"Ah!" The man's voice was almost a sigh.
"Submarine on the port bow, sir." A howl came from the look-out, followed by the sharp, detonating reports of the destroyer's quick-firers. And then a roaring cheer. Like lightning Jerry was upon the bridge, and even he could scarcely contain himself. There, lying helpless in the water, with a huge hole in her conning tower, wallowed the U 99. Two direct hits from the destroyer's guns in a vital spot, and the submarine was a submarine no longer. Just one of those strokes of poetic justice which happen so rarely in war.
Like rats from a sinking ship the Germans were pouring up and diving into the water, and with snarling faces the Englishmen waited for them, waited for them with the dying proofs of their vileness still lying on the deck as one by one they came on board. Suddenly with a sucking noise the submarine foundered, and over the seething, troubled waters where she had been a sheet of blackish oil slowly spread.
But Jerry spared no glance for the sinking boat—he did not so much as look at the German sailors huddled fearfully together. With hard, merciless eyes he faced the submarine commander. For the first time in his life he saw red: for the first time in his life there was murder in his soul, and the heavy belaying-pin in his hand seemed to goad him on. "Suppose the positions had been reversed," mocked a voice in his brain. "Would he have hesitated?" The night two years ago surged back to his mind; the plaintive crying of the dying child struck on his ears. He stepped a pace forward with a snarl—his grip tightened on the bar—when suddenly the man who had carried up the little girl gave a hoarse cry, and with all his force smote the nearest German in the mouth. The German fell like a stone.
"Stand fast." Jerry's voice dominated the scene. The old traditions had come back: the old wonderful discipline. The iron pin dropped with a clang on the deck. "It is not their fault, they were only obeying his orders." And once again his eyes rested on their officer.
"So we meet again, Baron von Dressler," he remarked, "and the rat-eaten ship is not sunk. Is this your work?" He pointed to the mangled bodies.
"It is not," muttered the Prussian.
"You lie, you swine, you lie! Unfortunately for you you didn't quite carry out your infamous butchery completely enough. There is one person on board who knows the U 99 sank the Lucania without warning and was in the boat you shelled."
"I don't believe you, I——"
"Then perhaps you'll believe her. I rather think you know her—very well." As he spoke he was looking behind the Prussian, to where Maisie—roused from her semi-stupor by the Baron's voice—had got up, and with her hand to her heart was swaying backwards and forwards. "Look behind you, you cur."