[Illustration: cover art]
Under the White Ensign
BY PERCY F. WESTERMAN
------
"No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages without a
quickening of his pulses." --Outlook.
------
The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British Motor-cyclists
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Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great War.
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LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration: "TRUE TO THE LONG-ESTABLISHED AND GALLANT CUSTOM OF
THE SEA"]
Under the White Ensign
A Naval Story of the Great War
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of "Rounding Up the Raider"
"The Fight for Constantinople"
&c.
_Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
Contents
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CHAP.
I. LADDIE'S WARNING
II. HELD UP BY A U-BOAT
III. THE BOMB IN THE HOLD
IV. A NIGHT ON THE NEUTRAL GROUND
V. THE ENCOUNTER WITH A SPY
VI. THE DUMMY PERISCOPE
VII. RAMMED
VIII. "IN THE DITCH"
IX. A MIDNIGHT EXPEDITION
X. HOW THE LANDING PARTY FARED
XI. OSBORNE'S CAPTURE
XII. THE TURKISH BIPLANE
XIII. THE "SUNDERBUND'S" LIFE-BOAT
XIV. SUBMARINED
XV. CASTAWAYS ON A HOSTILE SHORE
XVI. 'TWIXT U-BOAT AND ARABS
XVII. THE WHALER'S VOYAGE
XVIII. IN THE NICK OF TIME
XIX. MISUNDERSTANDINGS
XX. THE DESERT WIRELESS STATION
XXI. "A PROPER LASH UP"
XXII. THE FOULED PROPELLERS
XXIII. DRIVEN TO DESTRUCTION
XXIV. THE CHASE OF THE FELUCCA
XXV. AN UNKNOWN ANTAGONIST
XXVI. REUNITED
XXVII. A DARING OPERATION
XXVIII. OSBORNE'S REWARD
Illustrations
------
"TRUE TO THE LONG-ESTABLISHED AND GLORIOUS
CUSTOM OF THE SEA" - - - Frontispiece
"ONE BY ONE FIVE GERMANS STUMBLED UP THE LADDER"
"THE SUBMARINE WAS NOW IN AN AWKWARD PLIGHT"
"PROGRESS WAS TEDIOUSLY SLOW"
"THE GREEKS WENT DOWN LIKE NINEPINS"
UNDER THE WHITE
ENSIGN
------
CHAPTER I
Laddie's Warning
"WHAT a rotten night!"
With this well-expressed remark Sub-lieutenant Webb gained the head
of the bridge-ladder of H.M. armed merchant-cruiser _Portchester
Castle_.
Contrasted with the brightness of his comfortable cabin the blackness
of the night seemed impenetrable. The horned moon, already well down
in the western sky, was almost hidden by a rapidly drifting patch of
mottled clouds of sufficient density to obscure its pale rays.
Slapping viciously against the ship's starboard side were the surging
rollers of the Bay of Biscay. With a succession of heavy thuds the
waves broke against the vessel's hull, recoiling in masses of
phosphorescent foam and at the same time sending clouds of spindrift
flying across the lofty bridge. The _Portchester Castle_ was
forty-eight hours out from England, bound for patrol duties in the
Eastern Mediterranean. It was by no means her first trip to that
inland sea. In pre-war days, under a different name, she had been
making regular pleasure trips under the auspices of a touring agency.
It had been said that her skipper could find his way practically
blindfold into any of the better-known Mediterranean ports, so long
had he been on this particular service.
But the outbreak of the Great War had changed all that. Taken over by
the Admiralty, the former liner-yacht had been rapidly and
efficaciously adapted to her new rôle. Her palatial cabin fittings
had been ruthlessly scrapped. The dazzling white enamel had been
hidden under a coat of neutral grey. Her bluff funnels were disguised
with "wash" of the same dingy hue. Light armour protected her vital
parts; quick-firing guns of hard-hitting power were mounted on the
decks that previously had been given over to pleasure-seeking
tourists. In short, the _Portchester Castle_ was now a swift and
formidable unit of the British Navy.
Four years had made a marked difference in the appearance of Tom
Webb, formerly Tenderfoot of the Sea Scouts' yacht _Petrel_. Thanks
to his preliminary training in the rudiments of seamanship and
navigation acquired in the little ketch yacht, Webb had had no
difficulty in being accepted for service in the trawler patrol soon
after the outbreak of hostilities.
It was now that his Sea Scout training bore fruit. Self-reliant, and
willing to undertake the most arduous tasks with the utmost good
humour and alacrity, he quickly gained the goodwill of his superiors.
Two years in the North Sea in the trawler _Zealous_ gave him plenty
of experience and adventure, until the trawler came to an untimely
end in an encounter with some German torpedo-boats, but not before
she had sent one of them to the bottom. The outcome of this little
"scrap", as far as Tom Webb was concerned, was that the ex-Tenderfoot
was given a commission as Acting Sub-lieutenant, R.N.R., and
appointed to the armed merchant-cruiser _Portchester Castle_.
It required a fair effort on Webb's part to carry out one portion of
the Scout's creed and "keep smiling" as he mounted the bridge in this
particular middle watch. Turning out of a comfortable bunk to do duty
in an exposed, spray-swept post was not a matter of choice but of
obligation.
Still dazed by the sudden transition from the electric light 'tween
decks to the intense blackness of the night, Webb could just discern
the figure of the Sub he was about to relieve.
"Mornin', Haynes!"
"Wish you well of it, my festive," was Dick Haynes's rejoinder.
"Nothing to report. Here's the course. You ought to sight the Spanish
coast in an hour or so. Well, so long, and good luck!"
The relieved Sub-lieutenant vanished down the bridge-ladder. Webb,
muffled in his greatcoat, satisfied himself that the quartermasters
were acquainted with the correct compass course, and received the
usual report: "Screened light's burning, sir, and all's well."
This done he took up his position on the lee side of the bridge and,
sheltered by the storm-dodger, gazed fixedly in the direction of the
swelter of black water ahead of the labouring ship.
Slowly the minutes sped. The _Portchester Castle_, steaming at
seventeen knots, rolled and plunged through the long waves without so
much as the distant navigation lights of another vessel to break the
monotony of the night. Yet the utmost vigilance was necessary. The
safety of the ship depended upon the sharp eyes of the two look-out
men on the fo'c'sle, and the alertness of the junior watch-keeper on
the bridge. To the ordinary risk of collision was added another
danger, for hostile submarines had been reported making for the
Mediterranean, and were reasonably expected to take a very similar
course to that followed by the British armed merchant-cruiser.
The "Rules of the Road for Preventing Collision at Sea" reduced the
former danger to a minimum, provided an efficient watch were
maintained; against the mad dogs of the sea--the German submarines,
who never hesitated to torpedo at sight anything afloat regardless of
her nationality--the ship had to take her chances, and trust to
Providence and a quick use of the helm to avoid the deadly torpedo,
should the phosphorescent swell in the wake of the weapon betray its
approach.
A faint click, barely perceptible above the howling of the wind and
the swish of the waves, attracted Webb's attention. The officer of
the watch had switched off the light in the chart-house before
emerging, lest a stray beam should betray the vessel to a lurking
foe.
Presently the door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared,
his outlines just discernible in the faint light; for the moon, now
soon on the point of setting, was momentarily unobscured.
"Hallo, Tom!" he exclaimed. "What do you think of the Bay, eh?"
The speaker was Lieutenant Jack Osborne, R.N.R., for the time being
officer of the watch. He, too, had good reason to be thankful for his
early training as a Sea Scout on the yacht _Petrel_. The outbreak of
war found him at Shanghai--a Third Officer on one of the liners of
the Royal British and Pacific Steamship Company's fleet. Within two
hours of the receipt of the mobilization telegram, Osborne was on
board a vessel bound for Vancouver, _en route_ for home by the
Canadian Pacific. Twelve months' sea service procured him his
promotion as lieutenant, R.N.R., and when the _Portchester Castle_
was commissioned he found that one of his brother officers was his
former Sea Scout chum, Tom Webb.
"An improvement on the North Sea in winter," replied Webb
optimistically. "And it will be a jolly sight warmer when we get to
the Mediterranean."
"You haven't been abroad before?" asked Osborne.
"Strictly speaking--no," replied the Sub. "I've been within sight of
Iceland a few times, and don't want to see it again; but I have never
set foot ashore. You remember---- Hallo! What's that?"
He gave an involuntary start as something gripped his left hand with
a gentle yet firm hold.
Osborne smiled.
"You're a bit jumpy," he said. "Come, this won't do; it's only
Laddie. He's always with me on the bridge, you know."
"Hope he hasn't mistaken my hand for a piece of raw beef-steak,"
remarked Webb, disengaging his hand from the jaws of a large dog.
"I'm not afraid of dogs, you know, Osborne, but for the moment I
wondered what was up."
"Only his way of showing friendliness," explained the Lieutenant.
"I've had him on board ever since he was a pup. He's only fourteen
months old now."
"I haven't seen him before."
"No, I kept him ashore while we were commissioning, and he generally
keeps down below for the first twenty-four hours at sea. He'll be a
pal to you, Webb; almost as much as Cinders. Well, I'll leave him
with you. Stop there, Laddie, there's a good dog. Call me directly
you sight Cape Villano light, Webb. Keep it well on the port bow;
we're off a tricky coast, you know."
Left alone the Sub stooped and patted the silky hair of the
sheep-dog's head. Webb was one of those fellows to whom most dogs
take at sight. This animal was no exception to the general rule.
Laddie was a large bob-tailed sheep-dog standing more than two feet
from the ground--or rather, deck--and powerfully built. Even in the
dim light Webb noticed one peculiarity. The animal's eyes were of a
turquoise-blue colour and gleamed in the dark like those of a cat.
Suddenly the animal bounded to the weather side of the bridge and,
placing his front paws on the guard-rail, gave vent to three deep,
angry barks.
"What's the matter, old boy?" asked Webb, peering in vain to
ascertain the cause of the dog's excitability.
Hearing his pet's warning bark Lieutenant Osborne was on the bridge
in a trice. One glance at Laddie was sufficient.
"Action stations!" he roared in stentorian tones; then, "Hard-a-port,
quartermaster!"
Even as the spokes of the steam steering-gear revolved rapidly under
the helmsman's hands, the guns' crews, who had been fitfully dozing
beside their weapons, manned the quick-firers, while the
search-lights with their carbons sizzling were trained outboard,
ready at the word of command to unscreen and throw their dazzling
rays upon the surface of the waves.
Listing heavily to port as she turned rapidly on her helm, the
_Portchester Castle_ just missed by a few yards an ever-diverging
double track of foam that contrasted vividly with the inky blackness
of the water.
By a few seconds the British vessel had escaped destruction from a
torpedo fired from a lurking hostile submarine.