“Sit on the deck—it’s safest,” said Mr. Linton. He fastened Norah’s life-belt, while Jim performed a similar office for him, and Wally put one on the old priest, who was so wild with excitement as to be quite oblivious of any such precaution. His face was deadly white, his dark eyes blazing. In his first fall he had lost his black felt hat, and his silver hair waved in the wind.
“The murdering villains—the assassins!” he said. “Yerra, if I could fight!”
An officer called for helpers to bring the women and children from below. Jim and Wally sprang in answer, and a crowd of soldiers came tumbling up from for’ard, elbowing their officers in mad excitement and the rush to be first. Quick and strong hands were needed on the companion ladders with their burdens, as the ship plunged hither and thither, racing in zig-zags at top speed. Many of the women were helpless between fear and the aftermath of sea-sickness; but they came without outcry, with set white faces, determined, if this were indeed Death, to die decently. The babies howled with a lusty disregard of the world common to babies, while the soldiers patted them with far more concern than they showed for the submarine. In a very few minutes not a soul was left below.
“Why do we zigzag?” Norah asked, clinging to the rail as a fresh jerk shook the ship.
“It’s our only chance,” Jim answered. “I don’t think the submarines can beat these boats for speed, or else she’d just come up and sink us at her leisure; and she can’t take aim accurately if we’re dodging. Of course we cut down our speed by not going straight; but we can’t afford the risk of letting her train her torpedo-tube carefully on us. Jove, can’t the skipper handle this ship! She answers the helm like a motor-car.”
“And can’t she go!” uttered Wally.
“Oh, the mail-boats are built for speed and not much else—thank goodness!” Jim said. “Look!—she’s firing again!”
Again the streak shot from the pursuing submarine and darted towards them. They held their breath.
It was a very close shave—only a lightning swerve saved the mail-boat. The old priest uttered a sudden shout of triumph. “Whirroo!” he cried—for a moment just the boy who had left Wicklow more than forty years ago. He shook as he gripped the rail, laughing at the racing grey shadow that followed them.
Jim Linton’s eyes were on his little sister: and Norah, feeling them, slipped a hand into his.