He waited until Pengelly had been taken for'ard, then he turned to Broadmayne.
"I suppose you are quite certain that the Alerte hasn't electrical propelling machinery?" he asked.
"There was none when I was on board, sir," replied the Sub.
"I don't suppose four men will be able to disconnect the clutches and turn the propellers sufficiently to make the submarine move," remarked Raxworthy, half-seriously, half-jokingly. "She's there right enough. Well, I've given Cain a fair chance; he wouldn't accept it. What happens now is his funeral, not mine."
Raxworthy returned to the bridge. It was now about an hour before sunset. The sheltered bay was as smooth as a millpond. There was nothing to indicate that the elusive pirate submarine lay ten fathoms deep except a small mark-buoy that had been placed over the spot where the Alerte had disappeared.
His orders were plain enough—to capture or destroy. He had done his best to carry out the first part of his instructions. Cain had foiled him in that direction by submerging. Short of powerful salvage craft and plant there was no means of bringing the submarine to the surface and then effecting her capture. The Canvey could wireless to Gibraltar dockyard for the necessary gear, but days—weeks perhaps—would elapse before the cumbersome salvage lighters could be towed to Bahia Arenas. There was no help for it but to act upon the second alternative—to destroy.
"There's one consolation," soliloquised the lieutenant-commander, "the poor brutes won't know much about it. It's a quick end."
Slowly the Canvey turned until her bows pointed nearly end-on to the mark-buoy. On the starboard side of the poop was a squat-looking object somewhat resembling the old-time siege mortar, its wide muzzle grinning upwards at an elevation of forty-five degrees. The weapon—a depth-charge projector—was loaded with a missile set to explode at sixty feet beneath the surface.
"All ready, Mr. Garnett?" sang out the lieutenant-commander to the gunner who was in charge of the apparatus.
"Ay, ay, sir!"