At five o'clock next morning, before taking out my half-flotilla on patrol for the last time, I assembled the men and talked to them. Purposely, though I myself as yet knew nothing definite, I laid the utmost stress upon the dangers of the expedition, that they might not make up their minds too hastily.
Not until I thought they had some idea of what they were in for, did I give the order: 'Volunteers, three paces forward—march!'
It was a pleasure to see with what alacrity the men stepped forward, to mark how the eager wish to take part in something big was to be read in every eye. Those who held back were all married men, and even among them there were some who took it hard to have to stay behind.
Even so, the choice was difficult enough. Each group of six boats was to furnish so many men; and the whole crew of the 'mystery ship' was not, for certain reasons, to exceed twenty-two.
After much sifting, the choice was at length made. Those chosen were brave, trustworthy, and—a not unimportant point—powerfully built; each one of them a match for two ordinary men.
After four days of uneventful outpost duty, we were back once more. Even before returning I had received by signal the joyful news that my appointment to the command of the Libau—that was to be the name of the mystery ship—had been confirmed.
I lost no time, you may be sure, about proceeding in, locking through, making fast in the inner harbour, and reporting on board the leading-ship of the flotilla. The best of the volunteers from the other sections were chosen, and the ship's company finally made up. The C.O. of the flotilla, Commander Forstmann, bade us farewell in a short and pithy speech; and then we set to at our packing, for by midday the next day we were to be in the train, bound for a destination as yet unknown. That was the sum of our knowledge, for everything was, so far, in Navy phrase, 'extremely hush.' Neither our friends nor our comrades were to know anything of what we had in hand, for a careless word might be picked up by a spy, and might jeopardise the success of our undertaking, to say nothing of costing us our lives.
Next day the train took us to our unknown destination—in fact, to Hamburg. At the dockyard, where we were expected, our first surprise awaited us, in the shape of our future abode. Not, as we had imagined, some patrol boat fitted with all the newest devices, but what, to our outpost-boat ideas, looked, as she lay before us in the evening light, a truly imposing vessel. The chorus of exclamations which broke from my gallant fellows showed that they were as agreeably disappointed as I was myself.
She was not, of course, really 'an Atlantic liner,' as one of my men called her, but on account of her lofty upper-works, and of her being completely empty, she stood high out of the water, which considerably increased her apparent size.
The Libau—why she received this name will be explained later—was an almost new English steamer. Under the name Castro she had formerly belonged to the Wilson Line of Hull, and in the early days of the war she had been brought in as a prize by one of our destroyers.