rat of the sea
with depth bombs.
The latter--metal cylinders weighing more than a hundred pounds
each--were lashed in their stations at the bow and at the stern of the
chaser. They were rigged to be dropped overboard a little differently
from the method pursued upon the destroyers.
As the chaser shot across the harbor the strangers aboard remarked in
wonder at the way in which she picked up speed. Within a couple of cable
lengths from the shore she was going like a streak of light.
It was evident that the S. P. 888 was fully prepared for rough weather.
Not only the depth bombs, but everything else on her decks were lashed.
Passing between the capes, she plunged into a regular smother of rough
water, and at once the decks were drenched from stem to stern.
"What do you know about this?" demanded Al Torrance of Morgan. "A
fellow wants to hang on to a handline like grim death to be sure to keep
inboard. Hope they won't pipe us to quarters while this keeps up."
There seemed to be, however, no prospect of the sea's abating; and the
commander of the chaser had a considerable distance to go before
morning, so he urged the engineer to increase rather than diminish the
speed.
With no regard to the comfort of her crew, the craft plowed along on her
way to the port where the _Kennebunk_ awaited them. Naval vessels cannot
wait on weather signals. "Orders are orders."
The forward deck was comparatively dry; but the after part of the vessel
was in a continual smother of spume and broken water. Now and then a
wave would charge and break over her, drowning everything and everybody
aft of the engines.
These waves seemed racing to overtake and smother the chaser. The tons
of water discharged upon her decks would have sunk a less buoyant craft.
All she did was to squatter under the weight of the water like a duck,
her propellers never missing a stroke!
Whistler Morgan and his chums did not remain below through this run. No,
indeed! The hardiest stomach would feel squeamish at such times in
quarters like those of the crew of the S. P. 888.
At least the Navy boys got fresh air on deck if they were battered
around a bit. They were supplied with slickers, and they had been wet
many a time before.
Frenchy Donahue raised his shrill voice in the old dirge: "Aren't you
glad you're a Navy man? Oh, mother!" and had not intoned the first
lachrymose verse through to the end before Ikey Rosenmeyer interrupted
with a shout:
"Look there! She's broke loose! Hey, fellers! don't you see it?"
They were hanging to a lubber line near the quarterdeck, which on the
chaser was a part of the after deck having imaginary boundaries only,
established by order of the chaser's commander.
The depth bomb lashed there was the object to which Ikey called his
mates' attention. A line had snapped, and the heavy cylinder rolled
slowly across the deck.
Suddenly the vessel heaved to starboard, and with a quick snap the bomb
rolled in the other direction, crashing against the port rail in a way
which made Whistler Morgan cry out in warning:
"Have a care, fellows! If the safety pin isn't firmly inserted in that
bomb, and drops out, she may blow off."
"Great glory!" muttered Torry, "where will we be then?"
"It's pretty sure if she explodes we'll never join the _Kennebunk's_
crew," was his chum's grim answer.