“That will be of no assistance for ten minutes or more,” answered Dave. “Ten minutes! It will all be over then. Look at that flash from the scoundrel’s gun!”
The German was now shelling the boats that were trying to slip away in the darkness. Next, undoubtedly, the Hun would begin firing on the rafts, which could move little faster than the waves that slipped them along.
“Never again any mercy to a pirate! Not one surrender will I accept after this! All Germans who fall into my clutches shall go to the bottom!”
Lieutenant Fernald turned his head aside to hide a bitter smile. He did not blame Dave; his heart ached for that gallant young commander. Yet well enough Fernald knew that Darrin would never, once his rage had passed, sink a helpless foe, no matter how much he despised the wretch.
They could now, through the night glass, make out a German sailor who stood forward on the submarine’s hull, a lookout, doubtless scanning the dark lines of the destroyer rushing to the rescue. It must be that lookout’s business to try to judge the distance of the destroyer, that the submersible might remain on the surface long enough to wreak all possible havoc on the lifeboats. Then, at the last moment, the submarine would submerge, that its commander, crew and craft might survive to assassinate ships’ companies on another day!
“He knows I won’t use my searchlight—he’s daring me!” muttered Dave, savagely. “But, by the great Dewey! I’ll use that light in thirty seconds more. Fernald, tell me when the time is up!”
Dave’s next word was passed to the officer in command of the forward guns, and by that officer to the skilled, cool gun-pointers.
None except Darrin, Fernald and the watch officer knew that Belle Darrin was a passenger on the ill-fated “Griswold.”
“Let your first shots set this craft’s record!” was the division officer’s quiet command to the gun-pointers.
No message could have been more inspiring to these veterans, on a new ship, knowing that she was one of the best of the destroyer fleet.