CHAPTER XX
Two Against One
Once clear of the "chops of the Channel" the Complex had increased her pace to a good eighteen knots. In due course, she arrived at the Bermudas and replenished her fuel tanks at the Admiralty yard—taking advantage of a privilege accorded to merchant vessels seeking assistance from Government resources.
The light cruiser Basilikon and her attendant destroyers Messines and Armentières had preceded her, and were lying off the town of Hamilton. They knew what she was, she knew what they were there for, but no sign of recognition passed between the rusty-sided tramp and her spick-and-span consorts.
Continuing her voyage, the Complex sighted nothing conspicuous. Without incident, she arrived at Bahia, where she received telegraphic orders from her imaginary owners to proceed to Savannah to unload.
Accordingly, she turned her head to the nor'ard, and, at a modest eight knots, proceeded to invite the as yet mythical pirate to "tread on the tail of her coat".
Several days passed. No calls from distressed vessels were received. Ships of all nations were passing on their lawful occasions without let or hindrance. Cape St. Roque, the north-easternmost point of Brazil, had been passed on the port hand, and a course shaped north-west by west to enable the decoy ship to keep within a hundred miles of the coast.
At one bell in the first Dog-watch on the day following, Cavendish, who was on duty as officer of the watch, heard the look-out report "vessel on the port bow, sir."
The Sub brought his binoculars to bear upon the vessel in question. She was quite five miles off and apparently on a course practically the same as that of the Complex.
In spite of the purposely slow speed of the latter, the Complex gained rapidly on the stranger, and presently Cavendish saw that she was not making way and that she was flying the N.C.—the international signal requesting immediate assistance. The glasses also revealed the information that the vessel was a tramp, flying the Red Ensign and bearing the name Holton Heath—London on her counter.
In response to a message from the officer of the watch, Captain Meredith was quickly on the bridge.
"No wireless from her?" inquired the owner.
"No, sir."
"H'm, that's remarkable, very. Action stations. We can't afford to take risks of this description.... Signalman?"
"Sir?"
"Stand by with the International Code flags," continued the Skipper. "Don't be too smart in making the hoists. Ask 'em what's wrong."
Stealthily the crew went to action stations, allowing no chance of their presence being visible to anyone on board the Holton Heath. Leaving Carr and Cavendish on the bridge, Meredith went below, made his way for'ard by means of the specially provided armoured alley-way, and gained the fo'c'sle conning-tower.
Meanwhile, the Holton Heath had made her number correctly and had given the information that her main-shaft had been broken. Could she be taken in tow?
Carr reported the request from voice tube to Captain Meredith.
"Round-to under her stern," ordered the Captain. "Don't hurry, I want to have a good look at her. Reply, 'I will take you in tow '."
The Complex was manoeuvred according to orders. Half a dozen hands went aft, ready to receive and secure the hawser to the towing-bitts. The Captain of the Holton Heath stepped to the starboard side of the bridge and waved an acknowledgment.
Presently Captain Meredith's voice-pipe whistle sounded.
"Ay, ay, sir," replied Cavendish.
"She seems jonnick," said the Skipper, in a somewhat disappointed tone. "We'll take her hawser. Pass the word for a hand to stand by the Senhouse slip, in case we want to cast off in a hurry."
The Sub leant over the bridge-rail to give the order to one of the deck-hands, when his eye caught sight of the wake of a torpedo rapidly approaching the now almost stationary Complex. It was coming, not from the Holton Heath, but from a submerged source broad on the Complex's beam.
Cavendish watched it like one in a trance. His parched throat refused to utter a warning. For days he had expected this to happen. He had hoped it would, and now, this being the first time that he had experienced the sight of a live torpedo approaching, he found that it was a totally different experience from watching a "tinfish" being discharged from the ship, and he was dumbfounded.
Too late he recalled the special orders given in anticipation of such an occurrence—orders which he and every other executive officer in the ship had countersigned—that in the event of a torpedo being sighted as fired from a submerged submarine, no effort was to be made to avoid the impact. On the other hand, the ship must be brought to meet it, so that the torpedo would strike anywhere except in the vicinity of the engine-room. In brief, the decoy ship was to sacrifice herself in the almost certain hope that, before she sank, the enemy would reveal himself and fall a victim to her guns.
Tardily, Cavendish jumped to the engine-room telegraph and rang for "easy astern". Before the order could be acted upon, the torpedo hit the Complex twenty feet abaft the bridge, against the starboard engine-room. There was a terrific report. A column of water was thrown violently into the air to a height of nearly two hundred feet, mingled with smoke, oil, and pieces of cork and shattered timber. The Complex heeled rapidly to port, then, recovering slightly, lay well over on her starboard side, and the engine- and boiler-rooms were flooded by the irresistible inrush of water.
In view of the suddenness of the attack, coming from a totally unexpected quarter, it would not have been surprising had the Complex unmasked her guns and thus revealed her identity.
But nothing of the sort happened. Not a man of the concealed crew started to his feet. Discipline—perfect order—prevailed; all on board, with the exception of three victims of the explosion who had already "slipped their cables", remaining alert, awaiting their Captain's orders.
Undoubtedly, it was a complex situation, and one for which no adequate provision had been made.
Cavendish, now that the explosion had taken place, was wondering what he ought to do. Should he order away the panic-party? If he did, they would be obliged, for appearance's sake, to make for the Holton Heath. But was she what she purported to be? Or was she acting in consort with the still unseen submarine?
"If," reasoned the Sub, "if she's a British merchantman, why did the submarine waste a torpedo on us when she had an easy victim of about three times our tonnage?"
[Illustration: THE "PANIC PARTY" (missing from book) Page 184]
Similar thoughts were flashing across the mind of the imperturbable Captain Meredith.
"Order away the panic party, officer of the watch," he shouted per voice-tube. For the present he would ignore the submarine and keep the Holton Heath under observation, he decided.
The latter vessel had swung round slightly, so that her starboard beam was exposed to the sinking Complex. On the bridge of the former, her captain was bellowing incoherent cries. A few hands were preparing to lower the quarter-boats.
Cavendish gave the order verbally. It would not do to trust to the prearranged system of gongs.
Instantly, there was a well-simulated panic-stricken rush for the Complex's boats, men falling over each other in their efforts to swing clear and lower away. Carrying out the lesson learnt at their rehearsals, they let one of the boats down by the head, staving in her gunwale against the listing side of the ship.
Suddenly, the supposed disabled Holton Heath underwent a transformation. Portions of her bulwarks dropped, revealing the muzzles of half a dozen quick-firers. Simultaneously, swarms of men appeared on deck to gloat over the anticipated spectacle, while several machine-guns were being placed in position with a view to mowing down the survivors of the helpless and foundering British ship.
There was now no doubt in the minds of the officers and men of the Complex who were in a position to see what was going on, of the manner in which so many craft flying the Red Ensign had vanished without a trace.
The Rioguayan crew were in no hurry. They prepared to prolong the business, before commencing a general and cold-blooded massacre. But on this occasion, the already sinking victim was to prove a very unpleasant surprise-packet.
Captain Meredith was quick to act. Alarm gongs rang out in all parts of the stricken ship. The panic-party, abandoning their role, threw themselves prone and began to wriggle their way to their appointed battle stations. The Red Ensign was hurriedly lowered, to be replaced by the emblem of British naval power.
Down clattered the gun-screens. Before the astonished and terrified Rioguayans could realize their mistake, the vengeful quick-firers took a heavy toll, receiving but one shell in reply—a 4-inch missile that whizzed harmlessly between the rigging.
The British gun-layers made one mistake. In their anxiety to settle with their treacherous foes, they aimed, not at the enemy's waterline, but at the dense mob on deck. There the havoc was beyond description.
Before the error could be corrected, the soi-disant S.S. Holton Heath had forged ahead, until she was end on to the bows of the Complex. The latter, stopped dead and unable to gather way, was sorely handicapped, for her 4.7-inch was masked by the rise of the fo'c'sle and the explosion of the torpedo had disarranged the training gear of the for'ard 12-pounder—the only gun that in ordinary circumstances could be brought to bear upon the fleeing vessel.
A triple-screwed cruiser disguised as a tramp, the Cerro Algarrobo—alias Holton Heath—was "legging it" at twenty-two knots, yet it was evident that, apart from the raking she had received, she had been hulled aft, since she was yawing badly. A 12-pounder shell had penetrated the submerged steering flat and had put the rudder out of action.
All need for concealment now at an end, Captain Meredith emerged from the fo'c'sle conning-tower and climbed the bridge-ladder.
By this time, the Complex had settled well down aft. Fumes and steam were still issuing from her engine-rooms. The acrid smell of burnt cordite still wafted from the unsecured guns.
The skipper had to make up his mind quickly—whether it were worth while pretending to abandon ship again and thus lure the submarine into rising to the surface, or to wireless for assistance.
He decided on the latter course. It might not be too late for the Messines and Armentières to stand in pursuit of the somewhat damaged Cerro Algarrobo. The seaplanes from the Basilikon might be able to spot the lurking submarine, if, as was likely, she continued to remain in the vicinity to make sure of the sinking of the Complex.
Accordingly, the wireless telegraphist began sending out an urgent signal to the Basilikon. The reply was prompt and to the point. The cruiser and her attendant destroyers were roughly seventy miles off. The Messines and Armentières were detached to proceed at full speed to the foundering decoy ship.
The Complex was in no immediate hurry to make her acquaintance with the bed of the Atlantic. Her cargo of cork and her elaborate system of water-tight bulkheads were playing their parts well. Those of the crew who were not at the guns were busily engaged in shoring up the bulkheads and endeavouring to pass a collision-mat over the gaping rent caused by the torpedo. The flooding of the boiler-rooms had automatically put out of action the mechanical bilge-pumps, but the hand-pumps, manned by the stokers of both watches, helped to delay the inevitable.
Meanwhile, the boats were lowered, each armed with a Lewis gun in the likely event of the submarine attempting to massacre the survivors. The wounded were transferred to one of the boats, the medical officer and sick-berth staff being in attendance.
Having taken all precautions, Captain Meredith and his crew could but await the end, whatever way it might turn out.
"Periscope right astern, sir," reported the Gunner. Hardly able to credit the good news, the skipper crossed to the port side of the bridge and looked. To his surprise and satisfaction, the submarine was within eighty yards of her victim. Her commander, judging that, as the stern of the Complex was almost awash, it was safe to make a periscopic view of the foundering vessel at short range, was in complete ignorance of the fact that the decoy ship still carried a most formidable sting in her tail. It might be that through inexperience he had misjudged his distance and had brought the submarine closer to the Complex than he thought.
Dead astern of the decoy-ship, he imagined himself to be safe. A Rioguayan invariably plays for "safety first". The two after 12-pounders could not be brought to bear astern. Even if they could, they could achieve nothing beyond demolishing one of the three periscopes with which the submarine was equipped. Twenty feet of water between the surface of the sea and the armoured back of the submarine would deflect any shell striking the water obliquely.
"Mr. Jones!" sang out Captain Meredith, "let her have it in the neck."
The warrant-officer signed to a couple of hands. Deftly and cautiously, the howitzers were loaded with their deadly depth-charges and trained to extreme elevations.
Both weapons were discharged simultaneously. The missiles rose with apparent slowness. Viewed from the bridge, they looked like enormous cricket-balls being lobbed by a titanic hand. Describing parabolic curves, they struck the water almost vertically—one on either side and about ten yards from the periscope. There was a double splash. The tip of the periscope was hidden in spray, but still there was no explosion. The depth-charges had to sink to a distance of thirty feet before they were automatically detonated.
Right aft, the Gunner was standing knee-deep in water, with a hand over his eyes as he watched. In vain the Skipper shouted to him to take cover. His interest in what was about to take place had rendered him deaf to every other sound.
Suddenly there was a stupendous upheaval. Almost the entire length of the submarine was lifted clear of the agitated sea, but only for a few brief moments. Completely torn asunder, the doomed craft disappeared from view, amidst a pall of smoke and under a rapidly increasing circle of oil and charred débris.
A wave of foaming water swept over the now submerged stern of the decoy-ship, hurling the zealous Gunner Jones against the dummy steering wheel.
The Complex's stem rose sullenly, until the whole of her forefoot showed clear. She was making her last plunge. The concussion of the exploding depth-charges, while they had sent her foe to her doom, had also hastened her parting.
"Abandon ship—all hands!" shouted the Old Man.