A Stern Chase
It was the work of a few moments for the rest of the
highly-disciplined crew to take to the boats that, regardless of the
danger, had closed to rescue their comrades.
Captain Meredith was the last to leave. True to the traditions of
the British navy, he stood on the bridge until not another soul
remained on board. Then, with the confidential code-book under his
arm, he leapt nimbly into the stern-sheets of the cutter.
A couple of cables' lengths from the doomed vessel, the crews of the
various boats lay on their oars and awaited the end. There was
almost dead silence. Although the men were elated at having scored
heavily off their treacherous foes, the sight of their erstwhile
floating home disappearing for ever from mortal eyes was a sad one.
Now and then some of the wounded groaned involuntarily. Those whose
hurts were light insisted upon sitting up and watching the
awe-inspiring sight.
The _Complex_ went quietly. There was very little commotion in the
water, no rush of compressed air. With the White Ensign streaming
proudly in the light breeze, she slipped slowly beneath the surface
and disappeared from view.
"The seaplanes, my hearties!" shouted a bull voice, and a horny hand
was raised with the finger pointed at an angle of about forty-five.
"Smart work, by Jove," commented Cavendish, glancing at his wristlet
watch.
Barely fifty minutes had elapsed from the time of sending out the
first wireless call, and already the two seaplanes attached to the
_Basilikon_ were in sight.
They were manned by officers and petty-officers of the newly
reconstituted Royal Naval Air Service. The Royal Air Force, although
admirable in its conception, had failed in actual practice. The
fusion of the Naval and Military branches had left much to be
desired. Apart from mutual jealousy--a very different thing from
healthy rivalry--the two branches were not readily interchangeable.
It was soon realized that an airman working with a fleet must not
only be an aviator--he must have had a naval training. It could not
reasonably be expected that a man with little knowledge of ships and
the sea could be of much use in an air squadron operating under the
orders of an admiral. He might be, and possibly was, an excellent
airman, but something more was required. Hence, after prolonged and
heated arguments, the Admiralty got their way, and the purely naval
airman again came into his own, unhampered by well-meaning but
blundering Air Ministry officials. The two seaplanes, flying at two
thousand feet, passed almost immediately above the bunch of
motionless boats. From each a hand waved over the coaming of the
cockpit a distant tribute to the cheers of the late crew of the
_Complex_.
A few minutes later, the seaplanes were lost to view. Already they
had received a report of the course taken by the fleeing _Cerro
Algarrobo_, for that information had been embodied in the
_Complex's_ wireless for aid. Like vengeful wraiths they were hard
in pursuit, with the object of bombing the pirate vessel and
crippling her sufficiently to allow the destroyers either to capture
or destroy the mysterious cause of the disappearance of so many
British merchantmen.
Alone on the deep, the boats' crews became boisterous. They sang,
cheered, and yelled, confident in the assurance that they would
shortly find themselves on board a British warship. Their Old Man
allowed them to "work off steam". It was a natural outlet for their
pent-up feelings, after days and nights of ceaseless watch and ward,
followed by a glorious climax of self-sacrifice.
It was not long before two trailing clouds of smoke appeared over
the eastern horizon.
"Hurrah! here come the destroyers, lads," exclaimed Captain
Meredith. "Give them a cheer as they pass and then sit tight for the
old _Basilikon_ to roll up. You'll be sleeping in hammocks to-night
all right."
Quickly the approaching vessels materialized into two very
business-looking destroyers, each armed with five guns--four
4.7-inch, one 3-inch--and six 21-inch torpedo tubes, and credited
with a speed of 35 knots. At the present moment they were doing a
good 5 knots more than their designed speed, flinging showers of
spray on both sides of their pronounced flare and emitting
flame-tinged smoke from their glowing funnels.
Then an unexpected manoeuvre took place. The men in the boats, fully
prepared to have a terrific dusting from the swell of the
swiftly-moving destroyers, had resumed their oars and were heading
so as to meet the curling bow waves end on.
Instead of holding on their course, which would have taken them not
less than half a mile from the nearest boat, the destroyers altered
helm, one passing on either side of the little flotilla. Losing way
under the reverse action of their quadruple propellers, the
destroyers came to a standstill.
"On board, every mother's son of you!" shouted an officer from the
bridge of the _Messines_.
The survivors of the _Complex_ could hardly realize their good
fortune. They were to be in at the death after all. They were to
witness, and perhaps take an active part in, the smashing up of the
so-called _Holton Heath_, otherwise the Rioguayan light cruiser
_Cerro Algarrobo_.
Quickly the work of taking off the boats' crews was accomplished,
the majority finding a temporary home on board the _Armentières_,
the rest on the _Messines_.
Sub-lieutenant Cavendish was amongst the latter. He had barely time
to exchange greetings with a short, bull-necked brother-officer--one
Slade, who was on the same term with him at Dartmouth--when the
_Messines_ forged ahead again, leaving three deserted boats bobbing
forlornly in her foaming wake.
"How goes it, old thing?" inquired Cavendish.
"Not so dusty," admitted Sub-lieutenant Slade. "We're hoping to
finish the job before dark. We've a couple of hours yet.... You've
been having a bit of a jamboree, eh what? See anything of the
submarine?"
"I did," replied Cavendish grimly. "Both ends with nothing between
'em."
"Are you trying to pull my leg, Weeds?" inquired Slade earnestly.
"No--fact," was the reply. "We did her in with an ash-can--a couple,
in point of fact. Couldn't let you know before. Dynamos were flooded
and emergency wireless was out of action."
"You must tell our owner that," continued Slade. "He's on the
bridge."
Lieutenant-Commander Trehallow received the information with marked
enthusiasm and not a little relief. Hitherto, he was hampered by the
knowledge that there was a mysterious submarine acting as consort to
the pirate surface-craft. The submarine accounted for, left him and
his "opposite number" on the _Armentières_ with relatively free
hands. They could concentrate all their energies upon the pursuit of
the _soi-disant Holton Heath_ without the chance of becoming targets
to an invisible foe--unless there were other submarines out.
"It puzzles me," remarked Trehallow to Cavendish as they stood under
the lee of the chart-room, the only possible spot on the otherwise
exposed bridge where they could converse without having to shout in
a howling wind, "it puzzles me to know where these blighters hail
from. You can't hide even a disguised cruiser and a submarine in
your coat pocket. They must have a base somewhere--but where?
There's no port on this part of the coast that isn't under the
control and jurisdiction of one or other of the South American
republics. It's fishy--very. There's something pretty big behind
this. Only the other day----"
The appearance of the yeoman of signals, with a signed pad in his
hand, interrupted the Lieutenant-Commander's words.
"By smoke!" he ejaculated. "Here, Carfax!"
The officer thus addressed laid down his telescope and joined his
chief behind the chart-house.
"Look here, Carfax," continued the Lieutenant-Commander, "what do
you make of this?"
"This" was a crudely pencilled report, almost obliterated in places
where the flying spray had played havoc with indelible pencil.
It was to the effect that both seaplanes had been compelled to
alight on the surface for the second time in half an hour. On each
occasion they had got well to the west'ard of their quarry, hoping
to keep in the eyes of the setting sun and thus approach without
being observed. They had succeeded in getting within three miles of
the fugitive, when unaccountably their engines "konked".
"Alighted and made examination," proceeded the report. "Everything
O.K. Restarted; came down again. Are now up again. Will----"
Here the message ended.
"Why didn't the silly owl finish?" inquired Trehallow testily.
"'Cause, sir, he's probably had to come down again," hazarded
Carfax. "Can't wireless with the aerial trailing in the water and
all hands trying to find out what's wrong with the old 'bus. 'Tany
rate, we're only fifteen miles astern."
"And a stern chase is a long one," commented the
Lieutenant-Commander, glancing at a western sky.
"Where is the pirate making for, I wonder?" inquired Cavendish,
turning to Carfax, when the skipper had gone into the chart-room.
"According to what I've heard, he's making for the estuary of the
Rio Guaya," replied the Sub of the _Messines_. "Goodness only knows
what for. There are three potty little republics somewhere there,
and they wouldn't dare to give shelter to a filibustering blighter
like that. But what is puzzling me is, why do our seaplanes keep
failing? We've had 'em up for eight hours on a stretch many a time
and they've never had any trouble up to now. And when they're most
wanted they're broken reeds. Give me something that floats, any old
time," he added, with sublime youthful confidence in the omnipotence
of sea power.
Twenty minutes later, another wireless report came through from the
seaplanes. It was to the effect that neither was able to approach
the fugitive pirate. If they attempted to do so their engines
failed, but as soon as the pirate craft drew away there was no
further trouble until they again overhauled their quarry.
Lieutenant-Commander Trehallow was obviously perplexed. At first
inclined to imagine that the series of forced descents was due to
accident, he had at last to admit that on the face of things the
seaplanes were under some unknown adverse influence.
He therefore gave the airmen instructions to keep the pirate craft
within sight, but not to close, until the destroyers came within
visual distance of their foe. Then, rather than risk having to stop
and pick up a couple of disabled aircraft, he would order them to
return to their parent ship, the light cruiser _Basilikon_.
At length the masts and funnel of the fugitive ship appeared over
the horizon. The destroyers, hard on her track, were now rapidly
overhauling her, It was a question whether they would get within
striking distance before dark. The odds were against that, for the
sun was now only a few degrees above the horizon.
Meanwhile, all preparations were being made for a night encounter.
Battle lanterns were provided in the event of the electric lamps
being put out of action; night sights were attached to the guns; the
parachute star-shells were taken from the magazine and the
searchlights prepared for use.
The sun dipped. The short tropical twilight gave place to intense
darkness. The moon was not due to appear for another couple of
hours, and in that time the pirate vessel might have found an
opportunity to evade pursuit.
There was no doubt that she was attempting to do so; but she had
overlooked one important circumstance--her phosphorescent wake.
Miles astern, clearly defined on the surface of the dark water, was
a faint luminous trail and to this the avenging destroyers kept,
like bloodhounds to a strong scent.
Suddenly a vivid flash of reddish light sprang out of the darkness
ahead. A shell whined through the air, throwing up a column of spray
two hundred yards on the _Messines_' port quarter.
"Six-inch, by the sound of it," commented Lieutenant-Commander
Trehallow. "We've found her this time. On searchlights!"