CHAPTER XX
Homeward Bound
"It's a pure piece of bluff—that's my opinion," declared Thompson. "The most remarkable thing about the whole business is the quiet way in which the British and United States Governments have accepted the German authorities' explanation."
Thompson, Bennett, and young Stirling were seated in the former's sanctum at The Westminster Daily Record's offices, just off Whitehall.
"Well, what else could they do under the circumstances?" asked Bennett. "They couldn't very well tell His Imperial Majesty that he was telling a deliberate untruth; now, could they?"
"Hardly. No, it's the old story—international diplomacy, which, reduced to its simplest form, means which party can tell the biggest lie without being found out."
"But we've proof," objected Bennett. "Why on earth wasn't the German Admiralty asked to produce the alleged spies in spite of their assurances?"
Thompson shrugged his shoulders.
"What actual proof have we?" he asked. "Only a letter from a German sailor stating that a friend of his saw Hamerton and Detroit on the island of Heligoland on the same day as they were supposed to be washed overboard. The fellow might have made a mistake, all in good faith, or he might be playing the fool with Stirling."
"But there's the instance of the German destroyer persistently cruising off the Dollart. That tallies with Pfeil's statement that the Diomeda was to be taken possession of and brought back to Heligoland," persisted the editor of The Yachtsman's Journal.
"I quite agree with you. There seems something strange about the whole matter," replied Thompson. "For the moment I am a self-constituted mouthpiece for our friends the enemy. Again, the German sailor might be mistaken; while, since a part of the Dollart is German waters, one of the torpedo-boat destroyers is quite at liberty to cruise about there, I take it."
"Quite so," agreed Bennett affably. He was about to play his trump card. He paused while he lit a cigarette, and then continued: "I've had the tip, my dear Thompson, that the Admiralty have given orders for the torpedo-boat destroyer Boxer to proceed from Sheerness to Delfzyl tomorrow morning, to tow the Diomeda back to Lowestoft. What do you make of that, eh?"
"Stirling," said Thompson quietly, "there's a job for you. I believe you can be regarded as one of the yacht's crew? Good! I'll 'phone to Sir Theophilus and ask him to get you a passage on the Boxer."
Before two that afternoon the head of the Foreign Office obtained the necessary permit from the Admiralty, and at six that evening Gordon Stirling presented himself on board the torpedo-boat destroyer Boxer, lying alongside Sheerness Dockyard. Three hours later the permission of the Dutch Government for the British warship to enter Delfzyl was obtained, and at six the following morning she slipped quietly past the Garrison Fort en route for Holland.
"Do you anticipate any trouble with the German destroyer?" asked Stirling, in the course of conversation with the lieutenant-commander of the Boxer.
"No, worse luck!" replied Lieutenant Mallet. "I wish the blighters would fight. Of course this is not for publication, but I can assure you that there's hardly an officer or man in the British Navy who is not as keen as mustard on the question of smashing the Teutons. It's got to come, mark my words, and the longer the delay the harder the job will be."
"And what is your private opinion about Hamerton?"
"My private opinion is this," said the lieutenant-commander slowly: "Hamerton is as much alive as I am. For some reason, inexplicable as far as we are concerned, the Germans are concealing his identity and that of his friend Detroit. That's the opinion of almost every thinking man, woman, and child in the British Empire and in the United States. And yet, what is the result of the joint Ambassadors' Note? Dust in their eyes. And the worst part about the whole business is that the affairs of state are in the hands of a few weak-kneed, peace-at-any-price individuals, who believe that the German is our best friend. I suppose I've said more than I ought; but, hang it! a fellow cannot always keep his feelings bottled up. You're going back with the yacht, I presume?" he added.
"Yes; I am expecting to get another 'scoop'—some startling news—but it looks like a fizzle out."
"If I could have my way I would put you ashore at Harlingen. You could easily get to Delfzyl by train. Then you could assist Smith in working the yacht out to sea, and we would be cruising about ready to drop on S174 should she try any of her little tricks. Then you might have a 'scoop'. But orders are orders, and one-eyed Nelsons who could deliberately ignore signals are not to be found in the navy of to-day."
Just then the look-out reported land on the starboard bow.
"The Frisian Islands," remarked the lieutenant as he made his way to the bridge. "Another two hours will bring us within sight of Rottum—that's the Dutch island nearest to the German island of Borkum. We'll go a little way out of the direct course and let our friend S174 know that there is such a thing as a White Ensign."
"Is that Borkum?" asked Stirling of the sub-lieutenant, pointing to a low-lying island, apparently occupied by a few cottages on the side and a row of sandhills.
"Aye; looks harmless enough. Tucked away on the lee side of those dunes is a regular hornet's nest of torpedo craft. Batteries, too, everywhere, and jolly well masked."
"Don't you think it somewhat remarkable that a destroyer should be sent from Heligoland to watch the movements of my friend's yacht when Borkum is so much nearer?"
"I do; but questions have been asked and have been answered—after a fashion. The powers that be seem satisfied, and we have to accept the situation. It's galling, but——"
And with a deprecatory movement of his hand the sub-lieutenant hurried off to join his chief on the bridge.
"Ting-ting!" The bridge telegraph signalled to the engine-room for half-speed ahead. The Boxer was nearing the shoals outlying the Frisian Islands.
"There she is!" exclaimed Mallet, removing his binoculars from his eyes and pointing almost dead over the bows. "That's S174."
The German destroyer was heading straight for the Boxer. In a very few minutes the two craft would be passing each other unless the German boat altered her course considerably.
In obedience to a sign from the lieutenant-commander, a seaman made his way aft to where the White Ensign floated proudly in the breeze. Uncleating the halyards he waited.
"Port your helm," came the order. Mallet, though loath to give way, was resolved to take no risks of collision. As the British destroyer swung away a point to starboard the German followed suit; then resuming their former course the two vessels swept past each other at a difference in speed of quite thirty-eight knots.
Slowly, almost defiantly, the Black Cross Ensign of S174 was lowered and quickly rehoisted. The compliment was smartly returned by the Boxer, and ere her White Ensign was hauled up to the truck the German vessel was observed to be circling to starboard.
"What's her game?" asked Mallet indignantly. "Surely she isn't going to follow us? At any rate she won't overhaul us if I can help it."
The lieutenant-commander's hand was on the bridge telegraph, ready to give the order for full-speed ahead, when the German destroyer shaped a course to the nor'-west. Her commander realized that his attempt to recapture the Diomeda by a ruse or otherwise was a failure. Rather than see the yacht leave the Dollart under the convoy of a British warship he preferred to return to Heligoland.
Since the Boxer's visit to Delfzyl was entirely of a private character there was no official welcome by the burgomaster. Nevertheless all the town seemed to congregate on the quay to await the British destroyer's arrival.
Smartly the Boxer came alongside, and without the loss of so much as a square inch of paint was soon moored to the jetty.
"Ready, Mr. Smith?" asked Mallet, after Stirling had duly introduced the skipper of the Diomeda to the lieutenant-commander of the destroyer. "Good! we'll get out a hawser at once. The tide won't serve us much longer. The sooner we start the better, for, unless I am very much mistaken, there's heavy weather knocking about within fifty miles of us."
Octavius Smith had, in fact, already made all preparations for the Diomeda's departure. As soon as he had received a communication from the Admiralty, acquainting him of the special visit of a British destroyer to tow the yacht back to Lowestoft, he obtained his clearance papers at the Custom House, reprovisioned the craft, and stowed away or securely lashed on deck every article that might otherwise be swept overboard or damaged down below.
"What's the game, old man?" he asked of Stirling, as the latter returned with him to the yacht. "It seems a queer thing to do to send a destroyer solely for the purpose of towing us home. Of course I'm jolly glad, although I enjoyed my detention at Delfzyl. At the same time the letter from the Admiralty is so emphatic on the point that the yacht must be brought home that I can't help fancying that there's more in this than meets the eye."
"There I cannot help you," replied Stirling. "For one thing, I know our friend S174 has cleared off. You received those papers I sent you safely?"
"Oh yes—thanks awfully! It was a rotten climb down on the part of the British and American authorities at Berlin, but I'm inclined to think they are lying low about something."
"I hope they are," agreed Stirling. "By the by, how have you been getting on since I left you in the lurch?"
"Can't complain," drawled the skipper of the Diomeda. "Business fairly brisk; sent off four instalments of those idiotic 'Heart-to-heart Chats' and answered a regular batch of queries from love-sick servant girls. And—funny thing—old Dangler wrote and asked me to contribute a series of articles on 'Art in the Home'. Of course I started the wretched things, but as I couldn't get hold of any copies of London furniture manufacturers' catalogues I was a bit hung up. You can't get inspirations on 'Art in the Home' when you're cooped up in this dog-box of a cabin, can you? They'll have to wait till I get back. But there's the hawser coming aboard."
It did not take long to get the six-inch hawser from the Boxer to the Diomeda, where the end was bent round the yacht's mainmast close to the deck and securely stopped to the gammoning-iron. The bowsprit had already been run in, so as not to have the risk of its being snapped off by the tow rope in the broken waters of the North Sea.
The ropes that held the Diomeda to the quay were cast off, the destroyer's propellers began to churn twin columns of white foam, and the hawser slowly tautened.
As the Boxer and her tow glided away from the wharf the usually phlegmatic Dutchmen raised a cheer, which compliment Smith and Stirling returned by raising their caps. Then, with the speed increased to ten knots, the Diomeda followed in the wake of the British destroyer, homeward bound. As soon as the two craft were outside the Dollart the scope of the towing hawser was considerably increased. Nevertheless the Diomeda pitched and strained in a manner that caused Smith grave misgivings.
Although there was little wind there was a long, heavy swell that presaged a strong breeze, if not a gale, before many hours had passed.
At sunset Smith placed the red and green navigation lights in position, satisfied himself that the hawser was not being chafed by the stemhead, and, having given the tiller into his companion's charge, went below to prepare supper.
Five minutes later he was up on deck again.
"Blessed if I can stick down below," he remarked. "I never felt so much like being seasick in my life. The motion is too rotten for words. It will mean an all-night watch on deck. Of course if you care to go below you can."
"Thanks, I'd rather not," replied Stirling, realizing that he stood little chance against the attacks of mal de mer when Smith had been forced to admit defeat.
"Very well. I'll hand up the oilskins. There's a stiff breeze piping up already."
With alarming rapidity the wind increased, blowing two points abaft the beam to starboard. At midnight it was half a gale. In spite of the speed of the towed yacht crested waves repeatedly broke inboard, till the cockpit was frequently filled with water almost to the level of the seat on the port side.
"Hang on to that lamp," shouted Smith, who had taken Stirling's place at the helm. "We may want it. I wish they would slow down; this pace is a jolly sight too hot."
His comrade was just in time to lift the signalling lamp from a bracket on the after side of the bulkhead when a vicious sea poured inboard. The stem dipped, then, jerked forward by the strain of the towrope, the yacht plunged her bows under till there was solid water as far aft as the mainmast. Just then the hawser parted like a piece of pack-thread, and the Diomeda was drifting helplessly under bare poles in the midst of the angry sea.