"And that looks like a town, away in the distance," remarked Ralph.
"You are right; that is the coast of France, and the houses you see belong to the town of Fècamp, a seaport and watering place, 22 miles from Havre," said the navigating officer.
Every minute brought them nearer the city of Havre. How they longed to hear some news of their parents, now that all excitement had died away, and they were permitted to think of home and those dear to them.
Vessels began to accumulate on all sides of them, indications that they were now within the safety zone. For a period of eight days they had not known what absolute quiet and rest meant. First, the terrible suspense within the hull of a submarine, the trying experience attending the capture of the vessel, the unquiet feeling that they had desperate men below who might do anything to gain their liberty, the explosion and sinking of the submarine, their rescue, and then the last sinking, seemed to form a chapter of misadventures which constantly kept them on the alert.
It was such a different feeling now, and, as such things generally do, caused a reaction. They actually felt ill, and Alfred, especially, after the last accident, felt too weak to remain on deck.
They retired to the cabin assigned to them in the officers' quarters, and were soon asleep. The captain, missing them, made a search and soon found them. He smiled, and, turning to the officers, said:
"They are fine fellows; the experiences have been most trying, and would test the mettle of most men; but they went through with it, obeyed all orders, without asking why, and never showed the white feather."
"Who are they?" asked one of the cruiser's officers.
"American boys, caught in the war, where they helped the fighting until two months ago, and were just returning to the United States on my ship. That is how I happened to meet them and learned to love them," replied the captain with pride in his voice.
As they were leaving the cabin, Alfred awoke. "Are we near Havre?" he asked anxiously.