Dr. Pietsch had gone out with our armoured cruiser Moewe on one of her freebooting expeditions. Among the captured captains of that cruise was our present guest, who, while aboard the Moewe, had struck up a pleasant comradeship with the doctor. Now he, along with the other captains, had been released on parole. They had signed written promises that they would engage in no further war activity. Believing he had broken his parole, he thought the Germans would hang him from a yardarm if they ever caught him. When he saw we were an auxiliary cruiser, he already felt a rope tightening around his neck. That was why he had tried so desperately to get away.
We amused ourselves with a formal discussion, after which I addressed our guest with suitable gravity.
"We are of the opinion, Captain, that your parole did not cover your calling as a merchant captain. Only direct combatant service was included under the heading of war activity. Therefore, we feel ourselves under no unhappy necessity of hanging you."
Well, the smile on that hard, weather-beaten face was like a sunrise. We now understood the all-too-human motives behind his actions, and we respected his plucky attempt to get away in the face of point-blank gunfire. Sailors ourselves, we could only salute this skipper who, with a worthless, spineless crew, had to take the wheel himself, and then only to find his rudder chain smashed.
"All right, Captain," I said, "it's the way things go at sea when there's war on. God help us sailor chaps."
After he had roundly cursed his crew when finally they came aboard, we took him below and introduced him to his new quarters with Captain Chewn. The two skippers found themselves mutually agreeable and became great old sidekicks. Some of the crew found old friends among the sailors we had already captured, and none of them appeared particularly grieved over the loss of their ship. We now had fifty-odd guests, apparently representing half the races on earth. The Seeadler was becoming populous and quite convivial.
The sea was so rough now that we did not send a bombing party to board the Lundy Island, but sank her by direct gunfire.
That night Leudemann and I sat over bottles of beer and talked about our prospects.
"Well, old chap," said I, "everything has begun well. It's a fine cruise. But when will they sink us?"
"Not, at any rate," he replied, "until our hotel is full."