With Captain Cumberleigh's valedictory words ringing in his ears, Pyecroft began his preparations to avoid capture. While his comrades were hurriedly lowering the Pipsqueak's sail, the "second loot," hidden from the pirate craft by the flapping canvas, slipped over the side as noiselessly and silently as an eel.
The shock of the icy-cold water almost took his breath away.
"By gosh!" he muttered. "It is a bit of a stinger. But cheer up, old son, you may get it pretty hot in a very short time."
With that he dived under the lighter's hull. Literally groping his way down the weed and barnacle-covered bottom, he scraped under the keel and up again on the other side until darkness gave place to a glint of pale green water that in turn gave place to the salt-laden air. He had now placed the hull of No. 5 between him and the U-boat. So far so good, but the late member of the R.A.F. Salvage Syndicate had to consider another pressing problem.
Even supposing, as he fondly hoped, that the Huns had not noticed him, it was logical to assume that they would not sheer off before sending the lighter to Davy Jones's locker. How? By ramming? Hardly. A U-boat would not hesitate to crash into a ship's boat deeply laden with the survivors of a torpedoed merchantman, but she would think twice before trying conclusions with the lighter's massive rubbing-strake. By placing bombs on board? That meant making use of a boat and consequently delay. Gunfire? Yes; that looked like the answer to the question.
Now for the subsidiary problem. Assuming that the Huns would turn a quick-firer upon the lighter, where would they aim? At the engine-room? Hardly, as the stern was already awash. Amidships, into the heavily-laden hold, the work of destruction would be most easily accomplished.
"So here's for her bows," decided Pyecroft, having reviewed the situation. "If my theories are all wrong, then it's a case of 'going west.'" He swam with slow, easy strokes towards the bows. There was no immediate hurry, since the boat with his companions had not yet reached the pirate submarine. He knew that he had to conserve his strength and his energies for the ordeal that promised to be forthcoming.
To his great delight, he found a rope trailing overboard. A tug reassured him that it was made fast to the towing bollards. By hanging on to it Pyecroft could support himself with ease, while the bluff, overhanging bows would effectually screen him should any of the Huns board the abandoned craft.
For a long-drawn ten minutes—it seemed like ten hours—Pyecroft waited. Already the numbing cold was taking effect. His upstretched arm seemed to have lost all sensation of feeling. It was merely the grip of the tightly closed fingers, contracted by the cold, that supported him.
Then with appalling suddenness came the crash of the exploding shell. Jerked almost clear of the water, Pyecroft had a vision of the forepart of the massive hull rearing high in the air. Flying debris hurtled over him, pungent smoke filled the air. Then, with a rush of eddying water, the X-lighter slithered beneath the waves.