Under Foch's Command: A Tale of the Americans in France

by F. S. Brereton

Darkness covered the scene a minute after that shattering detonation which had lifted the forecastle of the ship in which Larry, and Jim, and Bill were sailing. The deafening report, the shattering sound of raining woodwork and iron, and the swish of timber and bullets as they fell in the water were succeeded by a deathly silence. No one called out, not a cry escaped the crew of the vessel. From that point, half a mile distant across the level surface of the water, from which a brilliant beam had played upon the scene there came not so much as a whisper, not a hail, nothing to denote whence the light came, or from what source—whether enemy or ally—and then, of a sudden, the darkness was rent, though in puny form, by the comparatively feeble light from a torch wielded by Larry. Those who stared down from the bridge to the waist of the ship could make out the dim form of the American, with Jim and Bill near him, and could see Larry's right arm moving up and down, his fist shaking in the direction from which the light had flashed upon them.

"Of all the scoundrels!" he was shouting. "Of all the low-down German skunks! And we was too late to take him, we was, Jim! Gurr!" The fist came down with a bang upon his somewhat attenuated chest, whereupon Larry coughed.

"Silence!" There came a hail from the bridge. "To your boat stations! Larry, come up here, and your friends too, and report what's happened. Mr. Quartermaster, go forward and report."

Mr. Quartermaster promptly carried out the order, in fact he was already on his way for'ard as it came, and presently returned bearing a smoking lantern.

"It's driv her deck right off and blown a hole right down through her, sir," he reported. "There's six foot or more water in the fore part of the vessel, and she's down four foot or more."

"Sinking?" asked the Skipper curtly.

"Aye, sir, sinking!"

"Ah! and how long will she take?"

"Depends!" came the answer. "If the bulkhead holds she might make a port safely. If it don't"—the burly Quartermaster shrugged his shoulders—"if it don't, well it don't!"