CHAPTER XIII
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE
With Captain Cumberleigh's valedictory words ringing in his ears, Pyecroft began his preparations to avoid capture. While his comrades were hurriedly lowering the Pipsqueak's sail, the "second loot," hidden from the pirate craft by the flapping canvas, slipped over the side as noiselessly and silently as an eel.
The shock of the icy-cold water almost took his breath away.
"By gosh!" he muttered. "It is a bit of a stinger. But cheer up, old son, you may get it pretty hot in a very short time."
With that he dived under the lighter's hull. Literally groping his way down the weed and barnacle-covered bottom, he scraped under the keel and up again on the other side until darkness gave place to a glint of pale green water that in turn gave place to the salt-laden air. He had now placed the hull of No. 5 between him and the U-boat. So far so good, but the late member of the R.A.F. Salvage Syndicate had to consider another pressing problem.
Even supposing, as he fondly hoped, that the Huns had not noticed him, it was logical to assume that they would not sheer off before sending the lighter to Davy Jones's locker. How? By ramming? Hardly. A U-boat would not hesitate to crash into a ship's boat deeply laden with the survivors of a torpedoed merchantman, but she would think twice before trying conclusions with the lighter's massive rubbing-strake. By placing bombs on board? That meant making use of a boat and consequently delay. Gunfire? Yes; that looked like the answer to the question.
Now for the subsidiary problem. Assuming that the Huns would turn a quick-firer upon the lighter, where would they aim? At the engine-room? Hardly, as the stern was already awash. Amidships, into the heavily-laden hold, the work of destruction would be most easily accomplished.
"So here's for her bows," decided Pyecroft, having reviewed the situation. "If my theories are all wrong, then it's a case of 'going west.'" He swam with slow, easy strokes towards the bows. There was no immediate hurry, since the boat with his companions had not yet reached the pirate submarine. He knew that he had to conserve his strength and his energies for the ordeal that promised to be forthcoming.
To his great delight, he found a rope trailing overboard. A tug reassured him that it was made fast to the towing bollards. By hanging on to it Pyecroft could support himself with ease, while the bluff, overhanging bows would effectually screen him should any of the Huns board the abandoned craft.
For a long-drawn ten minutes—it seemed like ten hours—Pyecroft waited. Already the numbing cold was taking effect. His upstretched arm seemed to have lost all sensation of feeling. It was merely the grip of the tightly closed fingers, contracted by the cold, that supported him.
Then with appalling suddenness came the crash of the exploding shell. Jerked almost clear of the water, Pyecroft had a vision of the forepart of the massive hull rearing high in the air. Flying debris hurtled over him, pungent smoke filled the air. Then, with a rush of eddying water, the X-lighter slithered beneath the waves.
Under cover of the smoke Pyecroft struck out. Fragments hurled high in the air were now falling all around him, while buoyant objects, taken down by the vortex, were rising to the surface with terrific force. A plank, the jagged edge of which would have almost cut the swimmer in two, shot upwards from beneath the waves. Missing him by inches, it described a parabola, rising to a height of twenty feet or more before it fell back with a resounding smack.
With his senses deadened by the stupendous roar, the pungent smoke and the coldness of the water, Pyecroft kept himself afloat automatically until he came in contact with a huge wicker basket that was floating upside down with about a third of its bulk exposed.
As he grasped it, the basket turned completely over, the rim striking the swimmer a smart rap on the face. The sting of the blow had the effect of partly restoring his mental faculties. Gaining a firmer grip of the basket, he took stock of his surroundings.
The surface of the water was coated with a deposit of oil, for part of the cargo of X 5 had consisted of turps, linseed, and lubricating oil in casks. One effect of the explosion of the shell had been to liberate the contents of the casks; another, the oil acted as an antidote to the coldness of the water.
Before the haze of smoke had completely disappeared Pyecroft drew the basket over his head. Within there was enough space to keep his head clear of the water, and at the same time there remained considerable buoyancy on the part of the stout wicker-work.
Presently the outlines of the U-boat that had been responsible for Pyecroft's predicament became visible. She was slowly forging ahead. Her deck was deserted. She was preparing to submerge.
"She's gone," he soliloquised. "That's a blessing. I wouldn't swop places with Cumberleigh for a tenner."
He dodged outside his place of concealment and glanced around. A hundred yards away was the water-logged Pip-squeak. Even with her garboard smashed the staunchly built boat kept afloat.
"Wonder if I can do it?" thought the swimmer.
Fumbling with benumbed fingers to draw a knife from his pocket, he proceeded to cut the laces of his leggings.
"There's thirty-one and six gone," he muttered ruefully. "An' they aren't paid for yet."
His boots were likewise ruthlessly sacrificed. Then, quitting his hold of the basket, he struck out towards the derelict boat. A few strokes convinced him that the overhand method of swimming has its disadvantages when hampered with sodden clothing. The breast stroke, he found, required comparatively little effort, yet by the time he covered that hundred yards he felt that he had reached the limit of his prowess in the swimming line.
Grasping the gunwale, Pyecroft attempted to clamber into the boat, with the result that the water-logged boat dipped completely under his weight.
At the second attempt he slithered over the transom and, still submerged, lightly grasped one of the thwarts. Here was a precarious shelter. Provided he made no attempt to draw himself clear of the water, there was just sufficient buoyancy to keep him afloat.
His next task—there was little time before he would be overcome by the cold—was to unship the mast and lash it to the thwarts. Thrice the boat dipped before the effort met with success. The stout spar, secured to the thwarts by the main-sheets and halliards, added considerably to the liveliness of the boat.
An oar, amongst other flotsam, drifted alongside. This Pyecroft secured, and by its aid added another oar, although of different length, to his life-saving appliances. A circular life-buoy and a couple of empty petrol tins were also taken possession of; these he lashed under thwarts, with the result that the boat's gunwales showed four inches above the surface amidships.
Groping on the bottom boards, the young officer discovered a pair of gun-metal rowlocks that had apparently escaped the eye of the destructive Hun. Thus equipped, he began to row for the distant shore.
It was hard work. At the best the water-logged craft made a bare mile an hour, but the effect of the heavy toil was to bring warmth to the man's chilled body and limbs. Setting his jaw tightly, he held on, glancing from time to time over his shoulder in the direction of the cliffs, now growing dim in the dusk of approaching night.
"How much further?" he asked himself at the end of two hours. "Hanged if they seem any nearer. Wind and tide are with me, too."
Compared with flying through the air at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, his present rate of progression was indeed painfully slow, yet with the dogged determination of an Englishman, "never to say die till you're dead," he tugged at the heavy oars until his blistered hands grew raw and his muscles ached as if his back would break.
With night the wind dropped and the sea assumed a placid, oily aspect. The land was now invisible, for not a light could be seen from seaward. Fortunate it was that the young airman had been compelled to undergo a course of astronomy. He hated it at the time; now he was glad, for by keeping the North Star broad on his starboard beam, he knew that he was heading towards the shores of Scotland.
His task was stupendous. The drag of the boat, which contained more than a ton of the North Sea, was terrific. He was wearing badly. Cold, hunger and fatigue were telling. Almost mechanically he swotted at the heavy oars.
He had lost all count of time, when he heard a faint rumble. It was the surf lashing the beach. Encouraged, yet realising that other dangers lurked on that surf-beaten shore, he rallied his remaining energies, counting each stroke as he bent to the oars.
At the one thousand and eightieth stroke he desisted. Around him the water was phosphorescent and white with the backlash of the waves. His task was accomplished. Human endurance had attained its limit. He was powerless to control his water-logged craft in the breakers. All he could do was to sit tight and trust in Providence.
For another five minutes the sorely-tried Pip-squeak was tossed and buffeted in the broken water, until a tremendous jar announced that in the trough of the waves she had touched hard shingle.
Then, like an avalanche, a cascade of foam swept completely over the boat. Frantically Pyecroft strove to grip the gunwale. Torn away by the rush of water, he was conscious of being pounded on the shingle. Then came the dreaded undertow.
Vainly he attempted to grasp the rolling shingle. He felt himself being swept backwards to be again overwhelmed by the next roller, when his retrograde motion was arrested by a heavy object. It was the Pip-squeak. Even in the last stages of her existence Jefferson's boat seemed destined to be of service.
With a final effort as the frothy water slithered past Pyecroft gained his feet. The hiss of the approaching breaker gave strength to his limbs. Stumbling, terror-stricken, and well-nigh exhausted, he contrived to win the race by inches until, realising that the dreaded enemy had fallen short, he fell on his face on the wet shingle.
For some moments he lay thus until, haunted by the horrible suspicion that the rising tide would overwhelm him, he staggered a few paces until he was above high-water mark, and then collapsed inertly upon the seaweed-strewn shore.
How long he lay unconscious he had no idea; but when he came to himself the moon was shining dimly through a watery haze. The tide had fallen, and with it the horrible ground-swell had disappeared.
He was bitterly cold: his limbs were like lead. An effort to rise was a dismal failure. He tried to shout, but no sound came from his parched lips. While he had lain unconscious there must have been a short spell of wind, for he found that he was covered with dried wrack and seaweed.
"It must be close on daybreak," he thought. "I'll have to stick it a little longer."
He made an attempt to look at his wristlet watch. The dial was no longer luminous, while an ominous silence had taken the place of an erstwhile healthy tick. A prolonged submergence had ruined the delicate mechanism for all time.
As he lay, too benumbed to move, he became aware that a boat had grounded on the beach within a few yards of his involuntary resting-place. The little craft must have come in very silently, for until the men's boots grated on the shingle he was unaware of their presence.
Again he tried to shout, but without result. Then, even as he tried to raise himself, he noticed that with one exception the men wore unfamiliar uniforms. They were talking softly, with an unmistakable guttural Teutonic accent.
"Huns," thought Pyecroft. "What's their little game? I've done them so far, and I'm hanged if I want them to put a half-nelson on me now. I'll lie doggo."
Which, considering his weak physical state, was an easy matter to do.
The Huns were evidently in a hurry, for after a few words with a greatcoated individual, they pushed off and rowed seaward, while the man they had left ashore lifted a portmanteau from the shingle and made his way towards the cliff with the air of one who is confident of his surroundings.
He passed so close to the prone figure lying partly covered by seaweed that for a brief instant Pyecroft expected the stranger to stumble against him.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated the astonished Pyecroft. "Where have I seen that fellow? By Jove—it's Fennelburt. Up to some dirty work: I wonder what?"