But this was no raider. It was the Appam, a raider's victim. She had sailed across the Atlantic from a point on the South African route, held prisoner thirty-three days by a prize crew of twenty-two men and one officer, Lieutenant Hans Berg, of the Imperial German Naval Reserve. Aboard the Appam were 156 officers and men, 116 of her own passengers, 138 survivors of destroyed vessels, and twenty Germans who had been en route to a prison camp in England when rescued. This large company was cowed by the lieutenant's threat to shoot the first man who made a hostile move, or to blow up the vessel with bombs if he saw defeat was certain. And, like a good stage director, he pointed significantly to rifles, bayonets, and bombs.
There were several notables among the prisoners, including Sir Edward Merewether, Governor of Sierra Leone, and his wife. They were homeward bound from his African post for a vacation when the Moewe took the Appam. All of the persons aboard, save the Germans, were released and the ship interned. Then followed a long wrangle as to the status of the vessel, Germany claiming the right of asylum for a prize by the terms of an old Prussian treaty with the United States. Great Britain protested this claim and demanded that the ship be released. Without actually affirming one or denying the other, the United States allowed the Appam to remain in German hands, enjoying the same privileges as other interned ships.
The Appam was a rich prize indeed. Having a registry of 7,781 tons, she was a modern vessel throughout, having been employed for several years in the trade between South Africa and England. She was worth $1,000,000 stripped, while her cargo sold for $700,000. The $250,000 in gold bars which subsequently went into the Berlin strong box also came from the Appam—a round $2,000,000. Altogether it was a very good day's work for the Moewe.
Not till the Appam arrived in the Virginia harbor was it positively known that a raider had eluded the allied navies. The search that followed was conducted on a broader scale and with more minute care than any similar hunt of the war, but to no avail. On February 20, 1916, the Westburn, a British vessel of 3,300 tons, put into Santa Cruz de Teneriffe, a Spanish port. She, too, had a German captor aboard. One officer and six men brought in 206 prisoners from one Belgian and six British ships. Having landed all of those on board the German lieutenant in command asked for permission to anchor at a different point, and, this being granted, steamed beyond the three-mile limit, where the Westburn was blown up. Long use of sea water in her boilers caused the explosion, her commander said. He was arrested along with his half dozen men, then paroled. It was the fortune of war. Once more the Germans had won, the British lost.
Again word was passed that the Moewe must be found. The British public took her feats much to heart. They rivaled the finest accomplishments of British sailormen in the days when privateers went forth to destroy French commerce. But the Moewe never was caught. On the morning of March 5, 1916, she put into Wilhelmshaven with 4 officers, 29 marines and sailors, and 165 men of enemy crews as her prisoners. And the gold bars were secure in the captain's safe.
Immediately a fervor of enthusiasm ran through Germany. The Moewe was back after a trip of many thousand miles, with prisoners and bullion aboard. She had sunk fifteen allied vessels—thirteen British, one Belgian, and one French—with an aggregate tonnage of nearly 60,000. This had been accomplished in the face of her enemies' combined sea power. The Moewe first sailed through the blockade and then came home again by the long way round. She skirted the whole of Iceland to reach Wilhelmshaven safely, making a perilous voyage into Arctic waters at the worst season of the year. All this and more the German papers recounted with pardonable pride. It was said that Germany had flung the gauntlet in the British face and escaped unscathed.
Count zu Dohna-Schlobitten had the honor paid him of a visit from the kaiser aboard his ship, where he received the Iron Cross. Wilhelm was much pleased, as may be imagined, and the example of the count was held up to the German navy as an illustration of what daring could achieve.
The Moewe's exploits evidently were part of a concerted plan. Whether the raider actually sunk all of the vessels accredited to her is a question that probably never will be answered. The evidence tends to show that it was Germany's aim to create a fleet of auxiliaries in the mid-Atlantic. It seems likely that the naval board in Berlin conceived the idea of having a number of their interned vessels break for the sea on a stated day and meet at a common rendezvous, or undertake raiding upon their own account.
Whatever the plan, it was carried out in part. Two German liners escaped from South American ports on February 12, 1916, and never were heard from again, so far as the records go. They were the Bahrenfeld and the Turpin. As the identity of the Moewe already had been established and allied warships were scouring the seven seas for her, it appears plausible that the Bahrenfeld and Turpin both assumed the same title, and that one or other of the vessels was taken to be the original Moewe by persons on ships which they sunk. Or one or both may have been run down and the fact kept secret.
The Bahrenfeld and Turpin commanders were wily men. They told the authorities at Buenos Aires, where the first named had sought asylum, and Puenta Arenas, Chile, where the second was interned, that the machinery of their ships was suffering from disuse, and requested permission for a day's run in the neighboring waters that the engines might have exercise. This was granted, and they quietly put to sea. That was the last seen of them by the South American folk. But the port officials at Rio de Janeiro were suspicious when the Asuncion tried the same ruse. As she began to edge beyond bounds a shot across her bow cut short the plan.