CHAPTER I
Laddie's Warning
"What a rotten night!"
With this well-expressed remark Sub-lieutenant Webb gained the head of the bridge-ladder of H.M. armed merchant-cruiser Portchester Castle.
Contrasted with the brightness of his comfortable cabin the blackness of the night seemed impenetrable. The horned moon, already well down in the western sky, was almost hidden by a rapidly drifting patch of mottled clouds of sufficient density to obscure its pale rays. Slapping viciously against the ship's starboard side were the surging rollers of the Bay of Biscay. With a succession of heavy thuds the waves broke against the vessel's hull, recoiling in masses of phosphorescent foam and at the same time sending clouds of spindrift flying across the lofty bridge. The Portchester Castle was forty-eight hours out from England, bound for patrol duties in the Eastern Mediterranean. It was by no means her first trip to that inland sea. In pre-war days, under a different name, she had been making regular pleasure trips under the auspices of a touring agency. It had been said that her skipper could find his way practically blindfold into any of the better-known Mediterranean ports, so long had he been on this particular service.
But the outbreak of the Great War had changed all that. Taken over by the Admiralty, the former liner-yacht had been rapidly and efficaciously adapted to her new rôle. Her palatial cabin fittings had been ruthlessly scrapped. The dazzling white enamel had been hidden under a coat of neutral grey. Her bluff funnels were disguised with "wash" of the same dingy hue. Light armour protected her vital parts; quick-firing guns of hard-hitting power were mounted on the decks that previously had been given over to pleasure-seeking tourists. In short, the Portchester Castle was now a swift and formidable unit of the British Navy.
Four years had made a marked difference in the appearance of Tom Webb, formerly Tenderfoot of the Sea Scouts' yacht Petrel. Thanks to his preliminary training in the rudiments of seamanship and navigation acquired in the little ketch yacht, Webb had had no difficulty in being accepted for service in the trawler patrol soon after the outbreak of hostilities.
It was now that his Sea Scout training bore fruit. Self-reliant, and willing to undertake the most arduous tasks with the utmost good humour and alacrity, he quickly gained the goodwill of his superiors.
Two years in the North Sea in the trawler Zealous gave him plenty of experience and adventure, until the trawler came to an untimely end in an encounter with some German torpedo-boats, but not before she had sent one of them to the bottom. The outcome of this little "scrap", as far as Tom Webb was concerned, was that the ex-Tenderfoot was given a commission as Acting Sub-lieutenant, R.N.R., and appointed to the armed merchant-cruiser Portchester Castle.
It required a fair effort on Webb's part to carry out one portion of the Scout's creed and "keep smiling" as he mounted the bridge in this particular middle watch. Turning out of a comfortable bunk to do duty in an exposed, spray-swept post was not a matter of choice but of obligation.
Still dazed by the sudden transition from the electric light 'tween decks to the intense blackness of the night, Webb could just discern the figure of the Sub he was about to relieve.
"Mornin', Haynes!"
"Wish you well of it, my festive," was Dick Haynes's rejoinder. "Nothing to report. Here's the course. You ought to sight the Spanish coast in an hour or so. Well, so long, and good luck!"
The relieved Sub-lieutenant vanished down the bridge-ladder. Webb, muffled in his greatcoat, satisfied himself that the quartermasters were acquainted with the correct compass course, and received the usual report: "Screened light's burning, sir, and all's well."
This done he took up his position on the lee side of the bridge and, sheltered by the storm-dodger, gazed fixedly in the direction of the swelter of black water ahead of the labouring ship.
Slowly the minutes sped. The Portchester Castle, steaming at seventeen knots, rolled and plunged through the long waves without so much as the distant navigation lights of another vessel to break the monotony of the night. Yet the utmost vigilance was necessary. The safety of the ship depended upon the sharp eyes of the two look-out men on the fo'c'sle, and the alertness of the junior watch-keeper on the bridge. To the ordinary risk of collision was added another danger, for hostile submarines had been reported making for the Mediterranean, and were reasonably expected to take a very similar course to that followed by the British armed merchant-cruiser.
The "Rules of the Road for Preventing Collision at Sea" reduced the former danger to a minimum, provided an efficient watch were maintained; against the mad dogs of the sea—the German submarines, who never hesitated to torpedo at sight anything afloat regardless of her nationality—the ship had to take her chances, and trust to Providence and a quick use of the helm to avoid the deadly torpedo, should the phosphorescent swell in the wake of the weapon betray its approach.
A faint click, barely perceptible above the howling of the wind and the swish of the waves, attracted Webb's attention. The officer of the watch had switched off the light in the chart-house before emerging, lest a stray beam should betray the vessel to a lurking foe.
Presently the door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared, his outlines just discernible in the faint light; for the moon, now soon on the point of setting, was momentarily unobscured.
"Hallo, Tom!" he exclaimed. "What do you think of the Bay, eh?"
The speaker was Lieutenant Jack Osborne, R.N.R., for the time being officer of the watch. He, too, had good reason to be thankful for his early training as a Sea Scout on the yacht Petrel. The outbreak of war found him at Shanghai—a Third Officer on one of the liners of the Royal British and Pacific Steamship Company's fleet. Within two hours of the receipt of the mobilization telegram, Osborne was on board a vessel bound for Vancouver, en route for home by the Canadian Pacific. Twelve months' sea service procured him his promotion as lieutenant, R.N.R., and when the Portchester Castle was commissioned he found that one of his brother officers was his former Sea Scout chum, Tom Webb.
"An improvement on the North Sea in winter," replied Webb optimistically. "And it will be a jolly sight warmer when we get to the Mediterranean."
"You haven't been abroad before?" asked Osborne.
"Strictly speaking—no," replied the Sub. "I've been within sight of Iceland a few times, and don't want to see it again; but I have never set foot ashore. You remember—— Hallo! What's that?"
He gave an involuntary start as something gripped his left hand with a gentle yet firm hold.
Osborne smiled.
"You're a bit jumpy," he said. "Come, this won't do; it's only Laddie. He's always with me on the bridge, you know."
"Hope he hasn't mistaken my hand for a piece of raw beef-steak," remarked Webb, disengaging his hand from the jaws of a large dog. "I'm not afraid of dogs, you know, Osborne, but for the moment I wondered what was up."
"Only his way of showing friendliness," explained the Lieutenant. "I've had him on board ever since he was a pup. He's only fourteen months old now."
"I haven't seen him before."
"No, I kept him ashore while we were commissioning, and he generally keeps down below for the first twenty-four hours at sea. He'll be a pal to you, Webb; almost as much as Cinders. Well, I'll leave him with you. Stop there, Laddie, there's a good dog. Call me directly you sight Cape Villano light, Webb. Keep it well on the port bow; we're off a tricky coast, you know."
Left alone the Sub stooped and patted the silky hair of the sheep-dog's head. Webb was one of those fellows to whom most dogs take at sight. This animal was no exception to the general rule.
Laddie was a large bob-tailed sheep-dog standing more than two feet from the ground—or rather, deck—and powerfully built. Even in the dim light Webb noticed one peculiarity. The animal's eyes were of a turquoise-blue colour and gleamed in the dark like those of a cat.
Suddenly the animal bounded to the weather side of the bridge and, placing his front paws on the guard-rail, gave vent to three deep, angry barks.
"What's the matter, old boy?" asked Webb, peering in vain to ascertain the cause of the dog's excitability.
Hearing his pet's warning bark Lieutenant Osborne was on the bridge in a trice. One glance at Laddie was sufficient.
"Action stations!" he roared in stentorian tones; then, "Hard-a-port, quartermaster!"
Even as the spokes of the steam steering-gear revolved rapidly under the helmsman's hands, the guns' crews, who had been fitfully dozing beside their weapons, manned the quick-firers, while the search-lights with their carbons sizzling were trained outboard, ready at the word of command to unscreen and throw their dazzling rays upon the surface of the waves.
Listing heavily to port as she turned rapidly on her helm, the Portchester Castle just missed by a few yards an ever-diverging double track of foam that contrasted vividly with the inky blackness of the water.
By a few seconds the British vessel had escaped destruction from a torpedo fired from a lurking hostile submarine.