CHAPTER X.
H.M.S. "STRONGBOW" SAILS.
Already the vessel indicated—H.M.T.B.D. "Lawley"—was within three miles of the captured trawler, and at a good twenty-five knots was momentarily decreasing the distance. Her lynx-eyed lieutenant-commander had spotted the so-called "Vanhuit," and the tell-tale wireless mast, and the presence of one of the patrolling motor-boats alongside gave him a right impression that the trawler had been engaged in illegal work.
The "Lawley" made a fine picture as she pelted through the leaden-hued water on that grey autumnal morning. She was cleared for action. Men were standing by the three 4-inch guns ready to let fly at the first sign of a hostile periscope, for German submarines had been reported in the vicinity of Yarmouth Roads, and each of her mast-heads had the White Ensign floating proudly in the breeze created by her speed. The bunting was the only dash of colour about her; all the rest of the destroyer was a sombre hue, from the black hull and funnels to the great-coated forms of the crew.
The skipper of the "Pixie," balancing himself on the cabin-top of his lively craft, was semaphoring the warning. Almost as soon as his message ended a triangular strip of bunting—the answering pennant—was hoisted to the "Lawley's" signal yard-arm. Then, by means of a megaphone, the lieutenant-commander shouted to the crew of the "Pixie." The words were unintelligible to the watchers on the captured trawler, but the skipper of the "Pixie" understood. With a wave of his arm he descended from his precarious perch just in time to prevent himself being capsized by the swell of the passing destroyer, which, instead of making for the trawler, sharply ported helm and made off in the opposite direction.
"We're to take the prize into Yarmouth under our own steam," announced the sub. in charge of the "Pixie," as he came within hailing distance.
"Right-o," assented Waynsford cheerfully. "Come aboard and we'll tow both our boats. Now then, below there," he added, addressing the German skipper and his crestfallen men.
Waynsford literally hustled them into the forepeak and shut the hatch. The German engineer and the fireman required no compulsion to remain at their posts. In one sense they were glad at being captured; it meant the end of the nerve-racking ordeal within sight of the English coast and miles of mine-strewn waters—the work of their fellow-countrymen—between them and their Friesian home.
The crew of the motor-boats quickly buoyed and severed the nets that the pseudo-trawler had out to cloak her true rôle, and having drifted clear of these entanglements, the captured craft forged ahead at a modest seven knots with the "Lonette" and "Pixie" towing sedately astern.
Terence Aubyn, feeling somewhat heavy-eyed by reason of his voluntary night's work, was pacing the deck, his gaze directed towards the town of Yarmouth and the low-lying Norfolk coast, now momentarily becoming clearer in the rays of the early morning sun.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a hurried shout from one of the deck-hands, followed by a heavy list of the trawler as Waynsford put the helm hard over.
Fifty yards on the starboard bow was a black object resembling a short spar floating vertically, yet the object had movement, for a streak of foam marked the resistance of the water to its progress.
It was Aubyn's first impression of the periscope of a submarine, and a German one at that.
With admirable presence of mind Waynsford had decided to ram the lurking peril. Evidently the commander of the submarine had realized his danger, for the periscope was sinking.
Aubyn held his breath as the heavy hull of the trawler passed immediately over the spot where the periscope had disappeared. He waited for the dull grinding sound as the vessel's keel ripped through the comparatively thin steel hull of the submerged vessel—but he waited in vain. True, there was a slight tremor—nothing more.
"I believe we hit her," exclaimed Waynsford. "Did your hear anything?"
Aubyn was obliged to confess that he had not. The prize crew crowding to the side looked for signs of a successful issue to their effort.
"Oil and bubbles," declared the sub. in charge of the "Pixie." "She's done for."
Waynsford, far from being convinced, ordered one of his men to heave a mark-buoy overboard and mark the spot where the periscope had been last seen, at the same time a code signal was hoisted indicating the fact that a hostile submarine had been rammed.
Quickly the destroyer arrived within hailing distance, and Aubyn was able to see what steps the Navy took to combat the unseen foe. Slowly the "Lawley" circled round the mark-buoy, paying out over her stern what appeared to be an exaggerated string of sausages—in reality a "necklace" of guncotton ready to be fired by means of electricity.
"Prize ahoy! you're much too close," sang out the bronzed lieutenant-commander impatiently.
Before the trawler was a cable's length from the mark-buoy a series of columns of water rose two hundred feet in the air, accompanied by a muffled crash and a haze of smoke. When the water had subsided and the vapour had drifted on the light breeze the mark-buoy was no longer to be seen. All around were the bodies of fish killed by the submarine explosion.
"That's settled her hash," declared Waynsford. "If she survived the hit we gave her she didn't get over that little attention. See, the 'Lawley' is sending a diver down to report."
"More copy for the Press," remarked his chum, the sub. from the "Pixie."
Waynsford shook his head.
"Not much," he replied. "It's part of the game to keep this sort of thing quiet. We don't want to frighten our friends the German submarines, we want to lure them out and make an end of 'em."
Terence made no remark. He was thinking, striving to picture the shattered hull with its crew of corpses, lying fifteen fathoms below on the sandy bed of the North Sea.
Half an hour later the prize was moored alongside one of the Yarmouth quays, while the German crew were marched off under an armed guard.
Declining an invitation to breakfast with the naval officers of the port, Aubyn hurried ashore. It was now six o'clock. Already a wireless report had been received from the "Lawley" stating that her divers had discovered the wreck of the hostile submarine, which was a matter for congratulation. But there were no tidings of the spy von Eckenhardt. In spite of a rigorous search he had contrived to get clear away, and von Eckenhardt at liberty in in England was a more serious menace than a dozen German submarines operating in British waters.
"I say, mater," remarked Terence, while Mrs. Aubyn and her son were at breakfast, "I think you ought to evacuate 'Aubyn's Battery '—at least while the war lasts."
Mrs. Aubyn looked at her son in utter astonishment.
"What, leave my home? For why? Surely you don't mean to suggest that German troops are likely to land in England?"
Terence shook his head. He scouted the idea of invasion, yet he knew there was a possibility—that a raiding squadron might visit the Norfolk coast.
"No, I was thinking of the winter coming on," he said equivocally. "You see, it's rather bleak and lonely for you here. Why not shut the house up for the next six months and go and live with Aunt Margaret?"
Mrs. Aubyn wavered. Her sister had a large house at Purbrook, a few miles from Portsmouth. It certainly would be a pleasant change to spend the winter in the south of England with her nearest relative rather than exist in solitary state in her home on the bleak East Coast.
"Besides," continued her son, taking advantage of his parent's obvious wavering, "the 'Strongbow'—that's the new name for the old 'Saraband'—is fitting out of Portsmouth, and more than likely she'll make that place here home port. In that case, whenever we put in for supplies or refit, I ought to be able to see you pretty frequently."
The explanation was a lame one. Terence knew perfectly well that on being commissioned the "Strongbow" would proceed to the North Sea for patrol-work. Her connexion with Portsmouth would then be severed. But to his satisfaction Mrs. Aubyn figuratively hauled down her colours.
A telegram was despatched to her sister, accepting a long-standing invitation, and at the expiration of his week-end leave, Sub-Lieutenant Aubyn was accompanied by his mother on his journey to Portsmouth to rejoin his ship.
Three days later the "Strongbow," looking most business-like in her garb of neutral grey, slipped unostentatiously between the old fortifications at the mouth of Portsmouth Harbour, negotiated the narrow gateway of the boom-defence, and in the pale dawn of a misty October day shaped her course for the North Sea.
She was one of perhaps a hundred vessels of whose very existence not decimal one per cent of the population of Great Britain is aware. Unless a striking success or a lamentable disaster brings them into the limelight the great British public never hear their names. Yet every one of that vast fleet of armed merchantmen was doing its duty as a unit of the greatest Navy the world has ever yet seen, nobly performing a service whereby the United Kingdom is spared the horror of the yoke-mate of war—the scourge of famine.
The "Strongbow" carried the same officers as in the days when she sailed under the Red Ensign, while in command was a full-fledged naval officer, Captain Hugh Ripponden.
Captain Ripponden was one of those men who welcomed the outbreak of hostilities as a godsend. July found him in a hopeless position as regards seniority on the list of commanders. The prospect of compulsory retirement at the age of fifty stared him in the face. By sheer merit and perseverance he had attained his present position, but unfortunately he lacked the necessary influence "up topsides" to gain an additional advance in rank.
The absorption into the Service of a fleet of armed merchantmen proved to be his salvation from a distasteful retirement, and thus he found himself in command of H.M.S. "Strongbow."
Like many another talented naval officer Captain Ripponden had not the gift of eloquence. He was a man of few words. A speech was beyond his powers.
While the crew of H.M.S. "Strongbow" first mustered for Divisions after commissioning the captain's address was short and to the point:—
"My lads, you look a smart crew. If you are as smart as you look, I'll be quite satisfied. Now dismiss."
He was quite right in saying the ship's company were a smart body of men. In spite of the fact that they were made up of Royal Naval Reserve men, Royal Fleet Reservists, and a sprinkling of Royal Naval Volunteers, they presented an appearance that would defy criticism even from the oldest martinet in the days when a smart lower-yard man was considered as a greater asset to a ship's company than a good gun-layer.
The officers of the "Strongbow," from Captain Ramshaw (who now assumed the rank of Commander, R.N.R.) downwards, quickly voted the new skipper "a right good sort," while it did not take the crew long to form the current opinion that "the owner" was a man who, not shirking work himself, expected others to do their utmost. On board H.M.S. "Strongbow" there was no room for shirkers or grousers.
Before the vessel passed the Nab Lightship practically the whole of the Naval Volunteers—men of good position in civil life, whose previous acquaintance with King Neptune's domains was a view from the deck of the "President" lying off Temple Pier—were prostrate with sea-sickness.
Captain Ripponden received the report that ten of his crew were temporarily hors de combat with equanimity.
"Let the men lie in their hammocks," he replied considerately. "They'll be all the better for it when they recover their sea-legs."
Therein he was right, and before the "Strongbow" arrived at her cruising-station the Volunteers were as fit and as eager as the rest of their comrades for the arduous work on hand.