CHAPTER III
A Loss and a Find
Late in the afternoon, the wind falling light, Norderney lightship was passed. Curiously enough, with the breeze dropping the fog dispersed, and Hamerton was able to set a course for the Elbe light-vessel.
"Here's a tramp bearing down upon us," he announced, after intently watching the oncoming craft through his binoculars. "We'll signal her." Again the flags that the German warship had all but ignored were hoisted, and before long the crew of the Diomeda saw the steamship alter helm and head so as to pass within a cable's length of the yacht.
She flew no ensign, neither did she reply by signal to Hamerton's request to communicate.
"I'll semaphore her," announced the Sub, producing two red-and-yellow hand flags from a locker. For nearly two minutes he vainly attempted to enter into conversation.
"The bounders don't understand," he growled. "She's not a British vessel, I'll bet my bottom dollar on it. We'll hoist the ensign, and hail them through the speaking trumpet."
Out fluttered the red ensign. Still there was no reply that gave a clue to the tramp's nationality. But she was now within hailing distance.
"Vat you vant?" shouted a voice from the tramp's bridge.
"We've rescued a German seaman from a destroyer. Can you give him a passage?"
"Vat you say? Me no onderstan'," came the exasperating reply.
"She's either a Dutchman or a German," said Detroit. "The name on her bows conveys nothing. Why not hail them in German?"
"Couldn't trust myself to make a public confession of my inability," replied Hamerton, with a laugh. "But, by Jove, although we're doing all this for Pfeil, I quite forgot him. He can do the chin-wagging part of the business."
In answer to a shout from the Sub, Hans Pfeil, who had been asleep in the fo'c'sle cot, came on deck. His clothes were still wet, since the air was too moist for drying purposes, and a comical figure he cut, wrapped up in a blanket, with his oilskin coat flung round his shoulders.
The sailor hailed, and an animated conversation took place between him and the skipper of the tramp.
"Heave her to," ordered Hamerton, seeing that the German tramp's propeller was going astern, and that the vessel was losing way. "They're going to lower a boat."
The two craft were now less than a cable's length apart and hardly moving through the water, but Hamerton would not risk running the Diomeda alongside the wallowing hull of the tramp. He waited for a boat to be sent.
Meantime Pfeil went below to assemble his saturated garments. Then, clad only in his oilskin, and with the bundle of clothing under his arm, he took leave of his rescuers, again thanking them for saving his life.
This done, he entered the waiting boat, and was taken to the tramp. Without further delay the steamship gathered way, hoisting and dipping her ensign, to which the Diomeda replied, while from the taffrail could be discerned the oilskin-clad figure of the German sailor, still waving adieux to the men who had saved him from a watery grave.
"Haul down that ensign, old man," said the Sub when the tramp was almost out of sight. "It's too pretty to be flapping itself against the mizen halyards, now that a breeze is springing up."
Detroit, with his usual energy, sprang out of the cockpit and lowered the bunting, rolled it in a professional manner and jammed it between his knees, while he secured the halyard to a cleat. While thus engaged one end of the halyard slipped from between his fingers, and streamed to leeward. Hurriedly grasping the mizen shroud with one hand, he leant outboard to recover the errant cord. As he did so the sudden movement dislodged the ensign, and in an instant it was overboard.
"I'm right-down sorry, Hamerton," he exclaimed ruefully.
"Can't be helped," was the reply. "Accidents will happen, you know. We can get another for a matter of five or six marks at the first chandler's shop we come to ashore. But I rather fancied myself dropping anchor off the custom house at Cuxhaven with the red ensign at the masthead to signify that we had sailed a little eight-tonner from England."
"I'm an awkward mule," ejaculated Detroit. "Hope you are not superstitious; losing an ensign looks like a bad omen."
"Thanks, I'm not in the least superstitious," was the reply. "After all, it's of little consequence. But it's high time I went below and filled and trimmed the lamps."
The Diomeda's lamp-room was a small cupboard in the fo'c'sle. To get to it Hamerton had to remove the topsail that had reposed on the fo'c'sle floor since the previous night. As he did so he noticed a book lying under one of the folds of the canvas.
It was a small, blue-covered volume, saturated with salt water. A glance at the title told him the nature of the work. It was a treatise on the Schwartz-Kopff twenty-five-inch torpedo, a highly confidential work of which the British Admiralty had failed to obtain a copy in spite of the most strenuous efforts on the part of the Naval Intelligence Department.
"By Jove, this is a find!" ejaculated the Sub gleefully. "It must have fallen out of Pfeil's jumper when we slipped off his wet clothing. But I must stow it away very carefully, for there'll be considerable trouble if the German custom-house authorities chance to lay their hands on it when they start rummaging in search of contraband. Let me think, now; where's the best place?"
It was certainly curious that, though the Sub had often mislaid articles on board, and only after a laborious search had he been able to find them (for below decks the yacht was a labyrinth of lockers and odd corners), now, because he wanted to conceal a small book, he was at a loss to find a suitable hiding place.
"Capital idea!" he exclaimed, slapping his thigh, and at the same time giving his head a tremendous blow against an obtrusive deck beam. "I'll stow it in the false bottom of the stove. It will stand a good chance to dry, and at the same time ought to be quite safe from detection."
As soon as the "manual" was hidden, Hamerton proceeded with his task of getting the lamps ready for their night's work.
"It's piping up," announced Detroit, as a vicious puff struck the yacht's sails, causing her to heel till her lee planks were awash.
"Yes, the glass is falling rapidly," said the Sub. "We're in for a dirty night."
"Going to cut and run for it?" asked the American.
"No, not with a dangerous lee shore. If I knew the coast it would be a different matter. We'll heave to on the port tack as soon as it gets dark. Meanwhile we'll stow the mizen and change the jibs. Easy canvas is best for a job of this sort."
With the rising wind came the rain, hissing upon cabin top and obliterating everything beyond a few yards. Snugly clad in oilskins, the two men remained on deck, for although the helm was lashed and the yacht hardly making half a mile an hour to windward, neither cared to go below and turn in.
Hour after hour passed without any attempt at conversation. Occasionally Detroit would make some remark about the state of the weather, to which Hamerton would reply with a grunt that could be taken as expressing assent or otherwise.
Fortunately the rain served a good purpose. It kept down the sea, so that, instead of vicious, crested waves breaking inboard, there was little more than a long, sullen roll.
"Lights ahead!" announced Detroit, as a faint luminosity became visible in the rain-charged darkness.
"Yes, searchlights. They always look like that in rainy weather. We're apparently in the thick of the German naval manoeuvres. It may be Heligoland. They say the place bristles with powerful searchlights."
"Heligoland, eh? I'd just like to have a look at that place," exclaimed the American. "Many years ago my father spent a holiday there. That was when it was a British possession, used principally as a bathing resort for German visitors. He lived in Germany for some time when he was about my age."
"I'm afraid you won't be able to gratify your wish, old man," said the Sub. "It's forbidden ground now. In 1913 it was strongly fortified, and shortly after that the island was given over solely to military and naval purposes. The civil population had to clear out. It's a sort of second Kronstadt. Our Intelligence Department would dearly like to know a great deal more about it than they do at present."
"Don't you think the British Government was a bit of a fool to give the place away?"
"No, certainly not. We did jolly well out of the deal. Had a vast tract of territory in Africa in exchange for a little lump of sandstone that looked very much like falling into the sea."
"That's the average Britisher's notion—that is, if he thinks about it at all. The German view is very different. As colonists the Teutons do not shine, except, curiously enough, when under any Government but their own. Very well. They give you a slice of virgin territory. You develop it, and it increases in value a thousandfold in a couple of decades. When 'The Day' comes, should Great Britain be overwhelmed by the Triple Alliance, Germany takes back her former territory—and a lot besides—all ready for her much-wanted place in the sun."
"You're a jolly old croaker, Detroit," exclaimed the Sub. "I'll bet my last halfpenny that the British navy will be top dog for a good many years to come. I don't fancy that you and I will see the Teutons walking through London with fixed bayonets, and the Kaiser dictating terms of peace in Buckingham Palace. Hallo! The searchlights are out. Evolutions finished for the night. What's the time, I wonder?"
Thrusting back the sliding hatch, Hamerton looked at the clock on the fore bulkhead of the cabin. It was just 2 a.m.
As he reclosed the hatch his foot slipped on the wet grating, and his rubber-soled boot came in contact with a hard substance close to where the yacht binnacle stood.
"Good job I didn't sit on the compass, by Jove!" ejaculated the Sub. "But what's this? What idiot placed it there?"
For the object he had kicked was a large belaying pin that unaccountably had been propped up against the binnacle.
"I'll swear I didn't," declared Detroit.
"The mischief is done, at all events," continued Hamerton. "The attraction of that lump of iron has affected the compass. We may be points out of our course. Just watch."
Bringing the belaying pin back to its former position, Hamerton carefully observed its effect upon the sensitive needle of the liquid compass.
"Twelve degrees out, at least," exclaimed Detroit.
"And goodness only knows how long it has been like that. Perhaps before the yacht was hove-to perhaps even when we passed Norderney Gat."
"Well, we've a good offing, so there's little harm done. The wind is falling some, and if only this tarnation rain would quit——"
"What's that?" interrupted Hamerton, holding up his hand.
"Nothing, I guess," replied Detroit, after a few moments. "What's the matter with your nerves?"
"There's nothing the matter with my nerves," asserted the Sub with asperity. "Feel my pulse. But I could swear I heard a fellow calling out, 'Who goes there?' in German."
Detroit chuckled.
"Guess I'll have to take your word for it," he said. "I'll git. It's time I made some coffee."
The Sub watched his companion descend into the cosy cabin and strip off his glistening oilskins. Then, to avoid the glare, he closed the sliding hatch, and peered steadfastly into the mirky night.
The rain was coming down with torrential violence. The wind had died utterly away, and the saturated sails were slatting violently from side to side with the motion of the craft.
Beyond the patter of the heavy raindrops, no sound came from the black vault that encompassed the Diomeda on every side.
"If only I could pick up a light!" he muttered; then, mainly with the idea of doing something, he picked up the coiled lead-line.
"Five fathoms, by Jupiter!" he exclaimed; then, seized by an inspiration, he dived into the cabin and bent over the chart. According to the course the minimum depth ought to be thirteen.
"We've muddled the whole show, Oswald," he announced. "We're inside the five-fathom line, and that means we are only a few miles from shore. I'll put her due west, and see what comes of that. There's enough wind now to give her steerage way."
"Couldn't do better," replied Detroit laconically, "unless it's to have some coffee and a few rusks. I'll be slick about it."
Hamerton returned to his rain-exposed post, put the little craft's head in the desired position, and waited. Five minutes later he made another sounding. This time it was four and a half fathoms.
"I'll carry on," he resolved. "It may be a slight irregularity in the ground, although the general tendency is for it to deepen."
Four fathoms—three and a half.
"Say, ready for your coffee?" asked Detroit, holding a cup in his extended hand through the partially open hatchway.
"Far from it," replied the Sub. "Come on deck and give a hand to put her about. The water's shoaling rapidly."
"How's her head?"
"Nor'-nor'-west. I'll keep her at due south for a bit until we find deeper water."
Slowly the Diomeda came into the wind and paid off on the other tack. As she did so Hamerton noticed that, in spite of the heavy rain, the seas were steeper, and showed a decided tendency to break.
"Guess that's surf," said the American, as the dull rumble of a heavy ground swell was heard above the hiss of the rain. "Dead ahead, too."
Hamerton heard it also. The Diomeda was making straight towards a sandbank. Unhesitatingly he put the helm hard up. He would not risk going about; he chose the lesser danger of gybing all standing.
With a thud the boom swung over, and the stanch little craft drew away from the hidden danger. Her course was now nor'-west.
"Still shallow," announced the Sub. "It's less than four fathoms, but the water seems calmer."
"Light ahead!" shouted Detroit. "Showing red and white. We're right on the dividing line between the two sectors."
"I see it now," replied Hamerton, as he altered his helm to bring the Diomeda more into the arc of the white light. "Hanged if I know what or where it is, but, by Jove, there's a crowd of lights beyond!"
Through the rain a multitude of yellowish lamps blinked after the manner of a street, except that, instead of two rows, there were four or five. The water, too, was almost calm, ruffled by a faint breeze that contrasted vividly with the strong wind but a few hundred yards astern.
The Sub's ready wit grasped the situation. Unknowingly the yacht had entered an anchorage, for the lights represented the anchor lamps of a number of vessels.
"This is good enough for us," he exclaimed. "We'll bring up here till daylight. I shouldn't wonder if we're off the mouth of the Jade or the Weser. Stand by and let go, old man. I'll bring her up into the wind."
Two minutes later the rattling of the chain cable announced the fact that Detroit had let go the anchor. The saturated sails were quickly lowered and stowed, the navigation lights removed, and an anchor lamp hung from the fore stay.
A final look round satisfied Hamerton that he had done all that was humanly possible. The Diomeda was riding snugly in a safe but unknown anchorage.
"Watch below, all hands!" he exclaimed cheerily. "We'll sleep like logs. To-morrow, my dear Detroit, we'll wake up and find ourselves close to a picturesque little German village, and you can go ashore and buy fresh milk and new rolls. Think of that, and dream on it, old man."
Detroit merely nodded. He was already half-asleep. Before the Sub was ready to turn in, his companion was breathing heavily. Five minutes later the crew of the Diomeda were fast asleep, heedless of the peril that overshadowed them.