CHAPTER VII
BRUNO'S ESCAPADE
AT eight o'clock on the following Thursday morning H.M.S. "Tantalus" cast off from her moorings in Trecurnow Roads and stood down Channel.
She was an armoured cruiser of an obsolescent type, and although not powerful enough to be of material use to the Grand Fleet, was admirably adapted to the work allotted to her—ocean patrolling and escorting transports to and from overseas. Since the outbreak of war her steaming mileage worked out at a little over 200,000 miles, or roughly eight times the circumference of the earth. During this stupendous task her engines had given hardly any trouble, and never once had had a serious breakdown—a feat that was rendered possible solely to the unremitting care and attention of her engineering officers and ratings. Sixteen years previously her contract speed was twenty-five knots; and when occasion required her "black squad" could whack her up to her original form.
On either side of the cruiser a long, lean destroyer kept station, for the "Tantalus" was to be escorted through the danger zone. Waspish little motor patrol boats, too, were dashing and circling around her, their task being to put the wind up any lurking U-boat that was bold enough to risk being rammed or blown up by depth charges by the attendant destroyers.
"Mornin', Slogger, old bird," exclaimed a voice. "Looking for your friend, Holcombe?"
Farrar, whose turn it was to be Duty Sub of the Watch, was levelling his glass at one of the destroyers. Upon hearing himself familiarly addressed—for the nickname of schooldays still stuck—he turned and placed the telescope under his arm.
"Mornin', Banger," he replied. "No; I knew it was no use looking for Holcombe on that packet. The 'Antipas' is of a later type; besides, she's not completed commissioning yet. How's that dog of mine behaving?"
Dick Sefton was another of the "Tantalus's" sub-lieutenants, a short and heavily built fellow whose full face was brimming over with good-humour. He was an R.N.R. man, called up for duty as a midshipman on the outbreak of hostilities. For some obscure reason his messmates had nicknamed him Banger, although there was a suspicion that those tinned delicacies, otherwise known as "Zeppelins in the Clouds," had something to do with it. Sefton had already had a fair share of adventure. He had been torpedoed twice—once in the AEgean Sea, and again somewhere within the Arctic Circle; he had been in a tough engagement between two armed merchantmen, and had taken part in a hand-to-hand struggle between the crews of a U-boat and a possible victim that proved to be a veritable Tartar. He had braved the rigours of two winters in the North Sea on Examination Service, and had spent four days without food and a very little water in an open boat under the blazing sun in the Eastern Mediterranean. Yet in spite of hardships and perils his cherubic smile still clung to his homely features. Not a soul of the "Tantalus's" ship's company could truthfully say that he had seen Banger in a bad temper.
"Bruno is in great form, absolutely," replied Sefton. "During the absence of his worthy master, namely yourself, he has been improving his acquaintance with the rest of the mess—and their effects."
"Eh?" exclaimed Farrar. "Been in mischief?"
"The casualties to date are—killed: one pot of honey belonging to little Tinribs, two gramophone records, the property of the mess, and Johnson's pneumatic waistcoat; wounded: the messman and one of the marine servants while attempting to rescue the before-mentioned waistcoat under a heavy fire; missing: the contents of a tin of condensed milk and a plate of curried fowl. The messman and the marine contemplating reprisals, Bruno merely beat a strategic retreat to the padre's cabin. Latest reports state that the animal, possibly owing to a surfeit of condensed milk and curried fowl, combined with the unaccustomed motion of the ship, strongly resembles the present state of Russia; to wit, violent internal disorder. So, my festive Slogger, you'll have something to answer for."
"By Jove!" ejaculated Farrar. "I hope the padre won't complain to the commander. I can square the messman and make it all right with the rest of the mess, but the chaplain——"
"Plenty of time for that," resumed Sefton. "There are indications that the padre is in a state of siege. Bruno is lying on the floor of the cabin and against the door. The padre is sitting on his bunk and cuddling his knees. Every time he tries to get out Bruno growls, although I fancy that the animal's malady is responsible for that. The awkward part of the business is that the padre is mortally afraid of dogs. They are his pet antipathies. A yapping little terrier would give him cold feet, so you can imagine what effect Bruno would have on him."
"For goodness' sake, Banger, hike the animal out of it," replied Farrar. "I can't leave the deck, you know."
"I'll do my best," replied Sefton. "It is indeed fortunate that our Fleet Surgeon underwent a course in the Pasteur Institute. Do you happen to know whether a fat fellow is more susceptible to hydrophobia than a thin one? If so, I'll shunt Jenkyns on to the job."
Sefton departed upon his errand, while Farrar, wondering what the outcome of Bruno's escapade would be, made his way to the weather side of the navigation bridge.
The "Tantalus" was now well on her way down Channel. The Wolf Lighthouse, rising like a slender shaft from the sea, lay broad on the starboard beam. The motor patrol boats, having reached the limit of their station, were hoisting the affirmative pennant in answer to a signal for the cruiser to part company. From the as yet invisible Scillies another flotilla of patrol boats was approaching to take over escorting duties until the cruiser with her cargo of important civil personages was beyond the dangerous "chops of the Channel."
On board the "Tantalus" the utmost vigilance was maintained, the escorting destroyers notwithstanding. The six-inch and light quick-firers on the upper deck were manned ready to open fire at a moment's notice, should the sinister, pole-like periscopes of a U-boat show above the surface.
Every possible precaution had been taken to safeguard His Majesty's ship, and the party of civilians who, under Providence, were entrusted to the care of one of the units of the Great Silent Navy. The members of the deputation were standing on the after bridge, watching with absorbed interest the stately progress of a huge flying-boat that was making her way back to Trecurnow. Already that morning the sea had been explored for miles on either side of the cruiser's course, and the aerial scout had wirelessed to the effect that no hostile submarine had been sighted.
Within the microphone room on the fore bridge an alert petty officer stood with the receivers clipped to his ears, listening for any suspicious sound that might emanate from the churning of a U-boats propeller; but beyond the rhythmic purr of the engines of the two destroyers not a sound of machinery in motion in the vicinity of the cruiser was audible.
In less than ten minutes Sefton returned.
"A proper lash up, Slogger," he announced. "Bruno's gone and done it this time."
He paused to note the effect of his words.
"Out with it, man!" exclaimed Farrar. "Don't say he's put the padre out of action."
"He has," said Banger, with an extra special grin.
"Bitten him?"
"I don't think so," replied Sefton. "In default of definite evidence the answer is in the negative."
"Then what has the dog done?"
"Well, to express the matter in a delicate way," continued Sefton slowly and deliberately, "Bruno has been taken violently ill in the padre's sanctum."
"Did you hike him out?"
"Who—the padre or the dog?"
"Either—or both."
"Couldn't," was the exasperating reply.
"Why not, dash it all?"
"Simply because I wasn't equal to the job. Neither are all the marine servants nor the best part of the carpenter's crew. The Bloke's (commander) gone to inspect the place, so all the fat's in the fire."
"Is Bruno showing temper, then?" asked his master anxiously.
"No; he's as quiet as the proverbial lamb."
"Look here, Banger!" exclaimed Farrar. "Can't you pitch a straightforward yarn without my having to drag it all from you in bits?"
"All right," replied Sefton. "It's like this. By some means—possibly Bruno rubbed against the door—the door's bolted on the inside. The padre won't muster up courage to let himself out, and the mob outside can't get in. The carpenter's mate is going to take out the jalousie—and the door's made of steel, remember. I have an idea—— Hullo, here's the Owner. I'm off."
Catching sight of the oak-leaved cap as the captain ascended the starboard ladder, Sefton promptly dived down the ladder on the port side, while Farrar, smartly saluting, awaited the approach of the controller of the destinies of nine hundred officers and men forming the "Tantalus's" ship's company.
"Where's the officer of the watch, Mr. Farrar?" asked the skipper. "In the chartroom, eh? Very good, carry on. Inform Mr. Sitwell that a wireless has just come through from the Admiral, Trecurnow Base. The escorting destroyers are to return; we are to shape a course for Queenstown and await further orders. What are we making?"
"Eighteen knots, sir."
"Increase to twenty-two, then.... What's that—signalling?"
"Destroyers request permission to part company, sir."
"Hoist the affirmative. All right, Mr. Farrar. Keep me well posted should anything untoward occur."
The captain left the bridge and the sub communicated his instructions to the lieutenant on duty as Officer of the Watch.
"Jolly rummy," commented Mr. Sitwell. "Did the Owner look at all surprised?"
"Not so far as I could see," replied the sub.
"Then I expect the Commander-in-Chief has had warning that there's a swarm of U-boats off the Irish coast.... Starboard four, quartermaster."
The destroyers had flung about and were tearing off in the direction of Trecurnow Harbour; the Scilly patrol had been left astern, and the "Tantalus" was alone in the midst of a waste of white-topped waves. She was now beginning to follow a zigzag course—a precaution invariably taken when within the U-boat zone.
Nigel Farrar felt convinced that the captain was uneasy in his mind on the subject of the wireless orders. In view of the presence of diplomats and other Government Civil Officials on board, the peremptory removal of the destroyer escort seemed very bad policy. But the orders had been given in secret code, and had to be obeyed without demur.
"Now, then, old bird, foot it!" exclaimed Sefton, as he reappeared on the bridge. "Anything to report?"
Farrar glanced at his watch. To his surprise he found that the last hour had passed with great rapidity. His work was now at an end; his relief had arrived to take on the duties of Sub of the Watch, while the Officer of the Watch had also turned over his responsibilities to another lieutenant.
At the first opportunity the sub hastened to the half-deck, where, outside the padre's cabin, a number of perspiring men were still busily engaged in removing the steel lattice work, known as a jalousie, from that officer's cabin door. Standing in a semicircle around them were all the midshipmen not on duty, taking no pains to conceal their amusement at the naval instructor's discomfiture. On the fringe of the ring stood the commander and three or four other wardroom officers, the former eyeing with grim displeasure the disfigurement of this part of the "internal fittings" of one of His Majesty's cruisers.
Through the slits of the jalousie came sounds of the padre, breathing stertorously, and the deep snores of the dog, who, having "mustered his bag," was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
"Can't you unbolt the infernal door, padre?" shouted the commander impatiently. He had asked the same question half a dozen times already, and the monotony of the request was beginning to jar the already overstrung nerves of the chaplain.
"Heaven forbid," he muttered. "My calling urges me to do the very opposite."
"It strikes me, sir," remarked the first lieutenant, addressing the commander, "that we have here an example of the lion and the lamb lying down together."
The pun—for the padre's name was Lamb—fell upon deaf ears as far as the commander was concerned, although the midshipmen smiled broadly at the popular Number One's wit.
"Look alive, there, men!" the commander exclaimed impatiently. "Don't waste the whole day getting that frame unstowed."
The carpenter's crew "bucked up" at these words. Truth to tell they had been proceeding leisurely at their work. The last bolt was removed and the jalousie fell away from the surrounding steel frame. One of the men, thrusting his arm through the aperture, shot back the catch of the door.
"Call the brute away, Mr. Farrar," said the commander.
Before the sub could approach the door to secure his troublesome pet, a violent concussion shook the ship from stem to stern. The electric lights on the half-deck went out, plunging the enclosed space into semi-darkness, while the sudden upheaval of some 14,000 tons of deadweight resulted in capsising almost every member of the party outside the padre's cabin.
"They've got us this time!" ejaculated the first lieutenant dispassionately.
And less than eight hundred yards away Ober-Leutnant Otto von Loringhoven was expressing similar views concerning the expected result of the impact of two Schwartz-Kopff torpedoes against the side of H.M.S. "Tantalus."