CHAPTER VI.
AN OCEAN DUEL.
The new course taken by the "Saraband" was in accordance with the instructions given by the lieutenant of H.M.S. "Padstow." Avoiding Las Palmas the vessel made for the African coast, making a landfall in the neighbourhood of Cape Verd. Thence by a judicious use of his coal, and by hugging the shore as close as possible without risk of grounding on the outlying shoals, Captain Ramshaw hoped to bring his command safely into Gibraltar.
At nights all lights were screened. Board of Trade regulations in the matter of the use of navigation lamps were deliberately ignored. The "Saraband," at a steady seventeen knots, forged blindly ahead through the black waters.
During this anxious period Captain Ramshaw rarely quitted the bridge. If he did so it was only for a few minutes. When compelled by the demands of nature to rest, he slept on a deck-chair in the chart-room, ready at an instant's notice to give orders for the safety of the ship.
On the second night after the meeting of the "Padstow" the quartermaster had just reported four bells—the actual ringing had been dispensed with as a matter of precaution—when a wireless S.O.S. call was received.
It was Terence Aubyn's watch. Promptly the young officer informed the skipper of the call—a summons for aid that is never ignored by the vessels that are within range of wireless.
"S.O.S. call, sir; H.Q.C.P. reports being in collision with a derelict—lat. 22°5'10" N., long. 15°50'20" W."
The thought flashed through the "old man's" mind that the message might be a decoy; yet the claims of humanity urged him to alter course and steam at full speed to the rescue.
Meanwhile Aubyn had referred to the "British Code List," in which he found that the signal letters H.Q.C.P. denoted the SS. "Corona," of West Hartlepool, of 2576 registered tonnage and of 720 horse-power. The "Corona," he knew, was a tramp engaged in running between the Tyne Ports and the Gold Coast.
Captain Ramshaw gave no inkling of the doubt that existed in his mind. He immediately ordered the "Saraband" to be steered towards the position indicated, although he would not allow the wireless to be made use of in order to acquaint the distressed vessel that help was forthcoming. This was one of the steps he took to guard against the base misuse of the hitherto inviolate S.O.S. call. In addition, as previously, the guns' crews stood by their two powerful weapons.
Hour after hour passed as the "Saraband" sped on her errand of mercy. Fitfully the S.O.S. was received as if the ill-fated crew of the "Corona," despairing at not having news that their message had been picked up, were still calling for aid from passing vessels.
Down below McBride's staff was working heroically. The firemen, stripped to the waist, were shovelling coal with rapid yet dexterous haste. Stoking is an art: it requires more than merely piling fuel into the furnaces; but there was no lack of capability on the part of the "Saraband's" stokehold staff. Quickly the old boat worked up to her maximum speed.
"Light on the port bow, sir," sung out the mastheadman. "Red flame throwing out red stars."
"That's the 'Corona' then," declared the "old man." "Starboard your helm, quartermaster: keep her at that. Mr. Lymore, see that the cutter is cleared away."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the chief officer.
The signal of distress flare was calculated to be seen from twelve to fourteen miles off In three-quarters of an hour the "Saraband" would be on the spot, by which time daylight would have dawned.
As the distance decreased the frequent flares could be observed from the bridge of the "Saraband." Anxiously the officers brought their night-glasses to bear upon the scene, as the dull patch of ruddy light rose higher and higher above the horizon.
"It's a four-masted vessel, sir!" exclaimed Terence. "The 'Corona' has only two. She looks to be about six thousand tons displacement."
"By Jove, you're, right Mr. Aubyn!" said the "old man." "Hard a-port, quartermaster. It's a ruse."
The steam steering-gear snorted as the helm flew hard over. Listing heavily outwards as she swung round the "Saraband" sought to avoid the danger. Alarmed by the sudden heel several of the passengers rushed from below.
"Reassure these people and send them to their cabins," ordered Captain Ramshaw, addressing his third officer. "Stand by——"
A vivid flash burst from the supposed disabled ship, and a shell, hurtling a cable's length astern on the now fleeing "Saraband" announced the stranger in her true colours. She was a German armed liner. Her keen lookout had detected the phosphorescent swirl from the bows of the British vessel as she swung to starboard.
The peremptory greeting was quickly followed by a wireless order:—
"Heave-to, or I'll sink you. Disconnect your wireless. Stand by to receive a boat."
To this demand Captain Ramshaw paid no attention. His true British blood was up. As long as he could run and fight he would keep the Old Flag flying.
With the whole of her fabric trembling under the vibrations of her powerful engines the "Saraband" began her bid for safety. The passengers, according to previous instructions, were ordered forward, while the stewards calmly went about distributing life-belts, at the same time assuring the more timorous of their charges that the procedure was merely a matter of precaution.
From her wireless-room messages were sent for aid from any British cruisers likely to be in the vicinity, while at the same time warnings were issued for all merchantmen to avoid the danger that now threatened the hard-pressed "Saraband."
For hard-pressed she certainly was. When day broke the German liner, identified as the 25-knot "Osnabruck," was now five miles astern. In spite of her supposed superior speed she was not doing her best, although her two huge funnels were belching out enormous clouds of black smoke.
That she was prepared for the work of destruction there was no doubt. Her black hull, white deck houses, and lofty yellow funnels had been repainted a neutral grey. For'ard she mounted two guns, while the muzzles of several others could be discovered trained abeam.
She was steadily gaining. Shells from her guns were ricochetting on either side of the fleeing "Saraband," throwing up columns of spray fifty feet into the air.
"You'll have to do better than that, my friend," said the "old man" grimly. The spirit of fight—the old Bersark strain in his blood—was strong within him. But for his passengers he would have risked an engagement. As it was, he had to run for it, but he meant to show that even a British merchantman could show her teeth.
Meanwhile, Terence Aubyn had made his way aft to take charge of the starboard quarter 4.7-in. gun, the other one being under the orders of the third officer, a hot-blooded Irishman, named O'Reilly, who could hardly prevent himself from giving a premature order to open fire.
"Let her have it: at six thousand yards," came the order from the bridge.
Both guns spoke simultaneously. Almost before the powerful weapons had recovered from the recoil, which was taken up by the hydraulic mountings, the breech blocks were thrown open and another shell in a gleaming brass cylinder was thrust into each gun.
"A hit, sir!" shouted one of the gun's crews, for even with the naked eye a dense haze of yellow smoke was seen to be enveloping the fore part of the "Osnabruck."
Whatever the damage it did not compel the German vessel to cease pursuit. Soon her grey outlines were observed to be emerging from the mist of smoke that partly hid her from view. Spurts of yellow flame, stabbing the early morning air, showed that her bow guns were still in action.
An appalling crash, outvoicing the simultaneous barks of the British guns, denoted the disconcerting fact that one, at least, of the hostile projectiles had "got home."
Pungent fumes drifted aft; splinters, hurled high in the air, began to fall all around the gun's crews.
"Steady, men, steady!" shouted Aubyn encouragingly, for some of the crew were attracted by the sound and were endeavouring to ascertain the result of the havoc. "Never mind that. Keep at it."
Even as he spoke the "Saraband" swung round quite fifteen degrees to port, thus exposing her length and lofty freeboard to the German vessel. The gunners of the latter were not slow to take advantage. One shell crashed through the side amidships, just above the water-line, and completely wrecked the passengers' third-class dining-room. Fortunately, owing to Captain Ramshaw's precautions, this part of the ship was unoccupied.
A second shell, ricochetting a hundred yards off, leapt up and wrecked the after-funnel, causing dense volumes of smoke to eddy along the alleyways.
The first projectile that hit the "Saraband" was responsible for the damage done by the other two. Bursting underneath the bridge it demolished that structure, sending the breastwork of sacks of flour far and wide like an avalanche.
Captain Ramshaw and Chief Officer Lymore were both flung from the crumbling structure on to the cargo hatch abaft the foremost. Fortunately beyond being considerably shaken, they were not seriously hurt, but with the destruction of the bridge the steam steering-gear was affected, and this caused the "Saraband" to begin to circle to port.
Although partly dazed by the fall, the "old man," with a true seaman's instinctive sense, knew that the ship was fairly off her course. Staggering to his feet he made his way across the chaotic pile of flour-sacks, many of which had been ripped open by fragments of shell, and ordered the hand steering-gear to be manned. In five minutes the "Saraband" was once more under control, although the demolition of one of her funnels and the consequent reduction of draft caused an appreciable diminution in speed.
While the ship was broadside on to the enemy the gun under Aubyn's orders was temporarily out of action. It could not be trained upon the "Osnabruck" without a serious risk of injury to the second gun's crew by the blast from the weapon.
It was indeed fortunate that while in this position she was not sent to the bottom. According to the rules of naval strategy and tactics she ought to have been, were it not for the indifferent aim of the German gun-layers.
On the other hand, the British 4.7-in. guns were getting in hit after hit with admirable precision. Already the "Osnabruck's" upper works appeared to be a mass of scrap iron. Fires had broken out in several places, yet she held grimly in pursuit, under the erroneous impression that the few shells she did get home would terrorise the "Saraband" into surrendering.
Presently the fourth officer's gun made a splendid hit. Striking the German vessel's bows almost on the water-line the shell made a clean hole before exploding. When it did the damage in the confined space was terrific. Her thin bow plates were burst outwards, while the for'ard watertight bulkhead was strained till it admitted the sea like a mill sluice.
A cheer broke from the parched lips of the "Saraband's" crew. Her antagonist was settling down by the head. Her speed slackened rapidly. Her engines were going half-speed astern in the hope of checking the inrush of water.
"She's done for, sir!" exclaimed Terence excitedly, as Chief Officer Lymore, his face and clothes mottled with flour and smoke, came aft.
"Ay, she's settled with," agreed Lymore grimly. "Cease firing. It's no use wasting ammunition."
"If only we would slow down and pepper her till she surrenders," declared Terence, the lust of battle in his heart.
"She will, right enough," said the chief officer consolingly. "We've our passengers to consider. The 'old man' is going to take the ship out of range and wait. We'll have to pick up the survivors somehow, but there isn't a boat that won't leak like a sieve."
Such, indeed, was the case. Those of the boats that were not shattered by direct hits or holed by flying fragments of shell, were so utterly strained by the concussion as to be unfit for use. Already the carpenter's crew were setting to work, caulking the gaping seams of the boats which seemed likely to be used for the forthcoming work of rescue.
When well out of range, the "Saraband" swung round and stopped, her bows pointing in the direction of the foundering "Osnabruck," that appeared to be little more than a dot upon the horizon. By the aid of glasses brought to bear upon the scene, the German vessel was observed to be listing slightly to starboard and very much down by the head. All her upper works were hidden by a thick cloud of smoke.
Meanwhile, Captain Ramshaw took up his position on the boat-deck, owing to the demolition of the bridge. Here receiving reports from various officers concerning the amount of damage done to the ship and giving brief and concise orders as to what was to be done, he was as busy as ever he had been in the whole course of his thirty-odd years at sea.
Now that the danger was over the passengers were allowed to leave their cramped quarters, and, subject to certain restrictions, allowed to make use of most of the decks. One, a short, pompouslooking individual, holding a camera, boldly approached the skipper.
"I say, Captain Ramshaw," he began in a high, affected voice, "don't you think you could take us a little nearer, so as to get a view of the object of our triumph? The sinking ship would be a unique object to snapshot, don't you think?"
The "old man" showed not the slightest sign of annoyance or surprise at the interruption.
"My dear sir," he replied affably, "would you put your fingers within snapping range of a mad dog, even if the animal were chained up and dying? I think not. Yonder vessel will bark as long as the muzzles of her guns are above water. Remember, sir, that this is the real thing, and that we are up against an enemy that we cannot afford to underestimate. I am sorry that I cannot comply with your request."
The passenger went away. Captain Ramshaw and the chief officer exchanged glances. The latter uttered a short laugh.
"I think if I'd been in your place, sir, I would have booted him out of it," declared Lymore.
"So I should have done," rejoined the skipper, "if I had been in my own place—but I'm not. I'm an employee of the Company, and have to study their interests. By Jove, Lymore, we do look a pair of ragamuffins! Talk about the dignity of the Company's uniform! But I wouldn't have missed the fun for a thousand pounds."
Captain Ramshaw was as elated as a young subaltern who had donned uniform for the first time. He had reason to be so. He had fought against considerable odds, and had come out "top dog." It was but one of many instances where the peaceful British mercantile marine officer shows that the training he has had amid the perils of the sea can be utilized as a powerful asset to the armed strength of the Empire upon whose banner the sun never sets.