Descending a companionway to see what was going on below, Nelson found that portholes were being opened, and men were spraying chemical around to rid the below-decks atmosphere of the lethal gas that had overcome the Comerford's American crew.
Returning to the bridge, he found that the tide in the inlet had risen considerably, and that the cruiser was riding more easily at her anchor.
Then, at Brandt's orders, the anchor was hauled in, and lifeboats and a motor launch were used as tugs to work the vessel entirely free of the sand bar. This was accomplished without difficulty.
Brandt came over to where Nelson was standing on the bridge and held out his hand.
"Congratulations, Herr Kommander Nelson!" he said. "Ve have stolen one of the United States navy's newest and fastest cruisers!" He made a gesture as if raising a beer stein to drink a toast. "Prosit!" he added.
"Prosit!" Nelson repeated, and the two grinned at each other.
Stars were twinkling in a patch of black-blue sky, and broken mountains of gray cloud were skudding before the east wind. Commander Bob Curtis found himself lying in wet sand, on a beach, somewhere, with the rain—now a light, driving mist—beating on his face. He was chilled; his limbs were stiff and numb. His nose and throat felt parched inside, as if a wave of searing heat had scorched them.
According to his last calculations, the Comerford had been cruising off the Maine coast. This probably was one of the islets of that region, or it might be the mainland.
It was hard work getting to his feet, and when he did manage to stand, he could only plant his heels in the sand and sway to and fro for fully a minute, like a child learning to walk.