CHAPTER II
Held Up by a U-Boat
"Hard-a-starboard!" roared Osborne. In the vivid glare of the now unmasked searchlights he had detected a short spar-like object projecting a couple of feet or more above the waves. Almost at the same time three of the Portchester Castle's quick-firers united in a loud roar, their projectiles knocking up tall clouds of foam in the vicinity of the supposed periscope ere they ricochetted a mile or so away.
Dipping in the trough of an enormous roller the slight target was lost to sight. Whether hit by the shell the young lieutenant could not determine. In any case he meant to try and ram the skulking foe.
Round swung the armed liner and, steadying on her helm, bore down upon the spot where the submarine was supposed to be lurking. No slight jarring shock announced the successful issue of her attempt.
"Missed her, I'm afraid, Mr. Osborne," exclaimed a deep voice.
The Lieutenant turned and found himself confronted by the Captain, who, aroused from his slumbers, had appeared on the bridge dressed only in pyjamas, a greatcoat, and carpet slippers.
"And fortunately she missed us, sir," replied Osborne. "The wake of the torpedo was close under our stern."
"Did anyone sight her?"
"The dog, sir," said the Lieutenant. "He began barking at something. I immediately hurried up to see what was amiss, and ordered the helm to be ported."
"Then your wall-eyed pet has done us a good turn," observed Captain Staggles grimly. He was a keen disciplinarian, and did not altogether approve of a dog being brought on board. It was only on Osborne's earnest request that the skipper had relented, and then only on the condition that the animal must be got rid of should he give trouble.
Osborne had run the risk. To lose his pet would be nothing short of a calamity, but such was his confidence in Laddie that he had brought him on board; and now, within a few hours of leaving port, the sheep-dog had gained distinction.
"Suppose the brute's got second sight," remarked the Captain. "Well, carry on, Mr. Osborne, and put the ship on her former course. Call for more speed—the sooner we get away from this particular danger zone the better, since we can do nothing on a night like this. See that a wireless is sent reporting the presence and position of the U-boat."
Having steadied the vessel and dispatched a signalman to the wireless room, Osborne rejoined Webb, who was methodically examining the surface of the sea with his night glasses. Already the search-lights had been switched off and the guns cleaned and secured.
"A close shave," remarked Webb. "I thought she'd bagged us that time. It was fortunate that Laddie gave us warning."
"Fortunate in a double sense," added Osborne. "The skipper will be more favourably disposed towards Laddie after this. I've nothing to say against the Captain (wouldn't if I had, you understand). From what I know of him he's a jolly smart skipper, but I fancy he doesn't cotton on to animals."
"He ought to as far as Laddie is concerned, after this," said the Sub. "It is a perfect mystery to me how the dog spotted the submarine. I'll swear he did. He was so excited that I thought he was going to jump over the rail."
Just then a signalman ran up the bridge-ladder and tendered a writing-pad to the officer of the watch.
"'S.O.S.' call, sir," he explained. "Sparks can't make head or tail of it, in a manner of speaking. He's jotted it down just as it was received."
Osborne took the message and retired into the chart-room. At a glance he discovered that the message was partly in International Code and partly in Spanish, or a language closely approaching it. An intimate knowledge of the ports of the Pacific coast of South America had enabled Osborne to understand a good many words in Spanish. He could therefore make a fair translation of the appeal for aid.
"It's a message from a Portuguese merchantman—the Douro," he explained to Webb. "She is being pursued by a German submarine. She gives her position. We're thirty miles to the nor'nor'-east. Inform Captain Staggles," he added, addressing the signalman.
In a very short space of time the Captain again appeared on the bridge.
"It will be daybreak before we sight her," he observed when Osborne had made his report. "You didn't acknowledge the signal, I hope?"
"No, sir."
"That's good. Sorry to keep Senhor Portuguese on tenterhooks, but if we wirelessed him the strafed Hun might pick up the message. We must try and catch the U-boat on the hop. Pass the word for the look-out to keep his eyes well skinned."
The Captain leant over the for'ard guard-rail of the lofty bridge. Beneath lurked two greatcoated figures sheltering under the lee side of the deckhouse from the driving spray.
"Bos'n's mate!" shouted Captain Staggles.
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Pipe General Quarters."
The shrill trills of the whistle brought the watch below surging on deck. Already by some mysterious means the news had spread along the lower deck. Taking into consideration the fact that the ship had been but newly commissioned, there was little fault to be found with the way in which the men responded to the call.
In the engine-room the staff had risen nobly to the Captain's request to "whack her up". Quickly speed was increased to twenty knots as the Portchester Castle hastened on her errand of succour to the harassed Portuguese merchantman.
"I shouldn't be surprised if we are too late," remarked Captain Staggles. "That wireless will most certainly be picked up by the Portuguese destroyer flotilla patrolling the Tagus. They'll be on the spot before us, I fancy."
Lieutenant Osborne did not reply. He had good cause to think otherwise, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Nevertheless he was glad when the skipper expressed his intention of "carrying on" in the direction of the pursued tramp.
With daybreak came the sound of distant intermittent gun-fire. For five minutes the cannonade was maintained, and then an ominous silence. In addition the hitherto constant wireless appeals for aid ceased abruptly.
"They've got her, I'm afraid," remarked Webb to his chum and brother officer as the twain searched the horizon with their binoculars.
"Not a sign of her," began Osborne.
"Sail ahead, sir," reported the masthead man, who from his point of vantage could command a far greater distance than the officers on the bridge.
"Where does she bear?" shouted Osborne.
"Two points on the port bow, sir," was the prompt reply.
In anxious suspense officers and crew waited for the Portuguese vessel to come within range of vision. Quickly the daylight grew brighter. A slight mist that hung around in low, ill-defined patches began to lift. The sea, still high, rendered it difficult to locate a vessel at any considerable distance from the British auxiliary cruiser.
Presently Osborne went to the voice-tube communicating with the engine-room. His observant eye had noticed that the Portchester Castle's funnels were throwing out considerable volumes of smoke. Since it was imperative that she should conceal her approach until the last possible moment, he requested the Engineer-lieutenant to exercise a little more care in the stokeholds. A minute or two later the black volumes of smoke gave place to a thin haze of bluish vapour.
"There she is!" exclaimed Webb. "By Jove, they've bagged her! She's hove-to."
The tramp, a vessel of about 2000 tons, was lying motionless and showing almost broadside on to the oncoming Portchester Castle. As yet there was no sign of the pursuing submarine.
By the aid of the binoculars the British officers could just discern the red and green mercantile ensign of Portugal being slowly lowered from the vessel's ensign-staff. The Douro had surrendered: would the Portchester Castle be in time to save her from being sunk, or merely able to witness her final plunge, and experience the mortification of finding that the lawless U-boat had submerged into comparative safety?
For some seconds the silence on board the Portchester Castle was broken only by the swish of the water against her bows, the muffled thud of the propeller shaftings, and the clear incisive tones of the range-finding officer as the distance rapidly and visibly decreased betwixt the ship and the supposed position of the German submarine.
Presently, upon the rounded crest of a roller appeared the elongated conning-tower and a portion of the deck of the U-boat. She was forging gently ahead, and was just drawing clear of the bows of the Douro.
The situation was a delicate one. If the German commander's attention were wholly centred upon his capture it might be possible that the submarine would increase her distance sufficiently to enable the Portchester Castle to send a shell into her without risk to the Portuguese vessel. If, on the other hand, the approaching succourer were sighted by the Huns, the submarine would have time to go astern, close hatches under the lee of the Douro, and dive.
Five thousand yards.
A uniformed figure appeared above the poop-rail of the captured tramp. The officers of the British vessel, keeping him under observation by means of the powerful glasses, could see him gesticulating to the submarine. The latter began to lose way before going astern.
Now or never. A gap of barely fifty yards lay betwixt captor and prize. At the word of command the gun-layers of the two for'ard quick-firers bent over their sights. The two reports sounded as one as the projectiles screeched on their errand of destruction.
One shell hurtled within a few feet of the top of the conning-tower, sweeping away both periscopes in its career. The other struck the raised platform in the wake of the conning-tower, exploded, tearing a jagged hole in the hull plating. Before the smoke had time to clear away the U-boat had vanished for all time, only a smother of foam and a series of ever-widening concentric circles of iridescent oil marking her ocean bed.
Viewed from the deck of the Portchester Castle there could be no doubt as to the fate of the modern pirate. Simultaneously a deafening cheer burst from the throats of the British crew. It was a feat to be proud of, sending a hostile submarine to her last account before the Portchester Castle was three days out of port.
When within signalling distance of the Douro the latter rehoisted her colours and made the "NC" signal, "Immediate assistance required".
"Perhaps the Huns have already begun to scuttle her," remarked Tom Webb. "Although I can't detect any sign of a list."
"We'll soon find out," replied Osborne. "Pipe away the cutter," he ordered, in response to a sign from the skipper.
Quickly the falls were manned, the boat's crew, fully armed, scrambling into the boat as it still swung from the davits. Sub-lieutenant Webb, being the officer in charge, dropped into the stern-sheets.
"Lower away."
With a resounding smack the cutter renewed a touching acquaintance with the water. The falls were disengaged, and, to Webb's encouraging order, "Give way, lads!" the boat drew clear of the now almost stationary ship, which was within a couple of cables' lengths of the Douro.
"Wonder what's wrong?" thought Webb, for there were still no signs that the Portuguese vessel had sustained damage. She was rolling heavily in the seaway. Her engines being stopped, she had fallen off in the trough of the sea.
Rounding under her stern the Sub brought the cutter under the lee of the tramp. The bowman dexterously caught a coil of rope thrown by a seaman on the Douro's deck. The trouble was how to board without staving in the cutter's planks against the heaving, rusty sides of the tramp.
The Douro had not come off unscathed in her flight from the German submarine. Under her quarter, and about three feet above the water-line, were a couple of shell-holes. Fortunately the projectiles had failed to burst, otherwise the tramp would not be still afloat. The missiles had partly demolished the wheel-house and played havoc with the bridge, as the shattered woodwork and the debris that littered the deck bore witness. Two of the crew had been slain and three wounded, as a result of being unable to lift a hand in self-defence, yet the Portuguese skipper had held gallantly on his way until a sliver of steel from one of the shells had penetrated the main steam-pipe and had rendered the Douro incapable of further flight.
A Jacob's ladder—a flexible wire arrangement with wooden rungs—had been lowered from the tramp's side. At one moment its bottommost end was swaying far from the vessel's water-line; at another it was pinned hard against her side according to the roll of the ship. Boarding was a difficult—nay, dangerous—business.
Standing with his feet wide apart on the stern-sheets grating, Webb awaited his opportunity. Then he became aware that his boot was touching something soft and endowed with life. To his surprise he found Laddie crouching under the seat.
Evidently the sheep-dog was under the impression that the boat was bound for the shore. He had contrived to leap into the cutter as it was on the point of being lowered, and, although the Sub had not noticed him, the boat's crew had seen and had winked at the presence of the canine stowaway.
"All right, my boy," thought Webb as he made a spring for the swinging ladder. "There you'll have to stop, I fancy. Now you're properly dished."
But the young officer was mistaken. Laddie waited until the last of the boarding party had gained the deck of the Douro, then, knowingly biding his time until the tramp had rolled away from the boat, he made a spring at the ladder and gained the deck.
"Good morning, senhor!" exclaimed the Portuguese skipper in very good English as he greeted the British boarding officer. "We are grateful for your assistance. Another five minutes and the Douro no more would be. I offer my respects to the brave representative of our ancient ally."
"Thank you, senhor capitan," replied Tom with a bow, for he was determined not to be outdone in courtesy by the grateful Portuguese skipper. "Yes, we have sent that submarine to Davy Jones, I fancy. But I have to convey the compliments of Captain Staggles of His Majesty's armed merchant-cruiser Portchester Castle, and to offer you any assistance that lies in our power. You have the 'NC' signal flying, I see."
"Yes," replied the skipper, grinning broadly and shrugging his shoulders in a manner peculiar to dwellers in southern climes. "The trouble, senhor, is this: down below in the fore-hold are six Germans—men sent on board from the submarine to place explosives in the hold. They are armed, we are not. Can you get them out for us?"