CHAPTER XII RIGHT THROUGH THE BLOCKADE
By next morning the barometer had fallen another tenth. Dirty-gray storm-clouds were slowly moving up from the west. From time to time faint cat's-paws appeared upon the water, now from the north, now from the west, and again from a south-westerly direction. That was very satisfactory, for it meant beyond all doubt, an early change of weather. The second-officer searched the horizon keenly with his glasses, and then muttered something to himself.
'I'm betting on a north-wester,' said I, 'with rain, and perhaps also fog. Can't you smell anything?'
The mate sniffed suspiciously. 'I don't think I'll take you,' said he. 'I was just going to say myself that I felt as if——'
'We shan't quarrel over that, then! I believe I can smell the fog coming. Wait and see.'
The eight o'clock observation gave us one degree of west longitude. We had therefore, though lying to with engines stopped, been carried westward by the set of the current, to the extent of a whole degree of longitude. The latitude had only altered by a few minutes, southward, as we had found a few hours before.
A dark shadow, which was now observable on the water, to the south, made us reach hastily for our glasses.
Wind. South wind. It was coming now—just what we had been praying for. A few minutes more and it would have reached us. While the water slowly began to crisp under the breeze, the horizon line began to waver; the clear, sharply-defined line which marked the division between sea and sky seemed in places raised and undulating—the first presage of coming fog. Towards ten o'clock the wind jumped round to the south-west, and freshened. Light wisps of vapour began to drift down on our port bow, and sometimes from right ahead. Half an hour later the horizon was so dim that it was impossible to take an altitude.
'What about it?' asked Düsselmann, who was taking the watch, giving me, as he spoke, a keen, sidelong glance, his right hand already on the lever of the engine-room telegraph.
I thought a moment, then: 'Carry on,' I said. 'Half speed! Course, south-west!'
The telegraph rang. In engine-room and stokehold things got lively. Heavily and slowly the screw began to revolve, there was a churning and frothing at the stern, and the Aud got slowly under way. Once more in the charthouse there was a frenzy of calculating and measuring; with the result that we decided to proceed as far as a certain point at reduced speed, so that it would still be open to us, if necessary, to choose the northern route. But if, by the time we reached that point, the misty weather continued, then during the night we would try for the break-through.
By midday we estimated the strength of the wind as 3.[5] From time to time there were light showers of fine rain. Pity that we were still a day's steaming from the danger-line, otherwise we might well have got through that night, for the moon was completely obscured by clouds. The barometer fell slowly but steadily. For the present it was still too high to mean an immediate storm, but if it continued to fall at the same rate we might have more than we bargained for later on. For the present we were well content. We were now nearing the point which must mark for us the parting of the ways, and I decided for the southern route—through the blockade.
The look-outs were now doubled. Even the cook had to 'stand his watch,' and was greatly delighted at being allowed on the bridge, close to the exalted beings who performed the mysteries of navigation.
Now, more than ever, the motto for every one was: 'Keep your eyes skinned!' Ahead of us were the enemy outposts in imposing numbers, and on our starboard bow, on the east coast of Iceland, enemy auxiliary cruisers had also been reported.
Next day was the 16th of April. At 4 a.m. there was entered in the log-book under the heading 'Weather' the following remark: 'Overcast, increasingly misty, occasional heavy showers, wind, south-west 4[6], freshening, corresponding sea.'
We reckoned out the course and the distance. It was still 150 nautical miles to the line on which the enemy cruisers were patrolling. If we aimed straight for the middle of this line, we should, at an average speed of ten knots, arrive at that point at about 8 p.m.
That was good luck for us, for 8 p.m. is, on all ships, the hour for a change of watch, and at such times the men's attention is bound to be a little distracted. Moreover, the day was a Sunday. And on Sunday, in English ships, every one would certainly do himself a little extra well, with the aid of whisky and similar good things. Up here, too, that was especially to be expected. For the men on a remote outpost station like this, who were doubtless not relieved too frequently, in their monotonous but trying duty, that was almost the only pleasure which they had a chance to enjoy. Moreover, in view of the overcast weather, it was pretty certain that by eight o'clock it would be already growing dark. By dawn we could be sixty miles beyond the enemy line, and of course far out of sight.
'Full speed ahead!' Now for it!
The farther west we steamed, the more the wind and sea increased in strength. Spray began to dash over the bows, and soon forced us to seek the protection of our oilskins. The afternoon brought a very pleasant surprise, for the rain quite slowly and imperceptibly transformed itself into a real undeniable fog, which grew thicker and thicker. By 4 p.m. one could scarcely see half a mile. Our chances were improving from minute to minute. Were we really to have such luck? It was scarcely believable.
We steamed south-west at full speed. Any one seeing us would have thought that we must have come out of the Polar Sea. Even in peace time that would have been unusual; how much more so now in time of war.
What would happen, then, if an Englishman suddenly jumped out of the fog upon us? We could scarcely expect him to believe that we were nothing but a harmless collier!
By six o'clock the visibility was down to three or four ship's lengths at most. The whole ship's company was on the look-out. No one thought of sleep; excitement kept us all alert. Gray and heavy lay the fog upon the water. Nothing was to be seen or heard. The uncanny stillness pressed like an incubus upon our excited nerves. Our binoculars were hardly ever away from our eyes. Every other moment we thought we heard or saw something abnormal. Meanwhile, the Aud was thrashing more and more heavily through the rising sea. Big white caps broke against her bow, the spray was thrown up over bridge and funnel. Every moment, as the ship drove onward towards the enemy's line, the tension grew. We scarcely dared to breathe.
'Time, please?'
'Seven-ten, captain,' came the whispered reply.
'Sharp look-out ahead. We're close on the line.'
It was odd to see how every man, as though to see farther, craned his neck forward, as he sought to pierce the thick veil ahead.
The minute-hand marked 7.15. The minutes were passing much too slowly for us.
But what was that? 'Hard a-port!' 'Increase speed to the utmost!' 'Emergency stations!'
The wheel flew over to port with a jerk, the wires of the engine-room telegraph underneath the deck-planks creaked as though they would break. As a startled sea-bird sheers away, so the Aud shoots in a sudden curve to port, while to starboard, not two cables' lengths off, a dark, black-gray mass looms ghostly out of the fog.
Damnation! An auxiliary cruiser! Her silhouette became clearer—two masts, high upper works, a thick funnel.
'Half speed!' 'Course, south-by-west!' There is no possibility of escape by flight. We are discovered, for the English ship, which I estimated roughly as of 10,000 tons, alters course at the same moment, and steams along parallel to us, scarcely 200 yards away. She must be going at reduced speed, for she keeps obstinately just abreast of us. The comedy is about to begin.
At the first alarm, the 'watch below'—who had all been keeping a look-out on deck—hurry away to their bunks, the suspicious objects are hidden; we on the bridge, with beating hearts but outwardly cool and collected, tramp up and down with our hands in our pockets, expectorating freely and smoking like chimneys. There is nothing to indicate that we are in the least perturbed by the appearance of the cruiser. Dully, as if it was all a matter of course, we take an occasional glance ahead through our glasses, tooting every couple of minutes, like the simple merchantman we are, with our hoarse steam siren, in dutiful obedience to the rules laid down for warning-signals during fog. To the unwelcome stranger we scarcely give a glance. The crew of a tramp are apt to be indifferent. Thus, for an appreciable time, we steam quietly along, side by side, neither making any overtures to the other.
I am, of course, burning to know what the Englishman is up to. In order to make unobtrusive investigations—it is evident that all the available binoculars on the cruiser were being turned on us—I send my second-officer into the charthouse. The observations which he makes through the charthouse window he then communicates to me on the bridge through the voice-pipe. 'Several large guns forward—same aft,' is the tenor of his first report.
Gradually, over yonder on the cruiser, things begin to liven up. More and more men appear on deck, and stare hard at us.
'Our reckoning was right to a hair, any way,' opines the second-officer, with a sarcastic grin—small consolation in the present circumstances. We wait and wait for a signal from the Englishman, ordering us to stop, or a round of blank fired for the same purpose; but nothing of the kind happens.
Damn it all, is the fellow going to escort us in to the Faroes? It almost looks like it, for those rocky islands must lie right ahead, though still a day's steaming from here.
Time goes on, and we still wait, bracing ourselves for what may come. When the chronometer shows 7.30 I order 'seven bells' to be loudly and clearly struck on the ship's bell. We had, for good and sufficient reasons, hitherto pointedly neglected this universal usage of board-ship life. The men standing watching us at the cruiser's rail gradually drift away again. A dirty little collier is, of course, no very interesting object. Moreover, it is cold and wet on deck, and at eight o'clock the watch will be changed. Perhaps, also, a tot of steaming grog is being served out below.
It began to grow dusk. In order to confirm the Britisher in his conviction of our innocent character, I gave orders to light the masthead light and side lights. The English and Norwegian signal books lay ready to our hand on the flag-locker. We had already looked up the signals that we were likely to want. But it was all for nothing. No activity was to be observed either in the neighbourhood of the guns or of the boats. Gradually even the bridge was left to the sole tenancy of the officers of the watch.
Was the Britisher keeping some big surprise up his sleeve, or did he really take us for what we pretended to be? That they could read clearly on our side. The course, however, on which they found us might surely have given them food for thought. Did they really not find anything curious in the idea that a ship of our type should be coming straight from the North Pole?
I must confess that the conduct of this English auxiliary cruiser—whose name, unfortunately, we could not make out, as it had been painted over, was one of the greatest puzzles of my life, and has remained so to this day.
Eight bells. Change of watch. On board the English ship also the new watch came on deck. She was now so close to us that every movement on her deck could be seen, although it was now growing perceptibly darker. Good God! If we had only had a torpedo or a submarine in attendance; a more favourable opportunity for a hit with a torpedo could hardly be imagined. Boof! the cruiser buries her nose deep in a sea and takes a considerable quantity of water over her bows, to come pouring in great streams out of her forward scuttles.
'I believe the fellow funks the weather,' said one of my men.
Well, that was always a possibility. With the sea then running—the wind had increased to force 5 or 6[7]—the Britisher may not have fancied getting out a boat with a prize crew. Moreover, the day was Sunday. Perhaps his idea was to escort us till we fell in with the cruiser on the next station southward, and leave the job to her. However, if it came to taking a prize crew on board, we thought we knew how to deal with them.
In the end the Britisher began to get on my nerves. I considered whether it would be advisable to signal to him with the Morse lamp, asking for our exact position.
Somehow or other I must find out what he wanted with us. By pretending that, owing to the fog, we had been unable to get our exact position for a long time, I might perhaps be able to break through his reserve.
Then, suddenly, we saw the Britisher increase his speed, shoot ahead of us for about three hundred yards, and then, putting her helm hard over, swing across our bows and take a SSE. course. Oho! thought we, now something's going to happen.
But the Britisher had no idea of coming to close quarters with us. Farther and farther he drew away from us in a southerly direction. Soon he had faded into the fog so completely that all we could see of him was a formless dark blur. We could hardly trust our eyes. But when shortly afterwards even the dark blur disappeared and nothing was to be seen but fog, and yet more fog, a joyful exclamation broke from us all. 'We're safely through!'
It was now a question of putting our best foot forward and making ourselves scarce. Once more the engine-room telegraph rang 'Full speed ahead!' the lights were once more extinguished, and at the best speed we could make, we steamed north-west.
'My belief is,' said Düsselmann, with a grin, 'the fellow was honestly sorry for us. I'll bet he said to himself, "Hope the old tub will make her next port safely anyhow!"'
It was a possible explanation. He had been guilty of an unpardonable error; but no one had better reason to pardon him than we.
It was eight o'clock when he left us, after keeping us company for exactly an hour. What we had now to do was to get ourselves as quickly as possible out of the neighbourhood of the cruiser line. There was a possibility, too, of pursuit by fast destroyers, for our cruiser might later become aware of his stupidity. During the next hour, too, we had to reckon with a possible encounter with an auxiliary cruiser a little out of her course, for in fog it is no easy matter to keep station, with wind, sea, and current all playing tricks with one—as I knew only too well from my outpost service.
It was only three hours later, when nothing had happened in the meantime, that I ventured to steer a westerly course again.
We were now in the North Atlantic—a long stage nearer our goal.
Towards midnight it was blowing so hard that we had to lash down everything movable on deck to prevent the seas that came aboard us doing any damage. On both sides of the deck I had life-lines stretched to hold on to. The wind had meantime veered round to the west, and later on to north-west. The fog had disappeared. Showers of rain swept over us at constantly shorter intervals. The barometer was falling with notable rapidity. These were sure signs of the approach of a north-wester.
The little Aud thrashed her way more and more heavily through the confused sea, shaking off indignantly the masses of water which came swishing over her bows. Her blunt bows and the unusual height of her upper-works offered too much resistance to the wind. It was no wonder that our speed fell gradually from ten knots to five, and afterwards to four. We scarcely seemed to be making any headway at all.
Not to lose way too much, I put her on a more southerly course, but only so much as would still keep me clear of the blockade line which was stationed westward of the Hebrides. Even in the thickest fog one was never quite safe from the English bloodhounds, and it was scarcely to be hoped that the next we met would be as stupid as the last.
Wind and sea were now from the north-west—nearly on our beam—and we rolled heavily. By midday the wind was already blowing with force 8.[8] We could easily have more of this than we wanted. I had confidence in the ship, which was staunch and seaworthy enough to ride out even a heavy storm; what worried me was the cargo. As has already been mentioned, this had not been as well stowed as under normal conditions the safety of the ship demanded. With seas breaking over us all the time there was no use thinking of re-stowing it; the holds would have been filled with water the moment the hatchways were uncovered. If the ship began to labour yet more heavily there would be nothing for it but to lie to and wait for calmer weather.
The seas grew bigger and bigger, one squall followed hard on the heels of another. The glass fell steadily. All the signs pointed to a regular hurricane.
I had had no astronomical observation for the last two days, and meanwhile the wind, the run of the seas, and the current (the last very uncertain in the neighbourhood of Iceland), had doubtless carried us some way out of course. How much, it was impossible to estimate with any accuracy.
On the other hand, it was of the first importance that I should make an accurate land-fall, as I could not risk having to feel my way along the Irish coast, and to that end it was very desirable to get an exact position during the next day or two. It was highly probable, however, that the weather would not permit of an observation. I therefore decided to lay a course for the Rockalls, from which we were now about a day's steaming.
These Rockalls are a veritable wonder of nature. Far out in the Atlantic, more than two hundred nautical miles west of the Scottish coast, there lies a far-stretching reef, a sandbank with innumerable little points of rock sticking up through it. The bank has a diameter of about three nautical miles, and runs roughly east and west. At its western end there rises out of the water a single rock, neither higher nor wider than an ordinary two-story house. This rock is the only visible portion of the reef, all the other ridges are covered, though many of them are only just below the surface of the water. Where the bank ends, the floor of the Atlantic goes suddenly down to a depth of several thousand yards. Even on the big English charts the Rockalls are only marked with a point about as big as the head of a pin. The sailing-directions mention that in the course of a year dozens of ships are wrecked upon these rocks and perish with all hands. It is a veritable ocean graveyard. The soundings which the charts give on the banks are few, and, as all the books state, very uncertain, because no one has taken the trouble to survey this inhospitable island. The thing to do is to avoid it. I knew, therefore, that I was taking a considerable risk in making for it, even though I should approach it from the west, and with the greatest caution.
It would suffice, however, if I sighted it from a distance; that would give me a sufficiently exact position. So I hardened my heart and laid my course for the western extremity of the bank.
By now the storm was howling like hell let loose, the squalls slung volleys of hailstones down on us. The seas raged against our little ship, which still shouldered them from her gallantly. Darkness at length descended upon the furious raging of the elements.
'Wind-force 10 to 11,'[9] reads the entry in the log, made by the officer of the watch at 8 p.m. 'Force 12' is the maximum. The scale provides for nothing beyond that.
The constant showers of rain and hail added to the blackness of the night. It was almost impossible to see at all. Suddenly, through a rift in the clouds, the moon shone out. And just in time.
Ahead, about four points on the starboard bow, a dark shadow was visible. No need to guess what it was, for already we could see, though vaguely, a long, lean hull with several promenade decks, two high, thin funnels, and two masts. Passenger liner or auxiliary cruiser? It was too dark to tell. All we could see—and we noted it with some satisfaction—was that, for all her 12,000 tons, she was making just as heavy weather of it as we were.
In spite of the breaking seas that swept over the after part of the ship, I reduced speed immediately. It was the only possible chance. As luck would have it, a sudden hail-shower hid us for the moment. The steamer carried no lights, and was going slow. Probably, therefore, an auxiliary cruiser on patrol.
A quarter of an hour of anxious waiting followed. Suddenly the liner seemed to wake up. Inexplicably, she increased speed and steamed away. By that time the distance between us had decreased to half a mile. If every one on board, including the officers of the watch, had not been asleep, they must have seen us.
The British boasted of the watchfulness of their fleet; I cannot help thinking that at the time of our break-through it must have been hibernating.