Thenceforward, a further development of scurvy treatment took place. The mate was no longer allowed access to the chronometer, or permitted to “take the sun,” or work up the ship’s position. The log-book was also taken from him, the young third mate given charge of his watch, and he was made to take his meals alone in his berth. Neither he nor the two English A.B.s were allowed to come on the poop any more, so that they were completely in the dark as to the position of the ship within hundreds of miles, as from never seeing the compass they could only guess generally how she was steering. Spiritlessly the luckless islanders wearily worried on from day to day, the butt of all their exulting shipmates. When the Kaiser’s birthday came round, and the ship was put en fête, they were bidden sarcastically to rejoice over the change of affairs. But with the hoisting of an immense German flag at the peak they lost all control of themselves, bursting into a fury of passionate tears, mingled with curses upon their enemies. They were immediately set upon by the whole crowd, and after a few minutes of desperate fighting were overpowered, heavily ironed, and flung into the forepeak on the coals, bruised from head to heel. Many and bitter were their regrets as they lay on their easeless couch. Scarcely less venomous were their curses on the fatuous folly of the rulers who had suffered such an event as this to become possible than on their brutal gaolers. For as Joe muttered scornfully, “Tain’t ’sif they hain’t been told of it. It’s been drummed into their yeers long ’nough, God knows, ’n all they ever sed wuz, ‘Oh, yore ezaggeratin’. The pussentidge uv furriners in the British mercantile marine ain’t anythin’ like so high az you say.”
“’Seems ’bout’s high’s we want, anyway,” said Bill dreamily, while the poor mate ground his teeth but never said a word.
What puzzled them all greatly was the length of time the ship seemed to be getting into cold weather. From the time the cruiser spoke them, when they were in about 15 degrees N., was now more than a month, and with the winds they had carried they should have been running their easting down in about 40 degrees S. But they were still in tropical weather. At last the mate broke a long silence by saying: “I believe he’s making for Walvisch Bay. ’Shouldn’t wonder if there’s some German warships there or thereabouts. I only hope he is trying to get there, an’ one of our cruisers sights him. It’s about our only chance.”
Several days passed and still they were kept close prisoners in the black, stifling hole, starving on a trifle of hard tack and water, and sinking deeper every day into a very gulf of despair. At last, to the practised senses of the captives, it was evident that something was afoot. She had hove to. On deck the Deutschers were in trouble. As the mate had surmised, they were bound for Walvisch Bay, carrying every rag they could crowd on her, seeing that every hour they were out of port now on this unusual course was brimful of danger. The skipper scarcely ever left the deck, and his eyes were bleared and burning with constant glaring through his glasses for a possible pursuer.
H.M.S. Scourge, 22-knot cruiser, was on her passage to Simon’s Town with urgent stores for the squadron off that station. Her orders were—“All possible dispatch,” yet, when the look-out one afternoon reported a heavily-rigged four-master standing to the eastward in latitude twenty-three degrees south, her commander felt justified in altering her course sufficiently to bring him in touch with this phenomenon. The stranger was making grand headway under all canvas to a heavy south-east Trade, but the speed of the cruiser was fully two knots to her one. In about an hour, therefore, from sighting her, the Scourge ranged sufficiently near to inquire by signal for the usual information. But the merchantman was so slow with his answers that before two sets had been hoisted the vessels were within hail of each other. “Where are you bound to?” roared the commander of the cruiser. A dramatic pause succeeded, in which all eyes on board both ships were centred upon the skipper of the St. George. At last the reluctant answer came, “Walvisch Bay.” “The devil you are,” said the naval captain; “I must have a closer look at you.” A couple of abrupt orders, and a well-manned cutter, with the first-lieutenant in charge, was bounding across the few fathoms of sea towards the St. George, with instructions to ascertain the bottom facts of this mystery. Arriving alongside, the officer sprang on board, and, quickly mounting the poop, confronted Captain Schwartz, whose face was a study of conflicting emotions. Already the lieutenant had noticed the Teutonic appearance of everybody on deck, and the captain’s working face deepened the suspicions aroused. “I wish to examine your papers, sir,” said he quietly to the scowling skipper. “Vat for, sir?” was the almost expected reply. For all answer the lieutenant strode to the side and blew a small whistle, which brought six of his boat’s crew bounding on board in an instant. “Now, sir,” he said, turning again to the skipper, “my time is precious, and my orders precise. Kindly lead the way into your cabin, and produce your documents, or I must search for them without you.” The baffled Teuton still hesitating, the naval officer, with a slight gesture of impatience, beckoned his men aft. They came on the jump, but one of them stepping forward in advance of his fellows, saluted, and said, “Beg pardon, sir, but we just heard some voices forrard a-cryin’ ‘Help!’ and it sounded’s if they wus cooped up somewheres.” A dark frown settled upon the officer’s face as he replied, sternly, “Three of you go forrard and search; the others come below here with me.” But before he stepped into the companion-way he blew two sharp notes on his whistle, a signal which was immediately answered by the cruiser sending another cutter alongside with a fully-armed crew.
In the meantime the search aft had revealed the ship’s papers, which showed of course that the St. George had cleared from London for Melbourne. The skipper’s private journal in German was also impounded. With the documents under his arm the lieutenant returned on deck, just as the search party forward emerged from the fore-peak bringing their hapless countrymen to light. Orders were immediately issued to place all the foreigners under arrest, but the skipper was nowhere to be seen. A search for him was ordered at once, but the words had hardly been spoken when, with an awful roar, the whole beautiful fabric was rent into a myriad fragments; an immense volume of dense smoke rose sullenly into the clear air, and the sparkling sea was bestrewn with the mangled remains of friend and foe alike.
The desperate skipper had chosen, rather than give up his ill-gotten prize, to fire the great store of powder under the main-hatch, involving himself and his captors in one awful fate. A great wave raised by the gigantic explosion made even the stately cruiser roll and stagger as if in a heavy gale, but all her boats were in the water in a trice making search for any trace of life among the wreckage.
Not one was saved, and with a company of heavy-hearted men she resumed her passage bearing the terrible news of the loss of the St. George.