CHAPTER I
Man Overboard
"Where are we now?" asked Oswald Detroit, emerging from the cabin of the Diomeda.
"Ask me another," replied his chum, Jack Hamerton, with a merry laugh. "We may be here, we may be there, for all I know. One thing I am certain of: I have just hove the lead, and found that we are in twenty-two fathoms, with a gravelly bottom. That's good enough for me. Also, by dead reckoning, we are three hundred and seventy-eight miles from Lowestoft, and I can't take an observation because of this fog."
"You don't seem at all anxious," remarked Detroit, who regarded the wall of thick white mist with evident mistrust.
"Why should I? The yacht's as sound as anyone could desire, and we've plenty of sea room. Now, if we were anywhere in the neighbourhood of the sandbanks at the mouth of the Elbe, I might feel jumpy. Take the helm, old man; north, eighty east, is the course. I'll get breakfast."
Jack Hamerton was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow of twenty years of age. He might well be described as thick-set, for his head was set upon his square shoulders by a short, thick neck, his arms were brawny, while his legs would have caused many a professional footballer to turn green with envy. His features were inclined towards heaviness, the bushy eyebrows and square jaw denoting force of character amounting to stubbornness.
He was a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and had lately been "paid off" from H.M.S. Blazer after an arduous commission in the Persian Gulf. Owing to the particular circumstances My Lords had granted Hamerton three months' leave, and the Sub, with an innate love for the salt seas, had chartered an eight-ton yacht, and with Detroit for company had started on a cruise to Kiel.
Oswald Detroit was physically different from Hamerton. He was tall, but slenderly built, yet there was a suppleness in his muscular limbs that had stood him in good stead in the athletic world. His features were clean-cut and regular, his hair of a light-brown hue and inclined to curliness, while his fair skin, in spite of exposure to the wind and sun, contrasted forcibly with Hamerton's almost swarthy complexion.
Detroit was an American by birth—a native of Richmond, Va.—and American in character to his finger tips. He had great faith in his country, and a heap of self-reliance that had carried him through many difficult places. His powers of argument were marvellous, although he invariably hid his most telling points in debate under a thin covering of dry humour.
It was at Lowestoft that the Sub met his future sailing mate for the first time, only a few days before the momentous voyage commenced. Oswald's sister had married a naval lieutenant, a distant cousin of Hamerton's, and thus the two men came in contact with each other.
In a very few hours a bond of friendship was found, for despite their physical difference Hamerton and Detroit had a lot in common. Both were keen sportsmen, and each took a deep interest in yachting, the American being an active member of the exclusive Marblehead Yacht Club. When Hamerton spoke of a cruise to the Baltic, with the crowning attraction of participating in the international racing at Kiel, Detroit's interest was so marked that it wanted little persuasion on the Sub's part to induce the American to accompany him.
Accordingly the eight-ton ketch Diomeda was chartered. Although somewhat small for an extensive voyage across the North Sea, she was far more seaworthy than many a craft of twice or even thrice her tonnage. Hamerton fell in love with her at first sight. It was not on account of her lines, for an almost total lack of sheer, bluff bows, and rounded run aft were not exactly pleasing to the eye. But there was a substantial appearance about the craft that was far more important than artistic curves, while closer acquaintance revealed the fact that she did not belie her appearance.
Barely twenty-eight feet in length, with a generous beam of a third of her over-all dimension, and a draught of nearly six feet, the Diomeda was snugly rigged and canvased. Her cabin-top was low, offering little resistance to the wind, while her cockpit, lead-lined and self-emptying, was essential for passages across the short steep seas betwixt the east coast of England and the opposite shores of the North Sea.
Descending the short flight of steps leading to the cabin, Hamerton discarded his dripping oilskin, and methodically hung it on two hooks in a cupboard devoted to that purpose.
He was in no hurry: he rarely was, save when occasion necessitated, and only then did his activity become apparent. Otherwise he did things in a cool, calculating way that seemed in keeping with his ponderous form.
The cabin was plainly yet comfortably furnished. On either side were sofa bunks, terminating with spacious lockers screened with curtains. Two scuttles in the rise of the cabin-top and a skylight overhead were sufficient to impart plenty of light, but owing to the flying spindrift these were securely fastened. In the centre of the linoleum-covered floor stood a swing table, on which was spread a chart of the North Sea. On the chart lay a pair of parallel rulers and a dividing compass.
The Sub rolled the chart—placing it in a rack so as to be easily got at should it be required—dived into the pantry, and produced a couple of enamel mugs, plates and rather tarnished knives and forks. Then from another division he hauled out a teapot, some bread, butter, and a bundle of rashers.
Taking the latter, he made his way along the steeply inclined floor towards the fo'c'sle.
On the for'ard bulkhead was a clock and a barometer, surrounded by four signal flags representing the yacht's name in code. The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to five, the barometer, 30.01, steady; both pieces of information Hamerton entered in a rough logbook.
The fo'c'sle was small, and, being battened down, ill-ventilated. The heat from the Primus stove and the odour from the frizzling bacon, combined with the erratic pitching and listing of the yacht, would have upset many an experienced sailor, but unperturbed the amateur cook proceeded with his self-imposed task.
"On deck, there!" shouted Detroit, raising his voice to make himself heard above the roar of the atmospheric stove.
There was something urgent in the tone of the American's voice. Hamerton backed out of the narrow fo'c'sle door, and, without waiting to put on his oilskin, ran up the ladder and gained the cockpit.
The fog was not so dense as it had been ten minutes previously. The rising sun had partially dispelled the white wall of vapour, so that it was possible to see about fifty yards ahead.
"Listen!" exclaimed Oswald.
"Yes, I hear," replied the Sub. "A steamer of some sort, tearing along at a furious pace. A quarter of a mile off, I should say, but close enough in this mirk."
With that Hamerton snatched up a fog trumpet that lay on the lee seat of the well, and made the welkin echo to three loud blasts—the recognized signal of a sailing vessel with the wind abaft the beam.
No reply came from the unknown vessel. Momentarily the noise of her engines and the swish of water as her bows cleft the waves grew louder and louder.
"Down helm, sharp!" ordered Hamerton. "What in the name of Davy Jones is that idiot carrying on like that for?"
Round swung the Diomeda slowly yet surely, but before the sails began to flap, the disturber of her crew's peace of mind loomed out of the fog.
It was a large destroyer, painted a dull grey. She was travelling at close on thirty knots. Dull red flames were spurting from her four squat funnels. Her decks were being swept from end to end with water, while the spray, dashing against her funnels, trailed off into wisps of steam, leaving the fore side of the smoke-stacks bleached with salt. In spite of the wave-washed decks, men, clad in greenish-grey oilskins, were standing by the two torpedo tubes on deck, while right aft stood a seaman holding a red-and-white flag in his extended hands.
This much the crew of the Diomeda had barely time to take in, for close astern of the leading destroyer came another, and another, and yet another, less than thirty feet separating the black cross ensign of the leading boat from the knife-like bows of the one next astern. Any miscalculations on the part of the coxswains of the several boats would inevitably result in disaster.
Just as the fourth destroyer darted past the violently pitching yacht—for she was in the thick of the combined "wash"—one of her crew, who was in the act of securing a stanchion rail, slipped on the heaving, wave-swept deck. Unnoticed by his comrades, he rolled under the rail and fell into the sea.
The Diomeda was "in irons". Her sails were slatting violently in the wind. She carried no way, nor would she answer to her helm, and some minutes elapsed ere the ketch fell off sufficiently for her canvas to draw.
Running forward and gripping the shrouds, Hamerton seized a boathook. The unfortunate man still floated, face upwards, but made no attempt to save himself.
"Guess he's broken his back," shouted Detroit to his companion, in reply to which the Sub nodded. Falling off a boat travelling at thirty knots, a man would strike the water with terrific force.
"Now luff!" bawled Hamerton. "Easy with your helm—port a little."
Leaning outwards to the full extent of his left arm, the Sub made a futile attempt with the boathook to reach the sailor.
"Up helm, and gybe her," he shouted. "We'll pick him up on the next tack."
Then to his surprise Hamerton saw the American leap out of the cockpit, steady himself on the waterways for a brief instant, then plunge into the sea.
"Silly ass!" grunted the Sub, although recognizing Detroit's pluck. "I'll have two men to haul aboard now instead of one."
With that he made his way back to the cockpit to steady the yacht on her helm. Then it was that he found that Oswald had acted with discretion as well as bravery, for before leaping he had taken a turn of the end of the mainsheet round his waist. Rescuer and rescued were trailing astern at the end of forty feet of rope.
Hauling the Diomeda's headsails to windward, Hamerton soon had the yacht hove-to, though forging slowly through the water. It was then a comparatively easy task to get the mainsheet in until Detroit and the seaman were alongside. Then waiting till a wave brought the man within arm's length, the Sub clutched hold of him, and with a powerful heave lifted him on deck and into the well.
Without assistance Detroit scrambled up, and assisted his comrade to attend to the rescued seaman.
[Illustration "WAITING TILL A WAVE BROUGHT THE MAN WITHIN ARM'S LENGTH, THE SUB CLUTCHED HOLD OF HIM">[
"He's alive all right," announced Hamerton. "A lump of a fellow, by Jove!" he added, critically regarding the stalwart, fair-haired Teuton. "We'll get those wet clothes off him and carry him below. You will do well to change. Never mind about the boat, she'll take care of herself for a while."
The destroyers were now out of earshot, swallowed up in the still dense watery mist. More than likely the absence of the unfortunate seaman would not be noticed for some considerable time, and then it was doubtful whether the vessels of the flotilla would retrace their course far enough to come in touch with the Diomeda.
"I'm glad I didn't miss that sight, by Jove!" said Hamerton, with unstinted praise. "Those Germans know how to handle their torpedo craft. Fancy taking them at that bat through a fog!"
"It's fools' work," said Detroit, who was struggling into a change of clothing.
"All the same, it's part of the game, and only by constant practice can they keep in a state of efficiency. Our fellows are pretty smart at manoeuvring, but these Germans appear to run all sorts of needless risk, and still manage without serious accidents. Finished changing? Good! You might get on deck and see how things are progressing."
Barely had Detroit resumed his post at the helm when out of the fog came a succession of dull flashes, punctuated by the deafening detonation of a number of quick-firing guns. Then, like a veil rent in twain, the fog partly lifted, revealing a large battleship, cleared for action, and blazing away with her light armament in the direction of the small British yacht.