"Very good, Cap'n," replied Silas, touching his grizzled forelock. "Us'll be there."
The warps were cast off, the Fairy's motor began to cough and splutter, and ten minutes later the lugger was lost to sight in the darkness.
But the night's work was far from being accomplished as far as the Alerte's crew were concerned. The six-inch quick-firer was mounted; it had to be concealed from outside observation. To attempt to screen the weapon from any one on deck would have been a senseless task. The construction of the submarine prevented that. Even her conning-tower stood out gaunt and unashamed when viewed from the deck; but from another vessel that armoured structure seemed to be merged into the 'midship superstructure and bridge.
A cutter, hitherto carried abaft the 'midship deckhouse, was man-handled for'ard. Unlike the other boats, it was clench-built of elm; but in order not to impede the Alerte's diving capabilities, the garboard strakes had been cut away. It was a simple though lengthy task to saw through the timbers next the keel and cut through breasthook and transome, with the result that the cutter was longitudinally divided into two parts. Quick-release clips of gun-metal were then fitted to keep the two portions into some resemblance of a boat. The reunited parts were then placed keel uppermost over the quick-firer, a tarpaulin being stretched over all to hide the missing garboards.
Throughout the long night the hands toiled, Captain Cain giving practical assistance besides directing operations. He worked his men hard—he believed in it—but he never spared himself.
It wanted an hour to dawn when the task of making all snug was completed. Dawn ought to reveal the Alerte as a harmless tramp, her powerful ordnance stowed away under the boat. But Captain Cain was not satisfied.
"We'll submerge before we stand easy, lads," he shouted. "Eighteen fathoms'll find bottom. Diving stations, all hands!"
Down sank the Alerte, the tell-tale débris of splinters, shavings, an sawdust floating away as she submerged. She rested on the bottom in a very faint tideway, certainly not more than one knot. The crew piped to breakfast, completed the meal and expected a "stand easy."
They were disappointed. The Alerte was to break surface before dawn, lest the operation be seen by a passing vessel. Then and only then, as she cruised towards the French coast, were the hard-worked men allowed a brief spell of leisure.
"Anything in sight, Mr. Pengelly?" sang out the captain, as he slithered over the weed-encumbered deck to the bridge-ladder.