CONCLUSION
'M N'
SHIMMERING in gilt sunlit threads, the grey North Sea lay calm and placid, at peace with the whip of the winds after days of storm and heavy weather. The sun had come up to peer over a low curtain of vapour that hung in the east. Past the meridian, the moon stood clear-cut in the motionless upper sky. The ring of quiet sea accepted the presence of the waiting ships as of friendly incomers, familiar to the round of the misty horizon. Two British destroyers, a flotilla of motor-vessels, drifters—the brown sails of Thames barges appearing, then vanishing, in the wisps of fickle vapour. A breathless dawn. Sun, the silver moon, the grey flat sea bearing motionless ships, were witness to the drama—the giving up of the murder craft, the end of piracy.
Growing out of the mist, a squadron of British light cruisers and their convoy approached the rendezvous where the destroyers lay in readiness to take over charge of the German submarines. Two enemy transports under their commercial flags, headed the line of the water-snakes. Aircraft circled overhead and turned and returned on the line of progress. The leading ships swung out on approaching the destroyers and engaged them by signal. The destroyers weighed anchor and proceeded to carry out their orders. Each carried a number of officers and men to be placed aboard the submarines, to accept their surrender, to direct their further passage to within the booms at Harwich.
The commander of Melampus focused his glasses on the eleventh submarine of the long straggling line. The U-boat had a wash over his screws and was apparently steaming ahead to overtake his fellows, now fading into the mist in the direction of their prison gates.
"Our group," he said: then, to the signalman, "Tell him to stop instantly!"
The bluejacket stood out on the sparring of the bridge and signalled with his hand-flags. The submarine still moved ahead at speed, his exhaust panting at pressure. The German commander could not (or would not) understand, and it was necessary to hoist 'M N' of the International Code. The two flags were sufficient: he threw his engines astern and brought up to await further orders. His followers arrived on the station. Some cast anchor, others slowed and stopped. All took note of the flags—St. Andrew's cross over blue and white checquers, hoisted at the destroyer's yard-arm—and obeyed the summary signal.
'M N!' International Code! The old flags of the days when there was peace on the sea, when the German commercial ensign was known and familiar and respected in the seaports of the world!
How many of the Germans would understand the full significance of the hoist that brought them to a standstill—the import of the flags drooping in the windless air—the beckoning of the coloured fabric that ended their murder trade. The day had long passed since they had used this warning signal for a procedure in law and order. No 'M N' to Lusitania before littering the Irish Sea with wreckage and the pitiful bodies of women and small children: no signal to Arabic or Persia: no warning to Belgian Prince, to California, to all the long and ghastly list: no summons to the hospital ships—alight and blazoned to advertise their humane mission. And now—their ensign dishonoured, their name as seamen condemned to the everlasting tale of infamy, their proud commercial seafaring destroyed—to come in with the blood on their hands, and render and submit to the mandate of a two-flag hoist!
'M N!' The Code of the Nations! The summons to peaceful seafarers! 'Stop instantly!' Disobey at your peril! At last, at long last, the Freedom of the Seas—the security of the ships—the safety of all who pass on their lawful occasions—completely re-established by the flaunt of the old flags!