In all, eleven officers and one hundred and sixteen men, most of them partly dazed by the ordeal through which they had passed, were saved. F Provided with dry clothing by their captors, the officers were marched aft and placed under lock and key in the second-class passengers' smoking-room, while the men, save those whose state required medical or surgical attention, were secured in the fore part of the ship.
The German officers took their defeat badly. They had been informed of the "Saraband's" approximate position by wireless from their consort, the armed liner "Hertzolf," and had hoped to make an easy capture. Nor could they credit that the casualties on the British vessel numbered only eight men slightly wounded. They scoffed openly at the statement, till Captain Ramshaw, indignant that his word should be doubted, invited the German commander to witness a muster of the crew and compare the numbers with those on the ship's papers.
Without further incident the "Saraband" arrived at the Rock. Here, escorted by a naval vessel, since Gibraltar was under war conditions, she went inside the Mole and coaled. Temporary repairs, beyond the resources of the ship, were also carried out. The authorities, however, declined to take off the German prisoners, nor would they allow any of the passengers to land.
Four days later the "Saraband" brought up in Sandown Bay, off the Isle of Wight—the recognized "Examination Ground" for all merchant vessels making for either Portsmouth or Southampton. Here she was boarded by a naval officer who was detailed to pilot her through the intricate channel between the submarine defences of Spithead. In war-time nothing was left to chance in the safeguarding of the kingdom's greatest naval port. No vessels were permitted to enter by the Needles Channel. All movements of craft other than naval were forbidden to take place after dark, while at night the approaches to the historic anchorage were swept by dozens of powerful searchlights.
Terence Aubyn was naturally curious to know in what capacity he was to be employed by the Admiralty. He knew that with the calling up of the naval reserve he would for the time being sever his connexion with the Red Band Line. He hoped he would be appointed to a battleship or cruiser.
He was not long left in suspense. As the ship rounded the Nab Lightship her orders were received:—
"Make for Southampton and disembark passengers: then proceed to Portsmouth. 'Saraband' is to be converted with all due haste into an armed merchant cruiser."
No patriotic demonstrations, no outbursts of cheering greeted the badly battered vessel as, under reduced speed, she glided up the land-locked Southampton Water and made fast alongside the dock-wall. Save for a gang of stevedores and the mooring-party the docks were absolutely devoid of the civilian element. Khaki and naval uniforms were strongly in evidence, for the great commercial port had been given over entirely for warlike purposes, chiefly in connexion with the secret departure of the British Expeditionary Force.
Almost five hundred years previously an English army had embarked at that self-same town to wage a glorious campaign on French soil. Fifteen hundred small vessels, bedecked with banners, their lofty bulwarks lined with the shields of the flower of English chivalry, carried the array commanded by Henry V in person. With shouts and fanfares of trumpets and amid the acclamations of the worthy townsfolk, the fleet dropped down Southampton Water, bearing the knights, men-at-arms, and archers who were destined to win immortal glory on the field of Agincourt.
And now history was repeating itself—but with a difference. The forces of the Mighty Empire were once more leaving Southampton for the land of France: not as enemies of that country but as sworn allies against a common, powerful, and unscrupulous foe. These forces were working silently. There were no boisterous farewells, no braying of brass bands, no flamboyant speeches. The silent armies meant business.