CHAPTER X—THE TERROR OF THE SEAS
Phil Morgan, on thinking over the conversation with Franz Eberhardt, was not at all sure that he should have discussed the wreck of the other Zeppelin so freely with the prisoner. Yet Eberhardt was a prisoner, and was not likely to be in a position to use any information he might have gained to benefit his nation for a long time to come. If Eberhardt’s cousin was a spy, perhaps this young chap was one too.
The hint Franz had dropped about the man who had escaped from the Zeppelin that had been brought down on land, Whistler passed on, through the proper channels, to the commander of the destroyer. He could do no more than that. Possibly the man who had tied up George Belding and escaped in the latter’s clothes, might be the “Cousin Emil” of whom Franz was so proud.
The Colodia steamed into the port at which she was stationed to find the convoy and most of the naval vessels cleared out to accompany the merchant craft. The American destroyer would be held for any emergency call and there would be no present shore leave for her crew.
Phil received a long letter, one long delayed, from his sister Alice. The whole story of how the Beldings had come to invite Whistler’s two sisters to accompany them to Bahia was here set forth, and the young fellow’s mind was much relieved when Alice assured him that even the suggestion of the voyage had so delighted Phoebe that she already showed improvement in her health.
Kind words from many neighbors and friends were included in the letter for the other Seacove boys. Of course, Alice did not know at the time of writing that George Belding was booked for a billet on the Colodia, too, or she would have sent a message to him.
No thought that the Redbird might come to grief on her voyage to the South American port seemed to trouble Alice Morgan’s mind when she wrote to her brother. At that time it was thought all German raiders and U-boats were driven from the Western Atlantic waters.
However that might be, the Huns were active enough in the waters through which the Colodia plied. It was only two days after Whistler and George Belding had saved the living remainder of the Zeppelin crew when an S O S call was picked up by the port wireless station and transmitted to the destroyer. It was possible that the ship in peril was too far away for the Colodia to be of service; nevertheless she started out of the harbor within ten minutes of the reception of the aero plea for help.
The weather was rough, and the ship barely dropped the headlands below the horizon at sunset. They were bound, doubtless, on a useless night trip. And yet, such ventures were a part of the work of the destroyers and must be expected by their crews.
When night had fallen there was only a pale radiance resting on the sea while broken wind clouds drove athwart a gray and dreary sky. No stars were visible. From behind the weather screen of the bridge, where the two watch officers were stationed, nothing could be seen ahead but the phosphorescent flash of waves otherwise as black as ink. These flashes, where the waves broke at their crests, decreased rather than aided the powers of vision.
The crew of the Colodia were by this time so well used to their work that there were few false alarms as the ship tore on through the dark seas. Such errands as this were part of the expectation—almost of routine. The destroyers at night fairly “smelled” their way from point to point.
Now and then a porpoise shot straight toward the Colodia, leaving a sparkling wake so like that of a torpedo that the lookout might be excused for giving a mistaken warning. But the men knew the real thing now, and the gunners did not bang away at fish or floating débris as they had in the beginning.
“Why, even Isa Bopp has not for a long time raised a flivver,” said Al Torrance, discussing this matter with George Belding and Whistler. “And Ikey has stopped straining his eyes when he’s off duty. One time he would have hollered ‘wolf’ if he’d seen a dill pickle floating three hundred yards off our weather bow.”
“That’s all right,” said Whistler. “But Ikey won the first gold piece for sighting a German sub when he first went to sea on this old knife-blade. He’s got eyes for something besides dill pickles, has Ikey.”
The crackling radio was intercepting messages from other ships—all kinds of ships. The S O S call was no longer being repeated; but the Colodia’s officers had learned the position of the vessel that called for help at the start, and the destroyer did not swerve from her course. She roared on through the dark sea directly for the spot indicated.
“There’s nothing fancy in this job, George,” Phil Morgan said to their new chum. “Nothing like a good, slap-dash battle with the Hun fleet, such as we had a few weeks ago, or even chasing a Hun raider out of Zeebrugge, or Kiel. But the old Colodia has had ‘well done’ signaled her by the fleet admiral more than once.”
“You bet!” Al Torrance put in. “We’ve sunk more than one of the U-boats. We’re one of ‘the terrors of the sea,’ boy—like the song tells about. That is what they call our flotilla.”
“Ah! I’ve heard all that before,” Belding said, in some disgust. “I want to see action!”
As it chanced, he saw action on this very cruise. First, however, came the conclusion of the incident that had brought them out of port, chasing a phantom S O S.
A light burning low on the water was spied about ten o’clock. It could be nothing but an open boat, and the Colodia’s prow was turned more directly toward it. The sea was really too rough for a submarine to be awash, yet the Huns had been known to linger in the vicinity of their victims so as to catch the rescuing vessel unaware. A sharp lookout was maintained as the Colodia steamed onward.
The torch in the open boat flared and smoked, while the boat pitched and tossed—seemingly scarcely under command of its crew. There was no sign of any other craft in the vicinity. The signal from the attacked ship having stopped hours before, without much doubt she had sunk.
And but one boat remained!
The destroyer sped down within hailing distance of the open boat, burning signals of her own meanwhile. Getting on the weather quarter of the castaways, the latter were ordered to pull to the Colodia.
The boat held only nineteen survivors of the Newcastle Boy, a collier that had been torpedoed by a submarine. There had been a second boat, and both had been shelled after the collier sank, and the mate, who was in command of these rescued castaways, feared his captain’s boat was utterly lost. Had the sea not been so rough, he said, the Germans would have succeeded in sinking his boat, too.
Whistler was on duty amidships and he overheard much of the report made by the collier’s mate to Lieutenant Commander Lang and the conversation among the officers thereon.
He was particularly impressed by the inquiries the destroyer’s commander made regarding the nature of the attack, the type of U-boat that did the deed, and similar details.
A close track was kept of all these submarine attacks. The methods of certain submarine commanders could usually be traced. These reports were kept by the British Admiralty and were intended, at the end of the war, to assist in identifying U-boat commanders who had committed atrocities. Those men should, in the end, not escape punishment for their horrid crimes.
This attack upon the Newcastle Boy had been particularly brutal. There were four wounded men in the mate’s boat. If the captain’s boat were lost, the missing would total twenty-six.
The Colodia, swinging in wide circles through the rough sea, remained near the scene of the catastrophe until morning. They discovered no trace of the sunken ship, although the mate declared she had gone down within a mile of the spot where the destroyer had picked up the survivors.
But at daybreak the watchful lookouts did spy a broken oar and part of the bow of the captain’s lifeboat—its air-compartment keeping it afloat. No human being was there to be seen, and the conclusion was unescapable that the Hun had done his best to “sink without trace” another helpless boat’s crew.
It was mid-afternoon, however, before the Colodia left the vicinity of the tragedy. There was a desire in the hearts of her crew and officers to sight the submarine that had committed this atrocity.
Finally, however, the American naval vessel was swung about for port and began to pick up speed. These destroyers never seem to go anywhere at an easy pace; they are always “rushed” in their schedule.
Having given up hope of catching the particular submarine that had sunk the Newcastle Boy, the Colodia’s lookouts did not, however, fail to watch for other submersibles. Men stationed in the tops, on the bridge, and in both bow and stern, trained keen eyes upon the surrounding sea as the destroyer dashed on her way.
Ikey Rosenmeyer and his special chum, Frenchy Donahue, were in the bows on watch. Even those two “gabbers,” as Al Torrance called them, knew enough to keep their tongues still while on duty; and nobody on the destroyer had keener vision than Ikey and Frenchy.
Almost together the two hailed the bridge:
“Off the port bow, sir!” while Ikey added “Starboard your helm!”
A great cry went up from amidships. The Colodia escaped the object just beneath the surface by scarcely a boat’s length. Men sprang to the depth-bomb arms and the crews to their guns.
But it was not a submarine. A great wave caused by the swift shifting of the Colodia’s helm, brought the object almost to the surface.
“A mine!” roared the crew.
The destroyer’s speed was slackened instantly. She swung broadside to the menace. A few snappy commands, and two of the deck guns roared.
Instantly a geyser of water and smoke rose from the sea. The explosion of the mine could have been seen for many miles. Had the destroyer collided with it——
“We’d have gone to Davy Jones’ locker, sure enough, fellows,” said Al Torrance. “Those mines the Huns are sowing through these seas now would blow up the Brooklyn Bridge. Suppose the Leviathan, troop ship, scraped her keel on that thing?”
There was much discussion all over the destroyer about the mine. It suggested that the submarine that had sunk the Newcastle Boy might be a mine-sower. That fact would help identify the submarine, for all types of German submersibles are not fitted with mine wells.
“You see how it is, George,” said Phil Morgan to their new chum. “These seas around here are just as safe as a powder factory—just about! How does it make you feel?”
“Pshaw!” returned Belding, “didn’t I tell you we almost caught a sub when I was out on the Sirius? I don’t believe the Heinies have got so many of ’em, after all.”
“Never you mind,” said Whistler. “They’ve got enough if they have but one, believe me! Just think how we fellows used to gas about submarines and all that. Before the war, I mean! We never dreamed any country would use them as the Germans have.”
The tone of the whole crew after the narrow escape from the mine was intense. They were on the lookout for almost anything to happen. Before mid-afternoon, while still out of sight of land, the top hailed the deck officers.
“Steamer in sight, sir!”
The position and course of the stranger was given, and immediately everybody who had glasses turned them in the indicated direction. The destroyer’s course was changed a trifle, for everything that floated on the sea was examined by the Allied patrol.
Soon the high, rusted sides of an ancient tramp steamship hove into the view of all. She was a two-stack steamer, and despite her evident age and frowsiness she was making good time toward the Thames.
“Taking a chance,” Ensign MacMasters said to Whistler and his friends. “That is what she is doing. She’s not even camouflaged. Her owner has found some daredevil fellows to run her and will make a fortune in a single voyage—or lose the ship, one or the other. Great gamblers, some of these old ship owners.”
“Gamblers with men’s lives,” said George Belding. “I should know. My father is in the business; but he does not take such chances as that.”
“Not even with the Redbird?” whispered Whistler anxiously. “I don’t know about Phoebe and Alice sailing on her.”
“Oh, pshaw! there’s no danger over yonder,” declared George. “We’ve driven all the Huns from the Western Atlantic.”
“Hope so,” returned Whistler.
Just then a cry rose from some of the men on deck. The destroyer was near enough to the tramp steamship now to observe what went on aboard of her. They saw men running about her deck. Then followed the “Bang! Bang! Bang!” of her deck guns.
The guns were aimed for the far side of the tramp—the object they were aiming at being out of sight. But the destroyer’s crew knew what that fusillade meant.
“A sub! She’s got a sub under her guns!” was the yell that rose all over the Colodia.
Swift orders from the bridge and instantly the destroyer shot ahead like a mettlesome horse under spur and whip.