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

by F. S. Brereton

"So we'll run her astern. She's sound there, and no sea that's running will do her any harm. It'll make steering a bit of a job, but it's not impossible. Of course I shall lay a course for the nearest port, which means some little corner on the Irish coast. If she gets deeper down in the water, and looks like foundering, I shan't wait to run her into a port, but shall beach her on the first opportunity. After all, boys, it isn't the ship that matters so much, though ships are valuable these days and getting more so, it's the cargo we've got, and that we must save at any hazard."

All through that day the crew stood by the Skipper gamely, so gamely that, what with their jovial faces and their satirical remarks to the sailor seated in the boat towing behind the vessel, that worthy managed to scrape together a modicum of courage. He even begged to be taken aboard, and, finding that no one took the slightest notice of him, finally pulled on the rope, and, getting close under the bows of the vessel, now sadly sunk and projecting only a little way from the water, he managed to clamber aboard, and found his way across the wrecked planking.

Towards evening the wind, which had been swinging round to the west since the early hours, veered to the east and began to blow more strongly. The swell, which had rocked the vessel ever so gently during the day, became bigger, and soon waves were washing against her sides and were causing her to roll and to plunge, every plunge sending her bows deep under, till at times it appeared they would never rise again. Yet the crew stuck to their posts. Fortunately, too, every hand was required to assist in navigating the vessel, for, going astern as she was, it was no easy task to keep her on a course, and at least four men were required at the wheel, which now steered her, her automatic steam steering-gear having got out of order. What with preparing the boats, making ready for their rapid launching, cooking food, hauling ropes, and standing by the wheel, every member, whether steward or deck-hand, had ample employment, and therefore sufficient distraction from his dangerous surroundings.

Yet in spite of distractions it became greatly and increasingly obvious to all that the vessel was sinking deeper, that her buoyancy was gone, that she lifted now so very slowly from the trough of the seas that a larger one following in her wake might easily overwhelm her. Yet the eyes of the Skipper still flashed and glowed as warmly as ever; Larry strutted the deck as gamely as he had done on the first day when he had stepped aboard as she lay in the Hudson River; Jim, his arms bare to the elbow, worked as cheerily as any member; while Bill—English Bill, as he had naturally come to be called—carried on as though nothing out of the usual was occurring. It was five o'clock in the evening when the Skipper, pointing to the Irish coast-line, now some four miles distant, gave the order to beach the vessel.

"She may or she may not carry as far as that," he added, his lips compressed together. "If she does, it's a flat beach and a high tide, so the cargo will be salved without much difficulty, even the vessel might be salved later on, though I am not thinking of her in particular. Keep her on that course, Mr. Quartermaster; she'll do. I'll go right for'ard so as to con her when we get to close quarters. English Bill, you come along too, and bring Larry and Jim. You might be useful."

The sun was sinking, and already evening was drawing in, but the light was sufficiently good to enable all hands to see the Irish coast clearly. Peering at it through the glasses which the Skipper lent him, Bill could make out a flat pebbly shore, with land rising gradually from it. It looked indeed the very place on which to beach a vessel, and, better than all, the beach seemed to stretch for miles, so that though the ship could only steer an erratic course it was hardly likely that she would miss some portion of the part selected for landing.

"What's that? Look yonder!" Jim called out a few minutes later, as, having watched the shore for a time, he swept his eyes seaward. "That, sir——"

"A submarine! Possibly the one that took off that rascal last night. A submarine without doubt, and coming to the surface. She's up! She's raising her guns! There's no doubt that she took it for granted last night that the bomb had destroyed us, and, finding us now still floating and about to beach the vessel, she's going to shell us. Stand by, boys! You three remain here, so as to help con the vessel; I'll go on to the bridge to make other arrangements."

Cool and determined, he ran aft to the bridge, and gained it as the submarine opened fire upon them. A shell, indeed, flicked its rapid path just above the bridge, and hitting the charthouse, stripped the roof from it.

"Boys," called out the Skipper, as cool as ever, "swing out the two boats here on the starboard side. The ship will give them shelter. Lower them into the water and let 'em tow. Now, all hands at it! One moment, though. You, Tom Spencer, get down to the engine-room and send the Chief Engineer to me."