CHAPTER VIII
SPY AND SUPER-SPY
"She's torpedoed, sir!" exclaimed the coxswain as the "Pompey," after slowly recovering herself again, listed until her main for'ard-deck scuttles were awash.
"Hard-a-starboard!" ordered Tressidar. Then under his breath he added, "And those poor little kids on board."
Slowly the pall of smoke dispersed. Outwardly the cruiser showed no signs of her injuries. Swarms of seamen were strenuously engaged in lowering a collision-mat over the hole well beneath the water-line. Others were swinging out the boats.
The "Pompey" was doomed: not by the result of a hostile torpedo, but by an internal explosion. Stoker Jorkler's plot had succeeded, although not to the full extent that he had expected. The detonator had blown a large hole in the wing-plates, but fortunately the explosion had not communicated itself to the forward magazine. Had it done so, the end of the cruiser would have been sudden and complete: not one soul on board would have escaped.
Aft, although the shock of the explosion was distinctly felt, the effect was at first hardly noticeable. Amongst the visitors there was not the slightest trace of panic; in fact, it was with great difficulty that the gunroom officers' could prevail upon their youthful guests to abandon their play and go on deck. Promptly orders had been given to flood the magazines, thus preventing further danger in that direction.
Skilfully the duty boat was brought alongside the stricken cruiser, while almost at the same moment the pulling-boat containing Eric Greenwood and the money-bags rounded the ship's stern.
Assisted by brawny arms, the ladies and children were taken down the accommodation-ladder, the lower platform of which was now three feet under water, and placed in the boats. With full complements the steamboat and the one in which the A.P. was on duty pushed off, slowing down when at a safe distance to await developments.
Other assistance was speedily at hand. Since the cruiser's heavy boats could not be hoisted out in time and those in davits were insufficient for the officers and crew, it was as well that the "Pompey" was within easy reach of other vessels.
A dozen or more badly injured men were the next to be taken off; then, with the utmost precision and discipline, the rest of the crew gained the boats, but not before the collision-mat party for'ard were up to their knees in water.
Clouds of steam issued from the boiler- and engine-rooms, while at intervals muffled explosions of compressed air showed that the water-tight doors, already strained by the explosion, were unable to withstand the terrific pressure of the inflowing sea.
Captain Raxworthy, true to the time-honoured traditions of the service, was the last to quit the doomed ship. Barely had the boat into which he had jumped pushed off a dozen lengths when the huge vessel, shivering like a living creature, turned completely on her beam ends.
For some moments she remained thus, then, heeling still more until her topmasts touched the bed of the harbour, she disappeared from sight, with the exception of one end of her navigation-bridge that still projected a couple of feet above the surface.
As soon as the men landed they were formed up and mustered by divisions. The result of the roll-call showed that nineteen men were missing, and in addition to the dozen seriously injured, thirty men required surgical treatment. Amongst those missing was Stoker James Jorkler.
And when the liberty men returned it was informed that one man had "run." The absentee was reported under the name of Stoker Flanaghan.
In a clump of gaunt pine-trees, halfway up the summit of Ben Craich—the loftiest of the hills in the vicinity of Auldhaig Firth—stood the man hitherto known as Rhino Jorkler.
It is hardly necessary to remark that he was not a Canadian-born British subject. He was a German-American, his real name being Otto Oberfurst. By profession, previous to the outbreak of war, he was a mining-engineer, since then he had been a Secret Service agent in the employ of the German Government.
At first he was engaged in minor activities, under the direction of the notorious Boy Ed, but his zeal so impressed his employer that before long he was entrusted with a desperate mission in the Province of Quebec. Succeeding, he was handsomely rewarded out of the huge sums lavished by the German Government upon the questionable Secret Service and given an opportunity of transferring his activities to Great Britain.
Much as he preferred to work single-handed, he was ordered to report himself to a certain von Schenck, a director of the Teutonic espionage system that prevails in the United Kingdom.
Von Schenck had been, with the exception of periodical visits to Germany, resident in Great Britain for nearly thirty years. At sixty his powers of intellect were undimmed, and since success in espionage depends more upon wits than upon bodily strength and activity, his physical infirmities aided rather than embarrassed his sinister work.
He was of small stature, waxen-featured and grey-haired. He could speak English with a fluency that was faultless enough to take him anywhere without arousing suspicion. From other spies' experiences he knew that a precise regard for the intricate rules of English grammar was frequently a trap. Living unostentatiously in a small house on the outskirts of Edinburgh, he posed as a retired merchant under the assumed name of Andrew McJeames.
With few exceptions von Schenck knew none of his vast army of spies by name, nor did they know of his identity. They were merely numbers—pawns in the great game of espionage played according to the rules and regulations of the degenerate Hun. In a few cases, however, the master spy was personally acquainted with his immediate subordinates, and amongst these was Otto Oberfurst.
It was at von Schenck's instigation that Oberfurst joined the British Navy at Portsmouth. He reckoned on the enormous odds of the newly enlisted stoker being promptly drafted to a vessel in the North Sea. By joining at the Hampshire naval port, less suspicion would be likely to be aroused than if he had entered the service at Rosyth or Cromarty.
Von Schenck was a keen motorist. For miles around the Scottish capital his powerful Mercédès car was known. His kindness in placing himself and his motor at the disposal of a certain military hospital was merely a cloak for a twofold purpose. It gave him an excuse to use the car, in spite of the half-hearted requests from the Government backed by a firm appeal from the Royal Automobile Club; it also enabled him to pick up valuable information from the wounded Tommies, whose pardonable desire to relate their adventures often led them to overrun their discretion. He made a point of never asking a question on service matters of his guests. He relied upon his skill in leading up to any particular subject of which he required information, and sooner or later his wishes were gratified. Within forty-eight hours the information was in the hands of the German Admiralty.
From his place of concealment Otto Oberfurst sat and waited while the lengthening shadows betokened the approach of another night. At frequent intervals he consulted his watch. It was almost identical with the one he had left in the double bottom of the "Pompey."
Occasionally he directed his attention to the dark brown ribbon that marked the position of the main road leading to Auldhaig, but his gaze was chiefly concentrated upon the land-locked harbour. The "Pompey," lying on the extreme west of the line of moorings, was plainly visible. To all outward appearances she looked to be the embodiment of armed security, protected as she was by triple lines of anti-submarine devices that barred the entrance to the firth. In addition to the numerous warships, ranging from large armoured cruisers down to the swift, well-armed craft of the destroyer flotilla, the harbour was protected by four distinct anti-aircraft batteries armed with the very latest type of guns. The positions of these concealed batteries the spy knew with startling accuracy. He also knew that a short distance inland from Auldhaig, and situated in a remote and naturally sheltered valley, was the important munition factory of Sauchieblair. Three times had German aircraft sought to discover the exact position of these immense works. On the last occasion bombs had missed the main cordite factory by two hundred yards; but that was more by good luck than good judgment, for never in the course of their flight over the Scottish coast had they been absolutely certain of their bearings.
Four o'clock. Otto Oberfurst, his hands shaking in spite of his strong nerve, awaited the result of his treacherous handiwork. Ten—twenty—thirty seconds passed, but still no terrific explosion that would rend the cruiser from stem to stern. A wave of horrible uncertainty swept over him. Perhaps suspicion had been aroused and the double bottom had been searched; or a flaw in the intricate mechanism of the timing-gear had prevented the deliberate catastrophe. In either case the failure would be of grave consequences to the German Secret Service plans. The actual proof that an attempt had been made to destroy a warship by internal explosion would make it advisable to discontinue activities in that direction. So long as the British attributed similar disasters to accident, well and good. They could set forth as many theories as they liked, provided that the real reason was known only to von Schenck and his associates.
Suddenly Oberfurst's cogitations were interrupted by the sight of a cloud of smoke leaping skywards from the cruiser. Four seconds later the muffled boom of the explosion was borne to his ears. He could see the vessel listing, but to his intense disappointment she showed no signs of being blown to pieces.
"Himmel!" he muttered. "It is not the magazine this time. I must have miscalculated its position. No matter, another English ship is out of action. Better luck next time!"
He waited until the "Pompey" had disappeared from view beneath the waters of Auldhaig Harbour, then, walking rapidly, he followed a mountain path leading away from the town.
Darkness had fallen when he arrived at a small stone cottage situated in a remote glen. With the ease of a man who was familiar with his surroundings, Oberfurst climbed the stile in the wall enclosing the garden, threaded his way along the winding path, and, avoiding an invisible obstruction in the form of an iron pig-trough, tapped softly upon the window-pane.
"Who's there?" inquired a high-pitched voice.
"All right, mother," replied the spy reassuringly.
Without further delay the door was unbarred and Oberfurst entered the cottage.
"I've run," he declared. "Couldn't stick it any longer."
"Eh?" The old woman eyed him sharply. "What's wrong now?"
"Mother" Taggach, the occupier of the cottage, was a shrivelled-up woman of seventy. She was an illicit distiller of whisky and a receiver of stolen property. The former occupation she plied in this remote cottage; the latter was carried on in a small shop in the outskirts of Edinburgh, where her son kept a marine store. Her minor activities consisted in assisting naval and military deserters, although since the war there was little call for her assistance in that direction. The few "bad hats" of the fleet at Auldhaig soon found out that at Mother Taggach's there were facilities for spending leave with the possibilities of obtaining spirits which, owing to the stringent regulations, were denied them in the town.
Stoker Jorkler was one of her patrons, but Mother Taggach, in spite of her failings, was a strong anti-German. Not for one moment did she suspect the true character of the spy.
"Yes," he continued in answer to her questions. "I've run—deserted. Nerves all gone."
"A pretty sailor you make," remarked the old woman witheringly. "So you want me to fix you up? It's very risky, you know."
"Very," agreed Oberfurst. "But if I'm nabbed I won't peach. Let's have a suit of civilian togs and before morning I'll be miles away."
"Five pounds, then," demanded Mother Taggach.
The spy produced the money. The old woman carefully counted and examined the notes, then from a wooden box she drew a bundle of clothes.
"There you are," she said. "Get along upstairs. You'd best be clear of my house in less than ten minutes."
Quickly Oberfurst effected the change. Beyond wearing civilian garb he made no attempt to disguise himself.
"Here's my old gear," he said, handing the woman a bundle containing his uniform.
"All right, I'll burn them," she remarked. "Though 'tis a waste of good stuff. Where might you be making for, might I ask?"
"Wick," he replied. "I've got a pal there."
He went out into the night and walked quickly until he approached the spot where the mountain path struck the highway running parallel with the east coast. Here he sat down, and from his pocket produced a razor and a piece of soap. In very short time he had shaved the top of his head and his eyebrows, while in place of his smooth chin he sported a greyish beard that would escape detection except under critical inspection. Then, instead of turning northward—for he had deliberately misinformed Mother Taggach—he set his face to the south and tramped briskly in the direction of far-distant Edinburgh.