H.M.S. "STRONGBOW" SAILS.
Already the vessel indicated—H.M.T.B.D. "Lawley"—was within three miles of the captured trawler, and at a good twenty-five knots was momentarily decreasing the distance. Her lynx-eyed lieutenant-commander had spotted the so-called "Vanhuit," and the tell-tale wireless mast, and the presence of one of the patrolling motor-boats alongside gave him a right impression that the trawler had been engaged in illegal work.
The "Lawley" made a fine picture as she pelted through the leaden-hued water on that grey autumnal morning. She was cleared for action. Men were standing by the three 4-inch guns ready to let fly at the first sign of a hostile periscope, for German submarines had been reported in the vicinity of Yarmouth Roads, and each of her mast-heads had the White Ensign floating proudly in the breeze created by her speed. The bunting was the only dash of colour about her; all the rest of the destroyer was a sombre hue, from the black hull and funnels to the great-coated forms of the crew.
The skipper of the "Pixie," balancing himself on the cabin-top of his lively craft, was semaphoring the warning. Almost as soon as his message ended a triangular strip of bunting—the answering pennant—was hoisted to the "Lawley's" signal yard-arm. Then, by means of a megaphone, the lieutenant-commander shouted to the crew of the "Pixie." The words were unintelligible to the watchers on the captured trawler, but the skipper of the "Pixie" understood. With a wave of his arm he descended from his precarious perch just in time to prevent himself being capsized by the swell of the passing destroyer, which, instead of making for the trawler, sharply ported helm and made off in the opposite direction.
"We're to take the prize into Yarmouth under our own steam," announced the sub. in charge of the "Pixie," as he came within hailing distance.
"Right-o," assented Waynsford cheerfully. "Come aboard and we'll tow both our boats. Now then, below there," he added, addressing the German skipper and his crestfallen men.
Waynsford literally hustled them into the forepeak and shut the hatch. The German engineer and the fireman required no compulsion to remain at their posts. In one sense they were glad at being captured; it meant the end of the nerve-racking ordeal within sight of the English coast and miles of mine-strewn waters—the work of their fellow-countrymen—between them and their Friesian home.
The crew of the motor-boats quickly buoyed and severed the nets that the pseudo-trawler had out to cloak her true rôle, and having drifted clear of these entanglements, the captured craft forged ahead at a modest seven knots with the "Lonette" and "Pixie" towing sedately astern.
Terence Aubyn, feeling somewhat heavy-eyed by reason of his voluntary night's work, was pacing the deck, his gaze directed towards the town of Yarmouth and the low-lying Norfolk coast, now momentarily becoming clearer in the rays of the early morning sun.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a hurried shout from one of the deck-hands, followed by a heavy list of the trawler as Waynsford put the helm hard over.