Chapter Ten.
Pursued.
The Swift was a formidable fighting ship, though built to tackle the midgets of the sea—the 130 feet torpedo boats. She had no torpedo-tube in the stem, which had been strengthened for ramming; but she carried two tubes at the stern, one four-inch quick-firing gun, two six-pounders forward, and two twelve-pounders on pedestals. Including the officers, there were twenty men to work the ship and guns, and a staff of ten firemen and engineers. The seamen were picked men, tempted by high pay, and all of them showed the unmistakable stamp of strict training and discipline. They were, in fact, men of the Naval Reserve, recruited by the Quartermaster—hard, weather-beaten, and, except when off duty, still-mouthed. The Quartermaster, Henderson, was black-bearded and swarthy, like the Captain, and it was rumoured among the men that this was not the first time the two of them had shipped in the same capacity in blockade-running in the wars of South American Republics. The conning-tower, a small chamber, fitted with tubes, knobs, levers, and a spare wheel, and walled in with thick plates of toughened steel, was just forward of the first funnel. Beyond it was a turtle-backed deck of iron, and on either side were the six-pounders, protected by bullet-proof shields. The Captain could fire the aft torpedo guns by electricity from the conning-tower.
“Clear the guns for action, and slacken speed.”
The shrill, clear notes of the whistle rang out the sharp summons, and the men sprang to their positions with an alacrity which had not marked their actions when threatened by the British warships. Then they had done their duty sullenly, with a sense of ill-omen at having to encounter their own flag; but now they were on a different footing in respect to this new foe, and eager to be at some other game than always on the run.
“If our Captain’s half as good at fighting as he is at running,” growled the sailor known as Dick the Owl, for his night eye, “we’ll have a bellyful, eh, mate? and good luck to it.”
“Eh, it’s a queer thing, Dick, that we navy men should be under these port-to-port cargo and hat-box carriers, but the Captain’s got red lights in his head when there’s danger afoot, and maybe he’ll be a good ’un to follow.”
“As good as any you would find on the bridge of any battleship afloat, my men,” said Lieutenant Webster, who had been standing by unobserved.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the men, touching their caps.
“That’s all right, my men; we’ve got to know each other yet,” replied the Lieutenant, with a kindliness that won their hearts. “Wash down the decks first,” he cried; “we’ll not go down to Davy’s locker disguised in soot, like imps of darkness. Out with the hose.”
The men laughed as they screwed on the hose to the hydrants and poured on a stream of water, sweeping the grimy decks from stem to stern.
“Now, get below for a sluice and a dram,” cried the cheery voice of the Lieutenant, whose idea of handling a crew was not according to naval instructions. The men trooped down the narrow companion-way laughing and joking in their excitement; but the roar of the enemy’s guns, as he fell round to port, and brought his starboard broadside to bear, was a summons that brought them tumbling on deck again ere they had time to wipe their mouths with a backhanded swipe.
“Steady, men, and to your quarters,” said the Captain quietly; “all but the men for the big gun, who will go below.”
Five men had taken their position about the big gun, which stood with its chase pointing up, as though looking away to the horizon for its enemy. These men stood astonished at the order.
“Below, men,” said Lieutenant Webster, approaching them; “you’ll not be wanted till morning,” he added, as he noted their sidelong looks.
They went down in silence; and, by the pressure of a button in the conning-tower, the Captain lowered the long gun into the deck, the same machinery sliding a heavy shield of toughened steel over the opening left by its disappearance. This gun had been specially built for the catcher, and was of a larger calibre than the guns usually carried by that kind of craft. It rose or fell on a strong powerful lever, on a modified principle used for the disappearing guns; and the frame of the ship had been strengthened amidships to bear the strain. It could be loaded and fought on deck, or loaded below and fired from the conning-tower when at close quarters, and had been christened “The Ghost,” after a trial made before reaching Madeira. “The Ghost” was turned out at the Elswick Works, and could fire sixty fifty-pound projectiles in ten minutes.
“We’ve laid our ghost,” said Webster to Hume, who, being quite fresh to this part of the business, stood looking out into the blackness astern in a state of suspense; “we’ve laid our ghost, and must raise theirs.”
“Is that you, Mr Webster?” said the Captain, leaning over the bridge.
“Yes, sir!”
“I must ask you to go to your cabin.”
“To my cabin, sir?”
“Yes; I will not want you till daybreak, and you will fight all the better, then, for a good sleep. Take off the men from the six-pounders—the fewer on board the better.”
Webster went below with six men from the two guns, leaving on deck eight hands in all to work the ship and the two twelve-pounders. One of these was at the wheel in the conning-tower; another was stationed forward on the lookout; and the others were in two steel towers, which were aft, about three feet above the deck, protecting the men from the hail of missiles that might be discharged from the machine guns, while their sloping sides would deflect larger projectiles.
“Mr Hume!”
“Sir.”
“Join me on the bridge.”
Frank mounted to the low bridge, and went close to the dark figure of the Captain for companionship. They were unprotected by steel armour, and for himself he experienced a feeling of complete helplessness. He felt that up there he was a mark for every gun aimed at the Swift, and that without any power of retaliation.
“It is a fine night,” he said aimlessly, looking up at the starry sky.
“A very fine night, indeed,” said the Captain, taking hold of his beard with both hands; “but there’ll be rain in the morning.”
Frank brought his eyes down from the stare to a red eye that gleamed far astern.
The Captain took a couple of steps, and spoke down the tube: “Please attend to your fires; there are too many sparks.”
Frank wondered at the Captain’s quiet tones. Usually he was sharp and rough; now he spoke as though he were asking for a second cup of tea.
“I knew it,” said the Captain.
The red eye astern was dimmed by two livid flashes. Frank heard the dull reports, and then with a thrill down his back listened to the cry of the shells as they sped on. The enemy had as yet done no damage, but he knew that these shrieking messengers had at last scented their foe. He jerked his head violently as the shriek rose to a fiendish scream, and a swift rush of air swept across his face, whilst the crushing of iron behind him told that the shot had struck. It passed through the forward funnel as though it had been a sheet of paper, and the smoke came pouring out of the holes.
“They’ve got our range at last, and it’s lucky for us they have no search-light.”
“I’ll go and get my rifle,” said Frank.
The Captain chuckled: “She’s a mile off, at least; and if not, you might just as well puff at a whale with a pea-shooter. Still, I know how you feel. It’s devilish hard to stand fire without giving back.” He raised his voice: “Fire!”
The twelve-pounders spoke together, belching out balls of fast revolving smoke, and spurring the ship on with their recoil.
“It’s no good, of course,” muttered the Captain; “but it will encourage them to keep up the chase.”
“Why not give them the big gun, Captain?” asked Frank impatiently.
“A waste of ammunition; and we’ll want all we have when we get near the end of our voyage. I could turn and engage them, but I like to see what I am about, and all I want to do now is to encourage them. There she goes round; see her port lights; she’ll give us another broadside, and do you count the flashes.”
“Count the flashes,” thought Frank; “does he think this is a review?”
The twelve-pounders let go at the row of lights, and as the smoke rolled away there came a muffled roar, and in an instant, it seemed to Frank, the air was full of shells. The water was cup up astern, and one projectile struck the turtle-backed deck forward, and went humming into the black of the night.
“She carries six guns to the broadside, I think. What do you make it?”
“A dozen, at least, Captain, and heavy metal,” said Frank, wetting his lips.
“No more than six and twelve-pounders. A larger shell sets up a different music, as you will soon learn. Still, I don’t like it; their gunners are too smart.”
The Captain took a turn up and down the bridge, then sent a shout to the Quartermaster to cease fire.
“Mr Hume, you will find a life-belt on the starboard side, opposite the hatchway, with a canister attached. Cut it adrift.”
Frank found the belt, and sent it overboard.
“Keep her three spokes to port.”
The steersman starboarded the helm, and the Swift went off at an angle to her former course, whilst the canister, on reaching the water, flared out in a brilliant blaze in the ship’s former wake.
Before Frank had reached the bridge the enemy had come round and fired his two forward guns, then, keeping on to port, quickly let go his starboard broadside. The water about the floating flare was dashed up in showers.
The Captain slapped Hume on the back as he reached the bridge.
“That’s a simple trick, eh! and we could slip away as easy as winking if we had a mind to. Lord, won’t they howl when they find how they have been done!”
There came a hearty guffaw from the towers aft as the men saw through the Captain’s joke.
“Lord, there he goes again,” as the forward guns again belched forth; “what a ferocious devil the commander must be! He takes that light to be a signal, and imagines he is firing at a crippled ship, the devil.”
The Quartermaster came forward. “The enemy has slackened off, sir.”
“Is that so?” said the Captain, taking a long look at the steamer’s lights. “Ha, I have it,” and he smacked his fist in his hand, showing the first symptoms of excitement. “He thinks we’ve gone down, and we’ll lay-to till morning, which can’t be far off.”
“There’ll be grey light in an hour, sir.”
The Captain kept his eye on the steamer’s light, which rose and fell, but kept its place.
“Quartermaster, take your men below for some hot grog and a bite, and rouse Mr Webster.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
The Captain went to the tube. “Slacken speed, Mr Dixon, and be very careful with your fires. Starboard your helm; bring her round.”
The Swift went round with a steady swing, bringing the enemy’s light on her port bows, instead of over her starboard stern rails.
The men lingered awhile to see the manoeuvre finished, and then went below, satisfied there was to be a fight.
“Keep her on that course now,” said the Captain to the steersman.
“Mr Webster,” he continued, as that officer stepped briskly up and took a glance round, “see that everything is in readiness, and that the men take their positions without a word. Within an hour the fight will begin.”
“Begin, sir? You’ve been at it this past three hours, and I’ve been in and out of my bunk a dozen—times, while the men are all on the quiver.”
“We haven’t come to knocks yet. I’ll present my card in the morning with a fifty-pound rat-tat.”
Webster laughed gaily as he set about his duties, and presently the men gathered silently to their posts, some of them every now and again stealing to the sides to make out the whereabouts of the enemy and the meaning of the manoeuvre, which puzzled them, as one might gather from their whispered arguments.
The Swift doubled back towards the eastern horizon, where the darkness was quickly melting into the grey of dawn, and a deep silence rested on the ship, and over the shining heave of waters. Slowly the enemy’s light was overhauled, then sank astern, but the Swift kept on its way until a tint of pink appeared in the sky and the stars suddenly paled.
“The time has come,” said the Captain. “Are you all ready?”
“Ay, ay, sir!” came the answer in suppressed tones.
“Round with her, my man, on the port tack.”
The Swift rushed round, and there was a murmur of admiring criticism from the old tars as they now understood the meaning of the Captain’s manoeuvre.
“They are satisfied now,” said the Captain, grimly, to Frank. “They thought all along, I’ll be bound, that I could not fight this ship.”
“I confess, sir, I don’t understand your tactics.”
“Well, I suppose you don’t. The enemy’s fighting strength is evidently in her bow guns. So is ours. I have got the ’vantage of her by going into action on her beam. Mark me, before she can bear her bow guns on us she’ll be crippled. Full steam ahead!” he shouted, and the low craft rushed forward.
The whole horizon on the east was now bathed in light, and in a moment the blood-red disc of the sun flamed above the black line of the waters, while streamers of light shot into the sky. Straight ahead there rose a dark object. A shaft of golden light stretching across the waters struck full upon it, and there stood out in a glory of softest fire the tall masts and long black hull of the Brazilian ship. She was at rest, rising and falling gently; but there was a terrible awakening in store. Every minute brought her into clearer relief, though from the dark background beyond there was a blur about her deck, out of which, however, presently there emerged distinct objects—her boats, her bridge unoccupied, the gilt scroll under her stern, over which idly dropped the Brazilian flag; and last of all, the chases of her port broadside grimly projecting, with a glint of red sunlight on their smooth cylinders.
The two vessels were now distant about six hundred yards, and at last the careless lookout on the Brazilian ship saw something alarming astern in the fierce rush of the low grey craft. Some men dashed up the rigging to get a better view, and a small group gathered on the bridge.
“We’ll wake ’em up!” shouted the Captain, springing into the conning-tower and pressing a button, which brought up “The Ghost” from its bed.
The real action had begun; the night’s work had been child’s play. There was a terrific din as the long gun threw shot after shot, and in ten minutes a dense bank of smoke enveloped the Swift. The firing was suspended a minute.
The Captain stood in the conning-tower, his hands on the wheel, and his eyes fixed in a narrow slit under the steel roof. Giving a turn of the wheel to starboard, he brought the stem free of the smoke, and saw the enemy slowly gathering way, while men rushed about her decks in a state of terrible confusion at this sudden tempest of shells that had poured upon them.
Some damage had been done evidently, but principally to her top rigging. And now she spoke from her stern guns, but not allowing sufficiently for her height, the first stinging flight of shells went over the catcher.
“Stand by the six-pounders!” cried the Captain, his voice rising to a roar. “Depress your muzzle, Mr Webster! Fire!”
Again there was another tremendous fusillade, continuous and deafening, while the men’s eyes smarted from the sulphur in the smoke, and their throats grew dry and husky. For five minutes the rain of lead was kept up, and from the three guns one hundred projectiles tore into the sloop, plunged along the port side, and shattered her rigging. Lieutenant Webster devoted his second storm of fire at the stern guns, and the stanchions and bulwarks about them were ripped up, and the guns themselves dismounted.
The order to cease fire was again given, and the Captain made a point to starboard just as the sloop was swinging round to bring her port broadside to bear.
The ships were now but two hundred yards off, the sloop bearing off from the port quarter of the catcher in her attempt to come round and bring her bow guns to bear. Once she could do that she could blow the Swift out of the water, but Captain Pardoe had foreseen the manoeuvre and was ready for it. Counting upon the narrow turning power of his boat, he swept on, and suddenly put the wheel hard to port, bringing the vessel round within her own length, and bringing the boats stern to stern. At the same moment he flashed the signal below to fire the stern torpedoes. Then he stepped out to watch the effect, and the men, with heaving chests and smoke-blackened faces, from which their eyes glared with the fever of battle, watched too. There was a cry from the deck of the sloop, as they saw the leap from the tubes of the two torpedoes, a hoarse cry from the Captain to the man at the wheel, a terrible pause, and then two lines of bubbles below the water marked the swift rush of the deadly tubes. One line, it was seen, would continue free of the ship, the other went straight for her stern, and a sailor, in a mad fit of rage, first discharged his rifle at the approaching torpedo, then plunged overboard with a wild yell. A moment later there was a muffled roar, a vast column of water was thrown up, followed by a rending and grinding noise. The stern of the sloop was raised, then settled down in the trough of a great sea raised by the explosion. The torpedo had reached its mark, and Captain Pardoe stood by to give what assistance he could.
There was the wildest consternation on board the sloop, and the rending noise continued; but though she lay helplessly on the water she showed no signs of sinking.
The men on board the Swift set up a hoarse cheer, and shook each other by the hand.
“It’s twenty minutes since we went into action,” said Webster, wiping the blood from his brow. “Three cheers for our Captain, men!” and waving his hat, he led the hurrahs.
“For the love of God,” cried a voice in English from the sloop, “help us!”
“Strike your flag!” cried the Captain.
The gay flag came down, and the Captain brought the Swift nearer. “What is the matter?”
“Your cursed torpedo has blown away our propeller, and the shaft—oh, Sancta Maria!—listen to it!—is breaking the ship.”
“Why don’t you shut off steam?”
“Our engineer is dead. Demonios! Don’t talk, but act.”
“I’ll send our engineer to you.”
“Quick, quick!”
Mr Dixon came up from the bowels of the Swift, where, without the stimulant of action, he had stood by his work, animating his men with a quiet courage, which was the finer because he stood in absolute darkness regarding the progress of the fight, and knew that at any moment he might be sent to the bottom a helpless victim in an iron prison. His face was white and streaming with perspiration, and at the first touch of the cold air he reeled with dizziness, but when told what was required of him, he prepared for his new task without a word. The Swift moved gently under the tall sides of the sloop, and the engineer, with Webster, Hume, and six men, were quickly on board. Mr Dixon went at once to the engine-room, whence proceeded a truly infernal din.
“Where Is the Captain?” asked Webster of a dozen men round him.
A short, thick-set, bullet-headed man, with a neck like a bull, and moustaches that reached up to his ears, stepped forward.
“Your sword, Señor Juarez!”
“I must know to whom I am asked to surrender.”
“To the National flag,” said Webster haughtily.
“Carambo! that is an excellent jest. Is the flag broad enough to cover the ships of every nation? And why should I surrender my sword?” he asked, with a fierce scowl, while his officers drew near threateningly.
Webster stepped quickly to the bulwarks, and called to Captain Pardoe to stand away.
That officer went at once full speed astern, and lay-to a cable length off, with the men at their guns.
“You see?” said Webster.
The Brazilian Captain, with a terrible malediction, broke his sword over his knee.
“A thousand thunders!” he roared, while the black blood swelled in his temples, “to think I should have been beaten by that—that thing—and scarcely a boat’s crew hurt!”
“It is the fortune of war,” said Webster, looking around. “But while we talk the ship may be sinking for want of a little sailor-like care. Have you a spare sail, señor?”
The Brazilian Captain folded his arms and spat on the deck.
“You surly brute!” cried Webster. “Here, men, cut away the mizzen sail!”
In a trice the British sailors swarmed up to the mizzen yard and cast loose the sail, which came down with a thud, knocking a couple of yellow-faced sailors off their legs, whereat the tars up aloft laughed. At this a dozen of the enemy drew their knives and looked to their Captain for a word.
It was a ticklish moment, and Hume pulled out a revolver, which he instantly presented at Juarez.
“Good, my lad,” said Webster. “Shoot him down if he moves a foot. Do you understand, señor?”
Juarez glared like a wild beast, and a hoarse, unintelligible cry escaped from his thick lips, but he kept quiet, while Webster, without another look at the scowling group, quickly slipped the great sail over the side, and had it drawn round and up over the damaged stern.
In the meantime Mr Dixon, working down below, had stopped the engines and explored the shaft funnel, ascertaining the extent of the damage done by the shaft in its unchecked revolutions. He came on deck, wearied out, to be met by dark looks.
“What’s the meaning of this?” said he.
“The meaning is,” cried Webster, with a bitter look of contempt round, “that these cowardly hounds won’t lift a finger to help us, and I’m damned if my men will do another stroke to save them! Let the ship sink, and she is sinking fast.”
“And you’ll sink with us!” roared Juarez. “Down with them; slit their throats!”
There was a rush of men, and the little party were hemmed in.
A young officer bounded forward with drawn sword, and wheeling round, faced his men.
“Diavolo!” he hissed through his clenched teeth, “what devil’s game is this? You called to these gentlemen in your fear to help you, and now you would turn on them like base assassins. I tell you,” he cried passionately, “it shall not be!”
Webster and Hume, with their blue eyes flashing, ranged up on either side of their unexpected friend, while the British tars stood with their cutlasses ready.
Captain Pardoe, seeing something amiss, drew near. “Do you hear,” he shouted, “if you harm my men I’ll let go a torpedo.”
The young officer repeated the message, and the men whispered among themselves, then threw down their arms.
Juarez shot a venomous look at his officer, and placed his foot upon a knife, which, presently, he drew toward him.
Webster thanked the gallant foe for his assistance, and assured him that the sloop would keep afloat until they reached Madeira. He then turned to the side to speak to Captain Pardoe, while Frank Hume walked aft to see what damage had been wrought by the fire of the catcher.
There was a cry, and they turned to see the young officer fall, struck to the heart by the vengeful Captain. The next instant Juarez himself was cut to the deck by a slashing blow from a cutlass.
At this act of black treachery the small boarding party were ready to make a furious rush, but the sloop’s officers and men looked on themselves appalled, while a young fellow, quite a boy, flung himself on the officer’s body in a passion of grief, then suddenly springing up, drew his knife and advanced towards Juarez.
“Enough!” said Webster sternly.
“Kill the black-hearted dog!” screamed the Brazilian sailors, giving vent to their hate for their brutal commander, which no doubt had been long pent up.
“I see,” said Webster, with a grim smile; “we must get this fellow on board to save him from his friends.”
He signalled to the Swift, and when she came alongside, Juarez, who still breathed heavily, was lowered to her deck.
“What’s to be done with the sloop, sir?”
“Oh, leave her, if she can float, and think ourselves lucky to be free of a gang of prisoners.”
“She can reach Madeira by means of her sails.”
“Take a look round, then, and come aboard.”
Webster and Hume went aft, where all the damage done by the Swift’s guns had taken place, and there they found the bulwarks smashed to splinters, the two guns overturned, and the deck wet with blood from a dozen dead.
With a last word of advice to the gloomy and silent officers of the sloop, Webster stepped overboard, and very soon the Swift went on her way.