CHAPTER XXVII
BATTERED BUT UNDAUNTED
"Fore-control, there! Anything to report?"
It was ten and a half hours after the light-cruiser squadron had left Auldhaig. At thirty knots the light cruisers were approaching the rendezvous mentioned in their sealed orders—orders that were no longer secret, since they were opened and communicated within one hour of clearing harbour.
On either side of the cruisers, which were steaming in double column line ahead, were the destroyers—long, lean, and eager to be released from the leash that held them to that comparatively modest thirty knots.
For the sixth time in the last hour the Commodore had asked the question. His impatience was natural. Visibility was good, and from the lofty eerie of the fore-control platform a wide expanse of horizon lay revealed.
Before the fore-control could reply, the navigating lieutenant, who was standing by the Commodore on the bridge, threw back his head and listened intently.
Above the whine of the wind past the tautened wire shrouds and sagging aerials came a long, low rumble.
"Gunfire!" he announced laconically, yet there was keen anticipation in his tone.
"Quick-firers," added the gunnery lieutenant.
"Suppose it's too much to expect—to find Fritz's battle fleet out?" remarked the navigator. "We'd shake 'em up a bit, I reckon."
The Commodore smiled at the subordinate's enthusiasm for a "hussar-stroke" of the light, swiftly-moving vessels against the heavily-armoured battleships of Germany.
"We'll think ourselves more than lucky if their light cruisers are out," he replied. "Lucky if there are only destroyers. If——"
He broke off abruptly to receive a message through a voice-tube.
"Good enough," he replied. "Increase speed to thirty-four," he ordered. "Keep her as she is, Quartermaster."
"Is it they, sir?" asked the gunnery lieutenant.
"Look-out has reported a smoke-screen dead ahead," replied the Commodore. "We'll be seeing the enemy ships above the horizon in a few minutes."
"Then my name's Johnny Walker, sir," said the gunnery officer whimsically, as he hurried off to his post to superintend the firing of the long-distance salvoes.
A signal was hoisted to the signal-yard arm of the flagship. Hardly had it appeared ere a similar hoist appeared "at the dip" on every ship of the squadron—there to pause for a brief instant before being hauled "close up."
It was a signal well understood, although the opportunities for its use were few and far between. It signified "Enemy in sight; prepare to open fire."
"Enemy torpedo boats beating east by north, sir," came the welcome news. "Heavy firing from the leading boats." Then, fifty seconds later: "One blown up, sir.... Another on fire."
Moments of suspense followed. Would the Huns, intent upon battering the vessel that the approaching flotillas were bent upon rescuing, spot the presence of the British light cruisers and destroyers before they drew within effective range?
Up in the fire-control station the range-finding officer was calling out the range, much like an intonation: "Twelve thousand yards... eleven thousand yards... ten thousand——"
A flash, immediately followed by a loud report, gave very audible warning that the flagship had opened the ball. The officers and men on the bridge could follow the flight of the spinning projectile, until it was lost to sight in the blue atmosphere. But they knew it was hurtling and climbing to an immense height, thence to drop, still with terrific speed, until it burst where, according to the highest efforts of ballistic science, and when it was intended to do—to the detriment, physical and moral, of the King's enemies.
Simultaneously the leading light cruiser of the port division opened fire, the following vessel executing an echelon manoeuvre in order that they too could join in the grim carnival of battle and sudden death.
The hitherto flanking destroyers were now, with two exceptions, far ahead, one division steering east by south in order to cut off, if possible, the enemy's retreat behind the Heligoland batteries; the other was pelting east-north-east to frustrate Fritz's flight round the northernmost point of Denmark. The exceptions were the T.B.D.'s Pylos and Polyxo, on board of which their officers fumed in impatient and excusable wrath while sweating engine-room artificers were desperately striving to effect repairs to defective condensers.
So at a modest fifteen, soon afterwards increased to twenty-two, knots, the Pylos and Polyxo followed their more fortunate competitors in the "Fritz Stakes." To all appearances they were "out of it" and numbered amongst the "Also Rans." Yet they held on, hoping like Mr. Wilkins Micawber that something might turn up.
Already Fritz had turned tail. Under cover of a heavy smoke-screen the remaining Hun torpedo boats were "legging it," steering zig-zag courses in order to avoid, if possible, the long-range shells that followed with uncanny accuracy. And they were steering neither for the Bight nor for the Kattegat. The Zeppelin, that had been hovering around throughout the operations, had given warning of the outflanking British destroyers, and they were making for a place of security which is recognised as such by the navies of the world save that of Germany—the three-mile limit of a neutral seaboard.
The light cruisers opened outwards to avoid the far-flung line of artificially-created fog. It was unwise to penetrate that screen. A Hun torpedo boat at bay might seize an opportunity to "slap a tinfish" into an opponent at close range, or U-boats might be lurking in the fringe of the pall to claim a victim.
The Pylos and the Polyxo, jogging along, held straight on. By the time they reached the fog-screen the smoke would have lifted, and there was a chance that they might pick up some of the light cruisers' leavings in the shape of a few Huns.
It so happened that a sudden dispersal of a part of the smoke-screen under the steady westerly breeze revealed to the Polyxo what appeared to be an intact hostile torpedo boat with her engines broken down. She was still flying the Black Cross Ensign.
Gleefully the destroyer altered helm, let fly with her bow quick-firer, and prepared to send Fritz to the bottom by means of a torpedo.
But Fritz objected. He had had no compunction at firing, together with half a dozen of his kind, at a solitary British Q-boat; and he had been considerably surprised when the Q-boat had chopped off twenty or thirty feet of her stern. But when a destroyer suddenly loomed out of the fog, the panic-stricken kapitan-leutnant promptly gave orders to lower the Black Cross Ensign and substitute one that was as blank and pale as his face.
While the officers and men of the Polyxo were enjoying a performance of the "Kamerad" order, the Pylos, slower than her consort, butted up against what she took to be at first sight a Hun submarine, down by the head and with practically all her top hamper gone. From her mast-head hung a flag, tattered, torn and dun-coloured by smoke and dust.
"By Jove!" ejaculated the astonished lieutenant-commander of the Pylos. "It's Q 171."
Every officer and man on board the destroyer had been firmly convinced that the mystery ship had been sunk. Indeed it seemed incredible that the lightly-built vessel could have withstood a hammering from half a dozen relatively heavily-armed ocean-going torpedo boats, and yet remain afloat.
On the Q-boat's deck were standing ten or twelve grimy men, stripped to the waist, and for the most part wearing bandages. There were others—some sitting with their heads supported by their hands, others stretched motionless.
"Pass the word for the surgeon," ordered the lieutenant-commander, as he rang for "half-speed" and then "stop."
Adroitly manoeuvred, the Pylos ran alongside the cruelly battered Q-boat and made fast. A sub-lieutenant, the surgeon and a dozen hands boarded the disabled boat.
"Not an officer left standing, sir," reported a chief petty officer, whose rank was indicated only by a battered peak cap set at a raking angle on his head and partly counterbalanced by a stained bandage. The rest of his attire consisted of a pair of trousers hanging in shreds below the knees, and the remains of a singlet that failed to conceal a lacerated wound on the man's broad chest. "And only a handful of us—mostly engine-room ratings."
Leaving the doctor and his assistants to deal with their grim and stupendous task, the sub-lieutenant proceeded to investigate the state of the ship. A decision had to be arrived at with the utmost promptitude—whether she should be sunk or steps taken to tow her back across the North Sea.
Her bows were battered and the for'ard compartment flooded. Beyond that she seemed fairly water-tight. Her engine-room was practically intact, although there were several gaping holes just above the water-line.
"I think we can save her yet," decided the Sub—a lad of nineteen, with the mature judgment of one who has seen three years of naval warfare.
He made his way aft, encountering the surgeon.
"A hard case, Pills," he remarked. "How many casualties?"
"Seventeen killed," was the reply. "Nine wounded. The disparity shows that she must have had a gruelling. There are only eight men fit to carry on, and most of them have scratches or are shaken up by the concussion. There are three officers right aft—all badly knocked about."
Lying side by side, close to the disabled after quick-firer, were Morpeth, Wakefield and Meredith. A short distance away was all that was mortal of young Ainslie.
Morpeth was unconscious, his left arm shattered below the elbow and his skull laid bare by a fragment of shell. Wakefield, already under the influence of morphia, was lying on his back, staring blankly at the tattered White Ensign. Aware that something was wrong with him, he was ignorant of the fact that four pieces of German shells were finding a temporary lodging in his body. For the present, he was serenely happy—not solely on account of the morphia injection, but because he realised that he had "seen it through," and that Q 171 was still flying the flag that symbolises the real Freedom of the Seas.
Next to him was Kenneth Meredith, his bandaged head supported on a coir fender. Seeing the destroyer's sub-lieutenant, he made an effort to rise.
"Now lie still, my lad," said the doctor kindly, but authoritatively. "You can tell us all about it when we get you in the sick bay."
He turned to his companion.
"That youngster's got something on his chest that he wants to get rid of," he remarked. "I can't make out what he wants. P'raps you can. It will relieve his mind." The Sub of the Pylos knelt by Meredith's side.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
Kenneth moved his lips in a vain endeavour to speak.
"This won't hurt him, I suppose?" inquired the sub-lieutenant, producing a spirit flask.
"Only a small nip," replied the doctor, as he busied himself with another case.
Kenneth drank the proffered brandy. The spirit put fresh life into him. He raised himself and pointed below, but no words came from his lips.
The Sub of the Pylos looked puzzled.
"It's all right," he replied soothingly. "She's as tight as a bottle. We'll tow her in yet."
Meredith shook his head.
"I'm on the wrong tack evidently," thought the Sub. "I wonder if he can write down what he wants."
He handed Kenneth a pencil and notebook. The wounded officer took them eagerly and, with trembling fingers feebly grasping the pencil, he wrote:
"Prisoners still below."
"Good enough," exclaimed the other. "I'll see to that."
Kenneth smiled, closed his eyes, and relapsed into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
Accompanied by a couple of hands, the sub-lieutenant of the Pylos went below and hurried aft.
Stretched at full length in the narrow alley-way was one of the mystery ship's crew. He had been detailed at the commencement of the action to mount guard outside the compartment in which von Preugfeld and von Loringhoven had been placed. His orders were, in the event of the ship beginning to sink, to liberate the prisoners and give them an equal chance with their captors of saving their lives.
Unknown to the rest of the crew, the sentry had been rendered insensible, apparently by concussion only, for no marks of injury were visible.
They found the key of the compartment lying on the floor within a few inches of the man's hand, but no amount of persuasion could shoot back the wards of the lock. They had jammed possibly through the same shock that had rendered the bluejacket unconscious.
"Stand clear inside there!" shouted the Sub warningly; then, placing the muzzle of his revolver a few inches off the door, he fired and shattered the lock.
The sight which met his eyes was an unexpected one. Ober-leutnant Hans von Preugfeld was lying on his back with a ghastly wound in his chest. Even in death his heavy Prussian features looked grim and forbidding.
In the far corner von Loringhoven was leaning against the bulkhead, pale-faced and terror-stricken, with three fingers of his right hand torn away.
"You're all right, old bean!" exclaimed the sub-lieutenant of the Pylos. "You'll enjoy the hospitality of Donnington Hall yet. Come along and let's see what our doc. can do for you."
In spite of every precaution that Morpeth had taken to safeguard his prisoners, Nemesis in the shape of a German shell had overtaken von Preugfeld. Placed for his protection as far below the water-line as possible, the ober-leutnant had been slain by a three-pounder shell, which, without exploding, had penetrated Q 171's side about two feet above the water-line. Glancing from the underside of the metal base of one of the triple torpedo-tubes, the missile had been deflected downwards. Penetrating the roof of the prisoners' cell, the pointed missile had gone completely through von Preugfeld's body and had ended its career by pulverising von Loringhoven's fingers and jamming the door.
By the time the Sub returned to the deck the work of rendering first aid to the wounded was accomplished. The Polyxo, having transferred the German crew as prisoners from the torpedo boat that Q 171 had rammed, was engaged in sending to the bottom the still floating portion. Already the light cruisers were returning, having been robbed of the fruits of complete victory by their foe taking shelter in neutral waters.
Twenty minutes later Q 171, taken in tow by the Pylos, was on her way back to Britannia's shores.