"Oh yes, Mr. Harold Dickson will swim in the wake of the boat. We have eight magazine pistols. Three will be in the sternsheets. The brevet-lieutenants and the petty officer"—you should have seen my lads' faces as they were commissioned!—"will swim to the ladder on the submarine's quarter and follow us down. But be careful that, in the rough and tumble, you don't shoot any of the first attacking party. Is all clear?"
"Certainly, sir," said Dickson max., with a sublime and effective impudence I could never have compassed. Already, in his magnificent mind, Dickson max. trod the quarter-deck and wore a sword. And the curious thing was, as we all crept up to the deck, that those tried veterans, Scarlett, Adams, and Bosustow, accepted the situation without a doubt.
Then we started. My brother gripped me by the hand as I went down the ladder, and it was the only sign of emotion that he showed.
"Good old John!" he whispered. "I've sent Marjorie a message by Doris."
The submarine lay in the middle of the Creek, a hundred and fifty to two hundred yards away. As our boat drew near, the moonlight became obscured and there was a sudden drift of snow. We shot alongside, and there was a gleam from a lantern shining down upon us.
It showed me a curving steel ladder, which went up over the fish-back of the thing to a long, low deck with a light railing running round it. Two men were standing there, and as we made fast, one of them came half-way down the ladder and held out his hand to me. I took it, stumbled for an instant, and found myself upon the steel platform. At my back, the conning-tower rose eight feet high above me. Within three yards was an oblong hatchway, from which a faint, orange light came upwards, turning the snowflakes to dingy gold.
Scarlett was beside me in a second. I took the man nearest and caught him by the throat. He had no time to gasp or cry out. I pressed him back over the rail, which held—Krupp steel, I suppose. There was a slight "snick"—it was not that of breaking metal—and I shot the sailor over the far side, where he sank like a log.
Then I turned. A furious and silent fight was going on between Scarlett and the other seaman. They swayed and rocked this way and that. They panted just like the sound of a bellows blowing up a fire. I waited, trying to get in a grip. Figures moved past me and disappeared down the hatchway, but I hardly saw them. Scarlett swung his enemy towards the conning-tower, and then I got my chance. I "collared him low"—Rugger three-quarter style—and brought him down upon the deck. The man gave a loud shout, but it was drowned by a furious noise below. There was no more necessity for silence. I pulled out my pistol and there was an end of the German. Scarlett jumped up like a gymnast, and together we heaved the body overboard.
"The swine's bin and bit my ear!" said Scarlett. "Now then, sir, come on!" and he swung himself over the hatchway and dropped.
I followed. It is impossible to describe what I saw—at any rate, my pen is not equal to the task. For a moment, I was blinded by brilliant light, through which a multitude of figures danced and leapt, like people in a dream. My ear-drums were almost split by the noise. There was a horrible, bitter smell in my nostrils, and my throat felt as if I was swallowing a bullet of lead.